(Delivered as soon as possible by a hired courier into Ser Rygar's hands only, yet closed with the seal of the Lady of the Roost, written in a carefully, precise script.)
My dear Ser Rygar,
I write to you in this not with my lord husband's nor my son's knowledge, not as Terrick to Nayland, nor as woman to man. I write to you as a parent would to another, seeking you to understand my own position as you hold sway over my firstborn, the first to come from my own womb and nurse at my breast.
Ser Jarod Rivers tells me of your intent to execute Jaremy Middleton, he who took my own name and lead a rebellion against lands that you hold. My husband's son suggests we look to the Lord and Lady of Stonebridge for compassion, but I look to you, Ser, who knows how it feels to hold your own blood in your arms and nurse them from tit to toddler. Whatever mistakes Ser Jaremy has made, some fault must lie in myself.
The name Middleton must not do much to incite your trust, nor your inclination to listen to my words, but I must beg of you at least the compassion to allow my son to serve his life to the Wall rather than ending it. I would be remiss if I did not remind you that a mother's heart will be broken or saved by your command, her eternal enmity or gratitude won.
For you do not have my enmity now, Ser, not as it stands. I may have married the Terrick cause, but I am a Middleton and not part of your feud. My lord husband and his sons must have no commonality with you, but I will find it where I may and make what concessions I can to save Jaremy from his own mistakes. That is my purpose in life, and has been since I felt my womb quicken.
I would rip my heart from my chest, spill my own blood and tarnish my soul if it would save my son. So I beg you, on the promise of an ally and whatever you wish for your help, to spare my son.
Yours in truth,