Ink & Roses

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Ink & Roses

A series of letters between Sansa Stark and Sandor Clegane across the Seven Kingdoms

Kitamere and Chaouen Illustrated by Rosaria Battiloro

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"I can see you now, holding this shitty paper in your hands, your pretty face flushed with embarrassment.

Sansa Stark...

I guess I’ve never called you by your given name, have I?

S

a

n

s

a . . .

It’s a fine name, though in my dreams you’ll always be the sweet softspoken little bird, beautiful and frightened, in need of my protection"

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An illustrated fanďŹ ction for the pairing of Sansa Stark and Sandor Clegane of George R. R. Martin's

A Song of Ice and Fire.

Chaouen

Writer Art Conceptualization Book Design

Kitamere

Writer Art Conceptualization

Rosaria Battiloro Illustrator

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Praise

Aww this exchange is so delightful. I feel like i'm one of Sansa's maids, eavesdropping on a conversation I shouldn't and giggling. I want to tease Sansa with "Sandor and Sansa, sitting in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G.."

Kimberlite8

These letter are so perfect for my SanSan heart! I loved the parts when she described the cold and indifference/despair she felt returning home and then how she felt hope return when she heard from Sandor; truly home is about the people one makes it with, not a physical place.

Lillone1776

I really like the way you ladies write Sandor's dialogue! It feels so true to GRRM's established speech patterns for him. Really well done!

Littlefeather

I feel so silly always saying the same thing but I'm always so impressed with how well the writing and art marries together. The sense of longing is pouring out, how will they keep it together when they finally see each other?!

Westeroswolf

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Letters I II III IV V VI VII VIII IX X Epilogue I Epilogue II Acknowledgements The authors

15 19 22 26 31 36 44 52 60 66 80 90 98 101

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Even before you touched me,

I belonged to you;

all you had to do was look at me.

Louise GlĂźck, from The Burning Heart

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I

To the Lady of Winterfell.

I bet you gave me up for dead, little bird. Maybe you wish I were. I cannot blame you; last time you saw me I was holding a knife over your pretty throat. Nevertheless, in a way, the Hound died the day that bitch-wolf sister of yours left me to die by the Trident. Not that I could blame her either, I deserved to die alone right there like the dog I am.

You know, it’s funny where a man’s mind flies when facing a certain death. I guess some men think of their wives, their last fucks or even pray to the gods. However, when I was lying there, bleeding to death, all that came to my mind was you being beaten by that bastard Meryn Trant while I stood by like a gutless coward, doing nothing. Bloody buggering hells, I tell you that image still haunts me at nights.

Unfortunately, I didn’t die, but life at this Isle isn’t any better. The only person I’m allowed to talk to is the Elder Brother and I guess the man is brainwashing my mind because it was his idea that I write to you. I’m surrounded by

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monks praying most of the day, there are no women, nor wine or ale.

Seven hells! HowI long for a flagon of Dornish wine!

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Do you remember the Tourney of the Hand, when Robert proclaimed me champion? That night I got drunk, went whoring, and felt it could have being a perfect day if only I had also killed my brother. I’ve been recently recalling that day over and over again. I thought it was because of the gold - that champion’s purse contained enough golden dragons to make me a rich man – or the feast that followed, but all my mind was able to evoke clearly was you, smiling and cheering at me when the Tyrell boy raised my hand. I guess that was the last time I saw you happy - all that came after was a nightmare for you, including my presence. Anyhow, I regret not having done something that day. As the champion, I had the right to name the Queen of Love and Beauty of the Tourney. I pissed on that and when the people stopped clapping, I hastened to celebrate drinking. Hells, I should have done it! I bet all the smiles would have died on their mouths - yours included - when they saw me handing you the crown. Or maybe not, may be you’d been flattered and you’d feel like the princess of one of those silly songs you loved so much. Well, I didn’t do it then, but I do it now. Along with this letter, I’m sending you the crown you should have worn that day.

Aye, I know, as I’ve told you, my brains have gone soft staying here for so long. One of the women who regularly come to the Isle to sell their goods made it. She says it’s worthy of a Queen. The old hag thought it was an offering for the Maiden, bloody fool! Who would

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think that the ladylike Sansa Stark of Winterfell would receive such a thing from the craven Hound! Ha! I can see you now, holding this shitty paper in your hands, your pretty face flushed with embarrassment. You can laugh at me or feed the flowers to the pigs if you want, not that I care. Sansa Stark... I think I’ve never called you by your given name, have I? S a n sa… It’s a fine name, though in my dreams you’ll always be the sweet soft-spoken little bird, beautiful and frightened, in need of my protection.

Now that you’ve returned to your home, do yourself a favor girl; don’t look back to those years. Try to forget, marry a good northern boy and watch grow your children. Sing songs to them even. Let that bright smile you lost return to your face and never again travel south. I plan to leave the Quiet Isle as soon as my leg stops aching. After the war, I may find some lord in need of men at arms at his keep who wants to hire me. I’m not tired of living yet and fighting is the only thing I’ve ever been good at. As long as there is wine, good food, some coins and I dream of you at nights die holding a sword, I’ll consider myself satisfied.

Anyway, tear this letter as soon as you read it little bird; my words are nothing more than ramblings of a troubled man.

The Ho S. Clegane

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II

Dear Sandor,

Thank you for the crown of flowers. It is very pretty, like a breath of springtime. You may laugh at me, but I wore it as I read your letter. Your letter was so unexpected and surprising. I’d like you to know that I read it with a smile upon my face. I could not tear it as you asked of me, and instead, I keep it with me under my pillow at night. I had wondered too long what had become of you, but - perhaps this will sound terribly silly to you - I knew in my heart you couldn’t be dead.

Yes, I remember that Tourney. Though you had mocked me the night before for saying such things, I truly did think you fought bravely. The smile you saw on my face was real - I knew you would win that day - though I confess my mouth probably would have fallen open had you crowned me the "Queen of Love and Beauty." My father would also have been shocked, probably, had you given me that crown, but I think he would have respected you. I had no idea, then, that you saw me that way. I was a foolish girl. . .

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There are many other things I remember, too. I remember Joffrey’s cruelty and Meryn Trant’s beatings, even though I’ve tried hard to forget them. More than that, however, I remember you,

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giving me your cloak that day. Did I ever thank you for that small

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kindness? Those little gestures meant the world tome at that time.

For every nightmare I’ve had of the suffering at King’s Landing, I’ve dreamed of you, too, protecting me or caring for me in some small way. I remember how gentle you tried to be with me, despite all your harsh words. I remember how you saved my life during the riot of King’s Landing, and how you protected me from the mob.

You fought valiantly then, as well. I remember how you left me on the night of the battle when the skies were lit with green fire. I was terrified that night, so much that I even prayed to the Mother to save you. You knew how frightened I was - of you, of the battle that raged outside. You were true to your word, you didn’t hurt me, but you left me alone. I kept your cloak after you left King’s Landing. Did you know, I even missed you?

So, thank you for the crown of flowers, and thank you for your letter, but the most splendid gift of all is simply knowing that you are alive and safe. It seems my prayers were answered after all, and for that I am grateful.

I’m sending this letter south with a travelling septon in the hopes that he can give it to you directly, whether you are still at the Isle you wrote of or if you’re now on the road. Sandor - I’d like to call you by your given name, now, as well - in your letter you wrote

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that you would look for some lord to hire you as a man-at-arms.

Would you work for a Lady instead? The harsh Winter has not spared Winterfell, and we are still rebuilding here. Capable hands will always be welcome. . . and yours, in particular. I can promise the wine, food, and coin you named to keep you satisfied, and perhaps the company here may also be some enticement. Sandor, will you come North?

I hope these words will find you, and let you know your little bird is thinking of you as you are of her –

Sansa Stark

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To Sansa Stark

Aye, little bird, against all odds, your words found me. It had been almost a month since I sent you that filthy paper filled with my feverish ramblings when yesterday a septon came to the Quiet Isle carrying a letter from the Lady of Winterfell. Luckily, Elder Brother told him to give it to me; otherwise, any of the other brainless monks could have read it. I myself had to read it several times before believing that my eyes were not betraying me and it really was your hand behind those words. Although, who else would recall such things as you mention? I told you to forget, but I guess there are moments that remain fire burned into our minds and skins whatever happens and mark us forever.

I wonder why you wasted your time writing to this old dog… It couldn’t be for the flowers, or for that bloody cloak. Let’s be honest, we both know how harsh I treated you, I even rejoiced when I managed to scare you. Even if all the things you think you remember about me were true, you were right; when I fled the Red Keep, I left you behind to endure alone everything that came after. So why write back

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girl? May be you were also rambling… that would be funny, the old hound and the little bird telling nonsense to each other across the Seven Kingdoms. Ha! I bet a bard would write a good sad song about it.

That thing you say about keeping my cloak when I left Kings Landing, why would you do that girl? You should have burnt it. Let me tell you, I was never proud of wearing that piece of cloth. It was a good job, and the King paid me well, but I despised what it meant and those bastard knights that were supposed to be my brothers. At least I quit when I got tired of all that shit.

Ah, Sansa, Sansa, you really are still a little bird, aren’t you? Praying for me, praising my bravery, wearing the crown of flowers I sent you… still with your head full of tales, huh? Dammit, you picture me like one of those true knights you were so fond of! And you even keep my letter under your pillow! Fuck, knowing that somehow arouses me!

Just like the lady of that old song… what was it called…

"The Northman’s Daughter"? I’m sure you recall every single word of the lyrics, don’t you? Hells, I can’t blame you for wishing to live inside a song girl; as I told you once, the word is awful and I bet you have had enough of it.

