Chivalry Isn't Dead
written by CelticPixie

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"Much unhappiness has come into the world because of bewilderment and things left unsaid".-Fyodor Dostoyevsky

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She wouldn't have thought to consider the Lady of Winterfell a friend, but she supposed it was possible; the pair had known each other long enough, been through enough—long enough for a lifetime.

Brienne watched as Sansa's gaze had wandered once more. Sansa had been looking into the interior courtyard and watching as everyone passed by – on occasion, there would even be those who met her gaze and offered her a polite nod. It was not the men who truly caught her attention, however; but a squire, one with hair as black as coal and eyes as brown as a stag's pelt. He mustn't have noticed.

But Brienne—she had noticed. She shared her time flitting a look between her sworn lady and her squire, almost daring to imagine what one or the other might have been thinking. She noted that Sansa wasnot been smiling, but a rather impassable expression she could only began to contemplate the meaning of. Looking back at her squire, she realized they had been spotted. He was looking at them. Most importantly, he was looking at her. The gaze between squire and lady lasted about as long as a heartbeat; Podrick wandered off and Sansa had broken away her gaze, blinking as though fresh snow had collected on her lashes.

She did not look back at Brienne but kept herself looking at the snow on the courtyard, even long after Podrick had left her sight. Her curiosity had peaked; though, she never would have bothered to care before. There… there was something—maybe. Something there that gnawed at her belly. Perhaps it was memories she hadn't completely forgotten.

Brienne seemed curious to the way Sansa was staring. Her squire – Lord Tyrion's former squire – had come into her service as a means to get him out of King's Landing. It certainly hadn't been requested and she attempted to release him from his vows not ten minutes after leaving the capital.

Sansa opened her mouth, but closed it quickly, instead looking back to nothing, and maybe trying to find something else to focus on.

Brienne arched a brow. She had already suspected this was going somewhere. "Podrick is a good man, Lady Sansa" Brienne assured the younger woman; it seemed, to her at least, that this Lady of Winterfell had deep reservations about Podrick Payne that Brienne didn't understand. "He's always taken his duties to me very seriously."

Sansa nodded; "I know that… but—" She pulled her posture tighter, so she seemed more stiff, more standoffish. She would catch a look, once or twice, but he'd always turn from her. "-he is cousin to Ser Ilyn Payne," Sansa said; she knew exactly where this inquiry was heading. The look in Brienne's eyes bespokeconfusion, and curiosity. "The King's justice – he executed my father for treason on Joffrey's orders." She had been apprehensive of the man in the beginning, but she no longer had those doubts of Podrick's loyalty and judging him from atrocities not by his own hand was wrong of her; she knew that now.

This fact was lost on Brienne, who would never had assumed there was a reason for anyone—much less Sansa—to be terrified of someone like Podrick, who was always ever cheerful and gentle. Brienne was more than interested at this point. But before she could inquire further, Sansa continued on that same thought train.

Brienne nodded; she contemplated Sansa's confession. She too had been guilty of misplaced scrutiny. She initially tried rejecting the offer of a squire – when Ser Jaime reasoned the boy would be safer with her - arguing that he would only slow her down, and later tried to rid herself of him by releasing him from his vow; whether obstinacy or his pride talking, he refused to leave. She came to admire the young man.

She had taken a liking to her squire and felt a semblance of protectiveness over him. She attempted not to show it, but Brienne had visibly stiffened at Sansa's words. "Do you not trust him?" King's Landing was a ways away and it felt like such a lifetime ago. They were different people now; older, wiser, perhaps.

If it had been anyone else, Sansa might have rebuked them for speaking to her in such a tone, but Brienne wasn't just anyone else, and Sansa knew the woman meant well; she was protective of Podrick, and it showed whenever they spoke of the squire. "Though I've tried to be amiable," she started, and sighed, "I haven't always been the kindest towards him. He deserved better." She had grown, just as Podrick did, but her experiences caused her to become reserved and distrustful. "I judged him poorly and I wish I could take it back."

Brienne had been biting her lip; she, too, had judged Jaime poorly on many levels but none of which she could take back—only move forward.

"Might I offer a suggestion, my Lady?"

"I trust you implicitly, Lady Brienne," Once again, Sansa nearly smiled, "I don't say it enough to assure you of that—" She was thinking of something else as well, "—and, I dare say that I've come to consider you a friend as well. I have so few of those these days: True friends."

"None of us know what will come of this war; who will survive, what will be left of them… but there are those still here, now, and many of us deserve a chance…"

There was something still holding her back. Fear, perhaps. Fear of what? Fear of the unknown? Still, there had something in him that she hadn't seen in the others. An innocent lad, with a kind and loving heart. Someone who has always ever treated her with decency and respect. And she barely ever spoke two words to him.

