A/N:
hiiiiii :) this is about as happy as i'll ever be with this chapter. we pick up exactly where we left off. warning: there is an instance of self harm in this chapter. happy halloween!
Brienne hardly had time to register the shock of the woman's transformation and the scores of arrows and crossbows aimed at them from the top of the pit before the wolf-as-a-woman interlocked their arms and yanked them out of the world. They twisted through the air, through earth and stone; Brienne was torn apart by light and put her back together elsewhere. She fell to her knees on hard, cold ground, gripped the short blades of grass and vomited.
Wherever they were now looked as much like the riverlands as anywhere else did, but so far from Harrenhal that she there was no hint of the mountainous ruin's peaks. The witch, still nude and covered in blood from her mouth to the top of her breasts, was wholly unaffected. She even held her boots and pack in her hand. When had she gotten hold of those?
"What did you do to us? Where are we?" Brienne asked. She felt dizzy and light and tried to ground herself with deep, steady breaths.
"Do not speak to me until I have clothes on," she said succinctly, opening up her bag.
Ser Jaime let out a high, hysterical peal of laughter. "Oh gods," he rolled onto his back and stared up at the sky. "What am I?"
Brienne examined her freshly earned wounds. Just moments ago she'd been at the end of a losing battle with a bear as the most disgusting men in Westeros jeered at her. Now she was so far elsewhere, she didn't even know. Blood slowly gushed from the wide scratches on her forearms left by the beast. She needed a maester. She gathered the cleanest part of her silk skirts and pressed them against the wounds weakly.
"What are you?" Jaime asked, laughing still.
"Who can ever truly know?" The wolf-as-a-woman replied. Brienne's eyes fluttered and she slumped forward over herself, the pain fading to black fuzz encroaching on her vision.
Her back itched. Brienne came to and wriggled her back against the roughness against her back. There was a warm, solid presence beside her that beckoned her to come closer. She rested against it gratefully until she realized suddenly that she didn't know what it was, where it was, or how she'd gotten to it. She gasped and blinked awake. She was in the woods, on the ground, beside the Kingslayer. She was still in that dreadful pink dress. The scratches from the bear had been cleaned and bandaged but she couldn't feel her arms at all, even as she lifted it to look at it more closely. She smacked her arm against her thigh to bring the feeling back to it.
"Stop it, you'll open the stitches," Ser Jaime hissed, holding her arm still. She realized they were both tied around the waist to the tree they laid against.
"I can't feel my arm," she said dumbly.
"Isn't it wonderful?" He showed her the clean bandage of his stump. "It's a potion. We've found ourselves in the company of a witch, Brienne." His eyes were bright and he was grinning but there was something distinctly unamused in his expression.
"A woods witch killed that bear?"
"Perhaps I've used the wrong word. An enchantress, a sorceress; we are her captives."
"There's no such thing." Brienne's mouth was thick and her throat dry. She smacked her lips together and Jaime offered her a waterskin. Their current captor was very generous to leave them alone and with drinking water.
Brienne couldn't claim a complete education in any sense of the word. As a young lady of Evenfall Hall she was an abject failure. She couldn't sew, sing, or talk in circles until she alighted upon the true subject of discussion. She'd make a better son than daughter for she at least knew her letters, wasn't half bad at maths, and knew the sword. Even so her education was still wanting. She knew well enough to know, however, that magic was not real. It existed in the dusty tomes of the library at Evenfall Hall in stories of ancient times past and in tall tales only the common folk believes. People believed in magic and stories when they didn't know any better. Magic was dead to the world. Once upon a time there had lived dragons and lords strong enough to rule them and they were dead and gone, all of them, as well as the magic that made it so. Surely a man as jaded and experienced as Ser Jaime knew better than to believe in magic.
"So I believed!" Jaime laughed, his voice edged in hysteria. "She is very real, Brienne, and so is her magic. I don't know how and I don't really care. She's left us completely alone."
Brienne gulped the soothing, cool drink quickly and nodded. Perhaps it should have grated her that Ser Jaime was giving her commands—she hoped he hadn't forgotten he was her captive—but they were both agreed in getting free.
