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Brienne of Tarth is very, very lost.
"I don't," Podrick says from behind her, sounding very nervous. She can hear the sound of his horse shuffling in place, picking up on the anxiety of it's rider. He needs to learn to keep a steady hand, with the horse or otherwise. "I don't think there should be a sea there."
"Indeed," Brienne says, because they had ridden north along the Kingsroad from King's Landing, intending to head for Castle Black — the last remaining bastion of safety that Sansa Stark might have aimed for after fleeing the Red Keep. Which means that they have travelled away from Blackwater Bay and the Narrow Sea. They haven't passed through Lake Town, so it cannot be the God's Eye Lake and haven't travelled far enough to reach the Trident. They have turned neither east nor west, nor left the road for long enough to lose their way.
And yet—
And yet the path they are on leads down a winding hill towards a harbour town. Beyond the town, a castle keep is perched on the hillside, a sprawling structure of many levels that is nothing like the stern intimidation of King's Landing or Storm's End.
This is clearly not the Kingsroad.
"Do you recognise any of the flags those ships are flying?" Brienne asks, eyes scanning over the town. From this distance, she can see little but the fact that it is busy. Busy and that many bodies are streaming from the town to the castle, filling the road between the two with dots of colour. Many walk in groups, or with gleams of metal that suggest the arms and armour of knights or soldiers.
Podrick clears his throat. "Not one, ser. Milady. And I— I studied all the Great Houses. I ought to be able to recognise them. But they're all wrong. Even… look at what the castle is flying. A red lion rampant on gold. The only houses that use a lion — apart from the Lannisters — are Grandison, Jast, Osgrey, and Parren and none of them are that."
"It's the inverse of the Lannister sigil," Brienne says, giving it a judging eye. House Grandison of Grandview is of the Stormlands and their flag is yellow — but with a black lion dormant. The others she has only vague recollections of and if Podrick is certain that the flag belongs to none of them, she will take his word. She cannot imagine the Lannisters standing for another house being so similar, not with their pride and arrogance.
But the flag is there. The castle is there. The ocean is there. These facts are indisputable.
They are very, very lost.
"To the town," she decides. What else can they do but push through? If there is some… lost castle, as if this were some nursery story told to babes… then she must at least investigate it.
She nudges her horse forwards, and Podrick follows behind her. They dismount and walk their horses when they reach the town, the better to avoid running over the townsfolk and blend in.
At first the town looks no different to any other town she has been to — with the smell of the ocean she could even imagine herself to be on Tarth — and the scurrying small animals are abundant but wild animals occur in all places, even towns.
And then she sees—
He has the torso of a man, wearing armour like a soldier, growing from the place where a horse's neck should be.
It is so strange and unnatural that she cannot help but stare at him. Podrick nearly runs into her back with how suddenly she draws to a halt.
The strange creature clearly sees her. He looks back at her with an assessing gaze, like a guard predicting whether she will cause trouble or not, and moves closer. The legs walk as gracefully as any horse and the human torso sways like a rider.
Brienne is already calculating how one might go about fighting such an opponent. Surely it cannot be so different to fighting a mounted knight?
"Are you here for the tournament?" the creature asks, gruffly. He sounds normal, like any other soldier who might have noticed them lingering in town and wanted to know why.
"We were just passing through," Brienne says. She keeps her hand from drifting to her sword, even though it seems a natural reaction.
"There's a tournament?" Podrick asks instead of following her lead. "Is it at the castle? Who— who's holding a tournament? What kind of tournament is it? Where… where even is this, what castle is that?"
"Why, that's Cair Paravel," the guard says. He sounds mildly surprised, as though people not knowing what the Castle is is unusual, but he doesn't sound suspicious about why they might not know. "The Tournament is the annual Narnian Spring Tournament, of course. To celebrate the end of winter and the anniversary of the coronation of the Four Kings and Queens of Narnia."
