Chapter Text
Even as her sticky eyelids fluttered open, she knew, she felt something was odd.
She had overslept.
Bleary-eyed she focused on the dust motes floating through the shard-like sunbeam that sliced through the dimness. Daylight was always golden in King’s Landing, even indoors. Perhaps it was just the reflected crimson warmth of the bloodstone that gave the Red Keep its name echoing against the honey-coloured sandstone interior walls. A breeze ruffled the diaphanous drapes causing them to billow bringing a little relief from the almost oppressive heat.
Noon or even after!
She doubted she had ever slept so late into the day and certainly not since she’d arrived in the capital. Her mouth was tacky with thirst. Fumbling she blindly reached for the cup of water she always placed on a stool beside her bed but neither were there. In fact, nothing in the room was familiar to her. Her chambers were small, simply yet suitably furnished for a guest of no particular importance. It had just one shuttered window that was always in the shade, the light and view hampered by a gabled stairwell that joined the north wall ramparts to the Gold Cloak barracks.
This was not her room.
This apartment was spacious, palatial even, airy and comfortable. Three full-length apertures- windows, or doorways, to a terrace perhaps. There was only a muffled din of distant people and fresh sea air thinned the stench of human waste pervading the city suggesting that this chamber was in one of the higher towers, far above the crowds and filth.
The bed was not her bed.
No, this bed was of elaborately carved walnut and richly curtained in maroon damask, and huge, even with her in it. Her feet did not even reach to where the sheets were neatly tucked in under the downy, plump mattress. Blinking in bewilderment she catalogued the finery of the ivory linens, soft and luxurious, extravagant gold-thread foliage embroidered by a skilled hand embellished the hem of the fold over. With a shaky breath, she looked down at herself and saw a shift was made of a finer fabric than anything she had ever owned, snowy-white and silken, trimmed with Myrish lace, her fingertips brushing the intricacies in the delicate designs that accentuated the low neckline. Though it seemed tailored to fit her unusually large frame her shoulders were exposed, her collar bones on display, and her nipples were almost visible through the almost sheer material-
She did not own this garment- she would never wear such an indecent thing!
She bolted upright in the bed and regretted the sudden movement immediately. The room began to slant and slide, and her vision blurred again with a wooziness that sickened and scared her. Her heartbeat thundered in her throat as anxiety pitched towards panic.
Where-, why- when…?
She tossed back the sheets and stretched out her muscles quickly assessing her body but finding no injury that she could discern. Everything seemed in working order.
Several speculations rushed to mind, everything from the unlikely to the ludicrous as to why she was in this unfamiliar chamber dressed in someone else’s night clothes, guesses and theories she needed time to think through-
They could wait.
She desperately needed to pass water.
An uncomfortable ache in her abdomen told her it had been far too long since she had. The urgency to go worsened with her every movement and the mere thought, so much so that she worried she wouldn’t make it in time and ruin the finery of the bedding. It took several deep breaths for the dizziness to ease and to find some kind of equilibrium. She pushed herself to the side of the surprisingly lofty bed, slipping out to her tiptoes to balance first until her jelly-legs adjusted to her weight. The feeling of vertigo returned but it was easier to control with her feet firmly placed on the plush carpet. She spied a screened area in the corner and stumbled towards it hoping against hope for a chamber pot or privy or something! At the sight of the covered commode, she made short work of pulling down her smallclothes but her groan of relief became a hiss of pain as her water started.
It stung, and burned, the sharp twinge easing only a little as the aching pressure of an over-full bladder waned. Her eye was drawn to the undergarments, again fancier than anything she herself had owned even at home. Dismayed she frowned at the fair amount of pinkish-red stain leaching through the fabric.
Her moonblood was always irregular, months could pass without their appearance, but she had bled just a couple of weeks ago or so. Though it would explain the low dull ache in her belly, it seemed unlikely to be back again so soon, still, whoever’s clothes she as wearing she was quite sure would not appreciate them being ruined by her bodily fluids! Casting around she spotted a small cloth of rough homespun under a porcelain fruit bowl on a low table just a few feet away.
