THE STAINS OF WAR

Brienne I

The castle smelled of burning flesh, and Brienne suspected it would for days to come. They had set the bodies of the dead alight that morning at daybreak, and they continued to burn even now, just beyond Winterfell's walls. She, Lady Sansa and Podrick had watched as their newly named King had addressed the crowd who had gathered to say their farewells before igniting the first of several massive pyres himself. She had been tasked with lighting one of the other pyres, following King Jon's lead, and she had completed her duty grimly. She hadn't been able to help but search the pile of lifeless men for familiar faces as she set them aflame, but she had found none. Unbidden, the realization that she was just as alone here in the North as she had been anywhere else across the Seven Kingdoms had danced across her mind.

Fortunately, Lady Sansa had left the pyres not long after that, pulling Brienne from her wholly inappropriate thoughts. She and Podrick had followed her away from the crowd, keeping pace with her until they reached Winterfell's kennels. There they had stayed back in respect as she set the kennel ablaze herself. Brienne hadn't asked why, and nor had Podrick, but they had stood in solidarity with their Lady all the same. As the flames had engulfed the building, King Jon had appeared at his sister's side without a word. The four of them had remained like that, shoulder to shoulder, until the roof collapsed before they had gone their separate ways.

From there the day had comprised a continuous stream of physical errands. As she and Podrick had been absent during the battle to oust the Bolton bastard from her Lady's rightful home, they were some of the few uninjured people available to begin the extensive task of getting the castle back in order. Lady Sansa had instructed them to help Winterfell's maester, a man named Wolkan, in any way he might require. So far, that had included organizing sleeping arrangements for the wounded, fetching and carrying supplies and, in her case, helping to move injured men or restrain those needing amputations. That final task was a grim one, made all the worse when the subject was aware and pleading with her to stop the pain or save their doomed limb. She was used to death and blood and gore, but the sound of metal sawing through bone would always send a chill through her spine.

She had also been present when a young soldier had drawn his last breath. He had been nothing more than a child, skinny and pale with spots and the first wisps of a beard, but he had looked even smaller buried beneath seemingly endless bandages. Maester Wolkan had asked her to sit with him after their last amputation of the morning as he had been crying for his mother overnight, and he had hoped she could bring him some comfort until the Stranger came for him. He wouldn't see her, Maester Wolkan had assured her. He had been trampled during the cavalry charge and his eyes had been damaged. She need only hold his hand and talk to him.

Damaged, Brienne had thought as she had looked down at him, what a terrible understatement. How this child had clung to life for so long she hadn't the faintest idea, but she had been certain it wasn't a kindness. There had not been a bone she could see that was not broken, his chest had been caved in on one side and it had been clear that he had taken more than a few blows to his head as his skull had shifted unnaturally with every gurgled, laboured breath. And his eyes… His eyes hadn't simply been damaged, they were gone, along with his forehead and nose. In their place had been an oozing, hoof-shaped indent that had bubbled with each pitiful breath. The only part of him that had appeared even remotely human was his mouth and bottom jaw, which had trembled as he whimpered in pain.

"Mummy, I fell," he kept whispering. "I'm sorry."

When he had begun exhaling more blood than bubbles, Brienne had known it was over. She had wished then, and still wished it now, that she had had some idea how to comfort him or what to say. More than that, she'd wished that there was a proper woman there, any woman, as they would surely have known what to do. In the end, she had touched what she hoped had been his less-broken shoulder awkwardly and told him to go to sleep, that he would feel better in the morning.

She had had to excuse herself briefly when he finally fell still.

Later she had asked Maester Wolkan for the boy's name so that she might locate his family. No one knew him.

When Brienne had returned to menial cleaning tasks some time later, she was still quite subdued. Nevertheless, working alongside Podrick proved a pleasant distraction from the memory of the soldier's broken face as his enthusiasm was as genuine as always despite the gore. Her squire was in his element, all but bounding from one bed to another delivering food, drink or supplies as needed. She caught sight of the occasional glower being directed at her squire's zeal and felt a burst of protectiveness for the boy who carried on unperturbed by the looks. There was a time when Brienne would have assumed that Podrick was unaware of the reactions, but that illusion had long since been chipped away. Podrick Payne was a good lad, clever in his way and far more so than he let on.

"Podrick," she barked, pushing the protective instinct aside, "Fetch me some fresh sheets for this bed." She certainly did not have to fight the urge to smile at the genuine eagerness in her squire's expression as he hastened off to comply.

Stannis's Onion Knight, Ser Davos, made no such effort and his amusement was obvious as Podrick dashed off. The older man had come to Maester Wolkan for a change of bandages on his arm and stayed to help with light labour. He was currently in conversation with a pair of Bolton men, and Brienne found herself envious of his effortless sociability, even with those he'd just fought against.

"I've seen few men more eager to serve than that boy," Ser Davos smiled over at her while the Bolton soldiers chuckled.

"Podrick is a most loyal squire," she replied stiffly, before turning pointedly back to stripping the bed in front of her. As pleasant as he appeared to be, Ser Davos had stood by Stannis' side for years, even as he had employed blood magic to murder the king she'd sworn to protect. And now he stood at King Jon's side, a thought which she did not find reassuring in the slightest. She was very aware that few shared her thoughts on the man, but Lady Sansa, at least, seemed to take his seductive words with a grain of salt.

