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A sharp wind blew down from the north, carrying with it the first flakes of snow, as Brienne guided her horse through the gates of Winterfell. She suppressed a shiver, trying to pull her cloak more tightly around her under the pretense of adjusting her hands on the reins. Ser Brienne, Lady Commander of the Kingsguard of the Six Kingdoms, could not afford to show that the cold was affecting her, no more than she could show heat or sorrow or fear or anything else that might be taken as weakness.Which meant that she had to work even harder to keep her face still and expressionless as the memories gathered around her, falling even more thickly than the snowfall. Memories of the battle with the Night King, of those who had fought alongside her who were no longer here.But already she could start to see that Winterfell was not the same place that it had been. Broken turrets were being rebuilt; shattered beams were being repaired. The Stark direwolf banner - now the royal banner of the Kingdom in the North - flew triumphantly from every tower.The Kingdom in the North: the realm that Brienne had been sent to negotiate with at the request of her liege. “Of course I will follow your command, Your Grace,” she had responded at once - but could not hold back from adding, “Although I feel that as the head of your Kingsguard, my place should be at your side.”
The young king had fixed her with that uncannily direct gaze, his rare ethereal smile floating over his face. “No, Lady Commander,” he said, voice distant. “It must be you.”
Brienne knew as well as the rest of the court what it meant when King Brandon spoke in that tone.
It was not the first occasion that she had found her mind drifting towards the north, in the time since King Brandon had been crowned and Brienne had taken up her present position. Of course she would anyway; the kingdom’s uneasy relationship with its new northern neighbor was a matter of great importance.But every time the Small Council spoke of diplomatic relations with the Queen in the North, Brienne had felt a tiny pang in her heart, pride and pain and admiration mingling there at the thought of Queen Sansa. She remembered the tall upright young woman that she had seen at the war council in Winterfell: the strength of her will, the deftness with which she handled political maneuvering, the unquestioning trust she had had in Brienne’s ability as a knight. She remembered the story she had been told of what Sansa did in the crypt during the battle with the Night King: hopelessly outmatched and desperately brave, armed with nothing but a dagger, she had been prepared to take on any enemies that dared to threaten her.So when the king sent her to Winterfell, Brienne did not protest as much as she might have if she had had to leave his side for any other reason. And she found herself looking ahead with rising anticipation as she approached the great looming towers in the thickening snow.Once she had been shown to her quarters, she descended to the Great Hall, where she found the same new energy humming within Winterfell’s ancient walls. The dark beams and thick stone walls had not been damaged, but now it was full of boisterous voices - even laughter! - and hung with tapestries and direwolf banners. It was a living place again, now that the dead had been defeated. Even the ordinary winter was still cold enough, though, and Brienne’s fine flowing white cloak gave little protection against the chill as she moved through the Great Hall.When she heard the seneschal, Lady Alysanne, calling her name from across the room, Brienne approached the throne with eyes cast down, properly reverent, her booted footsteps beating a steady rhythm against the stone floor amid the rising tide of courtiers’ murmurs all around her. Before the throne, she did not kneel as she would to her own liege, but swept as deep a bow as her armor would permit, one gauntleted hand coming up to rest over her heart.As she straightened, she saw the Queen in the North for the first time. Sansa wore an ice-gray gown, its high collar thickly embroidered with intricate patterns in darker shades of gray and glinting silver, overlaid with a fur cloak whose rich blackness seemed even deeper against her porcelain-pale face. White and gray and black and silver - save for the brilliant bright auburn of her hair, spilling down in luxurious waves. The dark wooden pillars of the throne rose up on either side of her head, their tips carved with snarling wolf heads that echoed the interlocked wolf heads of her crown, and their cross-hatched texture matching the diamond-shaped bits of metal of the crown’s circlet, overlapping like links of mail.
