GOT: The Great — Chapter 154 - Sansa’s Sworn Sword

"You speak for her?"

"I speak for the facts," Tyrion said. "I've seen too much false loyalty in my life. Bronn follows me for coin. The people in King's Landing kneel to Joffrey, also for coin. But this one," he tilted his chin toward Brienne, "she followed your mother for nothing."

Brienne held the sword in both hands, flat across her chest, like an offering.

"Lady Sansa, I ask that you accept my fealty."

Sansa glanced at Tyrion. Tyrion nodded.

Sansa sighed. The weariness in it belonged to someone twice her age.

"I accept."

Brienne dropped to her knee immediately.

"Lady Sansa, I will fight for you. I will keep you safe, obey your commands, and give my life if I must. By the old gods and the new, I swear it."

Sansa opened her mouth, then stopped. She had never accepted anyone's fealty. She had never even seen this done before.

Tyrion murmured beside her: "Your turn."

"Say what?"

"You say, 'I vow that you shall always have a place by my hearth...'"

Sansa frowned and tried to repeat it. "I vow that you shall always have a place by my hearth, and you shall..."

She stalled.

Podrick Payne had been standing silently the whole time. Now he spoke, quiet but clear: "Eat at my table and share my meat and mead."

"Eat at my table and share my meat and mead," Sansa said. "I vow never to stain your service with dishonor."

She drew a slow breath and looked at Brienne's face.

"By the old gods and the new, I swear it. Rise."

Brienne stood and slid the sword back into its sheath.

Sansa turned and walked straight toward the ruins of the godswood.

Brienne followed. Her footsteps were heavy and steady, each one falling half a pace behind Sansa's.

The heart tree had burned down to a charred black stump. Even the moss on the ground had been baked into a brittle crust.

But from the side of that blackened stump, a thin green shoot had pushed through.

Sansa stopped in front of it. She folded her hands before her and closed her eyes.

Brienne stepped back a few paces, hands at her sides.

A long time passed before Sansa opened her eyes and looked down at the shoot.

She reached out and touched it. The moment her fingertip made contact, she pulled back, as if afraid she might snap it.

Brienne scanned the surrounding trees, confirming no one else was near, then spoke low: "We're alone. I can take you away from here."

Sansa's hand stilled in the air. She turned her head slowly and looked at Brienne.

"To where?" Her voice was flat. "My mother is dead. Robb is dead. Winterfell belongs to the Boltons."

"We could go to the Wall." Brienne took two steps forward, her tone carrying a clumsy urgency. "Jon Snow is Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. He's your father's bastard, and your brother. He would protect you."

Sansa extended her hand again and let her fingertip rest lightly on the green shoot.

"The Night's Watch has barely a hundred men. He can't protect me."

"You're not safe here."

Sansa smiled, just slightly.

"Why do you think I'm allowed to move about freely?"

Brienne opened her mouth. Nothing came out.

Sansa turned to face her.

"You guessed right. I am Khal Drogo's fourth wife."

She looked down at her own belly. Her palm settled against her lower abdomen.

"Soon, perhaps, I'll be carrying his child."

Brienne's expression shifted. The freckles on her big square face stood out sharper. She bit her lip, her jaw working twice. "He forced you."

"He took me," Sansa said. "But he was gentle. That night he made me happy. He is tall and strong, and handsome."

She paused, tucking the hair the wind had blown across her face back behind her ear.

"Khal Drogo has promised me revenge. Cersei. Joffrey. House Frey. House Bolton. Every last one."

"I'm staying." Sansa's voice was steady. "If you want to leave, leave."

"I won't leave," Brienne said. "I swore an oath to protect you."

Sansa glanced at her but said nothing. No thank you. She turned back to the charred stump and closed her eyes.

The two of them stood like that. One praying. One keeping watch. Neither speaking.

Until footsteps broke the silence.

Missandei's brother walked into the godswood, four Unsullied at his back.

He wore a light grey robe, a silver chain at his waist, a bronze dragon badge hanging at his neck. His skin was deep brown, his shaved head catching the sunlight.

He had learned the Common Tongue as fast as Missandei had. Missandei herself had said her brother had an even greater gift for languages than she did.

"Lady Sansa." He bent slightly at the waist. "It is time for lunch."

"What are we having?" she asked.

"Grilled fish with lemon, meat pie, honey-roasted chicken." A measured smile touched the corner of his mouth. "Queen Daenerys says you should eat more. You've grown thin lately."

Sansa didn't answer. She turned and walked toward the castle. Brienne fell in behind her. As they passed Missandei's brother, the two exchanged a brief glance.

The long table sat in the center of the room, spread with a white cloth, four sets of silver cutlery laid out in neat rows.

Daenerys wore a pale purple gown, Rhaego cradled in her arms, babbling at nothing.

Scarlett sat to her right, her belly so large now it nearly touched the table's edge. She had tucked a napkin into her collar and was spreading butter on a piece of black bread. Her face had rounded out, but her color was good.

Sansa came in and sat down across from Daenerys.

Brienne took her place behind Sansa. Podrick Payne trailed in last, hesitated, then positioned himself one pace behind Brienne. He didn't know what to do with his hands. He ended up clasping them in front of his stomach.

So it was: behind Daenerys stood a Queensguard, Barristan Selmy, white cloak and steel armor, face clean-shaven.

Behind Sansa stood a sworn sword, Brienne of Tarth, blue cloak and dark armor, face full of freckles.

The two guards looked at each other across the length of the table.

Barristan gave the smallest possible nod. Brienne returned one just as small.

Jhiqui, Irri, and Doreah filed in with the platters.

Jhiqui carried a large dish of grilled fish, the skin crisped and golden, scattered with chopped lemon leaves.

Irri carried a bowl of boiled peas swimming in thick meat broth, a few slices of cured meat floating on top.

Doreah carried a basket of fresh-baked bear claws, deep brown, still steaming.

Once everything was set, Daenerys picked up her fork and tapped it once against the rim of her plate.

"Why didn't Tyrion come?" she asked, her gaze drifting to the empty seat. "He's amusing. I find I rather like listening to him talk."

At that same moment, in a guest chamber on the other side of the castle.

Tyrion's knees had been at it for nearly an hour. From the mattress to the floor, and back from the floor to the mattress.

"Harder," Shae said, biting her lip.

"I'm already working very hard," Tyrion panted, sweat dripping from his forehead onto Shae's thigh.

"I know." Shae pressed his head down between her legs. "Keep going."

Tyrion sighed, lowered his head, and kept at it.

➤ Next: The Queensguard and the Sworn Sword's Duel