Four Kings and Queens? Narnia? There have been many people declaring themselves kings lately, but none long enough to have anniversaries of it — and certainly Brienne would have heard of four at once. And—
It hasn't been winter. It hasn't been winter in Brienne's lifetime, let alone spring. It has been nothing but a long summer.
What strange place is this?
"If you are skilled with the sword," the guard says, nodding at her, "you should enter the tournament. All comers are welcome, friend or foreigner, and the winner is granted whichever boon they ask for from the Kings and Queens."
Renly had promised much the same, when he had held that tournament. Back then, Brienne had asked for nothing but to serve in his Kingsguard — and how she had failed him there. She still owes Stannis Baratheon a reckoning for his foul dark magic.
"You should, milady," Podrick leans in close to whisper. "It's a good reason to go to the castle."
Brienne gives him a hard stare, but concedes. This place is strange and stranger still but she knows her worth with a sword and they'll probably learn as much at the tournament grounds as they will in the town.
"Yes," she says, and tucks her helm onto her head. Participating in tournaments has always meant a certain level of discretion and subterfuge, to prevent people from realising it is her and preventing her from entering. And she cannot help but admit that she feels far more secure behind the slits of her visor. "Lets."
They join the road to the castle and as Brienne watches those on the road with them, certain things become clear. The strange man-horse chimera is not the only one — there are many of them — and nor is he the only strange type of creature around. There are men with bulls heads upon their shoulders, women with skin and hair in colours so bright they seem as if they are painted figurines, people of the size and stature as Lord Tyrion and many others besides.
And equally — many of the other knights find them just as unnerving as she does.
There are groups of knights and soldiers that cluster together and interact as little as possible with the strange ones. Podrick takes no nudging at all to strike up chatter with some of the other squires. Some of them are from a kingdom to the south, Archenland, and some are from islands that Brienne has never heard of.
"Narnia takes some getting used to," one of the older knights admits. "Why, I remember the first time we came, after the Hundred Year Winter ended… it was quite the shock. You can be told, as many times as you like, 'look out, the animals can speak there' but it never really sinks home until you hear it."
"The… animals can talk?" Brienne repeats, not quite sure if he's jesting with her. It wouldn't be the first unkind trick a senior knight has played on a younger one.
Several of the knights chuckle, which does not convince her either way.
"The festival is always good," the knight goes on. "The food is plentiful and the wine runs endlessly and the music never ends. Whether you win the tournament or no, it's worth coming for."
"And the Queens are beautiful," one of the younger knights says dreamily. "If I win, I'm going to ask for Queen Susan's hand."
One of the other knights jostles him in the shoulder and jeers. "In your dreams," he says. "Winning or having her say yes. You wouldn't be the first to ask."
"I'd ask Queen Lucy," another of the young knights says, equally as dreamy eyed. "Do you think she'll lead the hunt again this year?"
"She has every year that I can remember," the older knight says. "Even when she was a wee thing — no wonder they call her The Valiant."
They fall into chattering about the hunt, about what they want to catch and who they want to fight in the tournament. They throw out names Brienne doesn't know as if they're famous knights — and name none she would otherwise expect. No one mentions Loras Tyrell, Balon Swann, Thoros of Myr or Jaime Lannister. None of the surnames are of any Great House.
It is not as if Brienne needs more evidence to know that they are well and truly lost, but it is still disconcerting to say the least.
Everything she sees as they approach is a riot of colour. The castle and the surrounding brightly coloured tents are all festooned with banners — the red lion rampant the most prominent but not the only. There are cheerful colours fluttering from every archway and post and tree and the flags are second only to the greenery that seems to flower everywhere. There are vines that curl around archways or across walls, blooming brightly with flowers. There are petals that scatter from cherry trees, dancing in the wind and carpeting the ground in a layer of pink. Every person seems to have a sprig of flowers on their clothes or woven into their hair.
Compared to this, even Renly's grand tournament had been nothing but men standing around in the mud.
