Work Text:
"I shall announce you, my lady," the footman says, only the faintest tinge of sarcasm in his voice when he calls her my lady. His livery is plain, unostentatious. He could be any of a hundred serving-men Brienne has met in her life, a simple man as smallfolk oft are, content to simply serve his lord and care for his family.
Only the mockingbird badge at his breast reminds her she can trust no one in this castle.
"Thank you," she says, careful to keep her voice humble and her expression blank.
Brienne has always heard that the Vale of Arryn is beautiful. They sing songs of it, the great mountains that reach towards the sky, the waterfalls that cast everlasting rainbows, marking the valley with the sign of the Seven, the great caverns walled with crystal, the soaring birds of prey. The eagles, the falcons that gave the Arryns of old their sigil, that wheel above her and glare down, gazes as fierce and unyielding as the honour of that great house.
But to Brienne the Vale is nothing but bare rock and deep snow and thick, oppressive fog, desolate and unlovely, and these days the Arryns are a broken force, a spent line. Petyr Baelish holds the Eyrie and the Gates of the Moon, the last Arryn is but a bed-ridden boy, there are whispers through the valley – dark whispers, rumours of discontent, rebellion, of Littlefinger's treachery, of his lies, of his daughter.
On her way to the Gates of the Moon, Brienne has heard much and more of that daughter. Alayne Stone, supposedly Littlefinger's bastard, some say Lysa Arryn's as well, some say a runaway septa, some say a wicked witch, some say a whore from the Free Cities. At every alehouse and every keep to offer Brienne hospitality, when she mentions the Lord Protector, they talk about his daughter.
Fourteen and not yet betrothed, the last innkeeper told her, and his wife had sucked her teeth. He'll be wanting some high lord for her, mark my words. And the man-at-arms sitting beside Brienne grinned and said, He'll get one too, girl's a peach, it's a wonder they ain't fighting duels over her already, bastard an' all. She's that fair a maid. The innkeep's wife shook her head at that, sighed, T'ain't right, keeping a pretty young girl like that shut up in some drafty castle with naught but a dying lordling for company. Her husband shushed her sharply, Lord Robert won't die, don't talk like that, woman, seven hells!
It was at that inn she first heard a drunken youth, an ostler at the great stables at the Gates of the Moon, say Alayne Stone was Sansa Stark. Everyone knew the she-wolf traitor had changed her face and fled after killing King Joffrey, he claimed, and mark his words, she'd fled to the Vale to hide with Littlefinger.
He'd been shouted down and laughed at, and words were wind, none had learnt that lesson faster than Brienne of Tarth ... and yet. And yet she could not keep hope from stirring inside her once again, raising its head and daring her to believe her quest was over.
Another false start, she tells herself as the doors to the Great Hall are swung open by guards in Arryn azure-and-white.
"My Lord Protector, may I present Lady Brienne of House Tarth."
The footman's cry echoes through the cavernous hall as Brienne takes a deep breath and steps forward.
The hall of the Arryns' winter seat is larger than any she has ever seen, save that of the Red Keep, all blue-veined pale marble. The floor is set with an elaborate mosaic depicting two falcons locked in airborne combat over the great Giant's Lance mountain. She only manages to resist the temptation to stare at the artwork beneath her feet because she is painfully, cheeks-flaming, conscious of the stares from every side of the hall.
There is unrest in the Vale, of that rumour she is certain, and it seems half the knights and lords sworn to Baelish are here. Here to keep a watchful eye on their sworn overlord, and, now, to watch a half-woman, half-warrior freak approach the Lord Protector in his weirwood high seat.
It's cold, bitterly cold in the hall, even with the torches blazing at the walls, but Brienne's skin is crawling with the heat of those heavy, mocking stares. She's used to being gawked at, used to the judgemental gazes, the barely-muffled laughter behind her back, she's spent all her life feeling the back of her neck prickle like this. She's used to it, but it never, never, stops hurting her. Never stops making her feel like she's thirteen again, thirteen and crying herself to sleep with the knowledge that she'll always be ugly, always walk this shameful line of the in-between, a poor son and a worse daughter.