This island may be an isolated place, but news comes from time to time and we had already heard that the ancient

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Stark’s keep was being rebuilt. The wolves have returned, a traveler told us once. I didn’t believe for a single moment it was your sister who was the beautiful Lady of Winterfell news talked about, so it had you be you. I’d lie if I said I wasn’t pleased to know you were at home after so many years and far from that bloody Imp. I hope that wherever he is, he burns in the Seven Hells for marrying you.

Anyway, aye, I’m still thinking of working as man at arms for whoever offers me a good deal. Your coin is as good as any and food can’t be as bad as the monk’s so, I may give it a thought. That thing you say about the company How full do you have Winterfell’s cellars? I don’t remember Northern wine to be especially tasty, but it may do. Some ale would be nice too, and a good blacksmith. My old armor is so dented it wouldn’t stop the punch of a child.

I’m sending you this paper with the same septon that came from Winterfell. Elder Brother is entertaining him while I finish writing so he could bring my answer back to you. Until that moment, I’ll think of you your offer and maybe I get on the road again.

Sandor Clegane

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Dear Sandor,

For some weeks before I received your letter, I had taken to reading and sewing in a little room that is not often used here in our keep; it’s one of the colder rooms in the winter, but there is a window that faces the main road. I’m sure my maids were worried about me, and I’m afraid I gave them quite a bit of work to keep the fire going in that drafty place, but you see, I’d had a dizzying hope that one day, I might see you walking up that road toward me.

Imagine my disappointment when I saw our dear Septon returning all alone. Still, when he handed me your letter, my heart was fluttering in my chest like the caged bird you were always calling me. I asked the Septon if he had received this letter from you himself, and had you seemed well, and I can’t imagine what he must think of me but I longed to ask him even more about you. I feel a strange envy that he has seen you so recently when I have not.

I was very happy to receive your letter, even if it wasn’t you who brought it to me. Are the monks treating you well on the Isle? I do feel glad that you’ve found a place of quiet respite during this icy winter. Perhaps it is as well that you did not come North earlier; the

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chill that has ravaged our lands seems to have swept through me. For long months I had not a warm thought or feeling, and I was cold to everyone, even those dear to me. Returning to Winterfell was nothing like how I’d dreamed it would be; as you know, what I found here was little more than a ruin. I thought my hopes would rise as the new walls went up, but I’ve realized there is very little left of what made this place home.

Your first letter made such a change in me. Did you know, the flowers in the crown were the first I’d seen in a very long time? We used to grow such beautiful flowers in our glass gardens here - roses, particularly. Did you see our glass gardens when you came to Winterfell? It feels like a lifetime ago that you were here with King Robert, and so much has happened since then. But I’m glad you got to see Winterfell as it once was. I wish I had been kinder to you then, and that I had seen Joffrey for what he was. . . but, perhaps you are right that it does no good to dwell on the past. In any case, the glass gardens were smashed all to pieces and the roses were dead when I returned.

When I received your letter. . . Sandor, not everything died as I had feared. When I received your letter, I walked about the grounds of Winterfell again and felt somewhere close to home for the first time. We have been fortunate to have so many to help us rebuild, and the keep is now bustling

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with activity, but suddenly I became consumed with ensuring everything was going smoothly. I wanted to speak with everyone, and I began to feel lively again. When the Septon delivered your most recent letter, I thought I would read it in the evening in my chambers, but I found I couldn’t wait; I opened it as soon as I was alone, and read it as I walked the grounds. When I looked up, I found myself standing quite near where the gardens used to be - and do you know what I saw? A glimpse of blue, a tiny bud peeking out. There was life here all along, it was just waiting, dormant, for spring.

I thought I had forgotten about the songs and stories from my childhood, but reading your words, just knowing you’re alive, I find myself wanting to sing again. Sandor how my hand trembles now, just to write your name! Sandor, Sandor, dear Sandor, why did you not come to Winterfell to deliver your letter yourself? Have you a thirst for only the finest Dornish wines? I will send for them, despite the cost, and see our cellars are always stocked full.

Do you need your armor repaired with nothing but the best steel? I will have our smith Gendry outfit you with new full plate armor, if you wish it. I will sing for you or I will be silent for you, if you will only tell me that you will come. At least, I hope you will write to me again. Please know that no sight would make me gladder than you, walking up the road towards me, to deliver that letter by your own hand.

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I am sending this foolish, giddy, rambling letter this letter with our friend the Septon again (poor man!). This time I’m sending something else, too. Tied to this letter is the first winter rose to reach full bloom in our revived gardens. I hope it will liven your heart as it’s livened mine.

Perhaps by the time it reaches you it will be a gray, wilted thing . . . but who knows? Our roses once bloomed for a long time. Truly, there can be no surer sign that spring is coming.

Sansa - your little bird

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V

Sansa,

When Septon Bridges delivered your last letter, I thought I’d fallen into a feverish dream again. Are you sure that it’s me who’s meant to receive those words, girl? Be certain that the Hound wasn’t worthy of any kind of gentle words, although I’ve taken them for myself anyway. I’ve been reading your letter over and over again for two long days until I thought the ink would vanish before my eyes if I looked upon your words once again.

Your friend the Septon tells me that your maids and he himself fear that you might fall ill from living in that icy chamber you moved in just to watch for our return. Are you all right little bird? Hells, I’d never forgive myself if you get sick because you want to see my ugly face again! I tell you, this Bridges is an old man and half my height, but he’s as stubborn as your father was. The man faced me fearless and urged me to tell him my intentions about traveling North, and believe me when I tell you that the little man doesn’t take no for an answer.

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Sansa Stark. S a n s a. Little bird. What kind of spell do you cast over me? Although I was already aware that being a dog is part of my nature, I’ve never been so eager to follow an order as those coming from your lips. I write to you from an inn near the King’s Road. Two days after Bridges’s arrival we left the Quiet Isle and headed North. It feels so good to be on the move again! I feared I would die of boredom and idleness among the monks. Even Stranger seems pleased to be riding again. He’s a good horse, strong and resilient, and he’ll take me to you all the way to Winterfell.

I have your rose with me. Seven hells, when I saw it, something your own hand had touched… I would have pricked my skin with its thorns until I bled just to feel you closer, believe me. It certainly was almost gray when it arrived, but I keep it among my few personal things as if it was my most precious belonging of the bluest shade.

I’m ordering another flagon of ale while I write this.

It’s been so long since I’ve felt the familiar daze that drinking ale provides! That could be why this letter is more brazen than the last ones. If you read something inappropriate, don’t blame me, it’s just the happiness of feeling free again.

It’s late now, and as you may know, people talk too much when they drink. Here people are telling tales about

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you, stupid tales that I’m sure have nothing to you with you.

You have become legend, don’t you know? Ha, I bet you love it. These buggering fools also talk about how many suitors the Lady of Winterfell has. Northern lords, young heirs, even a supposed dragon prince. If that is true, why haven’t you married again? They say the Imp is dead and that you’re free to marry whoever you choose and that some important Houses are beginning to lose patience for the delay in your decision. Girl, people will tell you that a woman needs a husband, and that may be true, but I guess that after all you’ve gone through, the last thing you need is another man in your bed to claim for him what is only yours.

I’m coming to you, little bird. I can’t ask you to wait for me, because I don’t deserve anything more that what you have already given me, but one of these days you’ll see my ugly face walking my way up that road to you. Maybe you’ll be upset when you realize that my face is even uglier than you remembered and probably you’ll regret your idea of hiring me. Let me tell you, I couldn’t care less. It will be worth it just to see you again. Aye, I’m coming to you and I assure you that I’d be sooner if it wasn’t for the bloody Septon, who wants to stop in every bloody village we cross to pray at the Septry and spread the word of the Seven to the small folk. What those people need are some seed, rain, sun and no soldiers around. They want a simple life, not the

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words of any god. I’ve been tempted to threaten him with leaving him behind or tying him to Stranger and make our journey straight to Winterfell, but somehow I thought you wouldn’t like that and so I’m walking my way with him.

Be certain that it isn’t Dornish wine that I long for little bird. The most watered wine would feel as the finest if it’s your hand that pours it for me. I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve your attentions - it must be something between the flowers and that bloody cloak - but I want them selfishly; your wine, your best armor, your songs, your words, all of them, everything. That’s what you’ve done to me, a greedy dog longing for what should never be his…

Dammit, too much ale for tonight. I’m sending you this letter with a group of merchants that are traveling North.

They ride light of luggage and will arrive sooner than us. It has cost me all my coins but they have promised me they’ll deliver this letter to you personally. I bet that the idea of meeting the beautiful Northern Lady is also a motivation for them. Anyway, I don’t have many hopes that my words arrive to you. Maybe this is for the best, as this is a shitty paper full of nonsense that would probably make you ashamed. But in the case that my words reach you, know that one of these days I may be there watching your glass gardens at Winterfell with you.

Sandor C. 34

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Dear Sandor,

Your letter arrived safely almost two weeks ago. I didn’t understand, at first, what it was the grizzled old merchant was placing into my hand, but when I realized what I held, it was all I could do to keep from breaking the seal right there and ignoring all around me. I wanted to be alone straight away, but it felt like hours before I had a moment to myself. When I finally smoothed out the parchment it was late in the evening. Oh, I wanted to run, to jump, to tumble down the hillside like I used to watch my little brothers and Arya do on fine summer days. I used to scold Arya for acting so unladylike, but now I know a little of the utter joy that can overtake one, a joy that can only be expressed by physical movement - or at the very least, bubbling laughter. It was very late, so all I could do was bury my head in my pillow and giggle. Do men ever feel that way, I wonder? You must think me terribly silly for all of this! But such was my happiness to learn that you were, at last, coming North.

