Friendship

"One of the most beautiful qualities of true friendship is to understand and to be understood," Lucius Annaeus Seneca.

"I don't think I ever told you, Brienne," his voice was soft, almost tender, and she hated him for it, hated the fact that he was calling her by name, instead of wench, because it was as if he was admitting defeat, "I claim Sansa as my salvation, but you..."

She presses tightly against the red that runs through her gauntlets, pressed tightly against his side, and she knows it cannot be in vain, can not-

"Shut up," she hisses, and she is surprised at herself but desperate. Her patience is thin, her heart is beating so hard it will leap from her chest, and her throat is hoarse with what she suspects are tears and horror. She's never been a pretty crier, and in this cold, she is right scared she is going to chip her nose off or her eyelashes if the tears and snot freeze.

He chuckles, it is a wet sound, and his teeth, perfect and straight are coated with his own blood. Golden hair is matted with it. She knew he was coughing blood at one point before she had thrown him behind a rock, but she cannot remember if the blow to his stupid golden hair had been his blood or poor Pod's who had been mauled right next to him.

"I always thought I would die with her. We entered the world together. But she's already gone… I am glad it is with you, with a friend."

"Stop it- I swear- You will not die, we have to return to her grace's side, we must-"

"Brienne..."

Green eyes, green eyes she should hate are emerald, so emerald-like the fruitful summer greens she suspects she will never come, not with the dragons and their riders felled, not with the wildfire that is running rampant. So hot she feels it through her carefully constructed armor for the cold, feels sweat running down her back, even if the camp is so far away. She sees something in his gaze. Something so like the wildfire, yet dimming at the same time.

"The Queen swore to lit the fire herself. She's gone. She… She would not place the burden on anyone else. Amazingly brave… Brave. It was an honor to serve a Queen that was so brave. That was good for once."

Something cracks, something shatters in Brienne and she can barely breathe.

"Don't you dare Kingslayer," she snaps, and she is feeling sharp, jagged, and furious, "Our oath is still to our Queen and to Princess Arya. We will find them. You just have to stop your needless bleeding!"

He just chuckles again. A hacking wet sound.

"Will you keep fighting?" his voice is calm, his green eyes are more so, dimmer, dimmer than they should be, "By my side?"

Part of Brienne wonders that it is in death that Jaime Lannister finds peace. Not by his sister's side, not in battle, not with the salvation of his honor, but in death. Fuck you for it, Jaime.

"We have a vow to fulfill. I will make you see it through, Jaime."

Green eyes are growing dim. Dimmer and dimmer and she thinks she hates him, as she had before.

"Good. Good…" his voice grows softer, dimmer as his eyes, and Brienne is still pressing her gauntlets into his side, even when she suspects the blood itself is no longer flowing, "Good good..."

Good is the last word Jaime says.

Brienne, for a moment, cannot believe it. She had seen the man, pus-filled stump, stand up to a bear, for her. She has seen him let go of the woman he had loved all his life, let her go, for himself, for the vow he made to a woman he had no reason to keep beyond his own conscious. She had seen him serve by her side, bow once again to a sovereign as their personal guard, despite the horrors he had seen at the hands of the four Monarchs before. She does not think a slash should be enough to do him in. But he does not move, eyes, half-open and heavily lidded, grows so still, and his smile, his smile is still there, blood coated teeth and all.

Until his hand twitches.

Those eyes, emerald green like the grass of the hills that lead to the sapphire waters of Tarth, bloom into an unearthly blue. Glowing, almost beautiful had it not been so monstrous. The blood-coated smile, still there, grows wider, and the body of Jaime Lannister staggers to its feet. And kneeling, Brienne sobs, even as she scrambles for her sword.

Brienne is sobbing when she wakes.

Not a completely odd occurrence. She had certainly woken up in her ill remembered bedroom in Tarth sobbing. Sobbing and in and wheezing. Clawing at wounds that had yet to occur in her young body.

Now, it is dark, she is not sure of the hour but knows it to be not long after she had fallen asleep. The air is not quite cool in her mind, against her heated skin, but it still raises goose-flesh across her arms as she feels it, her body, as it is, now unused to the cold that the North can bring. Not as cold as the Night, not as cold as it could be, but still it is not used to it. Her shift is soaked with cool sweat. A hand, small, so small and fine-boned that it feels as if it will break at the slightest touch, runs through the strands of the dry hair she has yet to cut. The gentle tug is as delicate as a butterfly batting its wings, so slight, Brienne hardly registers it as she tries to settle her uneven breathing and the restless tears that fall from her eyes.

