The rain in the Riverlands had a particular talent for lingering. It soaked the fields, the roads, the tempers of the lords Baelor had come to pacify.

The quarrel itself was tiresome—two petty riverlords arguing over ferry rights along the Red Fork, each convinced the other had stolen tolls that rightfully belonged to him since the days of Aegon the Conqueror, if not the Dawn Age itself.

For three weeks Baelor listened to grievances, read ancient charters, and endured endless arguments about fish and ferries.

The work itself was not difficult.

The distraction was.

It began with the first raven.

Baelor received it while reviewing accounts at Lord Darry’s hall. The seal belonged to his newly married wife, and he opened it at once.

The first letter was sweet and proper—how the castle seemed dull without him, how she missed his company, how the boys trained hard in the yard.

Baelor smiled faintly and folded it.

Then he noticed the second letter tucked beneath the first.

Same hand. Same seal.

Different intent entirely.

Baelor opened it.

He read the first few lines.

Then he stopped.

The prince who had faced battlefields and councils of quarrelling lords suddenly found the room very quiet.

Where the first letter had been affectionate, the second was teasing, playful, and far less restrained.

His wife wrote that the nights were far too long without him and that she had begun remembering certain evenings shortly after their wedding—remembering them in remarkable detail. She wondered aloud whether Baelor missed them as much as she did, and whether he still remembered the particular way he had held her the last night before he left.

Baelor sat back slowly.

He folded the letter once.

Then unfolded it again.

Then read it once more.

He eventually tucked it carefully into his doublet, where it rested very close to his heart—and proved rather distracting to other parts of him as well.

The next raven arrived the following day.

Two letters again.

The first was respectable.

The second…

Baelor read it while alone in his chamber and immediately discovered that reading it while standing had been a mistake.

His wife had apparently decided that distance allowed for a degree of mischief she had not yet attempted in person. She wrote boldly about how lonely their bed felt, about the things she wished she could whisper in his ear if he were beside her rather than among damp Riverlords and ferry ledgers.

Baelor closed the letter and stared thoughtfully at the wall for a moment while adjusting his belt.

After that the ravens came nearly every day.

Two letters.

Always two.

Baelor began anticipating them in ways he did not entirely approve of.

During council meetings he would sit patiently listening to arguments about river boundaries while wondering whether a raven had arrived yet. Once, halfway through a discussion about toll revenues, he found himself smiling faintly to himself, which caused Lord Darry to assume Baelor had just thought of a particularly clever legal solution.

Baelor had in fact been remembering a paragraph from that morning’s second letter.

By the fourth week Baelor had developed the habit of reading the proper letter first—dutiful husband, attentive father—and the other letter afterward when he was quite certain no one would interrupt him.

He had married believing his young wife gentle, affectionate, perhaps even a little shy.

The letters suggested a woman who enjoyed teasing her husband when he was far away and powerless to respond.

When at last the riverlords signed their agreement and the quarrel ended, Baelor departed the next morning.

Baelor dismounted and crossed the yard toward her.

For a moment he simply looked at her, as though confirming she was not merely another ink-stained page.

“My lady,” he said quietly, leaning close enough that only she could hear him, “I believe you made a great many promises."

A hint of warmth touched his otherwise composed expression.

“And I have spent an entire month,” Baelor added, “wondering how faithfully you intend to keep them.”