How is it you have managed to affect me in such a

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way? I read your letter over and over again, as you have read mine, and when at last I committed it to memory I placed it carefully beneath my pillow with the others. Sandor, when I read your words now, I try to remember the sound of your voice, as though you were speaking to me from the page. Do I remember you accurately, or has my memory become hazy and dream-like? I tell myself that your voice was harsh and raspy when you used to speak to me, but when I hear you in my mind as I read your letter, it is deep and rich, intimate as a whisper.

The next day, I set to work preparing a room for you here for when you arrive. There are not many spare rooms, I’m afraid - you have heard it right, many would-be suitors have come to Winterfell and they are all taking up space besides that, so much of the keep is still in ruin. But my own old room has lately been newly restored, and no one has used it yet. The chambers where I have officially settled are not too far away. I have a lot of memories in that old room, and now it is finally ready for a new life. It’s not very large, but it has a grand fireplace now and some of my own favorite tapestries. I hope it will be to your liking.

So you see, my heart was light indeed to know that you were at last on your way, but that was nearly two weeks ago and now my heart is heavy again with fear and worry.

The merchants who delivered your letter told me that the

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roads were good and the weather, though snowy, was not too harsh to prevent travel. In my eagerness to see you again, I thought this might mean you would be following only a day or two behind them. For days I waited breathlessly in my cold empty chamber, thinking every movement outside the window was a signal of your approach. Every time I sat down to write to you, I convinced myself you would surely be here before I had time to finish a letter. Finally the dread set in, for how would I know if something had happened to delay you? It may be that the snow has been worse than the merchants thought; Septon Bridges does travel terribly slowly, doesn’t he - and he did tell me that your leg had been badly injured some time ago. I have been daydreaming of you telling me all about that story as we sit in front of the fire some night - dear Sandor, I want you to teach me about all your old wounds, that I may learn to be a balm for them. . .

But then I can’t seem to help imagining much more dreadful things that might be keeping you away. Perhaps you have taken ill and have to wait until you are better to journey again. Or have you been waylaid by enemies on the road?

Or perhaps you have heard some story about me at an inn somewhere that you didn’t like, and you’ve changed your mind about coming North. Oh. . . yet even as I wrote those words, I know that is an unworthy thought. You hate lies too much to believe all the gossiping of drunken inn-patrons.

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Still, I feel compelled to allay any fears you have on this matter. It’s true enough what they say about my suitors; dozens have arrived at Winterfell in the last weeks and months and have departed again, disappointed. And still, they come. I, too, have heard the talk among my own servants: they say Sansa Stark is bitter and cold. She cannot love anyone, and that is why she remains unmarried. Perhaps I was even beginning to believe these words myself. You wrote of my husband, Tyrion Lannister; you must know that I was married to him against my will, and though he was not cruel to me, I dreamed so often of escaping that bond. Tyrion never touched me - a mercy, one that I’m still not sure I fully understand - but I knew then that marriage for love was a song, a dream, a fancy best left behind in childhood. When I heard of his death, I felt a strange, guilty sense of relief.

Then, after the Vale of Arryn after everything else that’s happened, I thought that as long as I had a choice, I would never marry again - and I have not yet been unhappy for that.

I do not wish to deceive you: you will find Winterfell a changed place. Even with these high-born men who wish to claim my hand roving about, one can feel quite isolated.

We have few retainers, and fewer still who hold any real allegiance to House Stark. As for my family, only Rickon and I are left. I have not yet written to you of Rickon, have I? My littlest brother returned to Winterfell shortly after I

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arrived, alongside his Direwolf Shaggydog. I cannot express to you the gladness I felt when I saw him, for we all thought he was lost to us forever; happier still, he brought news that my other little brother,

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Bran, also survived the sacking of Winterfell, and may yet be alive out there somewhere.

Our contentment was short lived, as it soon became clear that Rickon has been deeply affected by the loss of our family. He has grown wild and willful, with a temper that is unpredictable. Some mornings he is sweet as can be, but by afternoon he will be raging.

He bites, he kicks, he lashes out violently at anyone who will come near him; we have to keep Shaggydog penned up in the kennels, or else he will attack anyone who tries to discipline Rickon. This only infuriates Rickon more. He listens to no one but Osha, the wildling woman who watched over him when they fled Winterfell. I feel the loss of our mother all the more keenly now. I fear she would be dreadfully disappointed in me, and my inability to care for him.

Whenever I hear that poor Direwolf howl all alone it is like a dagger in me. But let me not write too much of these sad things.

Recently I have also begun to hope that my sister, Arya, may be living as well. It is a wondrous thing: some months ago, a young man arrived at Winterfell in search of work. He was ragged, dirty, and hungry, but he carried with him some smith’s tools, and we needed a smith. For awhile, all I knew about him was that his name was Gendry. One afternoon, as I was avoiding the attentions of a particularly persistent Bannerman’s son, I found myself in the stables

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where Gendry was shoeing horses. As he was working, he grew more receptive to answering my little questions - I asked about his work in the forge, how he found life here at Winterfell, and so forth. Gradually he became quite talkative, and revealed that he had heard a rumor in the Riverlands that there was a Stark in Winterfell again, and he journeyed all the way here alone because he thought it might be Arya! Did you know he and my sister had traveled together? But, though I had a thousand questions, he refused to say much more about her, only that she was alive when last he’d seen her. I wonder if he knows more than he says, but is trying to spare my feelings. . . in any case, I haven’t had much more occasion to speak with him since then, but I will try to get to know him better. I wish to know what he knows of her.

Here I have written much that is about me, and about my family. Oh Sandor, no one else knows of all that I hope for. . . perhaps I have revealed too much of myself here.

Why am I writing of all of this to you? I suppose it’s because I have come to feel as though I can confide in you. There were times in King’s Landing when I was glad for your honest talk, though you frightened me. You spoke to me and told me things I think no one else knew about you; and now, when I read your letters, I realize more and more that there was - there is - some nameless connection between us. It certainly isn’t a mere girlish fancy on my part, for you know

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how much I swooned over handsome knights at court, in their undented armor; my childish esteem for them withered and died as I witnessed the cruelty and cowardice of those men, who never knew real war or pain but had no trouble inflicting it on others. No, I know what it is to fancy, and I know that what I’m feeling now is more real than that. As for your part. . . well, your letters would have me believe that you feel something other than a brotherly sense of wanting to protect a foolish young girl.

But perhaps we should wait to talk of such things until you arrive. I have been thinking a great deal of all we shall have to talk about, should you wish it.

I have written so much here, and now I write by candlelight and cannot see the road outside. I begin to feel I shall indeed finish writing before your arrival. I don’t even know if this letter will reach you, but if it does, I pray it will find you unharmed and untroubled - and still safely on your way North. I am sending this message directly to an inn along the road where I know Septon Bridges frequently stops in his travels. I shall also send instructions that the innkeeper should watch for you both and deliver this message to no one but you. Perhaps I am already too late, and you’ve passed by this inn, or will not stop there at all - or perhaps you will meet the messenger along the road. Sandor, if you are reading these words - no, when you are reading these words,

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wherever you are, know that I am thinking of you. I long to see you again so much that I feel it as a dull ache within my very bones. Please encourage Septon Bridges to hurry as quickly as he can, so that my suffering may be eased.

And yet. . . when you arrive, how shall I speak to you, after all I have shared on these pages. . . ? Oh, perhaps only another form of suffering awaits me! Yet I pray that it will come soon, all the same, if it is a pain to be shared with you.

Ah, you must forgive these last few lines, it is as if a strange madness has overtaken me and my ink spills forth such senseless scribblings. I will send this now and await whatever answer comes.

Sansa, your - chirping, chattering - little bird

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Dear Sansa,

Receiving news from you after the nightmare of the last few days is like receiving a blessing from those old gods your people so worship. There is nothing I wish for more than to be already at Winterfell with you, but it seems that the shifting of the world doesn’t take into account the will of men like me. I see that the merchants finally delivered my last letter. It seems their journey to the North was fast and trouble-free compared to ours. I envy them with all my soul because they have already seen you while I have not.

Five days after I last wrote you - after passing the Neck and stopping in every bloody village where Bridges knew someone - the snow began to fall. It was light but incessant and it continued for days. I marvel at you, girl, growing up in this Northern land with this fucking biting cold that chills the fingers into clumsy numbness and pierces the body to the bones. Night and day, the snowflakes created a white endless curtain that made it more difficult every hour to see beyond a few steps, and riding became increasingly hard.

Everywhere you looked, the landscape was a bloody white

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nightmare. Though I still felt strong, after a few days your precious Septon looked very weak. The man never complained, although it didn’t take long until he turned pale and began to cough. After some hours it sounded much worse and he was even shaking and shivering. Between coughs, he stammered something about this inn and stopping here to visit the family during his travels. Fortunately for him, this place wasn’t far from where we were; otherwise I don’t know what would have become of him.

I’ve been stuck in this hole for days, waiting for the Septon’s fever to fade. The old man should thank his gods that he has friends even in the seven hells, because the innkeeper’s wife prepared us a room without having a single coin. Here is where your letter found me, little bird, drinking and waiting for the weather, the Septon, and my luck to improve so I can hurry to your side.

These days I’ve been thinking of you too. In fact, the kind words your letters left engraved on me were the only thing that has warmed me in weeks, and the memory of you is what has kept me sane while I was fighting my way over that bloody blanket of snow. I guess I’ve never stopped thinking of you since I fled Kings Landing. I don’t want to bother you again with the regrets that consumed me during that time, though if I give credit to what Elder Brother says, those first days at the Quiet Isle those anguished thoughts

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didn’t allow me a single moment of peace. He said that while he was tending my wounds, I poured out my soul to him, screaming your name between blasphemies and whimpers, almost as much as my brother’s. When the fever was gone and I could start thinking clearly again, my mind always wandered to the time I spend with you - though by then I thought you lost to me. So little bird, if I should be honest with you – and there is nothing that I want more – I guess I should say that I’ve never been able to forget you.