The men took the obvious cue and returned to their conversation, leaving Brienne to her task. The sheets she tugged free smelled of corruption, urine and death. She wondered vaguely if the chuckling soldiers Ser Davos was entertaining had witnessed their neighbour's bowls let go as he succumbed to his injuries. Perhaps he had fought against them and they were pleased to see him die, or perhaps they had been brothers in arms and his death caused them pain. Looking at them again, she couldn't decide which possibility she preferred.

When she was a young girl, just beginning to dream of becoming a knight, she had spent many carefree hours envisioning all the glorious ways in which wars could be fought. She'd seen herself fighting alongside valiant knights as they sliced their way toward a good and prosperous realm. She had not envisioned urine stained sheets or crippled boys barely more than children crying out for their mothers in fear, nor the vast number of men who would die slow, painful deaths in the weeks following a battle.

Podrick's return pulled her from her dark thoughts and together they made up a fresh bed, free of the stains and smells of war. Her squire had just hurried off again with the pile of soiled linen, when a hush fell over the infirmary. Brienne straightened up at the sight of Lady Sansa, as beautiful and poised as ever, entering the room. She smiled up at Brienne as she made her way toward her.

"Lady Sansa," Brienne greeted, inclining her head respectfully.

"Brienne," Lady Sansa replied, her smile still in place, "I was hoping to have a word with Maester Wolkan?"

"The maester is with one of the wounded, I believe, my Lady. I'm sure he will return shortly, and I can pass along any message you should have."

"I'm happy to wait," Lady Sansa dismissed the offer kindly as she looked around the room.

Conversation had begun again, although to a lesser degree, following her arrival, and Brienne could see a few wounded men sneaking looks at their Lady from their beds. If Lady Sansa noticed, she did not let on. It was one thing, Brienne realized suddenly, that she and her Lady shared; they were both accustomed to the stares of men, albeit for vastly different reasons. The Lady of Winterfell seemed equally unaffected by the gore around her as she was by the looks. She moved gracefully from bed to bed, exchanging pleasantries with the conscious men. While she did not have the natural ease of someone like Ser Davos, Brienne found herself impressed by the younger woman's poise and so too, it appeared, were the injured men. Having made the rounds of the room, Lady Sansa returned to wait at Brienne's side, allowing the room at large to return to their previous conversations in earnest.

By the time Maester Wolkan returned, the Lady of Winterfell had been all but forgotten.

Wolkan looked worn down. His hands were freshly washed, and he dried them on a cloth as he entered, but his robes betrayed the nature of his latest treatment. Blood had soaked into his sleeves and shirtfront, sweat beaded his brow, and coppery grime was caked under his nails.

"Maester Wolkan," Lady Sansa greeted, turning to face him as he approached the pair and taking in his haggard appearance with a sympathetic frown. "How fare our wounded?"

"My Lady," he returned, "We suffered some losses overnight, and this morning, I'm afraid." Here he glanced sympathetically at Brienne before returning his attention to his Lady, "But less than I had feared. More men are improving than are failing, at least."

Brienne wondered grimly which category his most recent patient fell into, but kept the question to herself.

"We are in debt to your efforts, Maester," Lady Sansa said with practised polish, "On behalf of my brother the King and myself you have our sincere gratitude."

"No thanks are necessary, My Lady. A maester should not speak ill of his former Lords, but suffice to say that these men deserve nothing less than the best care I can offer them."

At that Lady Sansa smiled, and her posture softened. "I couldn't agree more. Now, I wonder if I might ask you a personal favour?"

"Of course, My Lady."

"I was hoping you may have something to help with the healing of bruising and open wounds."

The request sent concern surging through Brienne. If harm had come to Lady Sansa while she was away at Riverrun, she would never forgive herself. She'd been loathed to leave her Lady's side, but Lady Sansa had insisted… "Wounds should be seen to…" she began, firmly.

"These are older, Brienne," Lady Sansa interrupted gently, perhaps sensing her protector's worry, "I was only hoping for something to help with healing."

A pained yet understanding look appeared on the maester's face at the same moment that Brienne realized the subtlety of what Sansa was asking, the expression only serving to remind her that he, too, was familiar with life within the Bolton household. Not for the first time she wished for the opportunity to execute Ramsay Bolton herself, as slowly as she could manage.

"Of course, My Lady," Maester Wolkan gestured toward the door that led to the chamber acting as storage for his medicinal supplies, "If you'll come with me, I should have something that would be of help."

Bidding Brienne farewell, Lady Sansa followed the maester out of the main infirmary with her head held high. As they disappeared from view Podrick reappeared at her side, frowning slightly.

"Is Lady Sansa alright?" he asked, concerned.

"I believe she will be, Podrick," Brienne nodded to herself, "She will be."

"And you, My Lady?"

Brienne startled at the question and turned to Podrick. Her squire gazed back at her with such honesty and concern that she smiled slightly in spite of herself. "I believe I will be as well."