‘That will have to suffice’ she thought as she tucked up her copious nightgown, the floor-length skirt an inconvenience while shuffling.
Hoping no one would come in and see her in such a state of dishabille she grabbed it with agitated hands, folding it neatly and lined her spoiled underwear. Mortified she then twisted her shift around to check if the back had been stained. Relieved that all was well she wobbled to the bed, smoothing out the bottom sheet as she examined it too, but nothing had leaked.
With no water and only a carafe of blood-red wine that she could see, she returned to the fruit bowl pilfering a large handful of grapes and popped them two at a time in her mouth, relishing their juicy sweetness that did wonders to banish the bitter tang on her tongue.
She ached, bone and flesh, puzzled that a little exertion had exhausted her. Yawning she crawled back into the bed. Her head drooped, heavy on her shoulders yet she felt tetchy, restless, on edge. She shouldn’t be here, something must have happened…she tried to concentrate, to decipher, to remember…She’d ask Ser Jaime, later…...she’d think on it …later… she’d just close her eyes for a moment…
She jolted out of her drowsiness by a murmur of voices and polite tap on the door which opened before she even answered. The young serving girl bobbed an awkward curtsey whilst balancing a tray.
‘Apologies for the delay milady, your tea wasn’t ready and I-,’ the girl’s eyes bulged taking in Brienne’s bulk as she hauled herself up to sitting in the bed.
‘That’s quite alright-I wasn’t expecting-that is, I’m quite capable of-um, I should really return to my own room-,’
‘Oh no milady, you’re to stay abed! I’ve strict instructions. Bed, broth, bath and tea-you must drink the tea’ she listed emphatically, clearly repeating the duties she’d been told to complete.
‘Tea?’ she licked her dry lips again thinking how thirsty she was.
‘Yes milady, the Maester said you should let it steep but it must be drank before it’s cold’
The maester? Injury or illness would explain the memory loss.
‘Did I hit my head?’ Brienne asked as the girl placed the tray on her lap.
The girl tutted as she reached around her shoulders adjusting and fluffing her pillows like she was an invalid. With no reply she tried again, ‘or have I been ill?’
Of course, she must have been ill, a fever maybe, a delirium that erased her recent memories of how she got to this room, into this fancy attire…
‘I couldn’t rightly say milady, I’m new, I’ve just been assigned to you if it please you milady-,’
‘Who assigned you?’ she asked suspiciously. Maids were generally not chatty, few were ever friendly and she’d never had one assigned to her, not in all the weeks she’d been a guest in the Red Keep.
‘Mistress Meryl milady’ she answered, like that explained everything. ‘I was in the laundries before now so I’m very happy to have been chosen to work up here’ her face lit up with enthusiastic pride. She was young, a child really, pretty in the way so many youthful girls are, yet a glance at her hands showed cracked skin and reddened knuckles. She seemed to be telling the truth, she hated herself for doubting the girl’s story but she was feeling so adrift…
‘What’s your name?’
‘Alva, milady’ she bobbed another curtsy. She was about to tell her the deference was not needed but she had other questions that needed answering.
‘Alva, how long have I been here, in bed I mean?’
‘I don’t know milady’ Something about the way the girl averted her eyes said she knew something but she bobbed another curtsey, ‘I’ll just see to the water for your bath milady’ she mumbled awkwardly as she left her to her food.
Growing up, even in a small noble house she had learned at an early age that every chit and charwoman knew everything that was going on, in hall, at hearth and behind closed doors. Servants talked, whispered, gossiped, kept secrets, confidences and sometimes told lies. Information had a price, a cost, had a value, it was currency and house staff had the coin. Cook had told her even the lowliest washer woman knew the secrets of kings by the stains on his sheets.
The girl seemed innocent enough, but Brienne had learned the hard way that trust was to be earned not given freely.
Starting on her tray she found everything to her liking. Broth, well more of a soup really, rich and flavoursome, soft doughy bread, a small wedge of nutty cheese and sliced peppered sausage, a cinnamon-spiced apple and berry tart with a generous dollop of cream. There was a cup of tangy thirst-quenching cider, a sip told her it was just how she liked it; a veritable feast.
