Chapter Text
To my beloved son!
My sweet child, I hope my letter finds you well and in good health. Eat well, listen to your mother, wear your hat and no cape, for they are dangerous, and do not fight any goats again, please. You'll be glad to know that I've arrived to King's Landing unmolested and in good time, many thanks to the winds and the Seven for not sending me on my own odyssey. I'm rather ill equipped to deal with any such adventure, if you'd believe that.
If you ask me again why I've left so abruptly, I still do not know the answer. What should I ever do in our fair capital? I have annoyed Brynden, petted many cats, as they deserve, have visited the kitchen staff and found them still well disposed to my person, did some gardening and some playing on the lute.
I've stolen a tome from Aerys and advised my father on matters of state. I'm not sure if he'll take any of my advice, but it was at least worth a try and used up some time. I told him we should have a proper sewage system in King's Landing, for even the ancient Romans had one. He was unimpressed by this and also did not know just who these industrious people were. To be fair, neither do I, but surely they did exist and were of some import?
To be here without you, and your sisters and your mother who is the fairest among all women, is nothing short of torturous. I have gotten several nights of full sleep, none of my food has been stolen and all my belongings are where I've left them. There is no yelling in the halls and no unsolicited advice given on the styling of my hair and on my taste in poetry. It is dreadful and I miss you lot terribly.
In terms of news, I have no news. I have, however, drawings of several butterflies I've observed in the gardens. I drew them for your viewing pleasure and painted them to with those delightful paints Baelor got me. In truth their making was greatly motivated by my wish to use said paints, so perhaps it was for my pleasure after all, with you as the grateful beneficiary.
I have been wandering King's Landing streets in these days, dressed as a wandering minstrel for safety reasons. Ser Willias was similarly dressed and less than happy with his predicament, but needs must and I did not wish for him to give away the ruse with his gleaming armour.
I've had some success with the good people and I was happy to write to your mother that even if I was no prince, I could keep her well and in dignity. To prove this, I was much motivated to buy a great wheel of cheese and send it to her. I feel that women must love cheese in their wisdom. I will not elaborate on that.
As a wandering minstrel however, I would not have had the coin to buy her a small chest worth of new jewellery, which I did, and it is presently traveling together with a wheel of cheese towards the Vale. Please, once they arrive send me a letter, writing to me in detail on how she reacted to them.
I send you all my love and wish you every joy until we are reunited:
Your Father
Ps.: the original purpose of this letter was to convey to you a message, as instructed by your grandfather. Your cousin, our gentle Daeron has bonded to the dragon Balerion in Ashford Meadow. Make of it what you will.
...
Father,
I love you dearly. I love you with my whole soul and keep that well in mind as you continue reading, but you are the most impossible, frustrating man in the world entire.
What do you mean Daeron claimed the dragon Balerion? What do you mean by writing that, as and afterthought might I add, and writing nothing else on the matter?
You have written more about cheese than the DRAGON!
Imagine our family huddled together around your letter, the very first time we ever heard of the news, wondering if you did finally go mad. But we know you and it would not be in your nature. Imagine us tearing our hair out in sheer frustration.
And it is my understanding that grandfather instructed you to inform the whole Vale of this? And this was your attempt. Our Arryn kin heard about Balerion and Daeron from the postscript of your heartsick letter, and we could tell them nothing further than what you wrote, which is nothing.
I will not write to you of mother and her cheese and her jewellery, even when they arrive. She might, if she forgives you, but as we are busy of charming all these pious people out of their sheer terror and confusion, you might have to wait quite a bit.
What is wrong with you?
With love and many early grey hairs: Aelor