"Shhh. It's alright," comes a soft voice, warm, but high-pitched. It is almost familiar, yet not, but it is enough to help further still her frightened breaths.

Brienne shifts, uneasily, in just a shift, eyes swollen and aching, and her face hot with her shame.

"I beg your pardon, your grace," she whispers, turning to look at her queen, small as she is, "Did… Did I wake you?"

Queen Sansa as a child was small, much smaller than Brienne would have expected at this age, as the queen had been tall enough to reach her chin, she who was so tall in comparison to most men. So small that Brienne suspects she, in her body of five and ten, would be able to shield her completely within her arms and lift her with more ease than before. But the queen, despite her diminutive size, is still cradling her. Her legs and arms, thin and warm, are around her larger bulk like a vice, beneath layers of soft furs and velvet. One hand is running through her hair, fingertips delicately threading through the rough blonde strands, while the other is carefully curled around her shoulders.

"No," she says, her voice, soft, barely audible and calm, sweet as bird song, "I was already awake when your shoulders began to shake."

A still, calm expression is all that Queen Sansa gives, and Brienne wonders how that has not changed in their strange rebirth in the past. She doubts her words are true, for as early as she recalls that the young queen would rise and attend her duties, she was not accustomed to this early an hour, the sun not risen, and Brienne wonders at the simplicity of being able to tell the hour by the sun again. She has unsettled her main charge, she knows, the day before, despite their happy reunion… I do not regret coming to fulfill my vow. But I wonder how much unrest I have brought upon the Queen's mind with my presence? How do her worries increase with the knowledge of more of us from the future? She feels twice the fool and swallows dryly.

"I apologize. Its… My memories come to me and I-"

"Brienne, you are not the only one who dreams."

Brienne swallows again, thickly, before she nods her understanding, but unable to shake the shame of being so weak in front of the one she is supposed to be protecting. The night before, she would have stood watch, wanted to stand watch for her queen, knowing that she was before her, but had instead been ordered to 'Rest after so long a journey. We will establish your place as my sworn shield soon enough, but first, you must be my secret friend due to happenstance and a confused raven.' Brienne understands her Queen's need to protect the North and understands that her coming to the North would have been more carefully planned out had Queen Sansa known of her own return to the past, but cannot feel uncomfortable having to play a part.

She was no great mummer, nor comfortable with the need for deception. But she would do what needed to be done to stay by her charges' sides.

"Still, your majesty," she says, licking dry, cracked lips, "I do apologize. You were not expected to have such a bed-fellow."

She smiles. It completely changes her fair face- softness the sternness of her cherubic mask of politeness. Her eyes, a dozen shades lighter than her own, and much more beautiful shine with warmth.

"But I am glad to have you, here, Brienne. So glad," her voice wavers, thick with her joy, and like the day before, Brienne is surprised to hear the joy that comes from her.

Not because she thinks her unfeeling, but because Sansa allows herself to act on the affection that she rarely permitted herself to display in front of anyone when Brienne had known her.

"As am I to be here, my queen."

Fair, red brows furrow.

"You have to stop addressing me like that. It is a dangerous thing to be called with so many eyes upon us. The North is being watched, I am sure, with all of its movement, not to mention all of the Lords who look at us within our own lands. I have many ahead of me in the line of succession, Brienne, and to keep that true, I will gladly never be a queen again. So please, old friend, refrain."

Despite the obvious command, Brienne finds herself shaking her head. Rarely did she disagree, but in this, she would.

"It is what you are."

"It is what I was," she mummers in return to Brienne.

"You cannot change your baring, your grace, nor who you are to me."

The young woman wearing the mask of the child sighs.

"If you must, I ask only amongst the older members of my family. My parents, Robb and Jon are the only ones that know at present. No more public show of such deference, if you please, Lady Brienne."

Brienne nods. Takes in her old title with ill grace, she knows. She had been Ser Brienne at her death and still felt it her mantle. But her Queen commanded. And Brienne would follow it. She may have slipped yesterday- overcome as she was- she would not do so again.

"As you command."