Now that I’ve survived a certain death, I feel as if the Stranger had granted me a new chance in life that began the day you answered my letter and expressed your will that I join you at Winterfell. I don’t know how this journey will end; what I do know is that I won’t die until I see you again at least one more time. Being with you Serving you is the only aim that moves my will now, and I tell you that any buggering snowstorm or Septon will stop me from reaching the road to your Castle, taking you to your glass gardens and listening to whatever wishes and worries you want to confide me. Do not be fooled, girl; the time I spent at the Quiet Isle hasn’t eased my voice or my manners, but it did teach me how important it is to have a person that listens to you and in whom you can trust to unburden your heart. I want to be that person for you Sansa. My sword, my time, and my fondness of you are all I have to offer, and so yours they are, to do

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with whatever it pleases you. And even if you rejected me, and your decision tears me apart … well, it would be a sweet way to be ruined, if it was because of you. Seven hells, are you aware of how much you’ve managed to affect me, little bird?

……….

I’ve just returned from our room to check on Bridges for the thousandth time. The color seems to have returned to his wrinkled face and he is even eating some soup a woman had prepared, so don’t worry about him; the man will be fine to ride again in a couple of days, or I swear I’ll finally tie him to the horse and carry him against his will.

So, your little brothers are still alive, eh? Ha! Bugger all those who thought that the wolves were finished! I can’t help but be amazed at the ability to survive you Starks have; everything you’ve been through has just toughened you more and more. I can easily picture your wild littlest brother.

Although I didn’t need to flee my home as early as him, I do know what it is to be his age and filled with wrath. Put the boy to train under the close watching of your master at arms.

A boy his age should already be learning how to hold a wooden sword and defend himself. Training hard will allow him to vent all that rage he feels into the weapon, and I assure you that at the end of the day, exhaustion will take away from him any need of kicking anyone. Also, aye, I knew the wolf

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bitch your sister is alive, or at least she was last time I saw her riding away and leaving me to die. She was with that group of ragged knights Beric Dondarrion gathered during the war. I took her and I meant to deliver her onto your kingly brother's lap, but when we arrived at The Twins… hells, you already know what happened there. There was more shit after that, but I’ll save you the details. I don’t know what may have become of her, but the she-wolf is hard to kill; your sister has claws and I reckon she is still warring somewhere.

When I read your letters I also feel that…

That nameless connection you talk about…

Though I’ve never really known such thing, believe me when I say it's not brotherly feelings that I have for you, little bird. I’m aware that you are no longer a child, nor a girl who needs the protection of any man. There is no need to see you again to know the kind of woman you’ve become: one strong and determined, who has taken back her family’s castle to the wonder of the Seven Kingdoms. You’re already a woman grown, and that’s how I imagine you now; older, wiser, beautiful and fierce, still chirping words of courtesy but using them to rule Winterfell instead of hiding behind them. I could adulate you the same way I’m certain those buggering suitors that swarm around you Winterfell do, but

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that has never been my way and I wouldn’t be being fair to the things you said in your letter. Seven hells, to say that you have me completely in your thrall falls short, because little bird, I surrender to you completely. And the things that cross my mind when I close my eyes at night and think of you… well, let me tell you they are pretty real, as I’m beginning to realize your feelings are, as well.

That thing you mention about the Vale of Arryn… is it there where you’ve been hiding all these years? Dammit, I’m suddenly enraged imagining that something even worse than what you lived through at the Red Keep could have happened to you there, while I stayed idle and unaware of your suffering again! I’ll tell you what, when I am finally at Winterfell, we’ll sit by the fire as you said. I’ll tell you everything you want to know about my wounds if you tell me about your life during that time in return.

Also, do me a favor, Sansa: stop believing in old kitchen servants’ gossip, what do they really know about you? Nothing. It’s hard for me to believe that you’ve become a bitter person - though I couldn’t blame you if you were, after all you’ve been forced to endure in your life.

Time will pass and that coldness and isolation you feel now will vanish, and another better feeling will take their place.

You know I’ve always thought the world to be an awful place, but if there is a little good in it, I truly believe no one

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more deserves that good more than you. I hope to be next to you soon to watch how your life finally lightens again.

It’s getting dark here and I’m running out of parchment, so I’d better go get some sleep. How I wish I could be resting in that room you’ve prepared for me instead of in this stinking inn! You say it was your old chamber and that it’s near your new one… Seven hells, girl! How do you expect me to rest knowing that you may be lying down on your own bed so close to mine? Is this some kind of Northern torment you find pleasure in inflicting on me? If it is, fine, I’ll suffer it gladly. But if I’m of no use at the keep on the morning because it has kept me restless all night, nobody will have the blame for it but you. Anyway, don’t worry too much about it; I don’t need much for living, though I do really long for a proper bed.

I’m giving this letter back to the innkeeper in the hopes that he knows of someone who will leave the inn before us and could deliver it to you. What I really wish is to be with you as soon as possible and hear whatever it is you want to tell me from your own pretty lips. Until then, be certain that there won’t be a single moment in which I am not thinking of you.

Sandor.

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Dearest Sandor,

Much and more has happened since I last wrote to you, but before I write about that, I must calm my quivering hand! It is shaking now, and just wants to scrawl across the page, you’re alive, you’re alive, thank all the gods, you’re alive!

The storm that prevented your coming sooner hit us

here at Winterfell shortly after I sent my last letter. The snow fell here for days, until we were all but buried in it. When I was away from Winterfell, I used to long for snowfall; it always reminded me of home. . . but this was nothing like the flurries of my childhood. This was a real Winter freeze, the kind that our nurse, Old Nan, used to tell us about when we were little. I never used to like those kinds of stories, but for the first time during this last storm, I could understand the 52

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truth of them. It is easy to imagine such a biting wind is really the breath of an ice dragon, a creature so hard and cold it has icicles for teeth. It must be deep Winter after all, now.

Even with the snow falling, I waited at the window for any sign of you, for days, until I fell into despair. How could I have been so selfish to ask you to undertake such a journey in the middle of Winter? And poor Septon Bridges!

If he died from his illness, it would have been my fault for asking you both to come North at such a pace. Oh, Sandor, please, for my sake, you mustn’t take any risks out there on the road. I know it isn’t fit weather to travel in. If I had to wait until a true Spring to see you again, I would wait. I would wait even longer for you.

But I don’t want to wait if I can help it. How it gnaws at me, that I am safe within these walls while you are out there enduring such cold! When I didn’t hear from you, I became so desperate, I began to imagine riding out to meet you. Must I really be forced to linger here, fearful that as each day passes you may be lost or hurt or freezing to death out in the snow? It is so unfair, when I am capable of going out and fetching you back myself! I can just imagine, how surprised you would be to see me riding down the road toward you! Would it be a day’s journey? Two? I wouldn’t

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care if it would take a week; I was never as good on horseback as Arya, but I can ride well enough. I would face any peril to know you are out of harm’s way. Gendry said that there are wolves in the woods near Winterfell; we can hear them howling along with the wind every night. . . but when I think of facing a long winter without knowing if you are dead or alive, facing even an entire pack of wolves does not seem so bad.

In fact, I had it all planned out: I would wear my woolen dress and my furs for warmth, and sneak away in the early hours of the morning. I must have thought about packing up my horse a hundred times since yesterday alone.

But. . . alas, I know that I cannot leave. Rickon is always awake and about as early as I am, and I have a duty to look after him - as well as Winterfell - as much as I can. Happily, your letter arrived to assure me that such rash actions were not needed; you are well and whole and on your way home.

Your letter arrived only yesterday, but I’ve already begun to take your advice about Rickon. I’ve spoken to our master-at-arms and he says that he can certainly find time to train my little brother in swordsmanship, especially now that the Guards Hall is snowed in anyway. Thank you for that suggestion. I think it will be of help. Rickon is so excited at the prospect of training that he’s asked our smith to make him a real sword, which, fortunately, Gendry knew to

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decline. But he has promised Rickon a practice sword now that he’s finished a special commission from me.

That special commission is the sword that - gods

willing - has arrived along with this letter. I had Gendry begin forging it the day I received word that you were on the road North at last. Since you are to begin a new life here, I find it appropriate that you should have a new sword, one of the finest steel. I confess, I enjoyed spending long afternoons in the armory with Gendry, watching how he shaped the metal. It occurred to me, the steel is a little like us; as much as you beat it, change its shape, it remains steel. . . and even becomes the stronger for it. That’s what I was thinking of, anyway. The sword turned out well, as I’m sure you can see.

Gendry said it was very satisfying to work on it. Now that our guards have seen his level of craftsmanship, they all want new swords from our new smith, too - but yours is special.

The pommel jewel is from one of my necklaces, chosen because the yellow stone reminded me of the colors of House Clegane. I hope it pleases you. What will you call it, I wonder? If I cannot ride out to meet you, I am glad that I can at least offer you something that may protect you as you make your way North to me.

Sandor, in your letter, you wrote that you want to be the person to whom I can unburden my heart. You wrote that I affected you. In your own words,

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“My sword, my time, and my fondness of you are all I have to offer, and so yours they are, to do with whatever it pleases you.”

Your sword, your time, and your fondness of me. . . oh, Sandor, how can I write about what these words have meant to me? All day, I have been repeating them over and over again, like a prayer. Your fondness of me. . . I was smiling into my pillow as I read that. You must know already, don’t you, that I have become very. . . very fond of you, too.