Curiosity made her sniff the steaming ceramic teapot, her nose scrunching in distaste. The tea smelled oddly familiar, wafting heavily of acrid herbs and its green-brown tinge something akin to murky pondwater but then her septa had always declared that medicinals were meant to taste awful to encourage the recipient to get better faster.
She decided she would enjoy her meal first, knock back the tea and wash the undoubtedly foul taste away with her cider. Once she started on the soup she realised she was ravenous.
When had she last eaten?
She clearly remembered talking to Ser Jaime in the gardens, they had eaten the oranges he’d brought whilst leaning on the wall watching Lady Sansa praying in the godswood. She had peeled and separated them as he could not, laying the segments for them to share on her clean but pathetically unembroidered handkerchief. He’d teased her for its lack of embellishment, knowing full well her sewing was atrocious, he had after all witnessed her shoddy repairs whilst they were on the road.
They had bickered again about the best way to keep their vow to the poor child’s mother. Of course, she knew he was somewhat right in his argument that with the butchery at the Twins and Sansa’s marriage to his brother, she was perhaps safer staying where she was. But that didn’t sit well with Brienne. She had promised to return the girl home, her and her sister Arya, home or at least to her own family, what was left of them. Anything less was a failure.
Lady Sansa couldn’t stay here. King’s Landing was a cesspit of vile corruption, conspiracy and collusion at its core but she didn’t say that to Ser Jaime knowing such comments could be construed as accusations with his own family ruling. She knew of his allegiance to them, to Queen Cersei in particular. She knew his truths; he had not denied his sins, not to her.
But the good outweighed the bad. She believed that. She forced her thoughts away from their usual path when she tried to understand, to rationalise all she knew of the complex, cynical man, with his smiles, his teasing jests, his irritating habit of exasperating her with clever words…her, perhaps, almost friend.
As she cleared the plate of its delicious tart, she recalled that after the gardens, when Ser Jaime had taken his leave, she had visited the small sept in the Maiden Vault. She’d been doing that every day, not because she was particularly pious; she had her faith, she said her prayers unheard by the Maiden, wistfully to the Mother, beseeching the Warrior but her devotions were more for something to do. The Red Keep seethed with spies and secrets, her arrival with Jaime had been met with suspicion and accusation, speculation of being a Stark sympathiser, about Renly’s death and more dangerous still the whispers that she was the Kingslayer’s whore had followed her. She had stayed in her quarters for days and days until Jaime had deemed it safe, all smoothed over, enough for her to walk about without open hostility perhaps but as ever the constantly murmured and sometimes flagrant ridicule of her face, her physique, her attire, all the usual things, resumed.
The door opened again, this time a line of servants all carrying steaming pails of water towards a copper bathtub she hadn’t spotted before. Alva was clearly in charge and fretted over her responsibility, apologising for the disruption, promising her bath would be ready in just another moment then shooing the others out.
Alva stood expectantly beside the bed having taken the tray placed the on a side table and folded back the coverlet, her hands hovering, clearly itching to help her out of the bed even though she was a tiny, scrawny thing.
‘I added some lavender to the water milady, it's calming-,’ she tutted as Brienne swatted the girl’s hand away from the nightgown ribbons tied neatly at her breast, ‘and salts the maester ordered and some neroli oil for your hair'.
‘Thank you, Alva but I’m quite well, can bathe myself’ she bristled, ‘I’m sure there are others requiring-,’
‘Oh no milady, I’ve been instructed to stay with you, to assist you’ she fussed holding a towel up to shield her charge’s dignity. Brienne bit her lip at her effort- she would need a bigger towel perhaps. ‘I don’t want to get myself in trouble for not obeying orders’ she whispered timidly, ‘not on my first day!’
‘Oh, alright then’ she sighed resigned to the lack of privacy. Stepping into the tub, she wondered how ill she’d been if supervision was warranted. Did the maester fear she would faint or fall perhaps? She always had a strong constitution, ‘healthy as an ox and why not, she’s built like one’ the recalled mocking could just as easily be today as when she was ten.
She sucked in a gasp through her teeth as the unexpected sting between her legs as she sat in the hot water.