Brienne had seen Sansa in true armor, in the war council before the battle with the Night King, and yet somehow she looked fiercer now, clothed in her armor of silk and fur and jewelry, than she ever did then.For a moment, Brienne’s breath caught, held suspended in that instant of seeing Sansa, her gaze transfixed by those cool pale eyes. “Your Grace,” she finally remembered to say. Her voice came out rough, and she had to clear her throat before she could continue, “I come bearing greetings from His Grace your brother, King Brandon, First of his Name, Lord of the Six Kingdoms.”Behind her, she heard a few satisfied snorts and chuckles from the Northern lords - the pride at that number being six was still fresh. Then again, the North had such a long memory that Brienne suspected there would be some lords still chuckling their satisfaction in a hundred years’ time.One of those little ripples of laughter took a lower, nastier turn. “Lord of lesser kingdoms,” muttered a voice. “Clearly this is the best they can do now. Didn’t they call her Brienne the Beauty?”Brienne felt a sharp twist. In the space of those few words, she had been thrown back to the agonizing times of her girlhood, when she had had to parade clumsily about in a gown at her father’s great feasts, sensing the eyes of the condescending court upon her and hearing that scornful nickname muttered behind her. Different lords snickered and stared now, but the feeling was the same, even after all these years.Only this time, there was a cool voice cutting through the hot shame. “You will address our guest as Ser Brienne.” All other sounds ceased the instant that the Queen spoke, leaving behind a silence that seemed even louder. “And you will give her the great respect that she is due, as a guest in this hall, and as the emissary of His Grace my brother.” There was only the slightest emphasis on those final words, but that was all that it took to communicate what Sansa needed to say: yes, they had broken away from the other Six Kingdoms, but King Brandon was still a Stark and a son of the North. “And more than that, she is one of the bravest knights that has ever lived, in this realm or any other.” Utter sincerity rang in every one of her words. The first part, she had spoken as Queen in the North, but that last sentence, she had spoken as Sansa.* * *To Sansa’s eyes, Brienne stood out like a bright candle in the midst of the Great Hall’s darkness.The knight was a glow of white and gold: pale shimmering blonde hair, smooth fair skin with a hint of creamy warmth. Her armor shone with a faint gold undertone too, the glorious finery of the Commander of the Kingsguard overlaid with the pristine flow of her white cloak. And her eyes were still the same pale forthright blue, as clear and as pure as a glacier.
But the sorrow in those eyes made Sansa’s heart ache. So did the way they lowered under the onslaught of snickers, and the tiny pinch at the corners of Brienne’s lips that betrayed just how much effort it was for her to keep her face still and her expression blank.Sansa must have been the only person in the court - perhaps even the only person in the world - who could read those subtle signs, and therefore the only one who could ease the depths of the pain they signified. She knew what it was like to have to keep your face blank, to hold the pain inside you so that your enemies could not sink their claws into it. The small agony of being humiliated was still part of the same family of pain.And so she gave those commands to the court - her court - speaking with the voice of the Queen, showing what kind of treatment Brienne should be given, offering the knight some healing instead.The final words dropped into utter silence. Good, they had heard her. Next, give another command, she heard in her mind, to someone that you know will follow it. Strengthen the impression that you are someone whose orders must be obeyed. She could not remember which of her many teachers in the practice of power had given her that lesson, but she knew how to follow it. “Lady Alysanne,” she said, turning her head ever so slightly to the side where her seneschal stood. “Arrange for Ser Brienne to be seated at my right hand this evening at dinner.”“Yes, Your Grace,” the seneschal replied eagerly, almost before Sansa had finished speaking, and bustled out of the hall, hurrying on her way to make the necessary arrangements with her usual rush of energy.
