Chapter Text
Sansa had started going to the family support groups provided by the local armory when she was just a little girl and her father had gone away to war. Her mother had thought it would be good for the kids to be around other kids that understood the emotions they were going through. Sansa had enjoyed it, and made a few good friends that still remained her friends today. It had also helped with the crushing, and often confusing, depression she had felt in her fathers absence.
She only started going again years later, but this time it wasn't her father that had left. It was Robb and her cousin Jon at first, enlisting and shipping out shortly after they each turned of age. And now it was Arya as well. Even Rickon was in boot camp now. It felt as if her whole family were leaving her at times. But she still had her parents and Bran. Sansa tried to take comfort in that, at least.
Sometimes she felt almost selfish for being there amongst wives and husbands and children. These people were living life without their spouses, without their parents. Not that her siblings weren't important to her. They were, very much so. It just seemed at times the other peoples losses were much greater than her own. Not that the people in the group ever made her feel that way. They were a wonderful group of people that she was very happy to call her friends.
Mr. Luwin, the counselor that ran the sessions, had come up with the idea of writing to soldiers that were known not to get letters often. At the time Sansa had no idea that it would end up changing her life forever.
Dear Soldier,
It feels a little odd to write someone I don't even know. Are you a man? A woman? Does it really matter? I don't know your name or your circumstances so it's difficult to know what to say.
If it helps, I do know some of the hardships of war. Not first hand, of course. While I admire what you do, what all soldiers do, I was not made for battle. My father is retired Army, and I have a brother, a sister, and a very dear cousin that are all enlisted and over seas now. Another brother, my baby brother, is away at basic training and will soon join them.
Whoever said war is hell was right. And not just for the soldier.
But this is all stuff you likely don't want to hear. So I'll be more upbeat, shall I?
Upbeat. Right. Not knowing anything about you or your sense of humour, I'll just tell you a bit about my day. Boring, right? Well, I suppose you have the right to toss out the letter at any point in time. Don't worry, I won't be upset :)
I'm an artist, or an aspiring artist I suppose. Some of my work is being displayed in a gallery, a very prestigious one at that. Anyway, I was walking around on opening day and saw a husband and wife talking over one of my paintings and one hanging near it that wasn't mine, trying to decide which they would like to purchase. I hung back and listened, silently hoping beyond hope they would pick mine, when the wife nodded her head and pointed at mine saying, 'this one, for sure.' Unable to help myself, I went over and introduced myself as the artist and asked if they were more realist fans then abstract, as the other painting they were considering was abstract. The husband laughed and said, 'No. This one is longer. It'll cover the three holes our five year old put in the wall.'
Uh, ouch! Can you imagine? Well, maybe not, but it was embarrassing. I guess I sold a painting so I can't be too picky.
Anyway, I hope that my funny little tale helped brighten your day, if only for a tiny bit. I suppose I'll let you get back to more important duties.
Stay safe. Stay strong. And thank you for all that you do.
S.S.
PS, This is totally up to you, but if you ever need anyone to talk to, feel free to write me at any time, about anything you'd like. I'm a good listener! I'll attach my PO Box to the end of this letter.
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Stannis sat at a table outside the barracks, methodically cleaning his side arm as he listened to the soldiers around him talk. No one spoke directly to him, and most never did unless it was needed. Stannis was not a sociable person, and as CO he liked to keep a professional distance between him and his men. But he also liked to be near his men, often like now, amongst them without really being with them. It allowed them to realize that, as their leader, he would always be with them, and it also gave Stannis insight to the type of men he was commanding.
He was just starting to put his weapon back together when a young soldier came around with his arms full of letters. He shuffled through them, calling out the names of soldiers as he handed them their correspondence. Stannis ignored him for the most part. He never received letters. He had family, of course, but Renly was fighting the same war Stannis was and didn't have the time to write. Robert had died the year before of a heart attack, and the niece and nephews that Robert had given him weren't close enough to consider writing their uncle. He had Shireen, of course, but she preferred to communicate with him via email or Skype, never through letters.
"Captain Baratheon." the boy called his name and Stannis glanced up from his reassembly to look at the soldier, who looked a bit surprised as he held out a single white envelope towards him.
"A letter for you, sir." he needlessly pointed out and the table of soldiers drew silent for a moment as Stannis reached out and took the envelope from him. It was such an irregularity that the men were all curious.
"Thank you, private." Stannis glanced at the front of the envelope. His name and rank were stamped on the paper, but there was no return address so that left out it being an official letter. Curious, but unwilling to open it at the moment, he shoved it inside the back pocket of his fatigues and went back to his weapon. The other men, seeing that Stannis wouldn't be opening his correspondence in front of them, went back to their conversations.
He didn't have time the rest of the day to read the letter. Morning PT, an intelligence meeting, weapons training, meals, and evening PT took up any time that he had. He'd actually forgotten about the letter all together until he went back to his quarters to gather his shower bag and pyjamas.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, he opened the letter and unfolded it. The script was elegant and small, clearly that of a woman. Before he started reading, he glanced at the bottom to see who it was from, but only the initials SS were written. At first he was highly agitated that he had been picked for this ridiculous custom of the army having strangers write the poor miserable sods in the service who they considered lonely.
He thought of doing what the girl had offered and toss the letter before he even finished it. He wasn't quite certain what stopped him from doing just that, but he found himself devouring the letter.
Maybe it was his age showing, but he had always thought hand written correspondence meant a lot more than texting and email. It felt more personal, and even though he didn't know this woman at all, he felt oddly warmed by the fact she had taken time out to pick up a pen and paper and write out a letter to him. She seemed to understand the strains of war, and considering it seemed her entire family were in the service, he believed her and felt a shimmer of sympathy towards a complete stranger. He could imagine how hard it was for her, just as he knew how hard it often was on Shireen.
He'd even felt a bubble of mirth he hadn't felt since shipping to this hell of a war at her little tale of embarrassment.
Folding the letter back up, he put it back in it's envelope and walked towards his door, intent on tossing it in the rubbish bin on the way out the door. He paused with it hovering over the opening of the bin. It felt wrong, made him feel guilty somehow, to throw it away. This girl or woman had taken the time to write him. He shouldn't just toss it out like garbage.
Folding it in half, he moved to the small desk next to his bed and opened the metal tin he kept his pens and pencils in and placed the letter inside.
He had no idea at the moment just how much that simple letter would come to mean to him over the next few days. Or just how important the unnamed woman would end up being to him.