Burning sensation, salted baths, tea, exhaustion. It made sense now- a simple water infection.
She felt the heat rise to her cheeks that was nothing to do with the temperature of the bath water. She squirmed with embarrassment thinking of who knew of her very personal ailment that had laid her so low.
A memory of her early teenage years came to her. Elanor, the pretty petite one with the glossy brown hair. She had been her father’s favourite for almost a year. Gossip in Evenfall Hall had it signed and sealed that this one would be staying, that Brienne would have a new mother by Maiden’s Day. But Elanor was gone long before that. A water infection had her feverish and sweaty for over a week. Father had gone off on a tour of the north shore while his paramour writhed with pains and her skin became waxy and bloated. Her kidneys were struggling, Cook had said, a special diet, twice boiled potatoes, no salt, bland milk-soaked bread and barley mush. She had the best of care from Evenfall’s maester, recovered and recuperated but father didn’t come home until she had gone back to the mainland. He couldn’t cope with watching another wither away Cook whispered.
She was glad she was never truly ill as a child; she didn’t want Father to go away, he was all she had, what little she had of him.
Her septa ranted of sinful, immoral couplings and desires of the flesh that led to afflictions of the body, a punishment from the gods for deviating from the singular and sacred duty of the marriage bed, procreation. Septa Roelle had added that she need not worry about such things, duty would be all she could hope to expect, that her husband would be quick, efficient even, wanting to get marital intimacies over and done with… there would be no ‘wanting’ or ‘lovemaking’ nonsense for who could ‘desire’ her.
That had hurt, still did if she was honest. Septa Roelle had succeeded in teaching her a valuable lesson; to always be brutally honest with herself. But that was years ago, she was a woman grown now, a fighter, a warrior, she knew her own worth, not in womanly terms perhaps but she had strength, skill and stamina… like when she fought in the melee and won…Renly draped her with the rainbow cloak of his Guard…it had rained that day but she’d knelt in the mud…Jaime fell in the mud, his rotting hand hanging by the cord around his neck had been caked in blood and muck…it was a golden hand now, cold-
Again, she wondered why her thoughts meandered and wandered. Lucidity was difficult to sustain, she felt stupid and sluggish. The warm water lulled her mind and soothed away that niggling stinging sensitivity that bordered on discomfort. She nodded off in a doze.
‘Milady, you should get out now, the water is cooling, you can’t risk a chill’ the girl cajoled.
Then she was standing naked as the girl rubbed her down briskly, Brienne’s feeble protestations ignored as she chattered on and on, ‘and your tea will be just right now for drinking,’
‘Right, yes of course’. The tea, to clear her waters, medicinal, a maester… focus!
She remembered more now, things replaying and repeating, sometimes distorted other times so dreamlike they couldn’t be real. After the sept, she’d gone to the library hoping to replenish her supply of books for her room so she could hide away for the evening and avoid further court intrigues and sneering looks. She’d met the Lord Hand, Tywin Lannister himself. His penetrating icy gaze had frightened her more than ten men attacking with swords. She had followed him to his solar as he’d requested but his authoritative tone brooked no refusal and had a most confusing conversation with him, the details were hazy now.
He asked after her father, that she did remember clearly. He claimed an acquaintance with father in their youth. They would be of an age she supposed. She had taken the glass of wine when he offered it, manners required it though even the best vintages were wasted on her unenthusiastic palette, sipping at it politely when he encouraged her to do so. She recalled feeling anxious as he probed her knowledge of Tarth’s affiliation to House Baratheon, to Renly, to Stannis, to the other Stormlands great families. Fearful she would give the wrong answer or perhaps the correct one that would incriminate someone and feed the man’s need for further retribution or revenge she chose her words carefully. The wine had been unpleasantly sour of that she was sure, but she’d drank it anyway because it wasn’t wise to be disrespectful to a man such as Tywin Lannister. Unbidden she began to hum a melody that at Alva’s mystified look she realised was her badly out-of-tune rendition of the Rains of Castamere.
It was almost dark, candles were lit. She was tucked up in bed again with no recollection of getting there, another fancy night shift tied in a neat silken bow, her hand being relieved an empty cup of bilge-like tea and a tall glass replacing it.