Brienne and the other competitors are guided to an arena surrounded by tents and bleachers for an audience. The fighting has yet to start and yet the air is unmistakably festive and full of anticipation. There are a pair of overworked stewards trying to sign all the competitors up and direct them to wait in particular areas, who can barely be heard over the dull murmur of so many people in one place. Eventually Brienne is assigned to what seems to be the southern quadrant of the arena, with a cohort of other fighters that range from young to old, from human to … not.
But the fighting—
That she can do. It doesn't matter who her opponent is, she is in her element here, taking down one opponent then the next, then the next. The roaring of the crowd is just background noise, like the ocean waves, and her focus is narrowed down to each slash of the sword, each careful placement of the foot, each twist and turn and dive.
And then her opponent buckles under a blow from her sword and she's the last one standing in her section. The noise of the crowd surges and Podrick hustles her into the tents to give her water and wipe the sweat from her brow.
"There's an hour break and then the victors from the different rounds will all compete against each other," he says, a little breathlessly. "One of them is Ser Hawthorn — the knight we were talking to on the way in — and one of them is a prince, I think. I watched some of them fight and you're definitely better than them!"
Brienne nods and drinks her water slowly, resting but not allowing herself to grow cold and sluggish. It would be an easy mistake to make, and a foolish one that would hand any better prepared opponent a victory.
But when the final round begins she's ready and eager and her sword simply sings in her hand. Ser Hawthorn is as skilled and canny as any old knight, and knows how and when to reserve his strength. The younger of the other fighters has a strength to his blows that could fell a tree and a tendency to close into brawling range. The fourth fighter is no weakling either and yet, when they all come together to exchange blows, it is Brienne that remains standing at the last.
Exhausted, yes, and sweat-soaked, but victorious.
The crowd roars in adulation. There is none of the sudden quiet that happens when the much loved favourite loses to a mystery newcomer. None of the disappointment or dismay. Just the pure celebration of a match well fought.
"The winner, your majesties," the steward who had organised the matches says, frantically waving at Brienne to walk forward. They approach the top of the arena, where a majestic tent has been raised with a high dais and four thrones.
The Kings and Queens. Brienne kneels before them.
The elder of the two women rises to her feet and steps forward. Brienne has long since considered Margaery Tyrell to be the most beautiful woman she has ever known, to be the very picture of a queen, and yet even she would be hard pressed to say which of the two is more striking and queenly.
"Well fought, to one and all!" the Queen says. Her voice carries over the crowd, which quieted as soon as she rose. "Our greatest of congratulations to all of our competitors today. Narnia welcomes you all to join the feast tonight and to celebrate your matches, victory or loss! Either way, you have fought well, with courage and skill, and made friends along the way."
There is a roar of approval and thunderous clapping. The Queen smiles and waits, gesturing with her hand until they quieten again. "But first, my congratulations to our victor. What is your name, good sir?"
It cannot be avoided any longer, so Brienne removes her helm. "Brienne, your grace," she says. "Brienne of Tarth."
She's close enough to see the expression of surprise, even as the Queen covers it and continues on. "Lady Knight," she says.
Brienne has to correct her, lest she claim rank she has no right to. "I am no knight, your grace," she says. "Nor a lady."
The Queen keeps smiling, as though she has made no misstep. "Though it may not be as valiant a story as being knighted on the field of battle, winning our Spring Tournament shows no lack of skill," she says, voice smooth and calm. "How can we have witnessed a showing of such courage and talent and not reward it as such?"
Her voice carries, addressed to the crowd more than Brienne. They cheer in response, loud and approving.
The older of the two men on the Royal Pavilion also stands, and retrieves a gleaming sword. He's tall, wearing a golden crown with points like oak leaves, and the sword is light in his hand. He touches it down on her shoulder, and it's as gentle as a falling leaf.
"For skill and courage that surpasses all other challengers this day!" he says, voice deep and reverberating. "In the name of Peter, High King of Narnia, and in the name of Aslan, King above all Kings, I name thee Sir Brienne of Tarth, the Spring Knight!"
