Author's Note: Ghost has died, alas, but he was almost 15 years old. Canids do not have human-length lifespans :(
Also, just to clarify for those of you for whom the epistolary (letter-writing) format is a problem: this story won't be for you, friends, because the whoooooooole thing is letters. Cleverly-written and fun to decypher re: who's writing what to whom, one hopes, but if that's not your cup of tea, you might want to look elsewhere for your Regency-era Jon/Dany and Jaime/Brienne fix.
Also, just to clarify to those of you for whom the art of writing constructive or even just polite criticism is a challenge: Please expect a response in the same tone with which you write to me. If you use words like 'stupid', you can be assured that I will not be very mannerly in expressing my 'appreciation' of your review. I have no problem with you disliking my writing, the epistolary format, or anything else, but if you can't express it without insulting me, and can't cope when I offer you a tacit encouragement to not let the door hit you where the good Lord split you, it might be best to keep your reviews to yourself.
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Thursday, 25 February 1813
Yunkai, No Damned Idea, Essos
Queen of My Heart,
The quantity of socks you so-kindly sent was such an abundance that I felt duty-bound to share it with various of my men who had need of them. Please be aware that the men of the 13th Light Dragoon have begun singing your praises in a manner more suited to the Maiden or the Mother than a mere mortal woman.
…though you have never been a mere anything, have you, my love? I think constantly of all of your excellent traits. When next you find yourself on our good friend's island home, I beg you to aim a spy-glass eastward one clear night. You will see a warm red glow in the far distance; that is my heart, kindled with admiration for you.
Also afire with admiration is Captain Snow, who was as amazed as I at the sheer number of socks you provided. He actually smiled, my dear, and I'm sure you recall how rare an event that is. He acquired quite a few pairs for his own use, and jealously guards them from those who would poach his bounty.
We were both sorry to hear of the passing of your brother, and hope you do well in recovering from your sad loss. Captain Snow was particularly gratified and humbled that any mention of him might have been able to affect your improvement. We are concerned about your health, however, and beg you to take best care of yourself. Pray do not exhaust yourself with the acquisition of socks on our behalf. We would gladly suffer trench foot if it meant your swifter recovery.
As regards your curiosity of the paragon for whom Captain Snow reserves himself: he tells me his requirements include playing croquet very poorly, the ability to laugh while swimming, and experience at charming a direwolf. I doubt a woman exists who fits such an exacting description, but if you hear of one, do let me know, won't you? I will pass the information on to Captain Snow with all haste.
You, wench, might also be gratified to know that I have devised a way of dealing with the dust that infiltrates my clothing: I have gone native in all but the most formal occasions, garbing myself in the loose Essosi trousers and tunics that are so effective at shielding one's delicate and noble skin from the harsh abrasions of sand and scourings of wind while permitting the dust to sift back out again.
I have even persuaded Captain Snow to indulge with me, and confess myself jealous of how much better he blends in with the local population than I do; apparently, blond hair and green eyes are not much found here. To their loss, I feel.
One of our men, a scoundrel by the name of Bronn, has a deft hand at drawing, and was good enough to do a scribble of myself and the captain heroically posing in our rustic togs, which I have enclosed along with a small bag of the red dust that plagues us without cease. I would hate for you to think my complaints baseless.
Every day without you is a torment. What a fool I was to think the time away from you would pass quickly or easily. I asked Captain Snow how he kept his sanity, fighting so far away for so many years, and his response was that he took comfort in the knowledge that his presence here makes the world a safer place for the one who holds his heart. In the same way, wench, you remain the motivation for every one of my actions.
With endless devotion,
Major Lord Jaime Lannister
P.S. My batman was recently discharged from service in this hellish landscape; having nowhere to go, I have promised him a home and living at Casterly Rock. Like Bronn, he can draw, but has no other particular skills, and his sole characteristic appears to be possession of the most cheerful and earnest disposition of any human I've ever met. He will sail to Lannisport and present himself to you soonish. If there is no place for him there, perhaps our dear friend can think of some position for him on Tarth? His name is Podrick Payne. You won't be able to miss him; just look for the lad with the cow-eyes and massive cheeks.
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Tuesday, 16 March 1813
Casterly Rock, Westerlands, Westeros
Dear Brienne,
It appears I have become the patron saint of hosiery for the 13th Light Dragoons. Not an appellation I ever expected to have, I must say, but one I vastly prefer to, say, the Duchess of the Riverlands. Though a still better title would be "Mrs. Snow"…
If Jaime is to believed— and he is many things, our Jaime, but a liar tends not to be one— it appears that Jon might somehow, miraculously, unbelievably, still be fond of me. I will admit that, when I read those lines, I made the most indelicate noise, and then burst into tears. After all these years, Brienne! All these years, and he has been keeping himself for me alone, as I have kept myself for him! Can it be possible?