At her side, she curls her hands into fists, grits her teeth. She's not thirteen anymore, she's a woman grown, as good a fighter as any man in this hall, she carries Stark steel to defend the last living Stark, and she might be afraid, might be ashamed, but she'll be dead before she shows it to Petyr Baelish. She touches the pommel stone of Oathkeeper at her side, just a light brush with the tips of her gloved fingers. Reminds herself of Catelyn Stark, of Jaime Lannister, their courage and their honour. I won't let them down. Nor Sansa Stark either. I'll die before I break my oath.
The man they call Littlefinger lounges in the great chair of weirwood – almost a throne, Brienne reminds herself the Arryns were kings once – wrapped in a cloak of soft sable, a golden mockingbird clasp winking in the torchlight, looking very much at his ease. His lips curl up in a slight smile, an expression she might think amiable, if it weren't for the constant sharp dance of his cold eyes. Eyes as grey as the endless winter sky above.
"Welcome, my lady," he says lightly. "What brings the famous Maid of Tarth all the way to the Vale?"
Brienne cuts a brief bow, scanning the gathering for a fair red-headed maid as surreptitiously as she can. "My Lord," she says, then hesitates. All those eyes on her have stolen her words, her mouth suddenly dry. What can she say to this man, this silvertongued man who climbed from the ranks of poor lords to the upper echelons of power, with no army but his own wit? He'll expect fine words, flowery speech, diplomacy – but Lady Stark sent Brienne, and Brienne's own bluntness will have to do.
"I am here on a mission entrusted to me by King Tommen, and Lady Catelyn Stark before that, to seek out Lady Stark's daughter Sansa. Lady Stark was your childhood friend, and so –"
A movement in the shadows behind the weirwood throne catches her eye, a woman shrouded in heavy dark wool, and suddenly Brienne can't breathe. It's just a moment, just a shift of the flickering light over the pale face, but for an instant, she would have sworn –
The woman turns away, and Brienne has to catch herself before she cries out, Lady Catelyn, wait.
"And so?" Petyr Baelish prompts, his smile now more of a smirk.
She blinks, once, twice. Lady Stark is dead, her shade has returned to the Stranger, that's not her. Just your imagination. "And – and so, I came to seek your aid, my Lord. In finding Lady Sansa."
Baelish sits back in the chair, running the knuckles of one hand over his lips, apparently deep in thought. When he speaks, he sounds sad, regretful, but if Brienne has learnt anything on this quest of hers, it is not to trust the face men show you. Especially not men like Littlefinger.
"Lady Catelyn was indeed dear to me, a childhood friend as you say, and sister to my own late, lamented wife, sweet Lysa. It grieves me to say I have no knowledge as to the whereabouts of her daughter. Lady Sansa surely vanished from King's Landing in the company of the Imp, by some vile treason or other." He waves a hand, shakes his head. "If I knew where they were, my lady, I assure you they both would be facing the King's Justice by now. I am a loyal subject of his Grace, and sadly Lady Sansa is an attainted traitor."
His ice grey gaze is steady now, staring her down, though his expression remains mild. Brienne catches the implication in his words clearly enough. Swallowing, trying to sound as calm as she can, she says, "Of course, my Lord, I never meant to imply –"
"Then we understand each other, excellent!" Smiling again now, spreading his hands, the very picture of a warm and welcoming host. "Well, you must be tired after such an arduous quest. You are, of course, welcome to dine with us tonight, but first, we must show you to your lodgings."
For a second, she is about to protest otherwise, her every instinct telling her not to stay under Littlefinger's roof for any longer than necessary. Then he raises a hand lazily, and the tall woman swathed in the dark wool steps forward. In the light, Brienne sees she is younger than she first assumed: her hair is covered by a white scarf, making her look more a matron than a young maid.
