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Mornings were the best time to practice sword forms, so Brienne’s swordmasters had taught her, and so she drilled all of the men under her command when the sun was still weakly spreading its tendrils across the sky. It had made her tough and could only do the same for her men, who direly needed it. True, they were no longer under threat from the Night King or King’s Landing, but they had to be prepared for unexpected dangers.
She kept moving to stay warm in the brisk Winterfell air, shouting out corrections wherever they applied. “Tuck your elbow in,” she called out to a young man. He nodded and went back to the beginning of the pattern, humming to himself a little. She frowned. She didn’t recognise the song, but this was the third time she’d heard it.
“Stop,” she said and he froze. “That song,” he stiffened, “what is it?”
The young man stared at her, eyes wide, lips pressed firmly together. Several other men on either side had started to edge away from him.
She attempted to take on a more jovial affect, “Come man, don’t be shy. Is it a bawdy tune? I know a fair few, myself.” He said nothing, eyes pleading. The men were now a few feet away while still actively pretending they weren’t paying attention to him at all, which could only mean one thing: she wouldn’t approve of this song, and everyone knew it. Too many of the Northmen she’d served with were dead, but enough remained that there was a fairly accurate general consensus of what she’d tolerate and what she wouldn’t. This poor boy probably wasn’t overreacting. She’d never be one of the Northmen, but she’d like to think that they had come to some sort of an understanding. There were only a few things she could think of that would get this sort of reaction.
The song could be about her and she’d have to crack a few skulls in until the men remembered she was no lady. That seemed like the least likely option given her iron grip of the Queen’s forces, but it could never be discounted. Brienne also wouldn’t tolerate criticism of Sansa in any form, so some sort of mockery was possible. Both were reasonable guesses, but Brienne couldn’t stop the part of her that immediately said, you knew this was coming.
No one had started a rumour about her familiarity with the Queen -- that Brienne knew of. Brienne knew how vicious people were, how they liked to tear people apart and they had to have noticed how Queen Sansa rejected southern interference in her kingdom -- except Brienne; that Sansa kept her chambers barred to everyone -- except Brienne. If these men thought that Sansa was letting herself be unduly influenced by a foreign agent, that was true peril.
Sansa was taking a risk with Brienne every day and it was the one thing Brienne couldn’t protect her from. Brienne couldn’t fight whispers. She knew Sansa valued her friendship, but Brienne couldn’t let her risk her safety just for some companionship.
She needed to hear this song. She knew she wouldn’t get anything about of the newly mute soldier so she shouted at them all to stop lollygagging. Then, when she could, she took a horse down to the Smoking Log alehouse in Winter Town. Disguising herself was a pretty unlikely proposition, so Brienne went with bribery and within a handspan she had herself an ale, a bowl of indescribable soup, and a sleep musty tavern singer tuning a hand harp.
When he saw her coin he took it, shrugged, and said, “Never took you for a vain one.”
The remark didn’t make sense until he started to sing and she ended up covering her face with her hand, peeking to see who was witnessing this. The song was about her, but instead of the jibes she’d been expecting, the words were extremely complementary. There were several lingering descriptions of her skill with arms, including her fight with the hound, and capped off with a rendition of a stirring speech she had never given that had rallied the Northern army against the Unsullied during the confusion after the siege of King’s Landing.
It was an excruciating couple of minutes and when he finished and looked at her expectantly, she dropped a few extra coins in his hand, mumbled her thanks, and fled back to Winterfell.
Sansa had audiences today so Brienne stationed herself at Sansa’s side, scabbard loosened in case any petitioner thought they’d have better luck with the Queen for leverage and decided to make a lunge. Brienne thought of these days as Queen days, where Sansa wore her fine dresses and had a maid put additional braids into her hair. They were different than regular Lady of Winterfell days where Sansa strode around the walls, dresses hemmed to keep them out of the muck. Either way, she smiled at Brienne the same, back turned to onlookers to hide the warmth of it. Sansa’s eyes always crinkled and every time Brienne felt like they were connected by thread to her heart, each wrinkle a tug that left an ache.
When Brienne took her place, Sansa turned and smiled. It made Brienne feel the same, heart in a vise, but a corner of Brienne’s mind was thinking.
This wasn’t the first time Brienne had been a subject in a song. Brienne had been a character in an epic work chronicling the defense of Winterfell against the siege of the Night King.
Sansa commissioned a bard who had sheltered at Winterfell to write it almost while the ashes of the dead were still warm. The Hall had cried when he had performed it and Sansa had nodded and paid children to learn the song and take it from Holdfast to Holdfast. It was a good way to get the orphans some coin, Brienne had thought. That was the type of detail Sansa was so good at, finding a way to take care of her people without bringing them shame.