‘Drink some water milady while I open the drain for the bathwater. It’s so nice not to have to carry it all away…’
She vaguely heard the girl prattling on as she sipped but a dreamy calm, a heavy lassitude stole the chatter and the soft candlelight from the room.
Strange disturbing dreams followed her this time. Hands, touching, probing, strange faces looming over her, a man, no- a woman in grey… Jaime…
The scowling grey woman, a beautiful woman with dark exotic eyes, Jaime...
She sighed relaxing back into slumber.
Thirst.
She woke with a jolt.
A tray had been placed beside her on the bed. A boiled egg, freshly baked bread, a choice of jams, a dish of sliced pears drizzled in honey, a frosted glass of chilled orange juice. And another pot of tea.
She ate and drank everything but the tea and waited for someone to visit to tell her what was going on. The maester perhaps, or Ser Jaime would be better. She thinks, as a friend, he should visit, though she dreads his teasing. No, he has more important duties to attend to as Lord Commander.
Maybe he came to see her when she was insensible; the thought is mortifying!
She passes water again. No pain as such, the sting has gone, just a tingle really. New undergarments, thankfully no blood, only a copious creamy discharge.
The tea and rest had clearly worked. She didn’t feel ill now, just lazy after a day or more in bed. Her clothes were nowhere to be seen, a wardrobe held some sumptuous gowns; a garish scarlet silk with ornate needlework on ridiculously puffy sleeves, a heavily corseted gold damask monstrosity and a plain velvet in dark blue, so soft to touch but clearly for a special occasion and had no chance of fitting her. Pooching around for something less opulent and more practical she came across a relatively simple powder blue robe. Surprisingly it seemed to fit her broad shoulders and tied neatly at her waist dropping to her ankles covering her shift modestly. Not used to this enforced inactivity and bored with the confinement she carried the finished tray to the door and tried to open it.
Locked.
Confused she knocks and calls out politely ‘hello? Is anyone there?’
With a clink, the heavy door opened and the huge hulking man standing before her is immediately recognisable by his scarred face.
‘What do you want?’ Sandor Clegane, famous for his civilities grunted at her.
‘Ser-,’
‘I’m not a fucking ser- what do you want woman?’ he barked
‘Brienne of Tarth’ she corrected him tersely drawing herself up to her full height that almost matched his own.
‘I know who you fucking are’ he grunted rolling his eyes at her. His grimace tugged at his burned, twisted skin but she didn’t drop her glare, she was not one to be intimidated by a gruff manner or an ugly face. She had one of those herself.
Deciding she wasn’t going to get far with niceties she cut to the chase, ‘Where am I? I mean, why am I here in this room and not my own?’
‘Fucked if I’m telling ya’ he muttered dismissively though he widened his stance, perhaps expecting her to retaliate.
She snorted her displeasure at his rudeness but knew she was at a disadvantage.
‘Look, I just want to go back to my chambers-,’
‘You’re to stay here. Orders.’
‘From whom? Why was my door locked?’ He didn’t even grunt a reply he just stood stalwart and solid blocking the doorway.
It dawned on her then as she glared at him; Clegane was wearing his full armour, his Kingsguard armour, white cloak and all. Why would a Kingsguard be outside her door? Was she under arrest? No, that would be the job of gold cloaks - the white cloaks were for the protection of the royal family-
A peal of childish laughter rang down the corridor, a ginger ball of fluff darted past followed by a chubby little boy.
‘Tommen!’ She instantly recognised the honeyed voice raised in the barked command as belonging to the queen and took a step back in a vain attempt to hide. ‘Take the filthy beast to your room! I will not have it fouling the halls again!’
‘Yes, mother’ came the deflated reply of the little boy, all joy gone. He walked past the door cradling what she could now see was a kitten. A halo of golden curls and warm emerald eyes, proof of his paternity written in his every feature, it was all so blatantly obvious! With an innocent gap-toothed smile, he waved at her. Speechless, Brienne waved back.
‘Go to your room Tommen!’ the Queen ordered. ‘And stay away from there!’. Her imperious voice echoed down the hallway before being drowned out but the stomp of mailed feet and the hum of conversations.