Littlefinger reaches out, takes her hand, strokes it. The smile he gives the girl is broad, warmer by far than any he gave Brienne. This is his real smile, she is sure of it, and now she's seen it, bright and genuine, transforming his sharp features, she knows that all the others were merely fakes. All his friendly, quiet little smiles – lies.
"Allow me to introduce my natural daughter, Alayne," he says. His voice, too, is different now, heavy with pride, and although he is talking to Brienne, he doesn't look away from his daughter's face. "She will show you to your quarters, my lady."
As Alayne walks forward to curtsey to Brienne, Littlefinger's eyes never leave her. "Follow me, my lady, if you please," she says, some soft hybrid accent Brienne can't quite place, and Brienne follows, feeling the prickle of Littlefinger's gaze on them, but everything feels faraway and unimportant, because she wasn't imagining it, it wasn't a trick of the light –
Alayne Stone really does look like Catelyn Stark.
It's in the high cheekbones, the smattering of freckles over the delicate cream of her skin, the blushing rosebud lips, the arc of her jawline, and above all, it is in the piercing blue of her eyes. She is younger, and taller, and has none of Lady Stark's pride and confidence, hidden in that great dark cape, head ducked meekly – but Brienne could be looking at Catelyn's double. Her younger self. Her sister.
Brienne hardly dares think it – her daughter?
The girl leads her through the corridors of the castle, seeming not to notice the echoing howl of the wind, the icy gusts that rip through them suddenly then abate without warning. Her face is as pale as the stone walls surrounding them, unreadable, a marble mask. If she's aware Brienne cannot tear her gaze away from her, Alayne shows no sign of it.
They reach a spiral staircase, and Alayne takes hold of her skirts in one hand, lifting them slightly so as not to tread on them. It's a simple motion, a gesture Brienne has seen countless times, but for reasons she cannot define, it takes her breath away. The grace of the girl, the way her neck curves, the line of her thin wrist, the way as she glances down – eyelashes casting dramatic shadows in the torchlight – she looks suddenly, unbearably, sad. Beautiful, and fragile, and sad.
Brienne follows, so close she can count the freckles on Alayne's cheeks, heart in her mouth. She could be looking at Sansa Stark, the girl she has been seeking for what feels like a lifetime, her lady's daughter, disguised and cold and so sad, but she doesn't know. And she can't think of a thing to say. Her mouth is dry and her pulse is beating in her ears, and she cannot find the words. Not for the life of her.
What if she has come so far, through so much, and found Sansa – but fails her? Fails her as Brienne failed her father, her king, failed all her life. Lady Catelyn should have sent a true knight to save her daughter, not Brienne –
Then Alayne speaks, her voice barely above a whisper, but clear enough to cut right through Brienne's thoughts. "My lady, the girl you are seeking –" she hesitates for a moment, "- this Stark girl, what will you do with her if you find her?"
It is a question that Brienne suddenly realises she hasn't given near enough thought so far. Simply finding Sansa Stark has been enough of a quest, seemed so insurmountable, that she has scarce considered what would happen after. And yet, she knows. Deep in her bones, she knows there is only one answer, and it is enough. Has to be enough. "Keep her safe," she says simply.
They have reached the top of the spiral staircase, and Alayne turns to face her. With Alayne standing on the top step, and Brienne the next one down, they are exactly at eye level. The girl's face is as masklike as before, neutral, unreadable, but her eyes – her eyes are burning. Burning with the same desperate blue ferocity that Brienne saw in Catelyn Stark's eyes when she went to set Ser Jaime free, when her vengeful shade spared Brienne's life to send her after Sansa.
She is looking at Sansa Stark. She has to be.
Alayne says, "This girl – Sansa – so many people have told her they'd save her, but all they've ever wanted is to wed her to some lord for Winterfell." She is still whispering, and her voice is deadened with the weight of betrayals.