"Do you have a blade?"
"Not at all."
Brienne glared at him. "Do you have a plan then?"
"I'm working on it. She is a sorceress, Brienne. I don't believe these ropes even have a knot. I can't fight her," he admitted shakily. "Can you?"
When Brienne believed the dark woman was just a strange assassin, she would have said yes. Now she knew that she could turn into a wolf and back at will, that she could kill a bear, that she could pull people across land and space with nothing more than a purposeful twist. "Not if she uses magic," Brienne admitted.
"So we must offer her something, and repay our debt."
With a noise like a hundred whips cracking at once, the sorceress appeared before them. She was bathed, clothed, and landed lithely on booted feet. A flock of birds took off from their perch but the woods were otherwise unaffected. She had a short sword at her hips and knives strapped to her other side.
"Wonderful, you're awake. We should have a chat." The witch strode forward and drew a shape in the air. A short wooden stool appeared with a dull pop and she sat with her hands flat on the tops of her thighs. Her strong hands were marked with nicks and scratches of all sizes, healed and scarred over. She was a fighter as well as a sorceress.
"Where did that seat come from?" Jaime asked.
"I just conjured it from the memory of a seat I'd seen before."
"Is it real?"
The witch laughed though Brienne couldn't understand what was funny about it. "For all intents and purposes, yes, we can call it 'real'. Let me introduce myself. I am Talya."
"That's a pretty name," Jaime smirked. "How's it spelled?"
"With a Y," the witch informed him evenly.
"So you're lettered!" Jaime said eagerly, halting off her next words. "Good for you. Did you know you have a distinctly Western name? Is that where you're from? I'm Western myself."
Talya Astun was not amused.
"Be quiet, sisterfucker," she said flatly. Jaime lost his grin. "Where I come from doesn't matter. You are my captives. As you've already seen, I am a witch and I know what I'm doing, so escape is impossible and you will just upset me if you try. However, I don't believe we need to have a terrible relationship, you two and I."
"Where are you taking us, Lady Talya?" Brienne asked, playing into her civility. She could believe that the witch truly was a civil person but she didn't know her motives or goals.
The witch grimaced. "I'm taking you to the King."
Brienne clenched her jaw, her stomach twisting with dread. Of all the kings in Westeros there wasn't a single one she wished to meet. She wished she could see Renly again—she wished she could go back and protect him as she should have. She wished she didn't have to be here, and be taken to one as a captive.
"You'll have to be more specific than that, witch," Jaime spat nastily.
"My king is the King in the North."
Jaime laughed and his head hit the trunk with a quiet thud. Brienne tried to sit up as straight as she could in her bound state. "My lady, you needn't take us captive! We have been sent by the mother of the king to perform a great deed. I will trade Ser Jaime for the Stark girls held hostage in King's Landing. You must help us, do you see?"
"Yeah, I heard…" Talya cringed. "That was poorly done."
"It was by the word of Lady Stark herself," Brienne frowned.
Talya kissed her teeth and sighed. "And look at you now. Are you sure Lady Stark didn't have another outcome in mind when she sent you away?"
"Oh, Lady Stark knew very well what she was doing!" Jaime spat. He struggled with bonds and smacked his head against the trunk. "She'd have been just as happy to hear we perished than if we succeeded."
The witch narrowed her eyes at him. "Stop that," she commanded.
"Lady Talya, help us reach King's Landing and rescue the Stark girls. With your skill, we can end this war within the week, surely!"
"I'm sorry to tell you Brienne. I beat you to it. I rescued Sansa Stark from King's Landing weeks ago." She stood suddenly. "Stop that, Lannister!"
Jaime slammed the back of his head against the tree trunk with measured, rhythmic force. Thud, he winced, thud, he gritted his teeth, thud, he moaned in pain.
"Ser Jaime, no!" Brienne grabbed his shoulder but he continued doggedly. He was going to kill himself or worse! Blood dripped from the back of his shorn head and washed down his grimy neck in thick rivulets.