It—
Brienne has longed to be a knight all her life, and known for just as long that it's an impossibility. To have someone look at her and see her worth, to have a crowd applaud it… it comes so close to everything she has ever wanted.
But they do not invoke the name of the Seven. There is no extortion to the Mother and Father, to the Warrior. To be brave and just and to defend the innocent. If she goes back to Tarth and says I was knighted in a kingdom where animals can talk who would possibly ever believe her?
It makes it bittersweet. But even bittersweet is more than she ever expected and she cannot stop her own smile.
"Lady Knight," the Queen says and it sounds almost teasing, as she affirms her choice of address now that it is correct. At least here, in this place, and in her heart of hearts, Brienne is a knight. "Sir Brienne. To the victor of the Spring Tournament we have promised a boon. Ask, and so long as it is within our power, we will grant it to you."
Brienne has thought about this, during the hours of waiting before and between the fighting. In the end, there is little enough she can ask for. She wants neither gold nor land, and will not ask to serve in their Kingsguard. She has already a task that needs completing.
"Your grace," Brienne says, slow and careful. "I was given a task by the lady I serve; to find her lost daughters. But I have travelled far and wound up on your shores instead. The boon I seek is simply… whatever help you may provide so that I might resume my task."
There is a beat of silence and then the Queen nods. "You have an honourable heart, Sir Brienne," she says. "Come, speak further with me. We shall see what assistance I may provide for your quest."
"A most interesting tournament," Peter says, leaning close enough that their conversation is almost private despite the many people at the banquet tables around them, carosing in merriment. He hands her a goblet of wine, one that Susan takes with thanks. Despite the number of years that she has been Queen of Narnia, smiling and talking seems to be so much more work this year.
"Indeed," she agrees. "And a very interesting victor. I had thought that Sir Hawthorn would win once more."
She tries not to sound melancholy as she thinks of the victor of the very last tournament — Rabadash had seemed gallant and courageous and true, and how terribly that had played out! She must make sure she is not fooled in the same way twice.
Peter gives her a sideways glance that lets her know she has not quite accomplished it, but mercifully he just says, "Prince Corin was a near thing. Another year, maybe. Or perhaps we should hold some kind of boxing match, as they do in Archenland."
"I'm sure he has quite enough opportunities to be the center of attention there," she says, just a little tartly. Prince Corin is a dear but never let it be said that he is overlooked. "If you add so many more events we will need a whole 'nother week of festivities to fit them all."
Peter gives her a boyish grin, as if hopeful, as if he is looking to see how much she will allow, and Susan is forced to laugh. "No," she says sternly. "It's exhausting enough as it is."
Peter laughs too. "Fair," he concedes. "Have you had a chance to speak with our newest knight?"
Susan shakes her head. "I haven't managed," she admits. "Between the procession and the feast… and soon there'll be the dancing and all the rest…" Time just keeps slipping through her fingers, there is always so much to be done that it feels like trying to hold water.
Peter visibly hesitates and then says, "The three of us are here. You can excuse yourself from the rest, if you want."
"Oh, but," Susan says, unaccountably flustered by the idea. "Who would lead the dancing?" It has always been her duty as Queen of Narnia, to host the tournament and inspire the competitors, to give speeches and to open the dance. It's her duty as Susan the Gentle, to connect with her subjects, to be reachable and warm. And as Susan the woman… as Susan the woman, she had enjoyed knowing that by-and-large these knights came here to see her and compete for her hand.
That joy, now, after Rabadash, is sour. The rest weighs heavier and heavier by the minute.
"I'm sure I remember how," Peter says, and waves her off as if shooing her away. "All will be well, Queen Susan. Go, see to your knight."
Peter, too, she knows, understands duty. Haven't the two of them been, not just monarchs but almost-parents, not just to Ed and Lucy, but the whole nation? Even when they had been so young themselves, there had simply been no one else to turn to.
"Alright," she says, taking a dainty sip of wine, feeling unaccountably mischievous. There's something joyous about sneaking away, about removing herself from the audience and their attention. Even if it is simply to attend to a different royal duty. "Just this once, Peter."
