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@hightower

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rolled and tied letter left on her pillow while she sleeps

[break]

[ It's handwritten, Daniel's journalist's scratch slightly tamed by the fountain pen he found in some study or another. ]

Alicent,

Good morning. Probably seems silly to write when we have the phones and the ability to see each other any evening we want, but I've always liked letters, and I thought it might remind you a little of home.

I'm sorry to hear about your daughter. I hope stuff's otherwise ok with all of you guys - I've been trying to speak with Aemond and Aegon pretty regularly, to be open for questions and teach where needed. It's going fine, I've always been a better teacher than father, especially with adult students.

We're coming up to winter - do you guys have any seasonal stuff you do? America has "Thanksgiving" which is a pretty colonial celebration of killing off the Natives and settling in. And family values, I guess. We also do Christmas, originally to celebrate the birth of the Christian saviour Jesus fuckin' Christ, who you probably know all about from Tim huh? But because everyone loves a sparkly tree, a bundle of presents, and Santa Claus, it's become a pretty secular holiday. Time off work to feast and exchange gifts.

Look at me, I'm explaining stuff again when I wanted to write something nice. Worst part of ink is there's no backspace, and I'm not writing this whole thing out again. You'll take my lecture on Christmas and you'll like it, young lady.

Anyway, wanted to share a poem - originally figured I'd leave you the book, but I couldn't find it and now the library's closed. Go figure. But I've got a pretty good memory for verse, so I'll write it here:

Life is short, though I keep this from my children.
Life is short, and I’ve shortened mine
in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,
a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways
I’ll keep from my children. The world is at least
fifty percent terrible, and that’s a conservative
estimate, though I keep this from my children.
For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird.
For every loved child, a child broken, bagged,
sunk in a lake. Life is short and the world
is at least half terrible, and for every kind
stranger, there is one who would break you,
though I keep this from my children. I am trying
to sell them the world. Any decent realtor,
walking you through a real shithole, chirps on
about good bones: This place could be beautiful,
right? You could make this place beautiful.
- Maggie Smith.

Come have dinner with me sometime this week if you get the chance.

Keep well,

Daniel.

[unapparent]

[ A handwritten answer — looping and lovely — comes the afternoon following his gift, tied with a teal ribbon. ]

Daniel,

Do you often sneak into ladies’ chambers? I ardently hope I’m a special case.

Your letter has moved me in ways you cannot know — or perhaps you do, and that’s precisely why you’ve done it. My remaining family is safe and duly cared for by many, including yourself, so I dare not complain.

How fortunate for you, that I like your lectures, intentional or accidental, and your taste in poetry. I’ll have to search for more of Lady Smith’s work in the other libraries. It shall not surprise you to hear that women’s writing is not common in Westeros, and I thank you for sharing it with me.

Your Christmas seems a lighter thing than Maiden's or Stranger's day. The closest we have is the birth of the first Aegon, my son’s namesake, which marks the change from one year to the next. I could not tell you where it falls on your calendar, when our own is marked by the moon and not punctuated by seasons, for our summers and winters last lifetimes. Indeed, my sons have never known winter and are like to begin complaining of the chill any day now.

Have dinner with me tomorrow, and tell Aemond you’ll not be available for his lesson the morning after.

Affectionately yours,
Alicent