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Dear Prince Daeron,
Grief is the most bitter of draughts. I am sorry to hear about the passing of your mother and with this letter come my sympathies, as well as some lavender dried by my own hand. It may help you sleep, should you find yourself restless. It grows in abundance in the Meadow, just in front of our Keep.
I am not sure if you will remember me—we met not too long ago in Highgarden and I taught you to play Maiden's Hand. (Though, I still cannot comprehend how you had never before heard of it? Perhaps it is a Reachland game, or you are merely uneducated!) I recall we were sat there for quite some time until we managed to play an entire round without any rule querying. It might do you well to practice in my absence, in case we meet again.
I met your mother only briefly, but always will I remember the purple dress she wore. I had not before seen the dress of the Dornish, only in the faded portraits peddled at the market in the Meadow. What beautiful colours and silks. Her smile was so bright and so kind that it almost outshone the gold across her eyelids. She spoke freely with my Father for some time, despite the difference in status, without a second thought. I can say with confidence that the world has lost a lovely soul, and I pray that the Seven look after her as she is guided to the Stranger. I shall light a candle in her honour, if that pleases you.
I lost my own Mother not too long ago—barely more than a full moon's turn. You do not need to respond to this letter, but do not hesitate to write should you like to speak with someone who understands your loss.
I do hope you are not suffering too much,
Lady Myrielle Ashford.