You wrote of being honest with each other, and that is what I want as well, and yet. . . what is this shyness that overtakes me? Why is it so difficult for me to write about my honest feelings for you? Sandor, you have made me feel so many things. When I receive your letters, I feel a swelling of joy, and relief for knowing that you are well. If I don’t receive word from you for awhile, I am anxious, fretful, and quite forlorn. Do you know, I even tried to be angry at you, after I read your last letter? I told myself, I should be angry that you didn’t tell me everything you knew about my sister sooner, and didn’t you think I’d want to know such information about Arya right away? I put your letter down and walked away from it for a little while. . . and then I walked right back to it to read it again and again. I couldn’t bring myself to be upset with you in truth.

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So you see, I am in absolute torment, constantly assessing and reassessing my feelings for you. . . and then, wondering what your feelings are for me. . . no one, ever in my whole life, has ever made me feel so much as you do. It is something new for me. I don’t know what to do with myself anymore.

Do you ever think about our kiss? I hope it won’t embarrass you for me to write of it now - though perhaps it will embarrass me later when I think of what I have written.

That was the last time I saw you, that terrible night, when the sky was green with flames. I wrote to you before that I kept your cloak from that night, but did you know that I also dreamed of that kiss you left me with? At first, it came to me in a nightmarish sort of way. . . I have so many bad memories from that time. After awhile, though, I came to realize that I compared every kiss that came afterwards with that kiss I had shared with you. Is that not strange? I wonder what it would be like to kiss you now. . . now that I am older and ready to be truly kissed. Just one more thing we will have to talk about when we are sitting by the fireside, or strolling through the gardens in the Spring, I suppose.

For now, let me send off this letter to you. I am sending it, and your sword, with one of my men-at-arms, Bodrin. He knows many of the farm houses where Septon 57

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Bridges is likely to stop, and he is a hale and hardy Northerner who doesn’t balk at marching through the snow.

I’ve given him very specific instructions to find you, and forgive me - I’ve told him to stay with you and Septon Bridges as your escort to Winterfell. Perhaps you may not like the idea of another traveling companion, but Bodrin is a man in whom I have complete faith, and I trust in him to guide you safely back to me. If, for any reason, you are delayed again, you may send him on ahead to return with word from you, because of course I would want to hear from you as soon as may be.

Oh! Yet how hard it is now to close this letter and send Bodrin on his way. I am envious that he shall see you so much sooner than I will. If only we might change places… there I go, once again wishing I could ride out to see you. Can you tell this has become my favorite daydream?

Somehow I think being on the road North together would be very sweet. It seems as though I have dim, dreamlike memories of just such a journey with you, tugging at the edge of my waking thoughts. I can envision us clearly, nestled together by firelight, the cool quiet darkness of the night enshrouding us - of course, we must be sitting quite close together, to keep warm. Perhaps you are recounting stories of the war, or talking of your childhood, or teaching me

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which wild plants are good to eat. I am listening to you with eager attentiveness, but some part of me is drifting away from your voice, thinking about what may happen when the fire dies down. . .

Ah, Sandor, I shall be thinking about it, still, until I hear from you again. I hope I shall see you soon.

Until then, I am, as ever

your little bird

Sansa.

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Little bird,

Your man at arms has found us at a farm house at three days ride from Winterfell. Bridges and I had stopped at this farm because he befriended the family that lives here and we hoped to have some shelter after so many nights sleeping in the woods. However, it turned out that the farmer’s littlest son is very sick. He is screaming and shivering the whole day and I think he hasn’t got a proper meal in weeks. The family begged the Septon to do something for him, but save from praying to the Seven and applying cold clothes over his forehead; there is nothing else that he can do to save his life. I think he won’t make it to the end of the week unless you send a maester from Winterfell soon. Even in that case, I’m not sure he will, but since Brodin is capable of riding the distance between the castle and the farm in so little time, maybe the poor boy has a chance when this letter reaches you.

Your man seemed pretty upset to have to disobey your orders by leaving without us. I am too; I’m tired of riding these roads and freezing of cold. Anyway, we’ll also leave tomorrow; there is little that we can do here and though

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I wanted to follow him to Winterfell, damn it all, after everything we’ve been through together I wouldn’t feel right leaving Bridges behind when we are so close. Seven hells, tell me, which gods do I have to blame for keeping us apart?

All I long for is to be with you as soon as possible; walking around your glass gardens and sitting next to each other by the fire, listening to your stories about Rickon and what happens at the castle. I wish that will be soon after you read these words.

Before leaving the farm, Brodin gave me the sword you commissioned for me. Your smith has done a great job; it is truly a fine work and the steel is of the best I’ve ever seen.

Tell him I’ll put it to good use at your service at Winterfell.

Your jewel on the pommel only makes it even more precious to me. Thinking that you’ve chosen it because of my House colors… Dammit girl, I’d lie to you if I told you that touching it doesn’t make me feel as if I’m also touching a part of you through it and I bet I won’t be able to take my hand off it in the days to come.

Not many good things have happened since the last time I wrote you. As soon as the septon felt strong, we left that inn and resumed our journey North. I still don’t know how the old man has been able to ride this journey alone so many times! We hadn’t travelled more than two days when our problems began. I had left the clearing where we stopped

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to camp to relieve leaving Bridges alone by the fire, when I heard him shouting for help. Thinking him on his own, a pack of wolves had surrounded him, and I guess they were looking forward to making dinner out of him - however meager the meal would be. The old man tried to hold them off with a stick he had taken from the bonfire, while I fought them with my sword. Seven hells, these northern wolves are vicious and don’t yield easily! The fight was fierce and I managed to hurt two of them and kill another one. The biggest one, who seemed to be the leader, faced me fearless showing me his sharp teeth for a long moment until he finally retired, followed by the rest of the pack. I’ve been involved in many fights and battles in my life and I’ve looked in the eyes of many men about to die, but I tell you that none of that can compare to the gaze of that damned wolf. It still makes me shiver as I write this to you. Anyway, it was good to find that I’m still in good shape; I feared so many months at the Quiet Isle would have dulled my skills, but fortunately that’s not the case. I’m not so old and I feel better than ever, little bird, ready to be at your complete service however you need me at Winterfell.

Sansa, are you sure about those memories you have about me, girl? Because believe me, if I’d ever kissed you, I’d be recalling it every day since then. I do remember that night too; I’ve never been more fucked up in my whole life

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and the several wineskins that I had already drunk when I came into your chambers didn’t help to improve my mood.

Certainly kissing you was one of the many things that crossed my mind during those moments we shared in the darkness of your room – and not even the worst one. I did a lot of wrong things that night but taking a kiss from your pretty mouth wasn’t one of them. Now that I think of it, I should have done it. Would you have liked it, little bird? Reading your letter makes me think that you would. Aye, I should have kissed you then, slow and thoroughly. So now you would have a proper real memory to accompany those thoughts of me and that way you’ll really know how a man’s kiss feels instead of one given from a green boy. Kissing you... A hound kissing a proper lady, what an odd thing… Not that I wouldn’t like it, not that I haven’t imagined it a thousand times so far on this journey I’m taking to get to you. However, I wouldn’t like to steal that kiss - like I did with that bloody song – I’d only want to kiss you if I know that I’d have one in return, and gods forgive me, but I think I’d have it. Does this sound like a foolish thought to you? Well, maybe it does, but anyway, a dog can keep dreaming right? In fact, I think I should blame you for this; your kind words and sweet letters were what put inside my mind such ideas, until it’s all I can think about when I read what you say about me.

I’m sorry this letter couldn’t be longer, but your man

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at arms is urging me to finish so he can ride back to you with news of us. If the odds are in our favor, we’ll arrive soon after him at Winterfell and I’ll be next to you in a few days discussing all these things and more. Until then, please don’t do anything foolish and don’t risk yourself riding out of the castle looking for us in the snow. I’ll be fine and you’ll see me very soon from the window of your chambers walking along the road towards you. These nights until I meet you, I’ll read once again your last letter until I memorize all its words one by one, and then I’ll keep it along with the rest and the blue rose among the folds of my tunic, next to my heart.

Be certain, little bird, that there is nothing else of which I’m able to think these days other than you and the time that still lies ahead us to enjoy together at Winterfell.

Sandor

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My Dearest Sandor,

Once again I’m putting my quill to paper in hopes that my words may somehow reach you, though at the moment I can’t think of a way to deliver any letter to you at all. Perhaps I am only writing this letter to myself, since I can’t imagine when you’ll be able to read it. Even so, I can’t focus on anything else, all my thoughts keep flying back to you and I can’t sit still. Writing to you and sharing these thoughts is the only thing I can think of to do just now that may keep me calm.

My man-at-arms Bodrin departed less than an hour ago with Maester Tobas riding alongside him. I pray that they will make it in time to do the farmer’s son some good. I worry for them, riding in the dark and in the snow, but Bodrin insisted that they could not wait until morning, that too much time had been lost already. It was nightfall when he arrived, and much of the keep was already preparing for sleep, but I was not. I saw him riding up the road, and for the briefest of moments, I was sure it must be you, riding through the night to come to me at last! In that moment I was so flooded with feelings that I couldn’t move from the spot. . . and then,

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watching the figure draw closer, I recognized Bodrin’s colors and I knew it was not you. Still, I fairly flew down the stairs to meet him, and grumbling some courtesies, he thrust your letter into my hand. I couldn’t wait, but opened it then and there, reading it in the torchlight of the entry-hall as he stood impatiently by.

As soon as I read that you were in no danger, a thousand questions were spilling from my lips. Where had he left you? Did you seem well? Were you still on your way, or did he think you would be detained long? Was your leg bothering you terribly? Had you asked about me? Poor Bodrin had time for none of it, but he mumbled something like, “you’re as bad as he is,” which made me feel strangely happy. Anyway, as I say, there was no time for my questions; Bodrin just insisted that we must wake our Maester at once.