“Now.” Sansa turned back towards the knight, letting her attention fix on Brienne, and only on her. “Lady Commander.” There was still a bit of warmth in her voice. Good. Let the court hear that this is a person whose presence I truly welcome. “We received a raven that said that you would be coming. Please, tell us what has brought you here.”Brienne’s head stayed lowered, but Sansa thought she caught a brief upward flicker of the knight’s pale gaze. “His Grace has sent me to request that you grant him the castle of Brookton,” Brienne began, “which was part of the lands in your late mother’s dowry, and which is now in your hands. He felt that I, as someone who once gave my fealty to your mother, would be best able to speak to her memory and the interest of her lands.” Brienne paused, weighing her words carefully for a moment before she added, “I held your mother in high regard, Your Grace.” Her voice was still courtly and formal, but there was a depth to it that spoke of true feeling. As if Brienne would have any kind of feelings other than true, Sansa thought. She was utterly honest in everything she did. “Serving her was one of my life’s great honors."Sansa felt a small wistful smile start to lift up. It was very rare that anyone spoke of Catelyn at all, let alone with such warmth, and the knight’s open affection went straight to the place in Sansa’s heart where her own memories of her mother lived. “She was fortunate indeed,” she said more softly, "to have had a knight such as you in her service.”A sudden smile, brilliant and true, lit Brienne’s face like the noonday sun. Even the golden glow of Brienne’s armor seemed to shine brighter, as if it caught some of the light that kindled in the knight’s eyes. Sansa’s heart skipped a beat at the sight. She had brought that smile out. Somehow that felt as powerful as any of the royal commands that she had given.Out of the corner of her eye, Sansa caught a glimpse of motion: the ripple of cloaks and gathering of bodies together as a small cluster of lords began to shift and mutter amongst themselves. Bits and pieces of words floated over - “…never give away land…” “just another greedy Southern king…”They were just far enough behind her that couldn’t tell who was in that little group, but she would bet that Lord Ashwood was at the center. Either him or Lord Cerwyn; they were always the first to grumble, and the first to suggest that they might try to go govern themselves, free of any monarch’s reign.Only Sansa’s eyes moved; the rest of her remained utterly still, giving no sign that she had seen or heard anything. She could not allow herself to be seen to waver or get distracted.
Brienne was under no such burden, though. The knight’s head spun swiftly towards the rising tide of discontented mutters, shooting a dangerous glare in their direction. “Lord Ashwood,” she murmured, low enough that only Sansa could hear. “That’s the three gray clusters of ash leaves on a blue field, isn’t it? And Lord Cerwyn - that’s a black battle-axe on silver.”Pleased recognition rose up within Sansa as she realized what Brienne was doing, and broke through her iron composure just enough to give a tiny spark to her eyes as she met the knight’s returning gaze. “Thank you,” she murmured. Then she drew herself up even straighter as she lifted her voice to speak to the court again. “Brookton is far from here.”
It was on the northern edge of the Riverlands; placed strategically enough that Sansa could understand why Bran would want it, and far enough away from her own lands that to Sansa, it was more trouble than it was worth to maintain. Actually, Sansa would have been happy to give it to Bran and be rid of…it if she weren’t certain that Ashwood and Cerwyn would seize upon it as a concession and a sign of weakness.“But we would never wish to see the unity of our lands broken, not when we in the North have gone through such strife to earn our right to rule them.” The grumbles had stopped - there was utter silence from Ashwood and Cerwyn’s corner, and Sansa knew that her warning against breaking unity had landed. “We will consider our brother’s request. Let us speak again tomorrow, Ser Brienne.”And with that, she gathered her cloak about her and swept out of the court. That was all that the Queen in the North would give her vassals that evening.But there was no rest for Sansa afterwards. That night was a bad one.
She had been having fewer of those lately, but no matter how safe and warm she was in her waking hours, sometimes the nightmares still came to her in the dark.So that night, as she had so many nights before, she walked through the stone corridors, counting them off one by one, trying to connect each of them to what they had been before, when she was a child and Winterfell had never been broken. Here was where Maester Luwin’s study had been; here was where she had seen Arya trying to walk on her hands; here was where she had stood when she was finished with her lessons and waiting for her mother to come to her.Here was where she had been safe. Until she wasn’t.Into the silence came another set of footsteps, firm and steady. Who would be up and about at this hour? Lady Alysanne, finally heading back to her chamber after another late night of working on her accounts? No, her step was lighter and quicker. A servant? But who would be in this part of the castle?The steps grew closer, rounded the corner from another corridor - and Sansa saw that it was Brienne. The knight was out of armor, in woolen hose and a tunic overlain with a thick cloak edged in fur, but she still held her arms close to her sides, huddling into herself for warmth. Her hair was ever so slightly rumpled, a few pale strands falling softly over her high forehead, and Sansa could not say why that sight tugged at her heart, or why her hand longed to smooth it back.