"Stop it!" The witch became shrill. "Stay still!"
"I won't—thud—go back—thud—alive." He flailed out of Brienne's tight grip and slammed his head harder and harder, grunting each time.
The witch seemed utterly stunned; she stood uselessly far away from them, her hands shaking at her side.
"DO SOMETHING," Brienne shouted.
She blinked and came back to herself. Impossible light jetted from her fingertips and hit Jaime in the his center. He went limp and slumped over the ropes that bound him, breathing and bleeding steadily.
"What the fuck," the witch said shakily, blinking rapidly. "He was—"
"Untie him, please," Brienne pled. "The King won't want him dead, will he?"
She came over woodenly and cut them loose with her knife. Brienne rose to her knees and examined the moderately gushing cut at the back of his head. Silently, the witch handed her a wad of linen and Brienne pressed it against the wound. She murmured something that Brienne didn't catch.
"What is it?"
"I wasn't going to hurt him," she swallowed thickly, "I just meant to bring you back."
"Let's not pretend like we'll have a warm welcome. Did you imagine we'd be happy to go back?"
"I didn't…" she trailed off with a shaky breath. "I hadn't thought of you that way."
"You outmatch us both, Lady Talya, and I am tired," Brienne admitted, letting her private loathing come out. "Let Ser Jaime and I rest for a moment. Bring us to the King with what little pride we have remaining."
She nodded once, her mouth pulling into a deep, twitching frown. As she stood, Brienne saw her wipe the corner of her eye.
—
Robb had a beautiful set of apartments in Riverrun that looked to the peaceful, open northern plains, but he worked and held all his meetings in the small chamber above the Great Hall. That was where his War Council lived. Sansa had little cause to visit it before. It was just a small room. The main feature was a large mahogany table mostly covered in various maps and charts of the Seven Kingdoms. It looked as if a maester reigned here rather than the King in the North. It was so mundane.
Sansa peered at the end of the table where the maps had been shifted over to make space. She saw that the direwolf figurines were surrounded by other northmen and there were Kraken to the north, lions and roses to the west and south, one singular falcon in the east. She'd seen more interesting cyvasse arrangements than her kingdom's war stratagems—was war a deadlier kind of game? It must be. She calmly placed her hands in her lap.
This was it then. Her brother had brought her to the board. She was being invited to play a round.
Robb was seated at the head of the table and Sansa to his left, with Mother beside her. Robb had a new, infuriating habit of looking at Sansa without looking at her. His eyes would pass over her and never touch her own when anything of greater substance than the weather or ladies' arts was discussed in her presence. Sansa stared at him, waiting for him to speak. He had called her here, after all. This was currently his game. She was surprised that Mother was here too. Funny that Robb spoke to Mother like he didn't want to forget why he was upset with her while he talked to Sansa like he didn't want to remind her of any reason she would be upset with him.
Sansa sensed that this would be a difficult round.
He cleared his throat and looked at her. Finally! There his eyes were! Blue and true and grave but Robb.
"Thank you for telling us so much about King's Landing, Sansa. We needn't go through it all again."
That was good because she would rather not. It had been bad enough to do so once already. Uncle Brynden and Mother comforted her as she spoke, and Mother tried to stop it, her eyes sharp and pained, but Sansa persisted. She knew this was important for the war and with every word spoken felt absolved.
Robb did everything right. He listened patiently and fumed righteously when she told him how they beat her. His eyes burned as she told him how Joffrey made her look upon Father's head and poor Septa Mordane and he held her hand. Maester Vyman took notes as she spoke. She drew sketches of how the Red Keep was arranged, all the entrances and corridors that she knew of. Who was there? She named all the houses she remembered. Why were they there? Well, no one ever told Sansa anything but she heard some things.
She frowned then. "Is something wrong?"
"No!" He said quickly. "We just have further…concerns…about your treatment there. Joffrey, so wholly dishonorable, in so many ways and he surrounds himself with others that are just as contemptible."