Within the hour they were off, riding hard again towards the farm. I was glad that Maester Tobas did not hesitate, just gathered his things together quickly, accepting his duty. But now that he is gone, I’m afraid again. What if something should happen to them on the road? Winterfell would surely suffer if we had to do without a maester for long. Perhaps I sent him away unwisely. . . but I hate to think of the farmer’s family suffering, when I could offer them aid.

And I must trust in the abilities of my people.

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I know now that I shall never sleep tonight. How could I? I would only lie in bed awake, wondering about the journey through the snow. Are you cold at night? Are you sleeping now? It is more

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comforting to me to sit at this window and write to you by this flickering candlelight. I know that I should be tired. I have not slept well of late. Restlessness seems to be my fate until you are with me.

Once you are here at Winterfell and safe, then, then I shall finally be able to rest.

The light from the candle is playing odd tricks upon me. It is too dark outside, much too dark to see anything even in the newlyfallen snow. Yet the candle’s glow makes me see shadows where there are none. Was that movement outside? If I hear so much as the snap of a twig, my eyes dart to the road; I cannot see it, yet I know it is there, and if you were to suddenly appear on that road, I know I would see you. I would feel you there, somehow. So I keep my vigil of watching and waiting for you.

Now once again I am imagining those miles that separate the farm from Winterfell; again I ask myself, how long would it take to travel that distance through the snow, how long would it take to close the distance that still separates us? I tell myself, it must not be far, not truly. Sandor, we must be so close. . . I know the time is coming very soon that I shall be able to look upon you again. Even now, my breath catches in my throat to think on it. How shall it be when you finally pass through the gates of Winterfell? My mother

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would surely have me come to greet you as befits a highborn lady, to give you a formal welcome and offer you shelter. I have always desired to be the proper lady in my mother’s image, and yet. . . I can’t help but worry that I will make her ashamed of me. I keep imagining that I shall be so happy to see you, finally at my gates, that I shall not be able to contain my joy; I will find myself running down to the yard and throwing my arms around you right then and there.

In my imagination, we always fall into conversation easily, and I will show you all the secret places around Winterfell that I have been dreaming of showing you. We will have so much time to spend together. I can’t wait for it to begin. Will it be tonight? Will you be here by morning? I am peering through the window once more, in case I catch any sight of you.

Oh, I am certain I must sound naive and foolish to you!

Perhaps you will never read this letter anyway. I have no idea when Bodrin shall return, and I don’t know who else I could send to find you. Perhaps I shall never have need to send it; perhaps you will arrive before I finish writing it. Oh, how sweet it would be, to finally place a letter of mine directly into your own hands! I should blush to watch you reading my words. . . but I think I am braver when I am writing a letter. Well, you’ll see what I mean by this.

Finding words to speak to you, after all that has passed between us in writing, I fear I shall be distressingly shy.

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I’ve just read through your letter again. I keep looking at it, tracing your name where it rests at the bottom of the page. Oh, Sandor, it can’t just have been my hopes tumbling out of me, I really

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do think the ink was still fresh when Bodrin handed me your letter!

So you really mustn’t be far away - where is that farm you wrote of?

It cannot be far - and yet all that lies between here and there! The snow, the roads, the wild wolves. . . I cannot express to you how happy I am that you were able to fight off those wolves with your sword. I thank all the gods you were protected! Yet even now, I hear more wolves, howling in the night, and I fear the dangers on the road, for you, for Septon Bridges, for Bodrin, for Maester Tobas.

Oh, what a journey all of you have been on! And I, safe in this castle. . . it seems so unjust. This is what makes me restless at night.

If I could only give up a little bit of my own safety and give it to you, I would without hesitation. I would be inconsolable if anything happened to you. I am glad, at least, that the sword has been of some use to you.

. . .

After that last paragraph, I felt so troubled that I had to stop writing for a little while. I stood up and walked about a bit. The halls of Winterfell are so quiet at night. I remember this was once a lively place, the dining hall always packed with people, but now, few of us as there are, the nights seem as still as death. I found myself returning to my old chamber - you remember, this was the room I

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had prepared especially for you. Something was drawing me there tonight. Stepping inside, I thought I would merely check to see that everything was still tidy and in order, but I spent much more time there than I thought I would. I found myself looking at each tapestry with a critical eye, wondering, will this be pleasing to Sandor? Will he like this? I walked to the fireplace and thought; this is where Sandor will warm himself in the evenings. I sat on the bed and thought; this is where Sandor will sleep. Sandor, you must believe me, I did not intend to even lie down for a moment, but the next thing I knew, my face was buried in the pillow and I thought. . . it was as if I could feel you standing near, there in the room with me in that moment. This sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it? I, myself, was just beginning to realize, oh, I’ve fallen asleep and this is a dream - when next I thought I heard your voice, saying my name: S a n s a...

It was hearing your voice that woke me up - and yet for a moment, I was really sure that I had really heard it! I know, now, that of course I must have dozed off and simply never noticed when I had fallen asleep. I thought you were standing over me, and my heart was pounding, but when I sat up and looked, there was no one there, just shadows in the firelight. Oh, why am I writing of this? It must seem like utter madness! But, then again, it is not unusual, now, for me to dream of you. Still, in that moment I felt suddenly awake as I have ever felt, not the least bit tired, and I felt I must return to my little window and keep watch for you.

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My

maids

sometimes

whisper that there are ghosts in Winterfell. I do not believe it. If

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there were ghosts here, surely I would have some sense of it.

Those that do not know these halls as I do may feel a sense of unease; so much of the keep is still in ruin, after all, and sometimes the wind does sound like crying. I have always felt safe here, though.

Even when I am the only one awake, I know I am free from harm within these walls. I walk trailing my hand along the stones of the walls, and I think of home, my family, our history here. Now that I am grown, it is my wish to protect Winterfell, and all that remains of House Stark. You must know this, from all that I have written to you. But. . . I do not wish to do it alone.

Sandor, when I dream of you it must be because my heart won’t let me forget you, even when 73

I am asleep. You are coming to me soon, I know. What shall become of us once you arrive? From all that we have written to one another, I believe we are friends, close friends. And. . . oh, I know it

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has been years since we have seen each other. So much has passed; we both must have grown and changed in this time. I have tried to be honest with you in all my letters, sometimes to the point where I confess things that are perhaps indelicate, coming from a young lady. I have not concealed from you my growing affection for you.

My Septa would chide me for being immodest, but I simply have no wish to put a more mannerly distance between us. I have had enough of courtly deception in my life, and I think you have, too.

Perhaps this is unwise; perhaps, yes, I am a fool, a giddy, naive creature for confessing such innermost longings to the first man who has ever truly stirred them within me. If I felt less, perhaps I could conceal my feelings more.

Sandor, how will it be when you arrive at Winterfell? Will we be sweethearts? I blush to write the question, but I cannot have left you in doubt of my feelings until now. Did you not note the “my dearest” at the beginning of this letter? Do you have any idea how my hand has longed to write that “my”? I have never truly had a sweetheart before, though I have written to you of fondness and longing and kisses - oh, when I think all I have written to you now!

Yet in your letters, you never scold me for it, even when I have been a silly child. Did I actually dream up the memory of a kiss from you? I had to read that part of your letter again, just to be sure I

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understood. You don’t remember kissing me? But if you only knew how often I recalled to myself the feeling of your lips against mine!

Now, why would I do that? How did that happen? Perhaps I was

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dreaming. . . yet all that I feel now is not just part of a dream. The things I have felt, reading your letters, are truer to me than anything I have ever felt before.

Please, please, you mustn’t think these are merely the ravings of a wildly indiscreet young girl. I know how it must seem. It is true that we haven’t seen each other in years, not since both our situations were quite different, when we were at King’s Landing. It is true that when we last saw each other, I was little more than a child. I know this. And I know that, through our letters, I have come to know you.

You have shown me the real man that was hiding under the Hound when I met you, all those years ago. Through your letters, I have seen your bravery and your strength. I have also seen your goodness, your contemplativeness, and your gentility. I have read your soul laid bare before me on the page, as you have read mine laid bare before you. We have exchanged so much, we have both felt this connection between us, and it is a bond that I trust. . . . . . .

I had to put down my quill and stop writing for a moment just now. I was sure I heard hoof beats outside! But when I looked, it was just one of our men walking out with a horse from the stables. I

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hadn’t noticed the room lighten, but the gray haze of the sky tells me that it is minutes from dawn, now. Perhaps today will be the day.

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Reading back over all I have written, I have to wonder. . . will I lose my nerve? Will I really show you this letter when you arrive? Perhaps it is all too much at once; I am sure of my feelings, but perhaps you are not yet sure of yours. Sandor, I didn’t mean to say that we must rush into anything too hastily. Once you are here, we will have so much time together, after all. We can see each other, and learn more about how we each spent the years between, and speak together every day. How wonderful it will be to have you close by, every day! Neither of us will be alone anymore. And I tell myself, we will have time for all things, in time.

But I know this now: I do want to know all of you, Sandor Clegane.

. . . . .

I had to leave off writing for a little while again, as my maid has just come in to prepare me for breakfast. I have now dressed for the day and eaten, and today I am wearing my hair in a style that I think you may like, as I have been every day for the past week. . . just in case. My maids are worried about me, because I did not sleep again. I have promised them that I will not spend all

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day by the window, that I will come away for a time and keep warm. Well, I shall, but not yet. For now, I just want to keep writing to you, to pass the day with my thoughts of you.

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I’ve placed a bouquet of dried winter roses in your rooms. I’d rather they were fresh, but they are still pretty when dried, and they do retain some of their sweet scent. The faded blue reminds me of springtime, here at home. I hope you shall find them to your liking; I want to make your room here as warm and comfortable as I can. You deserve such warm comforts after such a long journey. And, before too long, there will be fresh roses blooming again. I do so look forward to watching the winter roses in full bloom with you.