Gods give me strength; a sweet entreaty that stopped before it reached her lips; she hardly prayed for herself anymore. If she hadn't walked off, hadn't decided to follow after the squire, Sansa never would. Her nerves would have failed her, then. She respired gradually, slowly breathing out of her mouth. Her agitation increased. She wanted to turn back. Go back to where it was safe. Hide away from him. But he would still be there the next day, and the day after that, and they all might be dead come the long night.

Specific memories were not something Sansa continued to dwell on. She didn't like to remember the terrible periods in her past; those moments with Joffrey, or Ramsey, or getting caught within the web of lies and deceit that Petyr Baelish would spin. So many memories she'd rather forget. She pushed them away, moving on from them as best she could. But then, there were the memories she didn't want to be forgetting; her loving and doting father, the last moments with her mother, growing up with her family… reuniting with Jon, Arya, and Bran. Sansa thought she would be content by that point.

There were more memories to be had; some good, some bad. But if Brienne hadn't encouraged Sansa to speak to the young squire, then the Lady of Winterfell might never had added yet another memory.

The tightness in her chest unraveled, slowly, until the collective mutters faded off, replaced by something more melodious: High in the halls of the king who are gone, Jenny would dance with her ghosts…the words had been. Sansa didn't know the emotions she meant to be feeling, only that an uneasiness had settled in her heart the more she heard…The ones she had lost and the ones she had found, and the ones who had loved her the most…She bit down a little at her bottom lip; she must know who was singing such a song. The song was somber, but the voice was sweet-sounding; as if she heard that same singing before, when she was much younger… and, perhaps, another time…

The rhythmic crooning was coming from the armory. Despite being able to close eyes and mentally take herself through every nook and cranny of Winterfell, Sansa was unfamiliar with the armory. She never came here; had no reason for it. Closer, she walked, until she was just outside. Sansa stopped, taking it in all at once, and slowly realizing that she wasn't as anxious as before. The panic in her chest had subsided almost completely; a sense of tranquility washing over her in waves.

And then, there it was—a face to put to a song: Podrick Payne. Sansa observed, quietly. He reminded her of Arya during Septa Mordane's lessons; down-cast eyes, lost in thought, oblivious to all else around him. She always had a tenderness for the squire with the gentlest of hearts, even if she never allowed herself to open up to him.

She remembered singing; how happy it made her when she did. But she didn't sing, not anymore. There should be at least someone in this castle who still enjoyed the sweet sounds of their own voice.

When the battle between the army of the dead and the people of the North finally took place, it was Sansa and her sister Arya who quietly observed from the castle walls. As the charge of Dothraki screamers was repelled and wights advanced on the barricades, Arya turned to her sister and ordered her to the crypts. Sansa wasn't a fighter. Her place was not on the ramparts as their doom marched forwards. She protested, she pleaded, but in the end, she went anyway. Not without Arya attempting to hand her a dragonglass dagger: Still 'em with the point end, she said. Sansa didn't need it; she had another. It had already been gifted to her by someone else. Someone taller. Someone who admired her from afar for many years and wanted nothing but the best for her.

Tyrion was restless but Sansa reminded him they were all there for a reason; they wouldn't be able to help, not the way they should, so there was nothing for them to do but wait – it was most heroic thing they could be doing at that moment. She acknowledged he was the best of them, a compliment Tyrion hadn't taken lightly. After the dead breached the castle walls and found their way into the crypts – previously emptied of dead bodies so the Night King's spell could not reanimated the dead – the living had scrambled for cover. Somehow, Sansa had ended up crouched behind a large stone casket with Tyrion.

While the pair looked desperately at the other, Sansa pulled out the dragonglass dagger. It was not the one Arya attempted to give her. Tyrion recognized it. He didn't say anything, but he knew the name of the person who gave it to Sansa; it wasn't her sister Arya. It warmed him knowing someone else was watching out for her. There was a brief, unspoken moment that passed between her and Tyrion. Neither of them thought they would be making it out of this situation alive. He kissed her hand, bidding her a farewell, and tears were in her eyes.

When the survivors gathered outside of Winterfell's gates amongst the dozens of funeral pyres, Sansa mourned for the loss of Theon Greyjoy; her friend, brother. The flames had been hard to watch. Her eyes subverted when the smoke became too much. Standing close to Jaime and Brienne was a very bruised and battered Podrick Payne. Her heart had thumped then, warmed by the knowledge of his survival. He had caught her looking and offered a comforting smile.

The flush in Podrick's cheeks deepened, and Sansa nearly offered him a smile. She felt it, just behind the muscles in her face, but she forbade herself from doing so at the last second.

Sansa found herself staring at him. And he at her.

She saw, with absolute certainty, that Podrick had the gentlest of eyes. Her brother used to have soft and gentle eyes, but years at the Wall, and beyond, had changed him. His eyes were not soft anymore, nor were they gentle; not like Podrick's eyes.