She slips out of the banquet hall and into the gardens that Pomona curates so beautifully. There is nothing quite like the beauty of a dryad organised garden and it feels both wildly natural and perfectly tamed at once. The flowers whisper to her, telling her where her target has gone, but Susan wanders slowly through the rows instead of heading straight there, letting some of the tension unwind from her shoulders as she goes.
Sir Brienne is near the fountain, gazing out the cliffside over the distant ocean. She cuts an astonishing figure against the sunset — Susan hadn't quite registered how tall and strong she was, down on the tourney field next to other tall, strong men in armour. Here, alone, she looks like she should be carved into stone to guard the castle forevermore.
Susan settles herself onto the concrete lip of the fountain and drags her fingers through the cool, clear water. "Isn't it beautiful?" she asks.
Sir Brienne startles. "Your grace," she says, turning and kneeling. "Forgive my inattention."
Susan smiles at her, a little amused. "No need to be so formal, Sir Brienne," she says, patting the stone next to her. "Come, sit with me. Are you enjoying the view?"
Sir Brienne awkwardly crosses the distance to sit beside her. She sits ramrod stiff, still wearing her amour. As far as armour goes, it's beautiful, a blue that almost seems to gleam like deep water. "It reminds me of my home," she says, voice equally stiff. "Tarth."
"I've never heard of it," Susan admits freely. Even when she thinks she has learnt everything there is to learn in Narnia, she is always proven wrong. "Is it near the sea?"
"It's an island," Sir Brienne says, unwinding just a little as she speaks. "They call it the Sapphire Isles, because the water is so blue." She touches the hilt of her sword gently with her fingers, even though it looks as if it is set with rubies, not sapphires.
"It sounds beautiful," Susan says sincerely. "Should we have called you Sir Brienne the Sapphire, instead of the Spring Knight?" She wonders if the dwarves have mined sapphires, if they have any in the treasury to be given as a gift — sapphires would suit Sir Brienne, she's sure. Maybe worn over blue silk and velvet, cut in the Narnian style… wouldn't her Lady Knight catch every eye?
"Spring works well enough," Brienne says. Then she adds, haltingly, "My lady Catelyn once called us the Summer Knights… though she meant to say that we would not last the winter."
"Winter is harsh," Susan agrees, finding she can easily follow such a train of thought however harsh it is. "Narnia knows it well. But we also know that spring follows, eventually. Even if it takes a hundred years, there will be spring again."
Sir Brienne nods, and even gives a little half smile. "And even then, it's always summer in the songs," she agrees, as if repeating something. "In the songs all knights are gallant, all maids are beautiful, and the sun is always shining."
Susan smiles. "Such beautiful songs." She had not expected to find such a kindred spirit in such a different form. What is there about Queen Susan the Gentle that anyone would liken to such a strong and resolute figure? But here they are, not so different at heart.
Gentle has never meant soft and perhaps it is Susan that has forgotten it most of all.
They fall silent for a moment, and then Susan asks, "will you tell me more of your Lady Catelyn and your quest? How did her daughters come to be lost?"
Sir Brienne nods. "That matter is secondary," she says, her face falling into a serious frown. "Firstly, the truth is that I do not know how I came across your castle. I was travelling down the Kingsroad with my squire, and then we found ourselves here. I have never before heard of Narnia or of Archenland and it seems that no one here has heard of Westeros or Tarth... I cannot understand how such a thing could be."
"Narnia is often where those who are lost find themselves," Susan says slowly, looking out over the ocean. Brienne's words are a surprise and yet… not a surprise at all. "You are not the first or the only. Years ago, my siblings and I found ourselves here from another world, too. If you listen on the docks for long enough, you will hear of sailors that swear there should not be a continent here, who do not know of our ways. Sometimes, strangers will walk out of the desert and weep with joy at finding civilization where they thought there was nothing but death."
Sir Brienne shakes her head. "Such a strange place," she marvels. "But how do I return?"