Mother’s Mercy!
She must be in the royal apartments and had been for days. Images of collapsing before the queen or vomiting on her or some fevered naked wandering leading to her being housed here of all places raced through her mind. Her interrogation of the Hound stuttered to a halt at the horror of it. Descent into squirming death by embarrassment was halted by the arrival of Alva, at the door, carrying what looked like a most welcome jug of water and a carafe of wine. She ducked a hasty curtsy to both Clegane and Brienne earning an ill-tempered growl from the man and a smile from herself. Seeing someone she knew, or at least a kind face was a blessing.
The girl had already started fussing around the room, straightening the bed sheets, and turning the pillows.
‘You must finish your tea Lady- um, milady’ she coughed nervously, and poured her a cup of lukewarm sludge.
‘Brienne, Brienne of Tarth’ she smiled trying to put the girl at ease. Yes, she was a lady by birth but not by nature and was never one to foist her position on anyone.
‘Of course, milady’
Another bath, more tea and then she guzzled the water and even sipped some wine too, anything to clear the awful aftertaste. She sat on the sofa as evening came, thumbing through a book of Dornish poetry she had no real interest in but sleep takes her again.
They were in the Riverlands again, the Bloody Mummers surrounded her, dragging her away, she didn’t want to be here-,
No!
Then Jaime was there.
Jaime, Jaime, Jaime.
She often dreamed of him, saving her from those vicious men, from the bear…. He lost his hand for her. She was back on the horse tied to Jaime, face-to-face, so close his breath warmed her cheek, he was in grimacing pain, groaning again, she reached out her hand to touch him, but he looked at her with cold impassive eyes, sea-green like The Lord Hand’s not warm emerald like Jaime’s… sharp pains and dull aches, feeling sweaty and sticky.
The queen’s laughter echoed, cruel, arrogant, mocking…
She wakes again in the bed, still groggy with no recollection of getting there but determined to get answers. The bed sheets are different. The golden thread etched out an elaborate chain of inter-knotted and interwoven animals along the hem this time. Her shift, as almost expected now, was yet another ostentatiously trimmed frippery.
There is no pain or discomfort when she relieves herself, she has no fever, she is perfectly well. A breakfast tray is on the table, tendrils of steam snaking from the teapot but she ignores it. She has no appetite and she is wary of the brewed concoction now.
She must dress in something more appropriate than the skimpy nonsense she’s wearing. The robe is gone. In its place, a peacock blue raw silk gown is laid out on the bed. Impatiently she stripped and pushed her muscled arms through expecting the usual farce of ill-sizing to strain and rip the seams but unlike other gowns, this had no corsetry or boning. It’s loose-sleeved and wide-fitting enough to accommodate her bulk but a series of ribbons along the flank could be adjusted to her shape, a diagonal neckline that obscured her flat chest and gave the impression of a bust.
She would be impressed with such a nice dress on any other day, but not this day.
Today she would have her answers.
She strode to the door ready to knock, bang, thump and holler until someone comes to tell her what the fuck is going on and let her out. She snatched the breakfast fork as a potential weapon but she reckoned she could barge past Clegane with surprise on her side. Bracing herself she rolled her hands into fists, a sharp undercut to his jaw could give her the window she needed…if she could just get to Jaime, he would explain…he’d be in the yards, or the White Tower maybe-
Primed and ready she lurched back as the door opened burst and a furiously blushing Lady Sansa and her sallow-skinned handmaid stormed in in a flurry of skirts and wailing sobs.
‘Lady Brienne! Oh, Gods! Are you well? I’m so sorry, I tried to see you, but they have not allowed me to visit, then finally today, he said I could,’ she rushed breathlessly throwing her eyes back towards the surly face of the Hound. She grabbed Brienne’s mannish paws in her own petite hands as she stammered a ‘just Brienne, My Lady’.
Clegane said nothing but nodded at Sansa as he closed the door.