Yesterday I went out to pray in the godswood. I go there often now, facing the snow, to pray for your safety. As I prayed, I found that my mind wandered to wondering, did you ever see the godswood here at Winterfell? And of course I began daydreaming about showing it to you. It has been an important place in the history of my family. Not only that, we have ponds in the godswood that are fed by hot springs, and they are astonishingly lovely in the cold weather.

After all I have written to you so far in this letter, perhaps you have gotten to this part and are thinking, “Why is she now blabbering on about flowers and woods and

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Winterfell?” Well, there is a reason! It isn’t just because the weather outside seems to be fine and I am admiring the grounds that stretch before me. Don’t you know, my dear one, how important it is to me that you are happy here?

Surely you can guess why. Sandor -

Forgive me for not signing this letter, but I must stop writing now, for I have just seen you riding up the road. . .

. . . it is you! I am not dreaming! . . . . . . . . . .

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Actions

Epilogue I

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Letter from Myranda Royce addressed to Lady Sansa Stark and received a year later at Winterfell.

My dear friend,

I was so excited to receive your last letter! I know it has

been a long time since we last talked; however, receiving news from you has made me recall all the happy moments we spent together at the Eyrie. Now that Winter is upon us, visitors are scarce and the Gates of the Moon have become a much boring place. My Lord Father accompanies Lord Robert constantly and except for Mya, I have so little female company here… I miss you and our girl’s talk so much!

Anyway, I don’t want to bore you with the little gossips and woes of the Vale when it’s you who has such thrilling and interesting news. The Tourney of Winterfell!! Ah, so exciting! Certainly, news of this magnificent event is spreading fast all over the Seven Kingdoms and had already reached the Vale before your letter. There is nothing else anyone wants to talk about these days: green knights and old lords, maidens and old maids, even kitchen servants chatter on about the big tournament to win the hand of the beautiful Lady of Winterfell. Lord Robert has claimed very seriously that he, too,

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wants to participate, although my father has done his best to take that foolish idea out of the boy’s head. Oh Sansa, Sansa, it’s just like in the songs you like so much!

However, tell me; how did you decide to organize something like this? You’re an intelligent woman, and beautiful; I’m sure you don’t lack for suitors and surely you have had plenty of marriage offers. So, why let your marriage’s fate be determined by a fight?

You say in your letter that your bannermen are urging you to make a decision, and that you don’t want to delay the question any longer though somehow I don’t feel that’s real the reason. I know you, Lady Stark; you have a strength and determination that many men lack.

You’ve suffered and fought to win your home back and no one could stop you. That’s why I don’t believe a group of men, armed only with the name of their old Houses, have been able to break your will on this matter. Notwithstanding that your little brothers Bran and Rickon are already at Winterfell with you. There has to be something else, something you cannot explain to me openly yet…

Oh, but there are many more interesting things in your letter!

That new master-at-arms you say you now have at Winterfell… I know you Sansa, and I know that there is something more there... tell me it has nothing to do with that mysterious man you sometimes talked about at the Eyrie, the one you said that tried to help you when you were a hostage of the Lannisters at King’s Landing. I know you never once mentioned his name but still, the way you talked about him... oh my friend, you can fool the rest of the Seven Kingdoms if you want, but not me!

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“. . . Since my last letter to you, we have taken on a new master-at-arms here at Winterfell; he is an old friend, actually, one who I had long believed lost. After years apart, he got in contact with me again - he sent me a crown of flowers, along with a letter that made me think of him again and remember him fondly. Randa, you will laugh at me but I invited him to join us at Winterfell. I can well imagine the look on your face as you read this! But I don’t think he expected anything to come of his letter, and after all, we are in need of strong men here and he is very skilled with a sword. Since his arrival . . . well, everything is different, Randa. Everything has changed for the better. Every day, I look forward to the time we spend together. I try to finish all of my administrative duties around the keep in time to meet him as he finishes his duties around the guard’s hall. Then we often take long walks together, talking easily about anything. When he first arrived, I wanted to show him everything, tell him all my memories about every corner of the keep; we spent days exploring the kennels, the armory, the godswood, our newly repaired glass gardens, even the crypts. Sharing these places with him, it was like I was seeing my home through new eyes. And now, I believe he begins to feel at home, here, too..." "...Sometimes, when we are alone, we even hold hands as we walk, and I feel the bond between us resounding loud as a drumbeat in my heart. He tells me stories of all that happened in the time since we last saw one another. I find him very easy to talk with; he listens to me, and also advises me; he has fought on my behalf and never asked for anything in return. I can’t tell you how glad I am to have a true friend here, Randa. He is someone with whom I can share my joys and sorrows, my triumphs and my doubts, and I never worry that he will think badly of me; he is someone whom I feel I can trust completely...”

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Just reading how you talk of the man, I’d like to take the entire journey from the Vale to the North just to hug him and thank him for making you smile again! You may think it sounds childish, but it had been so long since I’ve seen you so hopeful and full of life!Ah, Sansa! I read your kind words about him, how he makes you feel, and can’t help but smile from ear to ear. Are you aware of what you’re telling me, Sansa? Because either I am much mistaken, or you, my foolish dreamy pretty friend, are in love! But don’t worry; your little secret is safe with me.

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On the other hand, if you have such feelings for him, I wonder again about the Tournament for your hand. However… oh, for the old gods and the new! Sansa, my dearest friend, you know you can trust me, don’t you? I helped you as much I could when you finally gathered the courage to tell me who you really were, and I’ll do it a thousand times more if needed. So please, tell the truth to your old friend Myranda, are you organizing all of this so he can be the champion and win your hand? That’s it, am I right? Of course I am! After all you’ve been through I knew you wouldn’t allow anyone to decide who should be your husband. I already knew you were one of the smartest people I’ve ever known; after all, outsmarting Lord Baelish isn’t something many people have done, but this… this… oh, this will be epic! You must trust very much in his skills to leave your fate in his hands, though I’m certain he won’t fail you and finally love will reign over duty.

This is so exciting Sansa! Songs of these days will be written and every single person in the Realm will talk about this big event for years! And I’ll be there to witness it all next to you, if you let me.

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I want to meet the man who has got you to smile again and live everything that is going to happen in the following weeks next to you. And who knows, maybe I will find another husband for me, too.

I’m tired of the Vale knights and I’m sure a change of scenery will do me good, what do you think?

In a week’s time, I’ll take a ship to White Harbor and from there, we’ll ride to Winterfell. Please, wait for me; I’m looking forward to seeing you again and meeting your family, and who knows, maybe when I get there, I’ll finally meet also the man who will soon be the Lady of Winterfell’s husband.

Your friend,

Myranda.

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“…. Since I came to Winterfell, I’ve spent every moment I can with Sansa Stark. I report to her daily about the matters of the castle and the progress her little brother is making in training. I asked the smith, a boy called Gendry, to forge a small sword for him, and the child never lets it go, always eager to learn new tricks about sword fighting. Other times, Sansa and I take long walks around the keep and she tells me stories about the place. Not that I’m very interested in history - never was - though I enjoy listening to her and seeing how happy she looks in those moments away from her duties. I watch how she smiles at me when we are alone and I feel like a fool cast under a spell, a puppet unable to move of his own will, and hells, I don’t even care!

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When we are out of sight of people, in the Godswood or in the glass gardens, I take her hands in mine and we talk about ourselves, about what we’ve lived or about our new life at Winterfell. Gods forgive me, but I’ve even dared to kiss those sweet lips of hers. Seven hells! How could I resist, when only having her next to me makes me ache? I may not be an expert in this matter but the sounds that slipped from her and the flush on her cheeks afterwards…

Dammit! I’ve longed for this moment every day since I arrived. I’m sure you’ll be shocked to read this, but spare me your pious words, brother, because I enjoyed every moment of it and I’m certain she did too. And I tell you, I plan on doing it again as often as she allows.

Now you know why I need to win this Tournament.

I’m certain I won’t be able to bear anyone else tasting her, touching her, marrying her. Hells, I’d go insane! Aye, my birth is lower than most of the rest of the contestants, but bugger them! I’m quicker and stronger and certainly have a

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better motivation. You were the one who urged me to write to her, brother, to send her that flower crown that started everything. So I only ask this of you; pray to the Warrior for me, light candles at the Sept or do whatever other trick you know so the gods are in my favor, because I swear to you that the Tourney of the Hand won’t be the last championship Sandor Clegane will win before dying…..”

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Dear friend,

After so many months without hearing from you, yesterday Septon Bridges finally came to the Quiet Isle with fresh news and a letter from your own hand. The Septon told me about your journey to Winterfell and all the trials and tribulations you went through – Bridges’s illness, the snow storm, the attack of the wolves, the farmer’s boy. It was a long and dangerous journey, and it’s good to know that you both arrived at Winterfell safely.

Sandor, since you left our community with him and headed North, I’ve prayed for many long hours to the Mother that you would reach your destination. I am very aware of how important this journey was. Not only because it allowed you to work again as a soldier, which is what you are best at, but because of what it meant

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for you to meet Lady Stark again and the opportunity this matter allowed you to amend all the things you regretted about your time with her. I’ve known about the importance she has in your life since those first days here, when her name was almost the only word that your lips dared to pronounce. Even then, I already knew that this was not your place; I knew that if the Seven had spared your life it was because your fate wasn’t determined yet. Now we both know that something more important than gravedigging was waiting for you, my friend, and I’m sure you that won’t fail her this time.

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Septon Bridges has told me many things about his time at Winterfell before resuming his travels. He told me how, as soon as you two crossed Winterfell’s gates, Lady Stark left the keep in a hurry to meet you, a wide smile on her face, and how she threw her arms around you without caring what any of the people who were in the yard in that moment may think. He has also told me that she had prepared two rooms for you and that you two spent most of that first day talking in private in her own chambers. I also know by his story how you gained the charge of Winterfell’s garrison and helped to organize its defense and to train its soldiers properly. However, what he couldn’t tell me was some of what you mention in the letter he brought for me.