Brienne hadn’t thought much of it, caught up in the devastation of the fall of King’s Landing and her hasty travel south to stop the Northern armies from being massacred by Danaerys’ army. But the song found her. Everywhere she went, someone was singing it. Ravens were still the fastest way to spread word across the Kingdoms, but a well-crafted song seemed to be the next best bet.
It was like Sansa was following her, whispering in her ear, flutter of breath ruffling Brienne’s hair, but every time Brienne turned, Sansa was gone, and Brienne was alone. The funny thing was -- and this was the type of funny she only laughed at when she was deep in her cups -- Sansa wasn’t even in the song. It sung of Arya, who killed the winter, of Jon, the true Stark returned home, it even spoke of the Wildlings, all the realms of men rising up to set the darkness on fire. But nothing of the Lady of Winterfell.
But Sansa was inside the song, everything she was woven in the spaces between the words. Sansa was there, in the descriptions of the defenses that the dead threw themselves onto, in the listing of the banners that rallied to the North. Sansa lived in every description of the North still standing, ready to rebuild.
After the Northmen left King’s Landing and Brienne stayed she’d find her way to a tavern where she could close her eyes, and listen. It was the closest she could get to being home.
She hadn’t listened to that song since they’d been reunited, but she thought about it now, watching Sansa dispense justice.
***
It was late in the evening and Brienne was sitting in Sansa’s chambers, chair set up by the fire, precious candles lit, a luxury that the Lady of Winterfell made available to anyone who needed it. In this instance, Sansa did, using the light to finish up letters for her bannermen, letting them know how their fosterlings were getting on. If anyone asked, Brienne was there to provide her insight into their training, which Sansa knew the progress of very well on her own, but no one ever asked why Brienne was there.
“That song, about the Night King,” Brienne said, surprising herself. Sansa made an encouraging noise but kept scratching at her parchment. “Why did you have it written?”
Sansa lifted her quill and dipped it in the ink well. “Arya gave me the idea, actually,” she said, smiling a little as she lifted the quill again. “She said there was a play in Braavos about Cersei that all of the commoners loved.”
“That was a surprise to you?” A group of players had come through Tarth regularly on their way to bigger markets and fairs. They’d put on their shows in exchange for board in her father’s Keep and every servant was given a half-day to enjoy it.
Sansa replaced her quill and leaned back. “There were entertainments in King’s Landing, but they were always for the court, telling us how to feel. Unending affairs that I had to sit through in order to be polite. I never thought that anyone would attend one willingly.” There was a world of unspoken pain there, which Sansa skipped over, as she always did. “But if a play could make common people care about another country’s queen, all the way across the water, I thought maybe a song could do the same thing for our neighbours.” Her lips went wry. “We’re not very big on actors up here, you may have noticed.”
She picked up her quill again. Brienne said, trying to be casual, “I heard a new song today.”
The barest pause in her writing. “Oh?” Sansa asked.
“It was strange,” Brienne said, hoping for a reaction and getting none. “It was about me.”
“You’re very notable.” A statement of fact, but Brienne could hear the steel in Sansa’s voice, a warning. But Brienne was feeling reckless, and demanding.
She scrutinised Sansa, listening to the harsh scratch of quill. “You don’t think it’s strange because you commissioned it.” When Sansa had said that she hadn’t understood that anyone would voluntarily watch a play, Brienne could imagine the type of entertainments that Sansa had been forced to watch. And all of it, presumably, with a smile. Brienne hadn’t spent long in King’s Landing, but she’d learned enough of what it was like.
Brienne remembered when a bard came up to Winterfell from the Riverlands, looking for patronage with a song designed to flatter. It was about Jon becoming King in the North after reclaiming Winterfell from the evil Boltons. He’d come up, all charm, singing his fourth-hand account that still made Sansa grip the arms of her chair so hard the knuckles went bone-white. Brienne imagined that was how Sansa had spent her time in King’s Landing. The whole time the bard was singing her face never wavered, stuck in a pose of calm appreciation, but her hands didn’t lie. Just like now.
Brienne looked down to where Sansa’s left hand was in her lap, index finger digging into the fabric of her skirt, twisting.
Sansa pressed her blotting paper onto her letter and put her quill down. “I’m tired,” she said. “I’ll finish tomorrow.”
That was a message to Brienne to stop asking, maybe even go back to her own room, but Brienne didn’t see why she should. Sansa reached up and started yanking at her hair in its complicated loops.
“Why did you do it?” Brienne asked softly.
Sansa didn’t stop moving her hands in her hair, but she wasn’t being careful. “It’s politics. You hate politics.”