“Your Grace!” The low music of Brienne’s speech was muted by the lateness of the hour, as if her voice were muffled by the same cloak that wrapped her broad shoulders, but her words came more quickly than they had in court, less guarded and with a more natural flow. “Forgive me - I did not intend to trespass into a part of the castle where I was not meant to be.”“Please, Ser Brienne, there is no forgiveness needed,” Sansa replied swiftly. “You are a guest at Winterfell.” Sansa tilted her head up so that she could look Brienne in the eye - it was rare that she spoke to someone so much taller than herself, standing face to face like this rather than seated on the throne gazing down. “I hope that you are well?”Brienne’s expression shifted into a rueful grimace. “Yes, Your Grace, although I confess, I have forgotten what it was like to be in the North. I had hoped that moving about would give me a bit of warmth.” There was more that Brienne wished to say; Sansa could see that in the slight tilt of the knight’s head and the searching gaze that she sent outward. Was she wondering why Sansa was awake in the middle of the night?Before the knight could ask - before Sansa would have to explain, or, more precisely, before she would have to find some half-truth to put in place of the explanation that she did not want to give - Sansa put in quickly, “I will speak to Lady Alysanne, then, to have the fire in your chambers built higher. I will not have it be said that Winterfell did not provide for the comfort of its guests.” It still astonished her, sometimes, to hear a queen’s voice coming from her own mouth, even as the dignified words flowed more naturally with every day that Sansa wore the crown. Then she paused to take a breath, and when she let it out, she let a little more softness come to her voice as she confided, “I would not want you to lack for comfort, Ser Brienne.”She was rewarded with a brief flare of light in the knight’s weary eyes, and a natural, unguarded smile as Brienne said, “Thank you, Your Grace.”“I know that you may feel far from home, but you know the North well.” Now, Sansa could let through the smile that she had not been able to show before the court. “You read the heraldry of our lords perfectly.”Brienne’s smile rose higher, even as her gaze skittered away, in a look that was almost shy. “Your lady mother taught me well.”“I thought so.” Again, Sansa felt a little flash of commonality rising and resonating between them, like a note vibrating after being played on a harp. “It sounded like something she would do.” It was so easy to speak of her mother to Brienne! Easier than to Arya, even; not that Arya was even here to speak to anymore.
So easy to speak of her mother to Brienne…except for one thing. The thing that she could never have said in public, the weakness and regret that she could not show to the fractious lords of the North, but that had ached in her for years, dimming the warm glow that always came with thoughts of Brienne. “A moment ago, you asked for my forgiveness, Ser Brienne. And yet…I must ask for yours, for turning you away, when you were trying to carry out your oath to my mother.”“Oh, no,” Brienne protested, eyes wide with sudden surprise, her hands coming up as if to push away the apology. “Your Grace, there is no need!”
“Yes, there is,” Sansa persisted. Her voice grew firmer - not with the queen’s command, but with the strength of emotion that the memories called up. “I - I found it hard to believe that your motives were true, then.” Her lips gave a brief, bitter twist that was not quite a smile. “I had been surrounded for so long by people who never showed their real emotions or spoke the full truth that I found it hard to remember that there was anyone left in the world who still did that. But now I can see more clearly.” She lifted her head, meeting Brienne’s pale gaze with her own. “You were never anything less than true. You could never be anything less than true. I know that now.”Little by little, as Sansa spoke, the knight’s expression changed, softened, eased, as if the warmth of Sansa’s admiration were thawing the ice that had covered it, letting wonder show through. “Thank you, Your Grace.” Brienne’s voice was low now, husky and quiet. “I understand why you acted as you did.”How many times, Sansa wondered, had Brienne been asked for her forgiveness? Had she ever? With all of the honor that she held within herself, how could it be that no one had given such courtesy to her in return?Somehow, Brienne’s surprise at being treated with honor hurt as much as the knowledge that Sansa had been one of those who had betrayed that faith. It had been a very long time since Sansa had believed in the stories of brave knights and fair ladies - the cruelty of the world had smashed those tales to bits. She could never live out those stories herself.But here, with Brienne, Sansa found herself wishing for the first time in many years that the stories could be true, that such a brave and loyal knight could be rewarded for all the honorable deeds that she had done.What else could Sansa give her? What reward could there be that would let that warmth shine through…oh. Yes. That was it. “May I show you something?” Sansa asked, the inspiration lighting a sudden smile as she looked back up towards Brienne.
