To the Lady of Highgarden, regards from the Lord of the Twins.
My sympathies on your untimely loss. I always told Luthor he paid more attention to his hawks than was healthy, but I never imagined I'd be proven so right. I trust you are bearing up well, though - you always were the fiery sort, and I can't imagine this will slow you down for long.
I too have recently lost a wife - Cyrenna was a good woman, but evidently not sturdy enough. I thought with hips that size she'd bear a dozen children at least, but it seems I was wrong. Difficult to judge these things in advance, I suppose. I wouldn't have expected a tiny little thing like you could push out three babies, including that strapping son of yours.
I've never been one to dance around a question, so I'll get to the point of this letter. I propose that you and I might marry. All right, you're not a spring chicken any longer, but I'll wager you've still got some juice in you yet, and the alliance would be a strong one. And what are you going to do otherwise as a widow, stay at your son's keep as a dowager, or go back home to the Arbor and drink away your remaining years? I can offer you better than that.
Anxiously await your reply,
To the Lord of the Twins, salutations.
Thank you for your thoughtful letter. I take consolation from knowing that at least Luthor was happy in his last moments. One hopes you can say the same for your Cyrenna, although somehow I doubt it.
My son is quite well, thank you for asking. However, he is quite busy with his training, and so prefers to leave most of the day-to-day affairs of Highgarden in my hands. After all, as you so kindly noted, I'm no spring chicken, and I've been doing this since before I squeezed Mace out between these tiny hips. The odds of my retirement anytime in the near future are low, lower even than those of my succumbing to drink, which is what I would have to do in order to accept your offer.