Sansa Stark is beautiful, and surely many men would seek her hand – but it occurs to Brienne that to realise she is courted for her claim must feel a little like being charmed and courted for a contest. The Maid of Tarth is ugly, and the last Stark is fair, but they have both been used by men. On pure impulse she yanks off a glove and reaches out to take Alayne's hand in her own. The girl flinches slightly, but does not pull away, her brow furrowing in confusion. Her fingers are like ice in Brienne's palm.
"I'm not a lord," she says, "and I am sworn to Lady Catelyn Stark, not a lord. And I am no knight, but I would keep her daughter safe. No matter what happens."
For a long moment they simply stare at one another. Alayne's white cheeks are slowly flushing pink, her lips parted speechlessly. Brienne barely dares breathe, feels like she is looking at some wild animal, a frightened young deer from the kingswood, that the slightest movement may chase her away, and the chance to reach her will be gone forever.
Then Alayne licks her lips, and says, "If that is so, you are a truer knight than any I have met, my lady." And Brienne realises, all the hairs at her nape standing on end, that her accent has changed from that unplaceable hybrid to a soft but unmistakeable Northern tone.
She opens her mouth to say, Sansa, Sansa my lady, I know it is you, come with me, come – but before she can get the words out, that cold hand is gone, and Alayne is turning away, and the featureless accent of before is back. "My father has assigned you these rooms. I will send a maid with bathwater and a change of clothes before dinner. I hope you will find everything to your satisfaction."
She is holding open a door for Brienne, and there are shutters behind her eyes now, the blue fire completely extinguished. It is as though she has drawn some mask of impenetrable politeness over her features, erasing all that Brienne saw, Catelyn and Ned Stark's heir, leaving only Littlefinger's bastard.
Navigating the maze of discretion and double-meanings has never been Brienne's strong point, and she has absolutely no idea of her role in this dance, so she follows Alayne Stone's lead. "Thank you," she says, and enters the room set aside for her, and lets the heavy wooden door close on her racing thoughts.
Dinner is laid on in the only part of the Gates of the Moon that isn't cold – in fact, between the great fire burning in the centre of the hall, and the body heat of several hundred people, it is positively stuffy. Brienne, as a guest, is brought to sit at the high table, about halfway down, between Lady Royce and her daughter Myranda. Lord Nestor Royce, who holds the castle when it is not serving as the Arryn winter seat, is at Petyr Baelish's right hand, while Alayne, her hair still hidden under a scarf and eyes still modestly downcast, is at his left.
Lady Royce and young Myranda keep attempting conversation with Brienne, and between that and the ill-fitting, heavy winter dress provided for her to wear, the whole situation is everything she hates. Everything that renders her ill-at-ease and tongue-tied in the company of her own sex. Everything she was running from when she first picked up a sword and donned breeches.
And yet – she barely notices the awkwardness. She is too preoccupied with the quiet, pale girl at the centre of the table, too busy trying to puzzle out her next move, to feel her usual sharp embarrassment as she flounders in the face of small talk. The meal must last at least two hours, but it seems to pass in a haze, all the faces and dishes blurring into one, featureless. Brienne feels as though she is in a dream, sleepwalking, her mind racing ahead to the evening – the morrow – when can she get Alayne alone – where will they go – what can she say to Littlefinger –
It seems like a lifetime ago that she swore herself in service to Lady Catelyn, that she sailed and rode with Jaime Lannister across half of Westeros, that he put a Valyrian steel sword in her hand and named it Oathkeeper, that she knelt before Lady Stoneheart and swore again to find and protect Sansa Stark. She could almost believe that she has been wandering the Seven Kingdoms, seeking her maiden fair, forever. Whatever her life was before – the blessed isolation of Tarth, following Renly, vainly hoping that if she fought well enough he would love her – she knows she has lost that old self. Whatever drove her, defined her, before, she has but one purpose now.