A different kind of surprise crinkled the knight’s expression now. “Of course, Your Grace. Whatever you wish.”* * *Brienne did not know where they were going, so she had to let Sansa lead. But she could at least light the way.Brienne reached over, easily unfurling her long arm to take a torch from a sconce on the wall - but Sansa’s was there first, and Brienne found her hand touching the yielding warmth of Sansa’s soft fingers instead of the smooth wooden torch.
Their eyes both widened in the same surprise, their breaths both spilled over in the same shaky half-gasp-half-laugh, and for a moment, their hands tangled. Then Brienne drew hers back, letting Sansa take the torch. “Go on, Your Grace,” she said softly.Sansa’s fingers closed around the torch, lifting it easily from the sconce. The red flame deepened the auburn glow of her hair as it made her the center of the swaying circle of light while she moved through the darkness of Winterfell’s corridors.Their journey ended at a door that was slightly narrower than the others, fitting more tightly in its frame. A little sound still seeped out from the other side, though, a faint murmur like…running water?Sansa pulled the door open with her free hand and held it open. “After you, Ser Brienne.” Brienne knew that she should go first - she should be the one holding the door for Sansa. But she could not disobey the order given by a queen, nor could she hold back from seeing what could have brought the little dancing light of anticipation into Sansa’s gray eyes.Warmth rushed up to surround Brienne as she stepped into the room, heavy and lush like the gentle breath of summer wind off the Narrow Sea onto the beaches of Tarth. A glass ceiling angled high overhead, crossed with intersecting leaded lines that etched out darker paths against the night sky spangled full of brilliant twinkling stars and dancing snowflakes. The air was fragrant with the scent of a dozen fruits and flowers: heady roses, sweet oranges, and - of course - the bright lemons that would go into the cakes that Sansa so dearly loved.“The glass garden,” Brienne realized. “Over the hot springs.” She had remembered Lady Catelyn telling her about it - that it had been one of her favorite parts of Winterfell, a room that held the warmth of the South amid the Northern chill. “Your Grace, it is magnificent,” Brienne breathed, finally tearing her eyes away from the constellations to look back at Sansa.The young Queen in the North was smiling, gentle and wistful, illuminated by the torch that she carried whose flickering glow gave an even deeper radiance to her cascading auburn hair. “I thought you would like it,” she said softly.Brienne shook her head in wonder. “How did this survive?” She had not remembered seeing it when she was here before, but there had been precious little time to do anything then but prepare for battle. And after so many horrors and storms had swept through Winterfell, how could such a fragile fragrant refuge have gone unscathed?Remembered sorrow pinched Sansa’s mouth, dimming that smile, and she glanced briefly away. “It didn’t,” she said simply. “But I rebuilt it as soon as I reclaimed Winterfell.” Brienne saw, then, how small the lemon trees were; how few roses were on the climbing trellises. How warm the pride was in Sansa’s eyes, as the young queen looked around at the garden that she had made to grow again - and then looked up at Brienne, to say with the same simplicity, “I’m glad that I could show it to you. That I could give you something that would make you happy.”“It does make me happy, Your Grace,” Brienne said - and dared to smile a little more, as she added, “And warmer. Thank you.”“Please.” Sansa said, hardly more than the barest whisper. “Not ‘Your Grace,’ not here, where it is just the two of us.” She stepped closer, carrying the light with her, reaching out one slender hand. “Please, call me Sansa.”Not a command. A request, given in a voice that trembled ever so slightly. One that Brienne could refuse, if she wished. But…she did not wish to. “Sansa,” she said, stepping through this new door that had been held open for her, to take the gift that she was being offered. “And…please call me Brienne?”The tips of Sansa’s soft delicate fingers brushed against Brienne’s rougher ones, sending a shiver through her amid the glass garden’s warmth. “Brienne,” Sansa whispered, her lips curving up into a smile.Brienne turned her hand to close it gently around Sansa’s. “What is there that I can give you?” she asked, gazing down into Sansa’s eyes. “What makes you happy?”The surprise that came over Sansa’s face at that question sent a dart of pain into Brienne’s heart, reminding her all over again of how few people had cared for Sansa’s happiness. How rarely in the years since the terrible wars began that anyone must have asked her that question in earnest, with no plan to use her joys against her. It hurt even more to see how long Sansa had to think about the answer, smile gone, lips slightly parted in the remnants of her surprise, eyes full of wistful pain. “I don’t know,” she finally said, very faintly. “I - I am happy talking to you?” she ventured, a tiny bit of hope brightening her eyes.“Take time to think, if you need it.” Brienne’s hand curled tighter around Sansa’s. “If it is in my power, then I will give it to you.”