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Brienne of Tarth awakens in the light of the waning moon, after another night that she had promised herself would never happen. She looks beside her to find her Queen asleep, her long copper hair spread out across her pillow and a smile on her face that makes Brienne’s heart ache even through her guilt. She allows herself one final moment to take Sansa in: the smooth skin pale from the Northern weather, the fine sharp angles of her bones. And then she slides from beneath the furs and prepares to break both of their hearts.
She gathers her belongings in silence, glad that she no longer keeps many things in Sansa’s rooms. She had promised herself that she would never sleep here again, but telling Sansa that had turned into another argument, which had itself turned into angry kisses, torn clothing and another morning of agony. Brienne knows that she should wake Sansa. She should apologize for giving in to temptation yet again and then she should, finally and decisively, leave. But she has tried this, more than once, and it always ends in the same way. So instead she leaves the last shreds of her honor on Sansa’s crumpled sheets and draws her cloak around herself.
She is aware of the irony of this. Years ago, Jaime Lannister broke her heart by slipping away from her bed to ride out to his death. Brienne hopes for a similar fate; her crime this morning is at least as great as the sum total of all of his. But even if the Stranger fails to come for her, perhaps justice will be satisfied by the pain under her ribs that puts that previous hurt to shame. Brienne is breaking her own heart now, and it is no less than she deserves.
She barely makes it to the door. Sansa’s voice stops her dead in her tracks. “Brienne? What’s happening? Where are you going?” Silence is the only answer Brienne can give her, but it must convey her message well enough. The next time Sansa speaks, it is with the voice of the Queen of the North. “Ser Brienne, I command you to turn and face me!”
The fury and pain that Brienne beholds on Sansa's face when she makes herself obey that order force the knight to her knees. “Please forgive me, Your Grace. I saw no other way.”
“No other way to deal me a mortal wound?” Sansa pulls her robe over her shoulders. Anger and hurt are warring for control of her voice. “You could have opened the door for an assassin at any point in the night. The job would have been done by now! You could have strangled me in my sleep. You could, even now, take my father’s steel and plunge it into my heart. I assure you, ser, you would do me no greater harm in any instance than that which you seek to do now.”
“I harm you by staying!” Brienne feels her head snap up. “You know it is true, my Queen. Every night I sleep beside you, I cause you irreparable injuries!”
“Because people talk?” Sansa rises from her bed and stalks over to Brienne. “By the Seven, get up! You know I hate it when you kneel.” She waits for Brienne to awkwardly come to her feet and then sighs and leads her to the window seat. “We have discussed this, my love. I am the bigamous, husband-slaying Queen of the runaway North. Those who wish to malign me do not lack for reasons to give. What is one more, if it makes us happy?” She reaches up to cup Brienne’s cheek in one delicate hand. “Do I not make you happy?”
Brienne cannot help but press a kiss into that hand. Of course Sansa makes her happy, but Brienne’s happiness has never been the point. “It is not just talk. Words are wind, I know that, but wind often brings in pestilence. Your hold over the North is firm for now, but it is new. A fresh snow may cover everything, but just a breeze can scatter it away.”
Sansa makes a noise that is somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “I love you better when you don’t pretend at poetry. Let us have some honest words between us, please. I sent you away from me long ago, and you waited in the ice and snow to come to my aid. I released you from your oath to me years ago. You chose to return and serve me. I allowed you to leave my service and offer your sword to my brother instead. And yet once again, you came home. To where you belong. To me. So why now do you seek to leave?”
Every word that Sansa has said is true, and so Brienne can only offer truth in return. “The people, the Northern Council, the Six Kingdoms... they’ve all been talking about whether or not you’ll ever marry properly-”
“Gossip?” Sansa waves a hand dismissively. “You, of all people, seek to be guided by gossip?”
“It’s not just gossip!” Brienne tries to explain without causing her greater offense. “They worry about succession, if there can ever be a true heir to the North. And they say... as long as I am here... there cannot be.” She hangs her head. She has done her best to shield Sansa from the people’s canny knowledge up until this point, but perhaps it is best that she knows. She will see now, beyond any doubt, that Brienne does have to go after all.
But Sansa merely shrugs. “They are right. And more right than they know. They will never have an heir of my body, whether you remain or not. For you cannot give me a child, and I do not intend to bear one for anyone I do not love. And I do not love, cannot love and will never love anyone but you. So, knowing that your absence changes nothing except my happiness, do you still wish to leave?”
Brienne is searching for an appropriate answer when Sansa leans into her, crushing their mouths together. Brienne’s Queen is small and slightly built, but there is strength in her grasp and a ferocity in her kiss. Brienne cannot help but clutch her back, returning kiss for kiss until they are both dizzy.
Sansa rests her head on Brienne’s shoulder. “You do not want to leave me. Why deny that?”
“I do not.” Brienne has to admit it. “But the people need to believe that an heir is possible. To feel at peace, to live in peace. I cannot serve you well if my presence denies you a peaceful kingdom.”