The young queen smiles, slight, before she rises, with ill grace, rolling out from under furs and velvet in a slight tumble. It is a movement ill-suited to what Brienne thought was her true mental state of being a lady of twenty namedays, but it all startling fitting of the youthful body of a girl. She seemed to relish the movement. She too, was in just her shift, her hair, red as flame, a wild tangle growing steadily past her frail shoulders, nearing her slight hips. She steps on cold stones without a flinch. And for a moment Brienne appreciates the fact that she is seeing her so relaxed, so at ease in a way that she would have thought impossible once before. Their time apart had seemed to help her queen, and Brienne was so glad.

"And I ask you to address me as Sansa in public. We are friends, if nothing else, Brienne."

Warmth blooms in Brienne's chest. Her queen is still smiling, true and Brienne could count the number of times she had done so on her hand.

"Of course, Sansa," her voice is shy, but she cannot deny the happiness that comes with the request.

Sansa nods.

"There are soft cloths and a basin of water, as I am afraid it would be unfair to request two baths at this hour," she directs, to a small counter, not directly commenting on Brienne's sweat-soaked appearance, "And we will settle you with proper attire once your position is settled. I am sure you found a few things appropriate for the Summer weather so far North, but I also trust you have something comfortable to wear otherwise?"

"I managed to arrange for some clothing to be made before I left for Winterfell. My father was kind enough to allow for such when I stated my intent to leave to the North. A few changes of clothes, but not enough to consist of a full wardrobe."

"How did you explain it to your father?"

Brienne sighed.

"I was not sure how to properly explain it. I only could say that I was compelled to try my hand of being a sworn shield, and thought the North to be a good place to try, kinder as they are with woman warriors. It was all I could say."

"You did well not to speak of the future."

Brienne swallowed.

"I am bound to keep your secrets, be your console, and I believe that it was part of it."

"Thank you," she said quietly, "You had no guarantee of what you would find here, Brienne."

"You are welcome. I had hoped to find someone else with the memories, with some many changes wrought… It is well and good that my hope was realized, and that it is you I found."

Without another word, Sansa lifts her own shift over her head, unashamed and used to being bare before her, a wordless gesture of trust as she sets her sleeping shift within a basket of unwashed clothes. Brienne is ashamed that the sight of the Queen's scarless back nearly has her bawling. Brienne has to take a few moments to collect herself. Queen Sansa is there, mummering and comforting, naked as her nameday, as if Brienne is nothing more than a scared child against her.

She feels it.

Yet not.

Hiccups and roughly presses her hands to her eyes until the tears stop.

When Sansa is satisfied of her state, she goes to remove her small clothes, as Brienne rises, hesitating, before she too lifts her own shift above her head, depositing it in the same basket, before making her way to the pitcher and soft cloths, soaking one carefully before cleaning herself best she could. Practically spoke to remove her small clothes, and she did so, as Sansa had wordlessly turned her back, a silent show of privacy. She remembers my shyness. Sansa was already dressed by the time she turned back around in a clean set of small clothes, much to Brienne's surprise, in fitted trousers and a loose tunic. She was running a comb through her hair quickly untangling it.

"Dress as if you go to train," she commands, a slight smirk of humor appearing on her face.

"Of course," Brienne responds, brows furrowing in her curiosity.

When she was dressed, Brienne searched for a tie for her hair and blinked as Sansa gestured for her to sit in the stool in front of her vanity. Wordlessly, she followed her command.

"May I braid back your hair?" she asked, softly.

Brienne blinked.

"I- Yes. Thank you. I have been meaning to cut it."

Sansa hummed.

"It is strange to see it so long," she replied, "A change."

"At this age, I was still trying to be something of a Lady, a pretense for my father. Once my last engagement fell through when I was six and ten, I sheared it off. My father said nothing to it, but I was so relieved to stop pretending."

Words seem to fall from her lips without censor. She does not know if it is because she knows that Sansa would not cast judgment on the course of her unconventional life, or if she feels that Winterfell is a safe place that takes her choices and understands them. Sansa hums, running carefully through her dry hair with a brush instead of a comb, precise, easy movements. Whenever she reached a knot, she was gentle, placing a warm, small hand against her scalp to ease the pull required to undo it.

"I will find the appropriate sheers if you so wish."

"Thank you."

