“You look very much like her,” the lady knight says softly, and Sansa looks up, surprised, uncomfortable, and more than anything, caught.
“Like who?” she asks, and she is proud of the way she keeps her voice steady, proud of the way she pretends she doesn’t know, pretends she hasn’t always known, hasn’t been reminded with Petyr’s gaze upon her face, her aunt’s distrustful, resentful glares, that it doesn’t hurt, sometimes, an ache too deep inside her to reach and soothe, to look in the mirror and see what is reflected there.
“Like your mother. Like Lady Catelyn,” she answers gently, as though afraid she will startle her, and Sansa feels a blaze of anger, brief and hot, I am no little bird, not anymore.
“I have no mother,” she fairly spits, the word heavy and almost unfamiliar in her mouth, now, after so much time, it has almost lost its meaning but it can never lose the pull on Sansa’s heart, that pull back to Winterfell, back to the days of her youth. She would stand straight and tall in her best dress and would beam, secretly thrilled, when her father would say she looked like her mother, because her mother was beautiful, her mother was a lady. “My mother is dead.”
The lady knight’s eyes are very beautiful, the only part of her that is so, large and so vividly blue, and they are kind, and it almost hurts to look at them, so Sansa looks away, glancing instead at the top of her head, at the roughly chopped hair the color of straw. I should have dyed my hair before I left, she thinks, miserably, then no one would know her true identity, no one would tell her she looked like the mother she’d lost, she could slip into the familiar comfortable skin of Alayne, a girl who had not known the sorrows of Sansa Stark. “Yes,” she agrees, and Sansa meets her eye again to see a flicker there that she does not quite understand. “She is dead. But before she was murdered, I swore her my sword, and I promised her I would find you, and keep you safe.”
“Ladies do not have sworn swords,” Sansa blurts out, and the knight draws her sword; it is beautiful and terrible, red and dark and somehow familiar, and she should be terrified, but she is not, somehow, though she tries again and again to not trust, though she has learned life is not a song and there are no true knights, perhaps, perhaps some knights are still honest, and good.
The lady knight places the blade on the table, and very gently, Sansa reaches out to touch the hilt. “Your mother did. I swore a different sword to Lady Catelyn,” she says, and there is a brightness in her eyes, a hope,. “But I swear I shall keep my promise, and this sword is yours, if you will have it,” her voice drops a bit, still secretive, still aware, and Sansa is thankful for that, “if you will have it, Lady Sansa.”
Sansa raises her eyes, meets that honest gaze, and though she does not feel safe (she will never again feel safe), she feels that vice around her heart loosen its death choke.
Just a bit.
“I must have your name,” she says, and she blinks, she does not know why her eyes suddenly fill, she knew my mother, she said her name, she has been looking for me.
The knight smiles, and it transforms her, there is no escaping the gash and scarring on her cheek and the wide spread of her face and broadness of her shoulders, but it is a light from within that bursts forth, and it makes her lovely, in an odd way, in a different way. “Brienne,” she answers, “I am Brienne, and I am so glad to have found you, at last.”
FILL II : Sansa, Brienne, 'True Knights' (pt 2/2)
“Like who?” she asks, and she is proud of the way she keeps her voice steady, proud of the way she pretends she doesn’t know, pretends she hasn’t always known, hasn’t been reminded with Petyr’s gaze upon her face, her aunt’s distrustful, resentful glares, that it doesn’t hurt, sometimes, an ache too deep inside her to reach and soothe, to look in the mirror and see what is reflected there.
“Like your mother. Like Lady Catelyn,” she answers gently, as though afraid she will startle her, and Sansa feels a blaze of anger, brief and hot, I am no little bird, not anymore.
“I have no mother,” she fairly spits, the word heavy and almost unfamiliar in her mouth, now, after so much time, it has almost lost its meaning but it can never lose the pull on Sansa’s heart, that pull back to Winterfell, back to the days of her youth. She would stand straight and tall in her best dress and would beam, secretly thrilled, when her father would say she looked like her mother, because her mother was beautiful, her mother was a lady. “My mother is dead.”
The lady knight’s eyes are very beautiful, the only part of her that is so, large and so vividly blue, and they are kind, and it almost hurts to look at them, so Sansa looks away, glancing instead at the top of her head, at the roughly chopped hair the color of straw. I should have dyed my hair before I left, she thinks, miserably, then no one would know her true identity, no one would tell her she looked like the mother she’d lost, she could slip into the familiar comfortable skin of Alayne, a girl who had not known the sorrows of Sansa Stark. “Yes,” she agrees, and Sansa meets her eye again to see a flicker there that she does not quite understand. “She is dead. But before she was murdered, I swore her my sword, and I promised her I would find you, and keep you safe.”
“Ladies do not have sworn swords,” Sansa blurts out, and the knight draws her sword; it is beautiful and terrible, red and dark and somehow familiar, and she should be terrified, but she is not, somehow, though she tries again and again to not trust, though she has learned life is not a song and there are no true knights, perhaps, perhaps some knights are still honest, and good.
The lady knight places the blade on the table, and very gently, Sansa reaches out to touch the hilt. “Your mother did. I swore a different sword to Lady Catelyn,” she says, and there is a brightness in her eyes, a hope,. “But I swear I shall keep my promise, and this sword is yours, if you will have it,” her voice drops a bit, still secretive, still aware, and Sansa is thankful for that, “if you will have it, Lady Sansa.”
Sansa raises her eyes, meets that honest gaze, and though she does not feel safe (she will never again feel safe), she feels that vice around her heart loosen its death choke.
Just a bit.
“I must have your name,” she says, and she blinks, she does not know why her eyes suddenly fill, she knew my mother, she said her name, she has been looking for me.
The knight smiles, and it transforms her, there is no escaping the gash and scarring on her cheek and the wide spread of her face and broadness of her shoulders, but it is a light from within that bursts forth, and it makes her lovely, in an odd way, in a different way. “Brienne,” she answers, “I am Brienne, and I am so glad to have found you, at last.”