She realized that, maybe, there was something there; something that made her feel warm. Whatever it was, it burned deep in her chest. Sansa found a spot on the floor and stared at it; her face had turned from him before he could see that her cheeks had warmed.

She gaped at it, putting her mind elsewhere; not here, she thought, not with the man who frightened me for so long. She knew it couldn't have been his doing. Podrick was not responsible for the atrocities committed by the King's Justice. As a girl, Sansa had convinced herself otherwise—It was the name: Payne – his name – that I dreaded, she admitted; an entirely unfair assessment, but a truth she lived with.

The dance was over far too soon. She would have liked it to continue. But she returned to her table where others were waiting; neither said a word. She preferred it. Her heart was still in flutter. She didn't want the interrogation about the knight she was clandestinely so fond of. Part of her longed to kiss him. But the other half queried the judgment knowing the perils she had gone through. She needed a distraction. Something to take her mind off the thoughts running wild through it.

Sansa snatched up a pitcher, poured herself some ale, and gulped it down in one go. A few had looked her way with raised eyebrows; she ignored them all. She didn't understand. As teenagers, there was hardly a moment she spent in company of the knight. If she spoke to him at all, it was rare. And it wasn't like Podrick strived for the effort of her attention either. It wouldn't have been proper. She had been married to Tyrion; still? They never consummated. Technically, the marriage was never valid.

Sansa's thoughts were betraying her again; the ale hadn't been enough to dull them out… Emotions were something she didn't express. Not openly. She imagined a quiet evening at Winterfell: she was dressed in a white satin gown—adorned with red blooming flowers—and he wore the finest of robes, everyone gathered from castles scattered across all of Westeros, and they were joined as husband and wife in the eyes of the Gods—the old and the new.

An image that would never come to pass; she was the Queen of the North and he was knight to the Kingsguard of their graces, Jon and Daenerys—it was a pairing that would not… could not… happen. What Sansa wanted was nothing more than a dream of a little girl who still believed in chivalrous knights and beautiful princesses to be rescued by those knights. When she returned to Winterfell, Sansa knew she would be doing it along. At some point, she would be obligated to marry a Lord and produce heirs, an idea that once delighted her.

She must have permitted her mind to wander too much; a single tear escaped her, tumbling down her right cheek before she could sweep it off. Another had. Someone had seen her tear. That someone hadn't been anyone she traveled with but an old friend who remained loyal to her for years; when Sansa looked, it was the Lady Commander—Ser Brienne Lannister—staring down, expression softened, curious…

Sansa nodded, dismissively; "Oh, Ser Brienne," she started, completely ignoring the fact she was caught crying and worse, that it was Brienne who was wiping away her tears; "my congratulations on your marriage. It has been a long time coming." She forced a smile.

"I appreciate your gratitude, your Grace…" Brienne's voice trailed a bit.

The pause was there; Sansa knew what it was the Lady Commander wanted to know; "Ask your questions, Ser Brienne…"

"I did not want to interfere into your personal life, but I sense uneasiness in you."

Sansa sighed; it wasn't the first time she tried secreting anything from Brienne. Truthfully, she never could. The Lady Commander was just too familiar with her feelings. "Don't be fretting yourself about me. Not today. This is a festive affair for you and the Lord Hand…" As much as she wanted to make it seem like she cared more about Ser Brienne's happiness than her own, there was still sadness clinging to her voice.

"I do worry, your grace. Seeing you upset distresses me." Brienne looked off yonder to where Podrick had meandered off to; there was a moment, then, of a frown creasing her mouth. "It's not ever too late to tell an important person exactly how you feel…"

"I… cannot. We cannot. It… It isn't conceivable- for us…"

"It is if you allow it to be. Go." Sansa glanced at her with some level of scrutiny; Brienne was more understanding than the Queen of the North gave her credit for sometimes. "If it is valuable enough to you, there is nothing that should prohibit you from rewarding your desire."

Sansa had tears in her eyes; When you're older, I'll find you a match with someone who's worthy of you. Someone brave and gentle and strong….

Podrick was that 'someone brave and gentle and strong'

~.~.~.~.~

The door had shut. Now it was just her… her and her own thoughts. She pressed herself against the wood; her mind running adrift, her heart a-flutter inside her chest. Just on the other side of that door was a man she knew she was in love with but too afraid to say anything for fear of having her heart broken again. Sansa knew Podrick would never do that to her, but something buried in her subconscious was trying to convince her otherwise. She stood there wondering if he was still on the other side of that door.

Was he thinking of her as she was thinking of him? Sansa sighed; if he was still standing there, waiting for something—maybe waiting for her.