* * *Sansa had been thinking about it all morning.Through all the hours that she and Alysanne and Brienne had spent in her study, bent over a great map, trying to work out how to answer Bran’s request, the question kept floating back up in her mind: What would make me happy?But beyond the question itself, it was the memory of Brienne asking her that Sansa could not let go. The knight’s hair had glowed golden in the torchlight, her eyes had been full of hope, her hand strong and steady. She had asked because she genuinely wanted to give Sansa something: not because she expected something in return, and not really even because Sansa had given her a gift of joy first.Every time Sansa lifted her eyes to meet Brienne’s above the map’s broad expanse, she felt her heart leap the same way it had the night before when their hands had touched. Talking to you makes me happy…Alysanne cleared her throat, and Sansa hastily blinked, making herself push the memory far enough down that she could focus on the matter at hand. She set aside the plate from which she had just finished eating the last lemon cake, turning her attention back to the map. “Are you certain that we could not exchange Erenford?” she asked Brienne, even though she had little hope that the answer would be different from the last time she had asked.“Absolutely certain, Your Grace,” Brienne answered, predictably but still regretfully. “That was part of the Frey lands, and the Small Council will not let go of any of those castles. Not even to you, Your Grace.” Sansa sighed again, but nodded her understanding: reminding the rest of the Riverlands of the new king’s authority over those formerly treacherous vassals was important. She suspected that she heard Tyrion’s strategy behind that idea.It had been very early in the morning’s discussion when they had dropped all pretense that it was actually Bran’s request; even though Bran had instructed Brienne to carry the message, they both knew that it was the Council who had made the decision in the first place. And it was easier to think of the Council than it was to think of the strange remote young man that Sansa’s little brother had become. Sansa and Bran had found a way to work together, but it still felt as if he were a stranger to her sometimes.“All right,” Sansa conceded. She frowned down at the map, running her finger over the network of lines and letters that marked out all of the lands of Westeros, searching for another castle or bit of territory that might be exchanged. “What about that bit there?” Her finger traced the path of a river’s sinuous line across the new border between the Six Kingdoms and the North. “That river forms the southern border to the Cerwyn lands, and it flows past Brookton. Could the Council confirm our royal control of the southern part of that river? That way, if Ashwood or Cerwyn want to make use of it beyond their own lands, they will have to go through me. And it will look as if the South is conceding something to the North as well,” she realized, the thought bringing a faint fleeting smile with it. “Do you think the Council will agree to that?” she asked, looking back up to Brienne for confirmation.The knight was nodding, her eyes bright with admiration. “Yes, Your Grace. I cannot say for certain, but I will take this request back to them, and I think they will agree.”
As Lady Alysanne bustled out of the room to write up the letter that Brienne would carry back to King’s Landing, Sansa looked down at the map, feeling a warmth of satisfaction rising within her that she had threaded this needle of negotiating for land and power. Ridding herself of a castle that she was happy to see go anyway, hemming in her fractious lords. She was building a realm that would last…“Building things,” she said quietly.“Pardon, Your - ?” Brienne began - and then the door closed, and they were alone, and the formal title faded away before it was finished. “Sansa,” Brienne said instead, and Sansa’s heart turned over at the sound of that sweet low voice softening around the sound of her own name. “What do you mean?”“You asked what made me happy.” Sansa lifted her eyes to meet Brienne’s. “Building things. Not just…building things like this - “ her hand raised towards the map - “but…I’ve always liked building in the snow.” She felt her cheeks start to grow hot - it sounded so childish when she said it! What if she had been wrong; what if Brienne thought that it was a foolish wish…
But there was no scorn in Brienne’s eyes, only a gentle warmth. “Tell me more?” she offered.Sansa breathed out, letting her own smile come back a little more as she continued, “We used to do it when we were children. Building towers and forts and bridges, making up all sorts of stories about the great lords and ladies who would live in them. But I haven’t for a long time. The last time I tried…” She trailed off, swallowing against the memory of the little snow Winterfell she had made at the Eyrie - a memory that she had not allowed herself to revisit for many years. “It all went wrong,” was all that she would say now. “But…I want to try again.”“Then I want you to be able to try again.” Brienne’s eyes shone with a sincerity that made Sansa’s heart skip a beat. She cast a look towards the window, and Sansa followed her gaze, to where the snow was still falling in thick fluffy flakes. “I think you will get your chance. If you can find time away from royal duties, that is.”The little lift in Sansa’s heart found its way out into a soft laugh. “I suppose I could make a royal decree that I must have time for building snow castles,” she said lightly.“If that is what it takes to give you the time to do things that make you happy, then you should,” Brienne returned, a hint of answering lightness in her own voice. It faded into quiet earnestness, though, as she added, “Of course, I do not mean to say that you would neglect your actual duties. I know that you would never do that.”Somehow, the utter simplicity of the statement felt more weighty than any oath. “You have such faith in me,” Sansa said, her voice soft with wonder.
