"the Father's eye is always on the sparrow"

4th Day of the 12th Moon, 303

Sansa,

Lord Manderly arrived four days ago. His supply ship carried hay for the horses and wheat and flour, wine and ale, beef and mutton, fat lambs and poultry for the men. Combined with the restored supply train from Winterfell, we'll have enough to feed a three battalions of men for another three months or nearabouts. Laughing as I write this—do I sound like an old squirrel admiring his winter store of nuts to you? I bloody feel like one.

Manderly made good just before it was going to get real bad. Two days before he turned up, a duck wandered from out of nowhere into our encampment and was fought over by five of the strongest men who ate it beak, bones, feet, feathers and all. That pretty bit of business is now forgotten as if it had never happened and the pleasant change in situation is raising the spirits of even the grimmest here. Despite the rain dripping from our tents and the puddles at our feet, the mood is so high you could almost believe we were at Winterfell. It's sumptuous eating all the way and after each evening's feast, the men all lay about underneath makeshift canopies, drinking ale by the warmth of the camp fire as Manderly holds court with a tree stump for a throne. The old man has a strong laugh and excellent taste in wine, so is well liked. I told him one of the japes you told me in one of your letters – the one that ends with "Surely, you wouldn't send a knight out on a dog like this?" He slapped his knees and laughed until he could not draw breath.

He's been begging the girl Turnip to leave with him when he departs our camp for Winterfell. Was that at your command? I've bloody tried for your sake Sansa, you know that. I threatened that I was going to truss her up like a sow for the slaughter and throw her in the back of the caravan if she didn't leave willing along the rest of the Winterfell captives that we freed with the hostage exchange. But the stubborn fool looked up at me—straight in the face—and said "I'd like to see you try." Her voice—damn. Cold is cold as ice is ice. I'm not going to get into what she went through in the Dreadfort's dungeons, and might be you already know from Old Nan, but if she wants to stay here to help string Ramsay's guts along the castle walls: fine by me. The thirst for vengeance is as strong as any other human emotion and her feelings are powerful and natural. I understand this truth better than most and I'd wager you do too. I'm not going to deny her personal satisfaction the way I was robbed of mine just because she's a woman and is supposed to have a woman's heart or some such shit.

Anyhow, she's been pretty useful. Says her father Gage was the cook at Winterfell. The man was a strange one to call his daughter after the vegetable people eat when they have no other options but I can't deny that he trained her well. Give her a hundred pounds of flour and she'll turn it into a hundred and thirty pounds of bread. Better returns than any camp cook I've ever known. She's almost too bloody resourceful and I'm extra careful with my silver around her. Gambling on louse races is what passes for refined entertainment around these parts. We'd line up our empty dinner plates, each pluck a louse from our heads, and the first louse to crawl off the plate is declared the champion. Turnip's would always run quicker than anybody else, night after night. It was bloody baffling until one time, I had the mind to reach over and feel her plate. Wouldn't you know, that cunning little bitch had been heating it beforehand!

Speaking of little bitches, Maester Samwell said you keep my name day present with you at night instead of banishing her to the kennels. Jonquil, hmm? I just knew you'd call her that. As to her history—I found her six months ago wandering the banks of the Weeping River. She wore a pink collar with all the gems plucked out, so I'm guessing she must have been one of Ramsay's hounds though you would scarce believe it. The bitch was as ragged and rawboned as any Flea Bottom mongrel. I made the mistake of giving her a piece of bread and was rewarded by her trying to sink her teeth into my arm. Didn't hold her piss poor manners against her, though, as animals are at their most dangerous when they have the fewest defenses. Might be she read me for a bleeding heart because the creature would not leave me alone after that. Followed me all the way back to my tent. With a little time and care, I taught her to earn her keep like the rest of us with soldier's work. Turnip's not the only one here whose blood runs true—my grandfather would have been pleased.

That fucking Ser Stupid injured her during his ill-fated sortie, gods' rot him. My girl paid him back though—I saw that the fine studded chain mail near his thigh was shredded by what could only be dog's teeth. But that buggering Frey scum managed to cut off part of her left ear. I mended it with my rough soldier's stitches but you'll notice it's half ragged, so now she's ugly like her master. It seemed only proper that her injuries should earn her a pretty pension so I asked Maester Samwell to commend her to your care. He tells me she's made no friends at Winterfell, barks all day and night long, and snarls at anyone who comes near. Some men have a hard time settling down after war: getting into fights, drinking too much. Might be some dogs too. So whenever she tries to snap at you, feed her a treat and leave her be. Eventually, she'll growl less as she comes to anticipate food and safety with your approach. The little bitch is fearful, thinking if she acts this way, no one will harm her. She's never bitten me hard enough to break the skin since the first day we met. I know you'll excuse her for her missteps and find her worth saving. You're good at that.

Maester Samwell also said he you did not look well and that you sleep a lot even in the daylight hours. What's wrong with you? I'm surprised to hear such revelations as your letters are always so lighthearted that somber things don't even seem to exist at Winterfell. I know I said to you before that I don't like fruitless complaints and them that wallow in feeling sorry for themselves. I suppose I could have said that wrong and maybe you misunderstood me. Sansa, I want us to always speak plain to one another and face facts, rather than run away from them. Might be you think you can't share your darker moods with me and if that's the truth, then I regret whatever I said or did to make you think that way. Sometimes I forget that a man's feelings, though perhaps rougher, can never be as sharp as a woman's. Write to me about how you feel exactly without any pretend gaiety. Inflict your sorrows on me, girl—I will thank you for it and not bawl you out over it ever.

