AN: Apologies for updates having been so sporadic recently. The good bit is coming up, I promise. A note on accuracy/suspension of disbelief: I'm assuming/imagining/deciding that since Thoros can bring dead guys back to life he has extra super magic healing powers, so maybe someone is doing a lot better than would naturally be expected?
Thank you for bearing with me.
PS I'm writing the next chapter whilst listening to Daughter - Run; it fits these two so well.
Later, Sansa supposed she should have known sooner. But their days were smothered panic and lean, cold, fear, and reason had escaped her.
As their journey continued and the trees thinned so too did their tempers. Brienne would twitch in the saddle all day whilst Pod snivelled. Sansa resisted the urge to dig her heels into her pony whenever she sensed men nearby. The way became hilly and difficult; the two horses were exhausted peasants' nags and Sansa knew the animals were unlikely to make it to the Eyrie. Brienne never discussed her concerns with Sansa when they made camp at night, but her thoughts lay frank in her eyes when they met the younger girl's.
A day's ride from Oldstones, the facade cracked. As the evening fell, clear and red, a small valley protected on three sides by a cluster of high hills and sheltered by a thicket of trees came into sight. Sansa could have laughed with relief at the sight: the Gods might have made it for them to camp in. There was water, there would be rabbits or wood pigeons or ducks, even, it would be dry. Even Brienne, in her gruff, tired way, gave a huff of satisfaction.
"I only hope no others have reached it before us," she said, leading her horse on foot down the rocky path. "But it's well secluded. Gods willing, the rain will hold off, and we may rest here two nights."
Sansa smiled broadly, and turned her face to the open sky. And then, in the saddle behind her, there was a shift and a slump, and suddenly Podrick was on the ground, eyes closed and face grey.
Reaching him first, Sansa closed her hand around his wrist. It was clammy and fiery at once. Running back up the path, sword jangling against her armour, Brienne stooped to her squire. After several moments' examination, she raised her head.
"He's fevered. Exhausted, and half-starved, most like, poor lad. He'll need a maester." Her teeth were gritted.
"But we'll never reach Oldstones tonight, and…" Sansa tailed off, glancing uncertainly towards their mounts.
"We'll build the fire high tonight, try to feed him, keep him warm - I've seen men worse off keep riding, when things were desperate. But he's green. Tomorrow we'll ride as hard as we can. Seven hells," she hissed.
They reached the little woodland on foot, Brienne carrying her squire like an infant. Sansa led her pony tentatively by its reins, watching stones slip from under its feet. Brienne's horse seemed to know instinctively what to do. By the time Brienne stopped, the shelter of the trees was comforting and the ground was thick with pinecones. Wordlessly, Sansa unpacked the empty skins from the saddlebags of Brienne's horse to fill at the stream, and gathered her skirts to collect as much wood as she could carry. As she walked, she prayed silently; first to the Mother, and then to the Old Gods. Finally, she prayed to the Stranger. Have you not taken enough?
When she returned, Podrick was wrapped in his own cloak, Brienne's, and her horse's blanket. Brienne had built a makeshift firepit from some of the rocks which had hindered their path downwards, and now sat cross-legged, whetstone in hand. Pulling off her own cloak to spread over the squire, Sansa nodded to Brienne.
"How does he?"
"His shivering has slowed. I was loth to leave him alone. If he can eat, a meal might help him."
Sansa nodded again. "I will watch him. I have - I had two younger brothers."
A grim smile crossed the tall woman's face. "I will return before dark falls, my Lady."
She had been away too long. Build the fire tall, she had said, and Sansa had barely been able to create a flame. The Hound had taught her how, but without his impatient scrutiny the flames were slow to obey. Shivering, Sansa sighed. The wood was poor, thick evergreen twigs too green to do much more than smoke at her. Her dress felt thin and ragged. Absent-mindedly, she turned to Pod. He reminded her a little of Bran. The boy was terrified of her, it seemed, and generally only spluttered in response on the few occasions where she had addressed him directly, but the same odd sort of gentle bravery shone through. His loyalty to Brienne was unquestionable. Softly, Sansa stretched out a hand to stroke his hair, seeing his eyes flutter rapidly under their lids. It was silly to sing, she thought, but in the wood there was no one to hear but the birds. High and thin, her voice strained out:
"Gentle Mother, font of mercy,
Save our sons from war we pray.
Stay the swords and stay the arrows,
Let them know a better day."
She might have carried on, but a sharp crack and a choked grunt from the trees at her back took her voice from her.
"So The Little Bird keeps on singing. Seven hells, girl, not the Mother, still?"