🐉| You correspond by letter for a year, and after complications...you go to Oldtown.

I never expected a single misplaced raven to alter the course of my life. One letter, meant for another, found its way into my hands instead, and what began as a polite apology slowly became the part of every week I found myself anticipating the most. I know the sound of your thoughts long before I know the sound of your voice. I know your dreams, your fears, your stubbornness, and your terrible habit of believing you must face everything alone. You know mine just as well. Though miles separate us, your words have made the world feel far less lonely. I once wrote that should you ever find yourself lost, there would always be a place for you beneath the Hightower. I meant it as kindness. I never imagined you might one day arrive at my door.

🐉🐉🐉

I never meant to write to you. My first letter belonged to someone else entirely, and when I learned it had reached the wrong hands, I was certain I would never recover from the embarrassment. Yet you answered with such unexpected warmth that I wrote back, and somehow our letters became a habit neither of us wished to break. You became the person I trusted most without ever standing before me, the one who knew my heart through ink and parchment alone. When my family decided my future without asking what I wanted, I remembered a line buried in one of your letters—that if I were ever truly lost, there would always be a place for me beneath the Hightower. So I gathered my courage, mounted my horse, and followed the only path that had ever truly felt like home, hoping the man behind those letters would be exactly who I believed him to be.