Am I a fool to hope that our love can be salvaged? I cannot quash my fear that Jaime's wish to be amusing has him using words and phrasings that give more of an impression of sentiment than Jon might actually feel. How tragic a figure I am, Brienne, to look for any reason besides love in what Jaime has written. After six-and-twenty years of my only value to anyone (with very few exceptions such as your estimable self) being my blood, how am I to believe that a man could still care for me after I refused him so cruelly, nearly eight years ago?
Ah, I have no right to trouble you with my misgivings. You have spent the same period suffering just as much as I. Though our circumstances are different, our misery remains the same: separated from the men we love, kept apart by rank and birth. At least I no longer have to contend with Viserys; you still have the grim task of waiting for Lord Tywin to shuffle off this mortal coil.
Tyrion keeps saying we should "find a way to kill the daft bugger". Failing the stomach to take an active role and push him into the path of a runaway carriage, Tyrion has begun encouraging the cook to serve the most rich and fatty meals possible in hopes of triggering in Sir Tywin a fatal case of gout.
Enclosed with Jaime's letter are the drawing and the dust mentioned within it. They look very handsome, do they not, despite the strangeness of the clothes? I wonder what the women wear, and if they might be able to bring some garments home to us when they finally return.
The mentioned Podrick Payne has arrived; he is indeed a cheerful sort, and I have had him employ his artistic talent to copy the drawing most faithfully for my own purposes. I examined the dust, Brienne; it is so fine, and sifts through cloth, and clings viciously, quite resistant to washing off. I can only imagine the discomfort they must feel, to have it coat them at all times. An ignoble but still very real aspect of warfare: the incessant, unavoidable annoyance. It might well wear down a soul far before the inhumanity of killing and the terror of dodging one's own death.
Your devoted friend,
Princess Daenerys Targaryen
P.S. I thought it would be nice to send drawings of us back to them, in return. When you reply, if you can find someone to create a simple portrait of you, send it along so I may include it in my next letter.
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Saturday, 20 March 1813
Evenfall Hall, Tarth, Westeros
Dear Dany,
I think it far more likely that Jaime is using humor as a way of indicating that the reality of the situation is far more impassioned than he is able to reveal, given the subterfuge in which we must engage to keep our little plot from being discovered by those who monitor the military mail.
Thus when Jaime writes "Captain Snow was particularly gratified and humbled that any mention of him might be able to affect your improvement" I believe what he means is "Captain Snow, appalled to hear of your illness, was brought to his knees in amazement and gratitude that his mere mention rallied your will to live". I know it can be confusing to pick out the truth of the messages we must all write back and forth, but stay constant, my dear. The result will be worth the struggle.
Think how happy you have felt since learning that Captain Snow is still alive, and then again to read that he wants no other but you. Think how happy you will be when he is finally home and safe. Think how happy you will be when we can all give up this pretense, when Jaime is free to marry me and you, your captain. And then the day you wed, and when your first child is born. You must live for these moments in the future, Dany. If you lose sight of them, you will become mired in despair.
With great affection,
Lady Brienne, Countess of Tarth
P.S. How fare your plans to pay me a visit? Have you decided on a sea voyage or shall it be the Gold Road to Storm's End for you? Either way, I welcome you with all the warmth and fondness you know I feel for you. You will be right as rain, once you are here.
P.P.S. Apparently the only person on this island with any skill at drawing whatsoever is my head laundress, and a fine job she has done of representing me: my unfortunate face is rendered with painfully accurate precision. Could the woman not have tried to flatter her lady by drawing me at least a little less ugly?
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Tuesday, 16 March 1813
Winterfell, The North, Westeros
Dear Princess Daenerys,
Please pardon my presumption in writing to you. It has been many years since last we have spoken, I know, but recent events have awakened a desire to renew my acquaintance with you. I am happy to share that my brother, Captain Jon Snow, continues to do well in his career, despite being unfortunately stationed far from home. In fact, recent news has rendered his spirits nearly as high as they had been when last we all saw each other.
Word has reached us of your terrible loss. Please accept the deepest sympathies of House Stark in your time of grief. If there is anything I can do to lessen your burden, I beg you not to hesitate to make mention of it. Every resource we have is at your disposal, as I consider you a sister, for reasons of which I am sure you are aware.
I shall close this letter with a warm invitation for you to visit Winterfell at your leisure. My wife, Jeyne, and I would be happy to renew our friendship with you, as would my sister, Sansa. We have all retained happy memories of Highgarden, and often hoped they might be replicated at some point. My parents and other siblings would likewise welcome you as a member of our family, should you decide to make the journey north.
Your servant,
Robb Stark, Earl of Winterfell