Once the door clicked shut the girl teared up. ‘Oh, Gods Brienne I am so, so sorry! I should have listened to you, believed you when you told me that Mother trusted you, and sent you to help me, we might have got out in time, before…now were both stuck in this hellish place. What they have done…it’s monstrous, but that’s what they are-monsters!’ she sobbed throwing herself at her and wrapping her arms tightly around her waist.
‘What? What have they done?’ Not familiar with such emotional gestures she awkwardly patted the girl on the back in what she hoped was a comfort. ‘My Lady, calm yourself, please, I am well’ The girl’s shoulders shook with distress and Brienne’s stomach lurched. ‘Has Lord Tyrion hurt you…has he done something to you?’
Sansa pulled back, dropping her arms and with a hiccupped sniffle she shook her head adamantly ‘No, no, Tyrion has continued to be kind as always but there was a debt to be paid and you have paid it and I fear I will never be able to repay you or forgive myself because it is my fault!’ she covered her mouth as stifled bawling wrecked her waif-like body.
‘Breathe Lady Sansa, just breathe’ she coaxed the girl, walking her to the sofa and sitting her down gently. The girl was skin and bone, her recent bereavements taking their toll. A sense of inexplicable déjà vu struck her as the handmaid offered the girl a glass of wine.
‘Drink’ the Essososi woman murmured softly and Brienne was surprised when the girl gulped it back.
‘What debt my lady?’ she asked when Sansa seemed to have calmed herself enough.
‘You…you don’t know? But you must! I swear I tried to get to you yesterday but you were sleeping-,’
‘Yes, I’ve been sleeping a lot but the illness has passed now. I am quite well, hale and hearty’ she replied with added cheeriness trying her reassure the young lady.
‘Illness?’
‘Yes, a water infection I believe, but I seem to have slept it off now. In fact, I feel I have done little else but sleep. What day is it now?’
‘Tomorrow is the feast of the Smith’ Sansa croaked, slack-jawed and casting a furtive glance towards her maid.
‘But that means, four days? I’ve been in this room all that time! How ill was I? I don’t remember feeling sick at all-,’
‘Lady Brienne’ Sansa interrupted urgently, ‘what do you remember exactly, the last thing before…here?’
‘The Lord Hand spoke with me’.
‘And what did he say?’ she asked tentatively.
‘He asked about travelling the Riverlands with Ser Jaime, about my father and other Stormlands Lords, their allegiances and loyalties and such. It’s a bit blurry…perhaps I fainted and hit my head?’
Sansa’s face was the picture of horror, her already pale cheeks drained to an unhealthy pallor.
‘You didn’t hit your head’ she gulped as her fingers scrunched the fine fabric of her gown leaving unsightly creases. ‘Brienne, four days ago an agreement was made, to-to protect me’ she stammered hesitantly clearly uncomfortable telling her
‘An agreement? With whom?’
‘The Lannisters’ she answered bluntly. ‘I don’t know everything but Lord Tywin and Ser Jaime and Tyrion-all of them and Joffrey of course agreed to it all. He and the queen delight in suffering!’
‘What-?’
‘Gods you really don’t know!’ Sansa gulped, tears starting anew.
‘You were wedded to the Kingslayer’ the handmaid blurted, clearly exasperated with Sansa’s evasive blathering.
The air left her lungs.
‘That’s- not, no-’ she stuttered shaking her head, her tongue suddenly seizing up as the absurdity overwhelmed her.
‘Wedded and fucked’ the maid confirmed brusquely.
‘Shae please!’ Sansa cringed, ‘that’s not- the word is bedded, bedded!’ she reprimanded her servant who looked wholly unrepentant and exuded a fierce rage that Brienne liked.
‘It means fucked, yes? She’s a woman, she knows what fucked means!’
‘Impossible’ Brienne’s voice cracked as she pushed the word out over the cacophony of their raised voices. ‘I’m a maid’ she declared with forced confidence even as the bile bubbled up her throat.
‘You were, but three nights ago your marriage sheet was hung from the window as proof’ Sansa whispered shamefaced at mentioning such an indelicate issue.
‘No, I’d remember, there must be a mistake- Ser Jaime wouldn’t-,’
‘Brienne I’m so sorry, but it’s true. You’re Lady Lannister now, you’re the Kingslayer’s wife’.