Sansa was thinking, maybe over-thinking too much…

One minute she had been risking life and limb to escape Winterfell – ironic that she would ever need to escape from her own home; Ramsey had seen to that – and the next, she was wading chest deep through an icy river. She thought of Theon then, and what he'd done for her; he owed her a great deal after what he had done; she supposed saving her from Ramsey was his way of beginning his redemption. In her eyes, anyway. But then they huddled behind a downed tree, and he tried so very hard to rub warmth back into her freezing body, and suddenly merely escaping her ancestral home wasn't enough; the hounds were on them.

Sansa balked at the thought. Only later on wound the irony of hounds come back into play. She thought she was done for. She thought Theon might betray her. Give away their position. He tried to get them away. Off her scent. But hounds were such resourceful creatures. They picked it up immediately and rushed past Theon. They found her alright and Sansa recalled the way her heart was beating in her throat just assuming these hounds would rip flesh from bone right there. She knew death would be painful, but she prepared herself for it. Getting ripped limb from limb by blood-thirsting hounds was probably a reprieve anyway; any death would have been ideal if it meant she didn't have to be raped every night.

But death did not come for Sansa that day. Her savior, as it turned out, was the same woman she had turned down so long ago, before Lifflefinger sold her off to Ramsey Bolton. And she kept thinking that maybe she should have accepted the woman's offer of service that day in the tavern; it would have saved her from the torment she was forced to endure. There was more. A second rescuer had come, riding in on a metaphorical white horse, sword in hand; the very sword held in Sansa's hands now – the knight had come to save the princess, she thought; maybe those stories do still exist…

Remembering that day, the day she knew with inevitability, that she was falling for him, Sansa made a call; exhaling, she prayed he would still be standing there when she opened the door…

…and he was.

They stared at each other awkwardly for a while. Of course, neither knew exactly what to say. Surely a woman who called herself Queen of the North could muster up a few words for the knight. And even if she could think of something, Podrick hadn't spoken either. Time ticked by. Too much, it seemed like.

And then…

"I suppose I… I should be going now… but—" Podrick stammered out only a few words; scratching at the back of his neck while trying to figure out how he was meant to continue.

He didn't have to. "…I know," Sansa uttered, seemingly knowing where he was going with this. Again, there was a moment, in which only their shared breathing could be heard, before; "Would you care to come in?" Her heart was beginning to drum a repetitive beat.

Podrick's breathing became uneven, but he nodded and stepped inside.

Eventually, she lifted her eyes from the spot on the floor, and then; "You have been in service of Lady Brienne for some time now have you not?" She turned to face him.

"Y-yes, milady."

"And, how long do you suppose that has been?" Get to know him, Brienne's voice resonated in her mind.

Podrick shrugged. "I don't know. I suppose – I mean, I don't remember. A couple of years, I guess. They all just…blur together…" He responded with a quaking voice. He inhaled and exhaled, slowly; his racing heart had regulated, less of this mind-numbing drumming on it had been doing.

There was the issue of his service weapon still on the floor. Sansa noticed it; Podrick appeared heedless of it. She retrieved it, unaware of gaping eyes watching her. She stood straight, grasping the sword by the pommel. It was nothing significant, but she marveled at it just the same.

And then she asked; "Is this the sword?" Sansa still clutched it like a lifeline. She remembered it well, remembered how he used it to slay Bolton men; it was not something she'd forget anytime soon.

Podrick, he looked confused. "Milady…?"

"You killed men with this sword." Finally, finally, she looked up again; their eyes met. "Bolton men." Many things Sansa had forced herself to forget but this – Podrick, and Brienne, coming to her rescue – was not something she could ever allow herself to forget. "I remember. How could I forget? If you and Lady Brienne hadn't – if you hadn't come, I—" Sansa's voiced faded off; knowing what she wanted to say, but not able to say it.

"I was doing my duty, milady."

Her voice broke a little; "You did so much more than that," she told him.

Sansa felt the tears prickling her eyes. She forced them back before Podrick could see. The less she would have to explain, the better of they both were.

Her focus was the sword she held; what it meant to her was far more important than crying over a past she couldn't change. She thumbed the pommel, as if memorizing the details of something that seemed fairly generic to anyone else.

And then; "Keep it safe," she remarked, "Always."

When she handed his sword back to him, Sansa paid unusually close attention as he reached for it. Their hands, they almost – almost – brushed one another, but Podrick had quickly recoiled with a fresh crimson on his cheeks at the almost-maybe-touching.

She was undoubtedly seeing now that her uncertainties were only telling her not to trust Podrick because of his gender; and that was unwise of her. He wasn't like everyone else. He always treated her better than most and she felt shame at not giving him the chance he had proven time and time again that he deserved.

This wasn't as painful as I imagined, she thought and for once, Sansa was actually feeling less frightened than she had been for the longest time.

She knew there was more she wanted to say – so much more – and she parted her lips, the words just there on the tip of her tongue—