That girl. That tall, too-thin girl, porcelain pale and blue-eyed, hidden away inside a cold castle and clothes that might as well be a shroud, her false father's icy gaze never leaving her – Sansa or Alayne, the name matters not. All Brienne cares about is protecting her. Keeping her safe from harm, as she could not keep Renly, or Catelyn, or Jaime.
She doesn't know the details. She's always been slow, her father's master despaired of teaching her, she was never a good pupil but with a sword and shield – but the details don't matter. She swore an oath, and maybe she's as hopelessly naive as her fourteen-year-old self, she doesn't care. If she has nothing else in the world, she has her honour, and she swore an oath.
When the last of the food and drink is gone, she has a moment of hope that the ladies will retire together to listen to singers and talk, as they would at Tarth, and that she might be able to speak to Alayne. But Littlefinger says something about seeing to 'his little Lordship', and beside him the girl silently takes his arm, follows him out of the hall.
At Brienne's left, Myranda Royce says, "Alayne nurses young Lord Robert herself, she's terribly devoted to him."
"A sweet girl, that one, even if she is baseborn," Lady Royce says, patting her mouth with a napkin. "Now, my lady of Tarth, would you care to join us in my solar?"
Brienne is almost certain she's only invited for politeness's sake, and indeed when she says, "I am afraid I am very tired from my journey," both the Royce ladies look relieved. Truthfully, she is as well. Disappointed that she hasn't got a chance to talk with Alayne again, yes, but the thought of attempting to make conversation for another hour fills her with dread. Better to be on her own, as ever.
A maid shows her back up to her rooms, and lights a fire for her. The castle's walls may be thick stone, but it is still bitterly cold, even when Brienne climbs into bed and draws the blankets tight around her. She's lived through winter before, when she was a young girl, but can't remember ever being this cold. The Vale is further north than Tarth, true, but there is something different about this winter. The nights seem darker, somehow, the winds cut deeper, and the Starks' words seem more a curse than a motto.
Brienne rubs her hands together, folds them into her armpits for warmth. She tries to think, to work out some kind of strategy for the morrow, but can get no further than resolving to do whatever Sansa decides, follow wherever she goes. It's been a long journey – not in the last day particularly, but it is as though all the weariness from her long months of searching has come upon her at once. Despite the chill, despite the whirl of her thoughts, before long Brienne is fading into sleep.
Someone is shaking her. Cold hands on her shoulder, shaking her.
"My lady. My lady, wake up."
Brienne comes awake all at once, bolting upright, breath catching in her throat. For a wild moment she cannot think where she is, what is happening, groping for her sword beside her and finding nothing –then she takes in the frightened pale face, the candlelight, the stone walls, and she understands.
"I'm sorry, I –"
"Forgive me, my lady –"
They both speak at once, then stop, staring at each other, embarrassed.
The girl they call Alayne Stone is sitting on the edge of Brienne's bed, leaning over her, one hand holding a candlestick. She is dressed in rough brown and grey wool, a plain travelling cloak wrapped around her shoulders. The scarf is gone, her head is uncovered, and for the first time Brienne sees her hair – a mass of curls caught in a heavy braid falling over her shoulder, a shade of auburn richer even than Catelyn Stark's. In the light of the candle it is vermilion, like fire itself.
There is something subtly different in her face – some guardedness that has completely gone. Her eyes are wide, wild, the shutters that came down when she showed Brienne to her rooms have vanished. When she speaks, no one could think her anything but a daughter of the North.
"My lady, I'm sorry to wake you, but your life is in danger."
At that, Brienne pushes back the blankets, throws herself out of bed, reaching for her boots, the sword hanging at the door. A cold hand at her arm stops her in her tracks, and she turns to see the girl, her face rigid now with fear. "Please, let me explain," she begs, and Brienne understands: she is terrified of Brienne herself.
Holding out her hands, as if to calm a skittish horse, she says quickly, "I won't harm you, I swear it, my lady."