Sansa made quick work of the longer strands, pulling it back in a sharp braid, that circled Brienne's head held in place by small steel pins, tight and taciturn that left not a strand in her face. The only real adornment was a single ribbon, holding a few of the shorter strands away from her face, a single thin band embroidered with running direwolves. The effect was very different for Brienne, so used to the more flowery effects of arranging hair of the South that had been so ill-fitting in her attempts as a youth, but this suited her far more. Sansa then did the same to her own hair in quick strokes as Brienne left the seat before the vanity and retrieve her boots. Sansa did the same once she was done with her hair, before, she went to gather what, Brienne was surprised to see, two twin daggers that fit in a belt around her slim waist.

"You arm yourself with more than one dagger?"

Her Queen's practice was one hidden in her sleeve, not two worn openly on her hips.

"More than that, but you will see that soon, come, my lesson awaits," and in that moment, Brienne saw something she had never seen in her elder charge, a mischievous look to her eyes that was far too light-hearted to the person she had been. It was a very Princess Arya expression, she realized with a jolt of surprise.

Despite her unease, Brienne finds she is glad of the ease that her queen shows. She follows her, hand on her sword she wears on her hip, the entire way, falling into step next to her, one arm laced through her's, instead of behind as she wishes to, but even in the shadows of the morning hours, Sansa is insistent. They go to a large, cavernous room, where a man is waiting for them, a small man with tan skin, a large nose, and an earring swinging from one ear. He raises a brow at Brienne, before looking to Sansa. Brienne's grip on her sword hilt tightens.

"What more do you bring for me?" asked the man, and Brienne is struck with an accent that she thinks is Braavosi, having heard it a lot from some of the men the High Queen had brought with her from Essos, "Eh?"

"A friend, Master Syrio. Lady Brienne of Tarth, she is a friend that knows swordsmanship, she is from the South, in the Stormlands."

"Oh? And does she know how to wield the blade she holds at her side?"

"She is one of the finest swords in the Seven Kingdoms."

Brienne feels her cheek heat, blinking rapidly at the calm assertion.

"S-Sansa boasts for my sake," she replies.

Sansa smiles.

"She is much too modest. But she has traveled far and does not wish to be apart from me. I will take my water-dancing lesson, and Brienne will do her own training if that will be agreeable with you?"

The man, Master Syrio, just nods.

"Well, girl leave your swordswoman alone and learn," he says, calmly.

Brienne is astounded even further when Sansa proceeds to follow the strange man's instructions without protest, without a word. She stands, she stretches, before Brienne can recognize the fact that her eldest charge is learning to defend herself, learning stances and positions that fit well with the thin wooden blade that the man gives her before he begins to circle her with his own practice sword. It is further than a precautionary dagger, or even two. The man, Syrio, barks, orders, and critiques stances, her stamina, and other such things without hesitation, without guile. She takes the hit of the wooden sword from the man without flinching, her eyes only tightening as he hits her soundly on the legs, the hips to tell her where she needs to fix her stance. Sansa takes the lesson, listens, nods, and asks questions, careful, probing, and acknowledging her lack of skill.

Brienne absorbs this for a moment, hand tight on her hilt before she takes an evening breath. She is taking the means to protect herself, to better herself. If I recall, her greatest grief was the fact that she was unable to protect herself when the people in charge of that failed to do so. It will never be her strength, I can see that, much as she is trying. But she need not be a true warrior, if ever she may falter, I will be there to defend her. That is my vow, is it not?

Brienne licks her lips, heart settling in ease and understanding at the course Sansa is taking before she moves to start her own training.

She works herself well and hard, compensating for her loss of both height and muscle, sure in her ability to re-train her body to the same level of prowess that would defend her charges well. She is unaware of the time that passes, but she does move, quickly, with the sound of the door opening, side-stepping quickly to stand in front of Sansa. Her chest is heaving, her brow is full of sweat, but Brienne is prepared for whatever may come.

Grey eyes, large, innocent, startle Brienne, as she quickly lowered her sword.

Princess Arya.

"Good morning," the girl chirps, her gait is smooth, but still touched with the restlessness of a child, and she is smiling, curious as she looks at Brienne.

"Good morning, Arya," says Sansa, voice, warm as it was when she spoke to Brienne, even warmer, calmer, and she seems to be more out of breath than Brienne is, "It seems my lesson is over. Thank you, Master Syrio."

"Keep an eye on your hips girl, and try and lose your hesitation, you will never be quick to attack, but you must attack some of the time."

"Yes, of course."

"And you, big girl, Brienne?" starts the man, starling Brienne as he had yet to really address her, "You do well to stand before a friend."