"Because you flowered, you became a woman, so to speak," Mother explained. "Did Joffrey dishonor you, Sansa, or any other man?"
Was it possible to burn alive and freeze at the same time? Sansa flushed deeply from her ears to her chest while the most vile chill ran down her spine.
The Hound. Oh, that most reviled monster and his soft, battered heart. Their gentle kiss…
"No!" Sansa gasped. "I told you, Mother, no one harmed me."
"They beat you," Robb reminded her, his voice painfully wrought. "They could have—"
"They only beat me. I was otherwise untouched."
"We only want to be sure, Sansa," Mother said patiently.
"You don't believe me," she hissed. She was a woman grown now with all their wile and untrustworthiness; she'd been sheltered by Cersei Lannister, the queen of lies and avarice and sin! No one would ever believe her to be innocent again.
"I believe you," Robb said fiercely. "I just don't trust them, Sansa. I'm so—you can never know how sorry I am that you were ever in their clutches. I wish—"
"We are so happy to have you back with us, Sansa," Mother interjected. "I am so proud of the young lady you are becoming, so smart and resourceful. You have been so strong."
"Thank you," she said in a small voice.
"Though there wouldn't be a consequence if you were dishonored it's important to know for your future, Sansa. For our family's future as well."
Robb breathed deeply and his face went serious. "Before I married Jeyne, I was betrothed. It was an agreement Mother made on my behalf with Lord Walder Frey of the Crossing to allow our army to continue South. We took two Frey fosterlings to Winterfell," Robb grimaced tightly, "I took a Frey to squire, Arya was betrothed to young Elmar Frey and I was to marry one of his girls when the war was over. It was an offer I could not refuse if I wanted to cross."
Sansa nodded but inside she was aghast. Arya to marry anyone? She would never grow up to be a proper lady wife. Maybe, one day, she could aspire to be like Dacey Mormont who wore armor in the field and dresses in the keep, beautiful, elegant and deadly, but Dacey was a Mormont of Bear Island. Arya was a Stark and had higher standards to be held to.
"I did not have the chance to fall in love with my Frey bride like I did Jeyne," Robb admitted. That was a graceful turn of phrase, Sansa thought. "However, we find ourselves needing to cross once more, to return home."
Mother spoke now, tucking in closer to Sansa, her eyes steady and piercing on her daughter. "We've come to a tentative agreement with Lord Frey. He was deeply wronged and it is we who must make amends. Uncle Edmure has agreed to marry one of Lord Walder's daughters, as recompense for one of the lost betrothals."
Sansa heard the words passively, her face calm and empty. This cannot be happening. Part of her floated up and out of her, looking down as if she was not there at all.
"Sansa," Robb implored. "I must ask you to consent to marrying one of Lord Frey's sons."
Sansa turned to Mother, frowning and looking over her concernedly. She was not surprised, nor horrified. Mother and Robb had already discussed the matter. They had settled it. It really was happening.
"I know it's nothing like you imagined, Sansa, but I need you." Robb continued. "We cannot cross without Lord Frey's bridge, we cannot take the castle with the Lannisters chasing us so closely behind, we have no ships to sail around them."
"I believe young Olyvar Frey would suit you very well," Mother added. "He was Robb's squire. He is loyal and brave, only nine and ten, so the age between you is not so great."
Lord Frey had a hundred sons, didn't he? More than she could count or ever name. If he was her age that meant he was dozens of people away from inheriting the keep at all, let alone making her Lady of anything.
I was betrothed to the Prince of the Seven Kingdoms. I was to be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and they want to marry me to some n-teenth son of the Crossing?
"I would give you Moat Cailin," Robb began and Sansa could no longer hold it in. She laughed. He frowned at her, perplexed. "What is it?"
Sansa laughed in earnest now. "Moat Cailin is a ruin. You want to make me Lady of a ruin!" she chuckled, savoring the ache of it.
"It is the greatest stronghold of the North, and I would pay for all the repairs."