The girl relaxes slightly, but only slightly, stepping back and wringing her hands. She looks away for a moment, then back at Brienne, and her eyes have that burning in them once more. "My lady, my name is not Alayne Stone. That was only – a disguise, Littlefinger's disguise when he stole me away from King's Landing. My name – my true name – is Sansa Stark."
Things are slotting into place. Brienne feels as though she is dreaming, in one of those dreams where everything is strange and unfamiliar and yet you always know where to go and what to do. She reaches to take Sansa's hands again, thinking I've found her, I found her, Lady Catelyn, I've found her –
But Sansa interrupts, speaking rapidly, her voice rising in what sounds like panic. "Brienne – my lady – you said you would keep me safe –"
"I will, I swear to you, whatever happens, my lady." She turns, reaching for her sword, thinking to kneel and offer her oath as she did to Lady Catelyn, but Sansa stops her once more.
"Wait." Her voice is soft, but urgent, and filled with a kind of strength. Command. It cuts right through Brienne's thoughts, brings her attention back to Sansa Stark, whose blue eyes are burning even wilder now, savage and desperate. She is of the North, all of a sudden, the fierce cold North. "My – Littlefinger, he meant to have you killed, my lady. Tonight, as you slept."
All the breath leaves Brienne's body. She's heard much and more of the man's treachery, but to kill a guest beneath his roof? "But why? Surely the laws of hospitality –"
"The enemies of my family forswore the laws of hospitality long ago, my lady," Sansa says, and her voice is filled with a bitterness colder than ice, cynical far beyond her tender years. "And why? Because you are loyal, my lady, you may be the last loyal friend of House Stark, and he knew you would take me from here." She pauses, looks down, bites her lip. There are tears in her eyes now, tears making her voice shake and stumble. "He knew I would ask you to take me away from here, away from him, as far away as you can take me."
It is all a little too much, too sudden. Brienne can only say stupidly, "You wish to leave?"
"Please." Sansa grabs her hand, and she is shaking, tears spilling over, splotches of red flaring in her cheeks. "You said you would keep me safe, and I swear, by the old gods, I swear I cannot stay here with him any longer. He will never let me go, I would kill myself rather than stay with him. Please, my lady."
Brienne does not ask what Littlefinger has done to make Sansa loathe him so much – there is a sick deadened weight in her stomach, she fears she knows the shape of it, if not the specifics – she simply falls to her knees. Keeping hold of Sansa's small hand in both of hers, she looks up into the pale, tear-streaked face of the girl she has sought over hill and through dale, for a lifetime. "Lady Stark. My sword is yours as it was your mother's, and I swear to you, by the old gods and the new, on my honour, I will take you from the Vale. I will take you wherever you wish to go, and as long as I live I will do everything in my power to keep you safe. I am no knight, but I keep my oaths."
Those blue eyes hold hers, as Sansa puts down the candlestick, and reaches out her other hand to rest on the crown of Brienne's head in a blessing, a benediction. "I accept your oath, Brienne of Tarth," she says shakily, and then, softer, so soft Brienne thinks she might have imagined it, "My true knight."
For a long moment, Brienne closes her eyes, breathes, focusing on the gentle weight on her head, the fingers curling through her hair. When she rises, she is alight with a sense of belonging, of knowing, for the first time in her life, that she is exactly where she is supposed to be.
No longer the daughter who could not be a lady, the warrior who could not be a son, the Rainbow Guard who could not save her king, the freak who lived at the edges and the in-betweens of society, forever on the outside looking in – now she is Sansa Stark's sworn sword, she is at her lady's side, and she knows what she has to do.
"We must go now, my lady," Sansa says, stepping back to pick up her candlestick again, and retrieve a pack from the floor that Brienne had failed to notice.