Susan smooths down the line of her skirts. "That I do not know," she admits. "I will have our people ask around — mayhap some of those sailors or strange wanderers will know the way between worlds. I, myself, have never desired to leave."
It seems strange now, that she never has. Narnia is a beautiful dream, it is true, and they had been so young when they had come. Hadn't they wanted to return? Or had they been fleeing something? She dreams, sometimes, of darkness and shrill screams that no human voice could make, of hiding afraid with her brothers and sister.
Maybe it's not so strange that they have never looked to return. Maybe there is nothing for them to return to.
"I appreciate it, your grace," Sir Brienne says, inclining her head. "If not, I shall seek my own way back." She looks resolute, determined, as if no number of different worlds could stop her. As if she will find a way, no matter what.
Susan believes in her. "It shall be done."
It takes many days for her question to permeate across Narnia, even when she asks it of the Robins and Magpies, of the Dryads and Naiads, of the west and east winds. But the festivities are in full swing still and there are so many people in the Cair, all of whom have ideas and opinions.
"What about the Hermit?" Prince Corin says, at breakfast the next morning, between stealing whole plates of bacon and eggs from the servers before they can even reach the table. "Cor said— I don't remember. Something about him having a magic pool you could see things in."
"The Hermit of the Southern March," Sir Hawthorn clarifies, looking as if he would dearly like to smack his prince for his atrocious table manners. "He may not be… naturally inclined to help, but his viewing pool is the stuff of stories. If there is a way to be seen, he will be able to see it."
"You should come back with us," Prince Corin invites, off hand. "He'll probably help if Father asks him to."
Susan nods because no better lead has presented itself so early in her search. "We are obliged for your hospitality," she says. Somehow the days between that conversation and their departure seem to pass in the blink of an eye and before she's really prepared for it she finds herself ahorse with Sir Brienne and her squire, travelling with the group from Archenland.
"I had thought you would want to go," Susan says, as Lucy waves them goodbye with grand theatricality. She isn't quite certain how it has ended this way.
"Oh, I went last time," Lucy says. "Do try enjoy yourself, won't you, Su? And say hullo to Avaris and Cor for me!"
"I'm hardly going on holiday," Susan says, rolling her eyes. "Do try stay out of trouble," she mimics. "Don't give Peter too hard of a time. And don't let Edmund get too caught up in his books. And—"
"Yes, mother," Lucy says, gently shooing her away. "We'll survive, you know."
It's only as they're riding out the gates that Susan realises this is the first time she's left Cair Paravel since that disastrous trip to Calormen. It hadn't seemed strange, since there was rarely cause for any of them to leave the castle, let alone all four of them, and every trip since had just been so terribly more suited to one of the others.
Even this should be more suited to one of the others — except that it was Susan who had promised Sir Brienne her help.
But despite her initial apprehension, it isn't bad. Even the travelling is fine — Susan is a skilled enough horsewoman and not so attached to luxuries that she cannot stand to camp out in the open. She likes travelling with Sir Brienne, too. Usually the only female company she has on these journeys is Lucy. Perhaps they should have more Lady Knights in Narnia — there must be others skilled enough to take up the sword.
Lucy would, if anyone would let her.
Even setting foot in Castle Anvard is fine. Exciting, even. King Lune greets them with the gladness of an old friend, even though their visit was so hastily arranged. Susan knows most of the faces in his hall — the lords and ladies, the knights, the ministers and stewards — and it doesn't feel at all like being surrounded by enemies.
"I hope you will forgive our imposition, King Lune," she says. "We have heard you have a wise old hermit residing in your lands, who might be able to shed some light on a mystery we seek to resolve."
"We do indeed," King Lune says affably. "I'm afraid he lives up to his namesake and visits the castle rarely, but you are most welcome to make a pilgrimage to ask your questions. And to stay as long as you may desire. We may not be hosting as grand a festival as Narnia, but the hunting is good and the music is cheery enough to dance to."
"You do know that I love to dance," Susan says, smiling readily.