I’ve read your words avidly, happy to also have news from your own hand. Of course, some travelers had already told us about the Tournament that is going to take place at Winterfell to win Lady Stark’s hand, though knowing that you are going to be one of the

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competitors has been a great surprise. It seems that there is still more to know about your fate, Sandor Clegane. I promise I’ll pray to the Warrior to guide your sword and to give you strength during the fights. Nothing would make me happier than knowing that you have won your lady’s favor in fair joust and that your love is reciprocated.

Your friend,

Elder Brother.

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Epilogue II

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Dear Aunt Arya,

Thank you for the lovely package you sent little Robbyn for her name day. She adores her practice sword, and carries it with her everywhere, even to the breakfast table. I would particularly like to thank Uncle Gendry for making sure the blade was dull enough so that she wouldn’t hurt herself - although, gods help us, she seems determined to try. His work is as good as ever; it is a beautiful piece, and all just for little Robbyn! I only worry that her little brother will want one, too, now, and I hope you will agree that four really is too young for learning swordplay.

I’m also writing today to invite you to a celebration we’re having here next month. The Glass Gardens of Winterfell are in full bloom for the first time since last winter, so Mother believes that this is the perfect time for a Spring Festival here at the keep. It will also be Mother and Father’s 30th wedding anniversary next month. My older brother Robb and his wife will be bringing the twins, and if you come too we’ll have all the Starks together again, almost. I don’t know if Uncle Rickon will be able to make it all the way from his travels in King’s Landing for our humble party, but he has been

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invited, too.

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I confess, I particularly want to see you, Aunt Arya. I know I

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haven’t written for some time, and I regret that. The children have kept me so busy lately. Can it really be a whole year since we last saw each other? I can hardly believe the last time we met was when Robbyn and I visited you at Winter’s Fort. Robbyn was so excited to visit her great-aunt! But did you really have to scare her so much by telling her all those stories about how your home was once called “the Dreadfort”? And how the kennels there used to be torture chambers? What sort of thing is that to tell a little girl? Surely these things are better left in the past! Ah, but forgive me for worrying so. . . perhaps it was all for the best. Robbyn wasn’t scared so much as excited to learn more about her family’s history.

The truth is, you inspired Robbyn to take up quite an interest in history. She asks our maester all sorts of questions during her lessons now. Unfortunately, she’s also taken up snooping around the castle. Last week, she invaded Mother and Father’s chambers and found a package of old letters, which she brought to me. She actually asked me to read these letters to her! Of course, I scolded her for stealing things that were meant to remain private, and sent her to her room. But. . . oh, dear! I confess, I did something awful, then; I actually read the letters myself!

I honestly intended to return the letters to Mother without

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reading them, but I couldn’t help but wonder when I saw a dried winter rose fall from between the sheafs of paper. Then, I noticed Father’s signature on the first one and. . . . well, forgive me, but I

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was so overwhelmed with curiosity! I actually had no idea that Mother and Father had ever written to one another. In fact, I was unaware that they had known each other so long, or that they had both been at King’s Landing. My whole life, I’ve lived with them and I’ve seen the love between them, but I always thought their romance only began after the Tournament of Winterfell. So imagine my surprise when I began reading and discovered that these were love letters.

And not love letters that one might expect from a shy young couple recently betrothed, either. These letters expressed passion, yearning, in a way that I would not have expected from my parents.

It appears from these letters that they cared deeply for each other understood each other - for quite some time before their wedding even took place.

I remember asking my brother Robb when we were just old enough to understand about Father’s scars, how did it happen? And Robb told me that Father had to battle a dragon in order to win Mother’s hand. For years, I actually believed that was what had happened! How else would someone so fierce as my father ever win the heart of someone so gentle and soft as my mother? Battling a dragon made sense to me. It wasn’t until I was older that I learned

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about the Tournament of Winterfell. From then on, it was the only story I wanted to hear, and I asked our maids to tell me the story again and again. I listened, enraptured, about how many strong and

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noble bannermen had gathered, all eager to win the hand of the beautiful Lady of Winterfell; how each was defeated, in turn, by a knight wearing a helmet that did not reveal his face; how, when finally he was declared the victor, he removed his helmet and a great gasp went up from the crowd as it was revealed this heroic warrior was actually the humble master-at-arms! Then - so the story goes my mother stood from her seat. She was holding a single blue rose, which she kissed, and then presented to him. And he removed from the folds of his cloak a crown of flowers and placed it upon her head.

I liked that story much better than the one about the dragon. It always made sense to me.

So, you can imagine how I felt to learn that this was not the story of how my mother and father fell in love! It was so strange to read their words and discover that they had such feelings long before. . . but somehow I also feel that I should have known. They have always been affectionate with each other, but most often when they think no one is watching. They still hold hands when they walk around the grounds, and once or twice I’ve even caught them kissing in the godswood - at their age! My mother has a secret smile she only allows my father to see. When I was younger, I sometimes wondered how my beautiful mother could have come to love someone she was forced to marry, scarred as my father is; I also

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wondered how she tamed him, for he has always been so gentle with her, yet is still so fierce when wielding a sword. What incredible things these letters have revealed about my parents! What an

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amazing journey their love had taken!

Anyway. . . I sat there reading for what felt like hours. After the last letter, there was one more page; it was a drawing, apparently done by a great artist who was present at their wedding. It shows Mother, as young and fresh and lovely as I have ever seen her, wearing a beautiful dress and standing on her toes to kiss my Father, who has apparently just placed his cloak on her shoulders. Father’s face has a look of radiant love and happiness, such that his whole face seems transformed. He looks rather handsome, in spite of his scars - or perhaps because of them. The artist was very good.

I wondered why their love story has been a secret all these years. Of course, it makes sense; if it had been widely known that Lady Sansa Stark was in love with rugged Sandor Clegane, they would not have been accepted by the other noble houses. These letters also help to explain a tradition that seems to have started in our family. I always thought that I was so privileged for being allowed to choose my husband. Reading my parents’ story made me realize that I am far from the first Stark woman to have this privilege! When I was younger, I sometimes heard gossip and speculation about why Bran Stark, the Lord of Winterfell, married off his younger sister to a blacksmith; and why did my mother never

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complain that you were married to someone of such comparatively low birth? Now I understand my Mother’s cleverness in arranging the Tournament so she could marry the man she loved, regardless of his birth. And Uncle Bran must have seen the worth in such a lovematch, so he let you choose to marry as you wished. Perhaps that understanding of love is part of the reason why everyone calls him “the wisest man in the North.”

But, Aunt Arya, I can’t seem to talk with him as easily as I can talk with you. That’s why I’m hoping you’ll come to Winterfell, so we can have a long conversation about this! I’ve returned the letters and the rose to their rightful place, in my mother’s cedar chest - where I also found the preserved flower crown. I haven’t told mother what I’ve learned about her and father. Perhaps I will, someday, but I’ll wait until I talk with you, first. We have so much to catch up on. Please come to Winterfell for the Spring Festival! The roses in bloom are so beautiful, and I know it shall be a merry time indeed. Mother and Father will be pleased to see you, too, if they are not lost in a lover’s haze during their own celebrations. . .!

I hope I shall see you and Uncle Gendry soon. The whole family sends their love.

Your niece, Cat Stark Clegane

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Ackowledgements This story was written between December 2014 and July 2015. However it hasn’t been until 2017 that its illustrated versión finally comes to light. It was an eight months adventure that began one day when Kitamere received a handwritten letter and a flower crown by Sandor Clegane. Of course the Lady of Winterfell couldn’t leave such letter unanswered, and thus we began this great journey together; in the following months, we wrote letters back and forth, shared ideas, and even met in person. We both are happy to say that this fanfic really brought us together as friends.

We would like to thank everyone who has accompanied us on this journey. In particular, we want to thank our always incredible illustrator, Rosaria, for the magical illustrations that accompany this story. Somehow she has always managed to perfectly capture the scenes we visualized in our minds and bring this story to life in beautiful color. Thank you so, so much, dear!

We also owe a great deal of thanks to the wonderful Kimberlite8, queen of the epistolary fanfiction, for her inspiration and encouragement as we began telling this story. Specially thanks to the SanSan fandom on Tumblr and Archiveofourown, a group of wonderful, smart and kind ladies whose friendship has even crossed the screen to the real life.

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Finally, we would like to thank YOU, our dear readers and commenters of fanfiction. Thank you for sticking with us, fanfic writers, thank you for taking the time to leave comments and kudos, for following us and reading our stories. Wrting and editing fanfiction is a work of love for the story and characters and your support means the world to us. So if you enjoyed this illustrated work, you can comment this story also on Archiveofourown.

Kitamere & Chaouen March 2017

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About the authors If you liked this story, here is where you can find us:

Chaoeun:

http://archiveofourown.org/users/Chaouen Tumblr: @chaouenmadrid

Kitamere:

http://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitamere Tumblr: @kitamere

Rosaria Battiloro:

https://rosenrot.carbonmade.com http://rosariabattiloro.daportfolio.com Tumblr: @metalshell

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Disclaimer All characters and settings are property of George R.R. Martin. This is a non-profiting fanwork and does not intend to infringe the copyright held by the original author. The text and illustrations of this work are property of their authors, Chaouen and Kitamere, and can't be used for commercial use.

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A series of letters between

Sansa Stark and Sandor Clegane across the Seven Kingdoms

....

When you arrive, how shall I speak to you, after all I have shared on these pages. . . ? Ah, you must forgive these last few lines, it is as if a strange madness has overtaken me and my ink spills forth such senseless scribblings ...