For a moment Brienne is a little disoriented, still reeling from that shift inside her, that realisation – and then she snaps back into focus. Realises that Sansa is dressed to set out at any moment, from her thick cloak to her fur-lined boots, and they have no time to lose. She starts pulling on her own outerwear as fast as she can, cloaks and gloves and boots, strapping on her sword belt, checking her pack, her moneybag –
As Brienne fumbles at buckles and wraps herself up to face the winter night, Sansa paces, saying in a whisper so hurried it is almost frantic, "I had to drug Littlefinger, I used the milk of the poppy the master gives Lord Robert to help him sleep, I slipped it in his wine. I don't know how long he'll sleep for, I gave him as much as I dared, and some to his guards. And I packed money and some food and drink, and a map, and I told Tomas the chief ostler to ready two horses. The sturdiest we have."
Finally Brienne is ready. She takes the pack from Sansa, hefts it, opens the door and gestures for her to lead the way. "This ostler ... you think he can be trusted?"
They are all but running through the halls, moving as fast as they can without causing enough noise to rouse anyone and sound the alarm. Sansa smiles at Brienne, quick and sad, over her shoulder. "He has a daughter, a little younger than I, and he knows Littlefinger is not an honourable father to me. Tomas has seen ... he told me he would help me if he could, and I believe him." A pause, then she adds, her voice suddenly high with alarm, "Do you think I shouldn't? Have I been stupid to trust him?"
She has never met this ostler, has not a clue what the man is like, but Brienne doesn't have to fake the confidence when she says, "You've been wise so far, my lady." The bright look of gratitude Sansa gives her as they slip through a door into the castle courtyard makes her heart skip a beat.
The courtyard is still, silent, moonlit, and Brienne feels like a ghost as they steal across the iced-over cobbles, breath steaming in the cold air. She follows in Sansa's wake, through the shadow of the great keep, into the stables.
True to his word, there is a broad, ruddy-faced man standing on the straw-strewn floor, holding the reins of two unremarkable-looking horses, both saddled and ready. He does a slight double-take at Brienne in her man's armour, but makes no comment, merely goes to Sansa's side to hold out his linked hands and help her into the saddle. "I'll go around and open the side gate for you," he says, and with a nudge from their riders, the horses follow.
The side gate is clearly an entrance for servants and tradesmen, only wide enough for one horse to pass through at a time. It creaks as the ostler opens it, and for a moment Brienne cannot breathe, glancing around as her heart beats in her ears. She has to clench her fists to keep down her impatience to move, to fly, to be gone from here, as Sansa reaches to touch the ostler's shoulder. "Thank you so much, ser," she says, making his eyes widen at her Northern accent. "I shall never forget what you have done for me."
Tomas bows deeply. "You just ride hard, milady. Ride them horses hard, don't look back, and, gods be good, the Vale lords'll string that Baelish up for a traitor 'fore he can track you down." He spits to one side, then looks over to Brienne, eyes narrow. "You riding with milady, then?"
"Brienne is my sworn sword," Sansa says, and though she does not smile, her eyes are bright, so bright, as she looks at Brienne.
The ostler harrumphs. "You keep her safe, now," he says sternly, then turns back to Sansa. "Seven keep you, milady. I'll light a candle to the Maiden for you."
She touches his cheek and smiles, says, "Bless you, Tomas, by the old gods and the new." Then he steps back, and she clicks her teeth, and Brienne nudges her horse with her heel, and then they are riding out.
It's a clear night, and the Gates of the Moon are silhouetted against the mass of stars in the black velvet sky. Suddenly, Brienne can see the beauty in the soaring mountains of the Vale, lit up by the stars and the full moon. As they bring the horses to a gallop, she looks across at Sansa, whose hair is streaming back in a ribbon of red, colour riding high in her cheeks, her face lit up with the thrill of escape.
She smiles over at her, breathless and wide, and Brienne forgets everything else. Forgets the prospect of tomorrow, and being hunted by the Lord Paramount of the Trident and the Vale, and seeking shelter from the winds of winter, forgets her own fear and uncertainty. She is riding beside her lady, she is where she is supposed to be, and nothing else matters.