Sansa gives a frustrated groan. “An heir is possible,” she insists. “Bran may yet father a full palace of children from which I can make my choice. Or Arya could return with children of her own to take up my throne when the moment comes. Failing that, I shall adopt an heir of my choosing, and the people will learn to accept that. There are a number of worthy orphans that could do wonders with the Stark name behind them. Or you adopt. Your Podrick is already your son in all but name. You adopt him and I will ennoble him and he will no doubt breed a full stable of healthy Northern children to secure the throne.” She smiles, clearly pleased with her plan. “And the people get their heir from you, after all. I would like that.”
Brienne blinks at her. Sometimes Sansa’s mind works in ways she cannot fathom. “My adopting Podrick would do nothing to solve the problem of succession. He would not be your son.”
Sansa smiles and Brienne realizes that she has played right into her lover’s clever hands. “If you married me, he would be.” She laces her fingers through Brienne’s. “If you married me, it would settle everything.”
Brienne gapes at her stunned. “My Queen – my love – Sansa. You know I cannot.”
“Why not?” The question sounds light, but Brienne has seen this particular steel in Sansa’s eyes before and she knows this moment is deathly serious. “Who makes the laws here, ser Brienne?”
“You do.” It is undeniable. “But-”
“Do you love me?” There is a different steel in Sansa’s eyes now. It is the girl asking, not the Queen. “Not because of my mother and not because of your oaths. Do you not love me, Brienne? As I love you?”
She once vowed, as she stood in the Northern snow and felt her tears turning to ice on her face, that she would never love again. But that has been, thus far, the one vow she has been entirely unable to keep. She will not compound that sin with dishonesty. “I do.”
“Then give me your cloak.”
Brienne gasps as Sansa’s words sink in. She surely cannot mean what she seems to mean, and yet Brienne can think of no other explanation. Here and now? “You can’t-”
You seek to tell the Queen in the North what she can and cannot do? In her own kingdom?” Sansa slides out of her own robe and stands, naked and glorious, in front of Brienne. “Your cloak, please, my betrothed bride.”
“We need a sept and a septon! We need witnesses!” Somehow, Brienne finds that she is arguing in favour of everything they would need to do to make a marriage official, and the realization shocks her. Her voice trails off as she tries to make sense out of what has just happened. Has she been overwhelmed by Sansa’s arguments, her naked beauty, and her declarations of love? Yes, very possibly. But there is more than that at work here; Brienne’s own eagerness proves that to be so.
The truth is... she wants this. She wants to spend her life as Sansa Stark’s wife, no matter what damage that may bring. The selfishness of that desire takes her breath away, but it does not lessen the need.
Oh, she is a wicked creature. She tries to imagine Catelyn Stark's anger at the harm Brienne is risking to her daughter. Strangely, she is only able to recall her warm smile.
“We need only what I say we need.” Sansa sounds so steady and strong, but her eyes are pleading. “Brienne?” A tiny hint of fear has crept into Sansa’s voice; perhaps is recalling the danger that can come from marriage not entered into willingly. And she is no doubt remembering that it was only a few minutes ago that she woke up in a bed turning quickly cold. “Please... your cloak? If you can give it with your full heart.”
And even if Brienne could resist the orders of her Queen, she could never truly deny her beloved. With shaking fingers, she unties her cloak and slips it around Sansa’s shoulders. It is far too long for her, of course, but it trails out behind her like the train of a formal bridal gown and the effect is so beautiful that it brings tears to Brienne’s eyes.
The dark fur against Sansa's naked body, pale skin and bright hair. How is any of this happening? How is this her life?
Sansa offers up her own robe, but Brienne doesn’t want to ruin this moment with the comedy of trying to fit her broad shoulders and large frame into the delicate lace. So she simply clutches it to her chest, overcome by the moment and the gesture and all that they represent.
She has a wife who will fight to keep her. Because she loves her.
She is loved.
“In the sight of the Seven, I seal my soul to yours for all eternity.” The words are familiar, but different, and just hearing them in Sansa’s voice makes them the most beautiful thing Brienne has ever heard. “Father. Smith. Warrior. Mother. Maiden. Crone. Stranger. I am yours, and you are mine, from this day, until the end of my days.” Sansa smiles, suddenly looking very young. “And beyond. Why not beyond, after all, seeing as I’m making up all the rules?” She strokes Brienne’s arm. “If you plan to speak, the time is now.”
Being given the choice makes it all the easier a choice to make. “In the sight of the Seven, I seal my soul to yours for all eternity. Father. Smith. Warrior. Mother. Maiden. Crone. Stranger. I am yours, and you..." Her voice shakes just a bit. "You are mine, for as long as you wish it to be so.”
“Eternity it is then.” And then Sansa pulls Brienne down into yet another sweet kiss and then Brienne is falling, tumbling back towards the bed, even as her heart takes flight.
She knows that what they have done this morning may make no difference in the eyes of others. In fact, should their vows ever become known outside of this room, they most likely will only cause panic and alarm. There are many people who will be nothing but horrified to realize how committed to her unconventionality the Northern queen truly is. There will definitely be fear, absolutely anger, and most likely violence. But it is hard to keep that thought in her mind as Sansa’s hands and lips slide along Brienne’s skin. She pulls the cloak designed for braving the bitter cold over their warm and willing bodies. And she decides to believe, just for this moment and perhaps a few more after it, that with her wife beside her and her sword in her hand they will prove strong enough to manage it all yet again.