"Winterfell is the greatest stronghold of the North," Sansa spat, raising her chin and staring him down. Mother jerked back as if she had been struck and Robb's brows nearly touched his hairline. "I was betrothed to the crown prince of the Seven Kingdoms. He was a heinous bastard born of incest, but he was a Prince."
Robb looked at her like he didn't recognize her. "Olyvar is a good man and I know him well. He is honorable, brave, loyal, and kind. You and he would get along."
"Loyal? He defected with the rest of them. He's a deserter."
"I know this is not what you wanted but you must give it a chance." Mother implored.
"Like Robb gave his Frey a chance? That sounds wonderful. I will wound myself right now and let a handsome knight nurse me back to health," she trilled.
Sansa, too, was shocked by how she spoke but she was so angry. She had held her tongue long enough. Where had uber-courteousness gotten her? She was out of King's Landing on the whim of an unmannered foreign witch, and now Robb and Mother were forcing her to marry and talking to her like she was still the little girl they sent off last year. Courtesy had gotten Father killed and herself beaten. Arya was lost and free, and she would be frothing at the mouth if Robb and Mother tried to make her marry Elmar Frey like they promised, literally frothing, nothing fun about it. She would be so livid and feral that they'd change their minds. They asked Sansa because they knew she would do it.
"Sansa!" Mother gasped. "That was utterly disrespectful!"
"I wish it had been more so!" She shot back. "This is humiliating! You are humiliating me! I've already sat in King's Landing for months and months and you're going to leave me trapped again?"
"No, Sansa! You know I would have rescued you if I could have."
"YOU COULD HAVE IF YOU WEREN'T SUCH A FOOL."
"Stop it," Mother commanded roughly. She gripped her hand tight enough to make her thin bones creak. "You know our words. Family, honor, duty. This is to save what is left of our family. This is to preserve what honor is left to us. This is your duty to the whole of the North as its Princess. You must do what is necessary to preserve the kingdom. I have done it, and my mother, and her mother before her. This is what it means to be a woman. This is what we must do."
Sansa yanked her hand out of her mother's and stood. "What makes Robb so much better than me? This is his fault! This is your fault," she accused, seething and pointing at her lady mother. "If you hadn't started the war in the first place then Father would be alive. I did everything you told me to, always! It's not my fault! I didn't do anything! Why must I always be punished for your mistakes?"
"Punishment?" Robb goggled. "I'm trying to save you! Be realistic, Sansa. You have to marry someone eventually and we are at war. I'm sorry but I'd prefer to win it."
"Then why haven't you already?" Sansa sneered.
"Because you fucking people thwart me at every turn!" He pounded the table with his fist, making the two ladies jump. "Do you not understand how precarious our situation is? Mother—by the gods, Mother, I can't even look at you for what you did. Lord Karstark is days away from hanging you for a traitor and I don't think I can stop him. They don't care about winning our war—we have to finish it ourselves. What did you think would happen when I made my heroic rescue, Sansa, hm? Did you think you would just wait around in Winterfell 'til we all came home safe and sound? That's not how life works."
"Robb, do not attack your sister when it's me who is at fault."
"I'm not attacking, Mother, I'm genuinely curious. What did you think was going to happen, Sansa? Did you think it would be magically over when we reunited? Did you not imagine that we have work to do? Look at where we are!"
"You brought us here, Robb. You are the unrealistic one." Sansa pointed out the door to where silly Jeyne Westerling was probably wandering around the castle with great big stars in her dull eyes. "Look at your wife. The Queen in the North? Really?"
Robb flushed and bellowed in fury, smashing the table with his fist once more. "Don't talk about my wife to me, ever!"
A great cry came up from the kennels and startled Sansa to silence. Grey Wind was with them, howling and baying like madness. Robb wiped his face and stood, glaring at Sansa and their poor mother who was near tears and clutching her temples.
"Go to your chambers, the both of you, and stay out of sight. That's Lady Talya returned—with or without the Kingslayer," he chucked bitterly. "Fate of my campaign in the hands of a witch and a girl. Gods save me." He shook his head and strode out of the room swiftly, leaving Sansa trembling, unsure and alone.