Brienne swallows thickly and nods.

"I will always do so."

The man gives her a calm, assessing look before he gives a smile. His teeth are blindingly white against his tan skin.

"Good. Good. I will also say that you must not always rely on your strength, stronger than you are than most women, you are still a woman. Learn to be quicker."

Brienne blinks, slightly affronted, but knows his advice is just that- advice. He is not commenting in malice or to jeer at her. He is simply offering advice.

"I will take that under consideration."

"I will also ask for a spar, yes?"

"It would be my honor."

"Who are you?" and that is Princess Arya, a child, and as Brienne turns to her, she realizes how different she is from the woman she knew in just a glance.

"I am Brienne of Tarth. I am Sansa's friend."

Dark brows furrow.

"You don't look like you'd be Sansa's friend."

Brienne blinks.

"Arya," scolds Sansa, voice, not quite sharp, but instead exasperated, something that is tempered by what sounds like true fondness in her voice.

"What? She has a sword-and- she looks like she cannot sew!"

Sansa gives a laugh, and Brienne, as surprised as she is, can only laugh as well. So this is who you were, before I met you, Princess. I suppose I can see what else I must protect.

"I cannot sew very well, if at all," she agrees, calmly, smiling easily at the young child, who turns to her, but she resists the urge to cry at the look of completely… Ease and just… Goodness, she sees in the girl, "But Sansa finds me a friend beyond that."

"Arya, Brienne, and I met because of a raven I sent to inquire over some silk that was said to be less costly from White Harbor was confused, and instead was sent all the way to Evenfall, in the Stormlands. It was a lucky twist of fate that it landed in Brienne's hands."

"I agree."

"She wrote to me, and we have kept a steady correspondence ever since. She is my very first Southern friend. She wishes to be a knight."

Princess Arya's eyes grew wide, and her mouth fell open with quiet surprise.

"A knight?!"

Sansa gives a small smile.

"Isn't it wonderful? Ser Brienne of Tarth, Lady Knight, it will be a beautiful song."

The look that the girl gives her sister is akin to the look most people would give to the dragons that the High Queen had brought to Westeros.

"It is," the girl, grows timid, for a moment, as expected to be scolded, but when Sansa only keeps smiling, she practically vibrates in her place, "Do you think I could be a knight as well?"

Brienne is amused, and both conflicted at the innocent question.

"Convince mother," is all Sansa says, and a small giggle escapes.

Grey eyes grow determined, grow steely, and she sees a glimpse of the creature the princess would have been- the same grit, the same sheer will to survive.

"I will."

Sansa nods, comfortably.

"I wish you luck," she said calmly, "Brienne, do you wish to train more, or do you wish to follow me to break our fast?"

Brienne understands the hidden question. Stay with Princess Arya, or stay with her?

"You can both stay!" blurts Arya, excitedly, "We can train together."

Sansa blinks rapidly before her mouth falls into a brilliant smile.

"I cannot stay for your entire lesson, Arya, but I think I can manage a little longer. Let me just inform Father that I will be slightly tardy to our morning meeting… Mayhaps, I can drag Jon to join us."

Arya nods, her hair, long and not quite curls, bouncing in the movement. Sansa makes to leave, and a decision is made, Brienne nods to the once(future?) Princess, and her teacher, before she follows after Sansa. They walk in silence, in that silence, Brienne can hear that the Keep has come to life, they fall easily into step with each other, and once again, Sansa places her arm in Brienne's in an easy show of friendship. It is not quite what they had in the future, too many things had wished to take her queen's life to allow such ease... But here, in this summer, Brienne allows herself the luxury.

"Training, my lady?" Brienne brings herself to ask.

She never questioned Sansa, never in terms of anything but her safety. She trusted this woman-girl? with everything beyond it.

"Master Syrio convinced me. I thought it prudent."

Brienne feels her earlier thought confirmed, in the way that Sansa squeezes her arm in slight affirmation. In affection.

"I am glad," said Brienne quietly. Her training as a queen had been sporadic, and unfortunately, someone always needed Queen Sansa Stark with the Second Long Night so close to them all.

"I will never be a warrior. But I do not need to be," said Sansa softly, and a small smile appeared on her fair, innocent-looking face.

"No," Brienne mummers, "Not with me here."

Sansa squeezes her arm again.

"No. Not with you here, Brienne."

EDIT: 2 January 2022