Dearest Row II
Dearest Row II
Summary: A letter by raven, from Eustace Rivers to Squire Rowan Nayland, Terrick's Roost
Date: 20/7/2011
Related Logs: Dearest Row
20th day, Seveth month, 288

Dearest Row,

I love you, I adore you for the faith you've always had in me. I would never have had the courage to run away and start a new life, if it hadn't been for you. We'll be performing Hymn of the Dragon Queen very, very soon — for King Robert and Queen Cersei themselves! I cannot tell you how nervous I am.

They say the king will appreciate the spectacle more if there are real women involved — and that seems to be an understatement. In fact, Giorg Dudley of the Magnificent Minstrels Three told me that when he played at the queen's birthday celebration, the king was so in his cups that he threw his goblet at them and shouted, "TITS OR GET THE FUCK OUT!" Could you just die? Even drunk, he seems to retain the aim that won the Trident — Wills Oakley, the flautist, needed to have a gushing head wound sewn back up after that.

So in a last minute decision, Kiran and I decided to recruit one of the more intelligent, artistically inclined whores to play the role of Visenya. She's an absolutely lovely creature — not terribly bright, but she takes direction well and is quite eager to perform. If all whores are like her, I'll cast a doxy over an actress any day. But I digress — can I just tell you how much drama ensued at Kittibelle's casting? (I don't know if that's really her name of if she chose it for the trade. Does it matter? Kiran and I can't say it, ever, without giggling our heads off.) So, Radhasia Sands quit the company in a huff. Good riddance. Watching her shriek and stagger and chew up the stage gives me heart burn.

Darling, you worry too much. Truly. First of all, I adore being Eustace. I wouldn't take my name back from you for a thousand gold sovereigns. Second — far more importantly — please try to be happy? Seven bless, you're living your dream. Just like I'm living mine. And you know? It could be over for either of us at any instant. You could be brained by a spooked horse. I could be brained by an inedbriated monarch. Live the moments, sweetheart. The moments are truly all we have.

Of course, I will be happy to celebrate your name day, if you're keeping mine. I think it's a sweet idea. I do miss you acutely, and it will be good to have a day set aside to celebrate the both of us.

Now, my dear, allow me to address a point Kiran and I have discussed at length (don't frown! My gods, we're practically married, you must allow us some vicarious thrilling at your peculiarly challenging romantic prospects). You do know I speak of Ser Jarod, don't you? I noted particularly in your latest letters that you call him Jarod (not Ser) increasingly often. It sounds to me like you're growing rather familiar with your knight in shining bastardy. And all this grousing about his whore-mongering and risk-taking and how he's not properly valued — spread over many letters, of course, but I've been paying attention. Have you?

Then, of course, there's this other Rivers, the blacksmith's assistant? The one who's lazy and irritating and a bad influence on your Jarod. Wanting to 'punch him in the groin' (as I think you put it) is rather extreme, my dove. It occurs to me (and Kiran, too) that violence is often substituted as an outlet for other feelings. Oh, I'm not implying that they're as pure or ballad-worthy as your feelings for Ser Are-You-Sure-He's-Mine, but it certainly seems you'd both be happier (but probably just as sore) if you took out your frustrations in other ways.

Wait! Stop! Kiran insists that, were he you, he'd tear this letter into tiny bits. Please don't, my heart! I am laughing at you, but I promise it's out of love. I know you must be ready to scream — everyone's telling you to go fuck someone. Alas, poor darling. If only we all had such problems. Aren't there any male whores at Terrick's Roost? Other than the ones you know well and from whom you're keeping secrets. I mean professionals. Money — and the promise of consistent patronage — should certainly purchase such a man's discretion.

Oh! And I am delighted to know your lovely friend Josse is coming home soon. He sounds quite a bit like me, and you need a me in your life, sweeting.

Cheer up, my brooding and melancholy flower! All will turn out as it should.

Now go pray. And fuck. Not necessarily in that order.

Forever yours, with love beyond expression,