It provides a good enough opportunity to give Sir Brienne the gift that she had commissioned the Cair seamstresses to make in a hurry — armour is all well and good, but overmuch for dining with King Lune.
"Oh," Sir Brienne says uncertainly, when Susan presents her with the bundle of fabric. She touches it gingerly, with a complicated look on her face. "I don't— I don't often look well in such gowns, your grace."
"If it doesn't look any good, then you shan't have to wear it," Susan says practically. "But do try it on first, won't you?"
They hadn't brought a lady's maid with them, and though Anvard has many who would be at their disposal at a moments notice, Susan doesn't bother to find one. She helps Sir Brienne with her laces the same as she and Lucy often help each other — when they had first learnt to dress in Narnia styles it had been with much fumbling and poorly tied knots, but now Susan barely notices until she draps the blue velvet cloak across Sir Brienne's shoulders and smooths it down.
"Your grace," Sir Brienne protests, feebly.
"Oh, you look wonderful," Susan says, fixing the sapphire clasp at her throat. The skirts are split like riding skirts, and when Sir Brienne belts her sword belt over the waist of the dress it only enhances it. "I asked them to match us, but I think you shall outshine me tonight. Like a Lady Knight from legend, come to slay a dragon."
"You jest, your grace," Sir Brienne says.
"Only slightly," Susan says. "I do not believe there has been a dragon in Narnia for many-a-year. And I have no hand of a princess to promise you for such a service, either."
Her merry mood keeps through the meal and when the tables are cleared from the grand hall and the musicians come forth, Susan looks eagerly for her knight to dance with, only to find that Sir Brienne is nowhere to be found.
Worry strikes her, and she slips from the hall herself, until she finds Sir Brienne outside in the garden. The air is colder here in Archenland, high in the mountains, and Susan is dressed for dancing and not cold.
"Sir Brienne?" Susan asks, when she finds her. "This is the second time I've found you in such a place. One might think we had arranged a rendezvous."
"Your grace," Sir Brienne says, just as startled as last time, as if it's unexpected that Susan had come to look for her. "Was there something you needed?"
"A dance partner," Susan says, holding out her hand presumptuously. "I had intended to dance with my Lady Knight, yet when I turned to look for her, she was gone. Will you do me the honour of this dance, Sir Brienne?"
Sir Brienne flushes and takes her hand. "I cannot dance," she says. "I'm sure there are many inside who would dance with you, your grace."
"There are," Susan says, and tugs her hand gently until Sir Brienne moves with her. The music drifting from the hall is faint but audible. "But I wanted to dance with you."
They only step and sway in place, but Sir Brienne is warm against the cold and steady and strong. There is nothing to fear in the darkness of Anvard and there are no eyes watching them. It is just the two of them.
"We shall head for the Hermit tomorrow," Susan murmurs quietly. The night feels hushed and peaceful and she's loathe to break the spell it has cast on them. "And see what answers he holds."
The next day dawns bright and clear and the two of them prepare their horses to travel to the hermitage of the Hermit of the Southern March. It's in the mountains that line the south of Archenland, between the city Anvard and the great Calormen desert and no more than a half-day ride away.
"I… would have thought it would be farther away," Sir Brienne admits, after not quite managing to cover her surprise at hearing that. "That doesn't seem terribly secluded at all."
"I suppose neither Narnia nor Archenland are particularly large," Susan says. "And thus to be a hermit is more a matter of conviction. Or attitude." She gives a wry smile. "Still, if this does not pan out, then we shan't have wasted much time."
There is not much in the way of man made structures on the road that leads south, so the hermitage is not difficult to find. It's a neat little building, all enclosed with circular walls that make it seem like a freestanding turret. In a way, it is a line of defence against Calormen invasion, as it has so recently proven.
"Greetings to the Hermit of the Southern March," Susan calls, as they dismount their horses and approach.
A wizened old man stands at the gates, leaning against a walking stick and waiting for them. "Even with my art," he says in a creaking voice, "and in all my hundred and nine years, I can say I am seldom visited by such distinguished guests."