“I do,” Brienne replied. “I always have.” She reached out one hand, the gesture asking a silent question.
Sansa answered it with a tiny nod, and offered her own hand, fingers twining through Brienne’s at last.The knight’s hand was so strong! Rough and callused from long years of handling a sword, but that did not make its touch feel uncomfortable against Sansa’s softer, smoother skin. It was the opposite: Sansa felt safer knowing that Brienne’s strength was there; felt better knowing that Brienne had been able to spend those years doing what she was meant to do.
For a long moment they stood there, breath held, suspended on the touch of their joined hands outstretched between them. Then, Sansa took a step towards Brienne - and then another, and then another. It was her turn to offer silent questions now, in the hesitant hope that kept her steps slow but her eyes bright as she closed the distance between herself and the knight. “May I?” she whispered, finally speaking one of those questions out loud, as her other hand rose towards Brienne.“Yes,” Brienne whispered back, a deep rough sigh. “Yes, please.”Sansa’s hand landed low down on Brienne’s arm, a gentle, testing touch, then started to move up, little by little, curving and sliding along the contours of strong muscle as until it reached the knight’s broad shoulder. The sensation drew a low breath from Brienne that stretched until Sansa’s hand had come to rest again, and a shiver ran through her, so deep and subtle that at first Sansa was hardly even sure that she felt it. But it was there below the steady strength; she was sure of it, and a shiver deep within herself was waiting to answer it.Just as slowly, Brienne lifted her hand - stopping halfway, giving Sansa a chance to stop, to turn her away - and when Sansa gave a tiny nod of encouragement, brought her hand up to cradle Sansa’s cheek, those strong fingers long enough to run lightly against the elaborate braids that twined back from Sansa’s temple.
Sansa slid her own hand higher, up Brienne’s shoulder, over the strong braided cords of her neck and beyond, into the close-cropped edges of her hair. “Your hair is so soft,” she marveled, fingers slipping further up to nestle into the pale-gold depths. The twining of her arm brought her closer, so near that she could feel the warmth of Brienne’s body, could smell the faint scents of leather and metal that clung to the knight even when she was not in armor.Brienne’s hand moved gently along her cheek, strong thumb curling around to brush the edge of Sansa’s mouth. The touch parted her lips in a faint caught breath that turned into a whisper of “Brienne…” and ended in a tiny smile.
Again Brienne paused to hold herself still, suspended in the air between one moment and the next. Again, she searched Sansa’s eyes with her own as she asked, “May I?” But this time she said more, as she leaned down to bring that hopeful pale-blue gaze closer: “May I kiss you?”“Yes!” It came out in a swift rush that lifted Sansa’s smile and carried her forward as she reached both arms to clasp Brienne tightly and rose up on her toes to meet the kiss.* * *
She was so soft!Sweet lips that still tasted of the lemon cakes Sansa had eaten earlier; smooth hair that slid forward in a shimmering auburn curtain; fur-trimmed cuffs on her gown that skimmed over every bit of exposed skin on Brienne’s neck and back.
