To epitomize the world in which we live, we must first step back and remember that we are flawed.
But to understand the world in which we live, we must recognize that man realizes just this: the good exploit the flaws and the wicked jeopardize their...
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J—
I'm surprised to find myself in a boat with none other than your previous Lord Commander's son, Jorah Mormont. Such a small world it is, and especially when it comes to Northerners. And now here you are, acting as Lord Commander yourself. I am not surprised at such a progression, for truly, the men must understand your value—the sacrifices you have made for them far outnumber those they've made for you. And if they do not realize this, they are blind—you are strong and you are more deserving than any man I have ever known. Just don't expect me to bow to you.
I hope Stannis Baratheon is not so much a bore in his war-mongering nowadays than he was as a politician before the War of the Five Kings. He never really liked me, so I would avoid bringing my name up in any conversation you have with him. Stannis is one of those men who groups the flaws of a father with that of a daughter—and I am the biggest case of this, I'm afraid to say. Beware of the Red Woman—she may seem like merely a seductress but she managed to kill Renly with a cloud she birthed from her womb. Honestly, though, I cannot make this up.
I do not see myself coming North quite yet, but I shall let you know at the soonest opportunity. And as for Ghost—how could I, an innocent and helpless woman, have made your direwolf into a rebel? Honestly, Jon, that's as much a fantasy as the giants beyond the Wall.
Keep warm.
G
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"When you were an infant, the Dornish trailer landed on Dragonstone. His goods were junk except for one wooden doll. He'd even sewn a dress on it in the colors of our House. No doubt he'd heard of your birth, and assumed new fathers were easy targets. I still remember how you smiled when I put that doll in your cradle, and you pressed it to your cheek. By the time we burnt the doll, it was too late. I was told you would die. Or worse, the grayscale would go slow. Let you grow just enough to know the world before taking it away from you. Everyone advised me to send you to the ruins of Valyria to live out your short life with the Stone men, before the sickness spread to the castle. I told them all to go to hell. I called in every maester on this side of the world. Every healer, every apothecary. They stopped the disease and saved your life. Because you did not belong across the world with the bloody Stone men," Stannis reveals the love he's capable of, stepping forward and laying a soft hand on his daughter's shoulder. "You are the Princess Shireen of House Baratheon. And you are my daughter."
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Sansa's soft hands pass the candle from the warm palm of life to the statue of death depicting her aunt, the light sending off waves of recognition to the other tombs, although she is less adamant in visiting those than she is in visiting Lyanna's grave. Picking the feather from the ground--something her father was the last to touch--she places it back into the hand of her aunt, its suitable place for all eternity to see.
