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- GROOMSMEN INVITE GAME OF THRONES FONT WINDOWS
“We’ve had a room made up for your use – what should I call you, if you’re not a maester?” “I’m sorry, m’lady – the war, you know,” stammered Sam, unhelpfully, and cringed as he saw Sansa make an effort not to sigh. “The Citadel really didn’t have a maester to send?” Sansa said. But back in the cold north, under Sansa’s disappointed stare, he was once again the pale sweating boy who’d been forced to join the Night’s Watch. In the years he’d been at the Citadel, Sam had grown in confidence, each new link on the chain that would one day be his maester’s collar making him realise that at last he’d found where he was meant to be. A woman who was the trueborn sister of Jon Snow, to boot, and though Sam hadn’t seen Jon in years he still thought of him as the best friend he’d ever had. Sam was used to that expression, but not from a woman who looked like a princess in the storybooks he’d read as a child. And here was Lady Stark, looking at him as if he had to be a mistake. His short, sweet time with Gilly was long in the past, and in the Citadel he’d not had the chance to speak to many women.
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It meant that she drew herself up to her full height – she was taller than many men now, though her willowy grace meant she would never be teased for it as Brienne of Tarth was – and greeted Sam with all the cool authority she could muster. When was she going to learn to crush all her little-girl dreams? Petyr would have given her that small smile that told her, regretfully, she was being naïve, and Sansa flushed with humiliated irritation at the memory. Words she’d learned to say to appease Joffrey and now were always waiting at the back of her mind. He was just an acolyte, and the little piece of Sansa that had secretly hoped for another Maester Luwin turned its face to the wall and died. He wasn’t much older than her, and his collar was unfinished. Still, when Samwell Tarly showed up a few weeks later, puffing his way across the yard, she’d felt a pang of dismay. She hoped for a maester with the silver links of a healer, but beggars couldn’t be choosers, and these days the ruler of Winterfell was a beggar in all but name. Sansa knew she’d need one if she was going to restore Winterfell.
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As she’d made her slow way north to Winterfell, on roads more crevassed than cracked by years of ice, she’d sent a letter to the Citadel to ask for a maester. She hadn’t much cared for him when they’d met a few weeks ago. It had felt like that tonight, which was why she’d picked her way carefully across the stepping stones to visit Sam in his tower. She would think of that, and then she would think of fire, and her throat would feel raw and tight. She remembered him holding baby Rickon in his arms not long after he was born, and how he had patched up Arya’s endless bruises and scrapes. Sansa wondered sometimes if Maester Luwin had been inside it when it went up in flames. By rights he should have been in the Maester’s Turret, but that had been burned to the ground. He loved the library better than Sansa ever had, and had made it into his home as well as his place of work. Roose Bolton had mended the roof of the Great Hall and raised the gates again, but what did the library matter to him? Sam, though, didn’t mind a treacherous walk across slippery stones to reach the tower. There were snowdrops here, too, at the foot of the tower they grew by the steaming lake that had sprung up after the keep walls were breached and the hot water pipes broken by Ramsay Bolton’s army five years ago. “I want to learn about the flowers that grow in the North,” she said to Sam, one evening in the Library Tower. It would be weeks before the snow melted enough to allow other flowers to grow in Winterfell, and unless she found a way to fix the glass gardens that had been ransacked in the war, there were flowers she would never see again.
In the heart of the Vale Sansa had seen valleys butter-yellow with daffodils, and on their journey north the roadsides had first been bright with pink and lilac crocuses.
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But beneath the windows of the Guest House the hot spring still fed three small pools, and on their banks snowdrops bloomed, milky-pale and fragile. Arriving at Winterfell after weeks of travel, Sansa found snowdrifts several feet deep in the courtyards of the castle – and inside the Guest House, where the snow had blown through the broken windows. Sansa supposed the Eyrie must have been colder still, but as the snow fell – and fell, and fell – they had withdrawn to the Gates of the Moon, sheltered at the foot of the mountain.
When spring came in Winterfell, it was colder than the depths of winter in the Vale of Arryn.
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