He leads them through the walls and it almost seems a different world once they are inside. The path outside is full of rough and wild growth, the kinds of plants that can survive on a mountain overlooking a desert. Inside though — the turf is as green as any carefully manicured lawn in Cair Paravel, and there is a pool of water so clear that it seems like grass, overlooked by a tree so beautiful any dryad would be envious. Behind it all is a little stone hut, tucked away as though knowing it was not the main feature of the hermitage.
"We have heard that you can see things, through your pond," Susan says, unable to stop herself from stepping closer and peering down into it.
The hermit laughs softly. "See things, yes. If you know what you're looking for." He settles himself down beside it, surprisingly nimble for such an old man, and pats the ground beside him. "Come, look for yourself. Tell it what you are looking for."
Susan leans forward and says, "show me… Queen Lucy, the Valiant."
The water ripples and then, clear as day, she's looking down on the woods near Cair Paravel. Lucy is laughing, throwing her head back with joy, as she races her horse through the trees. "Faster!" she urges it, and looks over her shoulder to where more horses and riders are chasing after her in a merry race. "Faster, they're catching up!"
The image fades and the water is still again. Susan smiles with exasperation, "oh, Lucy." Is that not typical behaviour of her wild little sister?
"Show me Sansa Stark," Sir Brienne says, voice solemn as stone.
The water ripples again and they're looking down on a house — no, it must be an inn of some kind — where a red haired girl sits with a distinguished looking gentleman.
"Petyr Baelish," Sir Brienne says grimly in recognition. "She's in trouble, if she's travelling with him." Her eyes dart over the tableau, as if to find some hint of where they are. Her chin is set firmly in furious determination. If it were possible to reach through the water and pull Sansa Stark to safety right this second, Susan thinks that nothing could stop her.
"I thought you were still mourning the death of my dear Aunt Lysa," Sansa says, holding out her goblet for a waitress to refill, before the scene fades back to still water.
"Lysa Arryn. Are they in the Vale, then? The Eyrie?" Sir Brienne stares down at the water for a moment. Then she visibly steels herself and says, "Show me Arya Stark."
The water ripples again and shows a young dark haired girl travelling on a horse next to a tall, scarred faced man. They're on a mountain path, surrounded by rocks covered in green moss and short ferns.
"That has to be the Mountains of the Moon. It's too wet to be the Red Mountains and far too tall to be the Western Hills," Sir Brienne says. She gives a short laugh, sounding delighted and a little disbelieving. "They're both in the Vale. They're both alive."
Susan smiles at her, infected by her joy. She knows neither girl, and yet their survival and wellbeing is just as important to her as it is to Sir Brienne, somehow.
"Show me," Sir Brienne says. "Show me how to get back."
The water remains, disappointingly, clear.
"It won't show us a place that we don't know already," Susan says, realising the limitations of the water. It has shown them an answer, but not to the question they came here for. She cannot regret the journey, seeing how relieved Sir Brienne is to know that her two charges are well, but it is disappointing to have drawn a blank after such luck.
"If you don't know what you're looking for, how can anything show you it?" the hermit riddles.
Sir Brienne isn't phased. "I'm looking for a way to return to Westeros, to find Sansa Stark and Arya Stark. I simply don't know what that way is."
"A way," the hermit says, stroking his chin in thought. "Do you know… it is said that the water is this pond dripped through from the Woods Between Worlds. In that place, one can do more than just see — they can step through the water itself and find themselves in another place entirely. Of course, that's just a story."
Stories, in Susan's experience in Narnia, are more true than not. "Then we will ask and keep asking until we find a way," she says. "Whether it be by the Woods Between Worlds or another path."
It does not seem as though it will be easy, but Sir Brienne had asked for all the help she could give. Susan finds that she does not want to fall short or to disappoint. Together, they will find a way to return Sir Brienne to Westeros, and to rescue the daughters of her Lady Catelyn.
Then… well, after that the future possibilities were endless, weren't they?