The sun is setting just about now. In honor of your name day, I'm gulping a big swig of that Dornish sour you sent with Maester Samwell. Spent today doing my "knitting" - boiling all my clothes and linens in salt water to kill off nits, followed by a scouring bath in one of the nearby hot springs. Apparently, I had been harboring some nasty fat fellows. I plucked one from my scalp and threw the bugger into a melee. There he was, surrounded ten to one by ants, and wouldn't you believe it, he fought them off! Must have been the all the Clegane blood he's been imbibing. Writing to you now with fresh and dry clothes on my back, a shaved face and short, combed hair, while eating the first of your sausage rolls. It feels good to look like a man you could oblige at your supper table on your name day, rather than some vermin crusted wildling whose company wouldn't be fit to grace a sheep sty. Do you know this is the first of your name days we have been apart since you were sweet fourteen? How about we make a pact, little bird? I want you to drink a glass of wine every day at dusk and I'll do the same. This way, once a day, we can be together.

Those sausage rolls you sent sure are good—lots of black pepper and garlic and fennel, the same way they make them in the Westerlands. This is Alyce's handiwork? I don't think so, they were so much spicier than hers. Give the kitchen maid who made them my thanks and tell her I'll get her back when I return. It was sweet indeed getting one of your parcels. But why do you keep writing about whether I'm going to find them good enough? I know very well that you send the best you can and they are always marvelous. So don't you start worrying whether I'm going to be disappointed or not. This last one had everything I asked for and plenty that I didn't think to ask for but should've. I laughed at the bloody shedload of soap you sent me. Suppose those of us who have a hard time with godliness must settle for cleanliness.

Sandor

I just opened up the jam jar and found the miniature. Did you mean to send this? Your hair color is different and your face looks so bloody young. I'm guessing the miniature was originally a betrothal gift for the Arryn heir? It's too costly and too old to have been made for me.

I ought to thank you, I suppose. As for that queer little note scribbled inside the jam jar… if it was meant for me and not some old scrap written for that fool boy moldering in his grave, all I can say is this: I'm not done with living yet. I didn't fight through the siege of Pyke, the battle of Blackwater and the retaking of Winterfell to become worm meat at the "Drearfort." This will be but a summer skirmish when the maesters write their histories. I've lived under the Stranger's hand and served his rule for too long and too well for him to summon me at the ripe old age of thirty-two.

Well, what did you want me to do with this thing? Ah, I got it—there is a spot on my trestle table that my eye catches the first thing in the morning and the last thing at night. I'm going to place your sweet portrait there. Never doubt that I'll be returning home, little bird. The septons say that the Father's eye is always on the sparrow but my eye will always be on you.


Thanks for all your kind comments folks! This is the first new plotline I've written in years and it feels good to stretch my muscles and doubly good to know that readers are enjoying it. The story started as a prompt made by coveredincleganedna for the SansaxSandor Livejournal letter exchange. Her prompt was "Pervy letter detailing all the things Sandor wants to do/will do to Sansa when he gets back from the campaign he is currently on." By the way, her name day is the fourth day of the twelfth month ;)

I promise that this story is going to get absolutely filthy (and I don't mean that I'm going to subject my readers to more anecdotes about Sandor's lice!) but the settling allows me rectify something in canon that absolutely breaks my heart: Old Nan at the Dreadfort. There's a lot of good things about being an asoiaf fanwriter and one of them is the ability to give redemption or happiness to characters who would have otherwise received none. So in "Marching Song" Old Nan has been freed from the Dreadfort via a hostage exchange and is now back in Winterfell with some of the Stark children she raised.

I've also elevated Turnip, Gage's daughter, into a bit of a mini-heroine who gets a measure of justice.

I intend to only write this story from Sandor's POV (for reasons that will be clear later). If my readers are interested in knowing what was Sansa's jape that she wrote about in her letters, here it is below. Its of unknown authorship, just one of those bad puns that have been around since time immemorial. Sansa, like the rest of the Starks, is a bit of a wet blanket. I imagine she keeps an ear out for japes that she thinks will make Sandor laugh. Perhaps she has even a little notebook where she jotes them down for her letters to him. If you open one of those notebooks up, you'll find this old chestnut that might have been fresh in the Middle Ages:

In the days of yore, a knight was on his way to do something terribly important, riding his horse into the ground to get to his destination as fast as possible. After being ridden too hard for too long, his horse became lame, and seeing a small town ahead he headed straight for the stables there. "I must have a horse!" he cried "The life of the King depends upon it!" The stablekeeper shook his head. "I have no horses," he said. "They have all been taken in the service of your King." "You must have something - a pony, a donkey, a mule, anything at all?" the knight asked. "Nothing... unless... no, I couldn't" The knight's eyes lit up. "Tell me!" The stablekeeper leads the knight into the stable. Inside is a dog, but no ordinary dog. This dog is a giant, almost as large as the horse the knight was riding. But it is also the filthiest, shaggiest, smelliest, mangiest dog that the knight has ever seen. Swallowing, the knight said "I'll take it. Where is the saddle?" The stablekeeper walked over to a saddle near the dog and started gasping for breath, holding the walls to keep himself upright. "I can't do it." he told the knight. "You must give me the dog!" cried the knight. "Why can't you?" The stablekeeper said "I just couldn't send a knight out on a dog like this."