And yet Sansa was the one saying that Brienne’s hair was soft. Brienne couldn’t remember the last time that anyone had said that - or, for that matter, found anything soft about her. But perhaps it took someone as remarkable as Sansa to find one of the soft places within Brienne.Always gentle, always taking care with her, as if Sansa were one of the delicate panes of glass that enclosed her walled garden, Brienne held her close, moving carefully forward into the kiss. Brienne’s lips parted slightly, offering an opening - and only when Sansa let her tongue slip gently forward did Brienne offer her own in return. Brienne shrugged one shoulder, edging aside her collar to expose her long neck into the chill - and Sansa’s slender fingers slid down into the space left for them, bringing up delicious shivers as they traced along Brienne’s skin. It was as if Brienne were holding the torch again, as she had the night before, illuminating only the next step down the corridor and not lighting the one following unless Sansa chose to move forward.“I wanted this for so long,” Sansa whispered, into a tiny space between kisses. “So long.” Her breath came faster now, gasps so deep that Brienne could feel Sansa’s chest rising and falling against her own where they pressed together. Sansa stole another kiss, tongue flickering out to give a delicate taste to Brienne’s lips before she lifted her head again to confess, “I hoped you did too, but I didn’t think…”“I did,” Brienne murmured back. Their faces were still so close that Brienne could feel the warmth of Sansa’s every breath, could see nothing but the luminous gray-blue of her eyes. “I wanted this even before I realized it, I think. And then I saw you again, and I knew…”A slow smile spread across Sansa’s face, as bright and warm as a sunrise, and more open than any expression that Brienne had seen since she had arrived at Winterfell. Here, alone with Brienne, Sansa had no need to summon the icy composure of the Queen in the North; she could simply show her own joy in all its fullness.There was a knock at the door, and they both froze, staring at each other with wide eyes. A giddy little giggle threatened to rise up within Brienne - she felt like she was a girl of fourteen, hiding from her father! Except, of course, that when she actually had been fourteen, back on Tarth, she had never had anyone to sneak about with and kiss in corners.Sansa’s hand darted out for one last touch, smoothing back Brienne’s hair where it had fallen over her forehead, sending one more shiver through Brienne at the sensation. And then she pulled her hand back and straightened her shoulders, ready to be the Queen in the North once more.By the time Lady Alysanne stepped through the door to the study, letter in hand - and, Brienne thought, a hint of a knowing smile in her eyes - Sansa and Brienne were on opposite side of the map table once more, with only those promises and memories to hold them together. * * *The next morning, Sansa accompanied Brienne to the gates of Winterfell. A fitting courtesy for such an honored guest, as far as anyone else in the castle knew. But Sansa and Brienne knew better why the Queen came herself to see off the Lady Commander.They were silent for the long walk, the only sound coming from their feet crunching softly on the thickly-fallen snow, for they had to maintain the image of public composure. But they had exchanged many more words - and kisses! - when they had bid each other farewell in private. Brienne had promised that she would return - as her duties permitted, which she hardly even needed to say, but of course she said it anyway. And Sansa had promised that she would find a way to come south to King’s Landing, once the winter had receded and the restless lords of the North had been subdued a bit more.Even if they did not speak, there was something in the tiny glances that they darted towards each other that meant even more. Every time Sansa angled her gaze upwards, Brienne’s eyes were there to meet hers, repeating that promise. I will come back to you. And every time Sansa saw it, her lips curved up in the smallest of smiles.Only at the very end, when Brienne’s horse had been saddled and was nearly ready to go, did they speak again. “I bid you a safe journey back to King’s Landing,” Sansa said, in the voice of the Queen, with a tiny inclination of her head.
Brienne bowed, perfect and proper, as she said, “Thank you, Your Grace.” But she was close enough to add a little more, in a voice so low that Sansa was the only one who could hear. “Look at the snow,” she murmured. “Could you stay outside for a while more? You could take the time to be happy.”
“Perhaps,” Sansa whispered, giving Brienne a smile that was just for her.
As much as it hurt to see that tall shining figure of gold and white riding away from her, Sansa’s heart was still light. She knew that Brienne would return: for the first time in a very long time, there was no doubt at all in Sansa’s mind that the promise given to her would be kept.And she was in Winterfell with snowflakes dancing all around her, snowflakes that fell and gathered into something that she could build into a castle.