Brienne frowned. Sansa was making a mess of her hair. Brienne stepped forward and knelt by Sansa’s feet. “Stop,” she said and Sansa dropped her hands.
“Here,” she said, “Let me.” This was the other reason Brienne had for staying in Sansa’s rooms late, even though Brienne didn’t think anyone believed it. It hadn’t been true, at first, but Brienne had become mesmerised by the movement of Sansa’s fingers in her hair, dancing through the air as they sought out the loops and whorls to find the ends to break the braids apart. And one night, after, when Sansa’s hands were slow with sleep and her eyes were drooping, Brienne had asked Sansa to show her how to do it.
Now, Brienne worked her fingers gently into Sansa’s hair, undoing the knots that Sansa had pulled her hair into in her harshness.
“I care about lots of things, when it’s to serve you.”
Sansa bent her head forward and Brienne couldn’t tell if it was in agreement or just to give her better access.
“So tell me why.” Brienne said, carefully feeling her way to the end of the small braid that joined the sections of Sansa’s hair.
“If people question your place here, they question my decisions. It undermines me.” Sansa’s voice was pure steel. “If we can show them that you are loyal, a true northerner, it strengthens my position.”
Brienne knew it was Sansa’s responsibility to think about the angles, but in Brienne’s mind Sansa was Winterfell and no one could pry her out of this place now. She was sovereign and untouchable.
“If someone threatens you,” Brienne said, voice low, almost growling, “I will find them and I will fight them.”
“Not if you aren’t here,” Sansa said, too quickly. She reached a hand up to her mouth, as if to push the words back in.
“I’m not going anywhere.” Brienne dropped her hands from Sansa’s hair and came round to face Sansa, kneeling before her chair. “Never,” she said, reaching out to grip Sansa’s shoulders and stopping herself, holding her hands by her side.
“You did before.”
Sansa looked back at her, clear as glass, but Brienne looked down. Had she thought Sansa was untouchable? That wasn’t entirely true; no matter how resolute Sansa stood, she wasn’t an unfeeling statue. Brienne saw Sansa’s hands twist before, she watched them twist now again.
“I vowed to serve you.” Brienne had knelt before Sansa in the leaves at Riverrun, just like she was kneeling now, and left the service of King Bran to go back to her.
“You did that before, too.” Sansa’s grip was rending the fabric. Brienne put her hands on top of Sansa’s and Sansa gripped back, too hard. The words were coming out of Sansa now, harsh. “You left for your honour, for your vows to the crown. You’d do it again, if --”
“I came back.”
Sansa turned her head away, but Brienne touched her hand to Sansa’s cheek and Sansa turned back. “I came back,” she repeated. “I’m always going to come back.”
Sansa made a small, hurt noise. “You can’t know that. No one can know that. No one--” Sansa bit her words off but Brienne heard the rest of it as if it resounded around the room. Sansa’s life had been one long list of promises not kept, of people leaving even if they didn’t want to.
Brienne let the silence spill out. “It’s true that someone may prevent me from returning to you, but that would only be through my own death. In all other circumstances, I will return.” Sansa didn’t look up and her hands had gone still, not believing. Brienne had never been one for declarations, her actions spoke for her. More than that, she had never had a facility for words. Every time she tried to reach for the right thing to say she felt the words dance away from her.
She cursed her inability now. “Surely,” she said, willing Sansa to understand her, “surely you know why I came back; how I feel about you.”
Sansa looked up at Brienne sharply.
“I know others have -- I would never want to press myself on you and yet--” Brienne deflated, still unable to make words do her bidding. She struggled on, “I could not be apart from you.”
Sansa was looking back at her, mouth slightly parted. Brienne could only blink back.
Sansa’s mouth curved into a smile and Brienne dared to hope, a small, leaping thing. Sansa reached up both of her hands, shaking, towards Brienne’s face. Brienne leaned in, just enough, and there was nothing hesitant about the way Sansa gripped Brienne’s face firmly, running her thumbs along Brienne’s cheekbones. Brienne let her eyes drift closed, losing herself in the softness of Sansa’s hands, smooth aside from her needlework calluses, but so strong.
Brienne’s eyes snapped open when she felt the brush of Sansa’s lips against hers. She pushed to chase the taste of Sansa’s lips but Sansa’s hands held her firm and she could only allow herself to be kissed again, just as softly on one corner of her mouth and then another.
Finally, Sansa sighed against Brienne’s mouth, a kiss just as much as any of the others and knocked her forehead against Brienne’s. “We’re idiots,” Sansa said, matter of fact.
Brienne could only nod her agreement as she pulled Sansa in for a kiss, and another.