To be delivered to the hands of Lord Kreagor Agros.
Kager, Kavron, and I hope this letter finds you in good health and high spirits. Please pass along to Mother our love and inform her we are well.
Despite our own good health and relative safety, I fear these conditions will be tested a great deal in the days ahead. Four days ago an envoy sent by Stannis Baratheon arrived in Storms End under a flag of truce.
As one expects this envoy contained several members of Houses loyal to Stannis. Contained within the retinue was a woman, a Priestess of Rh’llor named Melisandre. She addressed King Renly directly and spoke as if she possessed the authority and desire of Stannis himself.
After making an obsurd demand of King Renly and calling it negotiation, she acted as if she were offended the King would not yield to her. She then threatened the King’s rule and stormed off taking the retinue with her, as if she were in command. Odd thing that. Stannis Baratheon allowing a Priestess to speak for him. I had heard rumors that he had taken a mistress, perhaps there is some truth in that one.
Later that same evening, there was an attempt on King Renly’s life. It did not come from an assassin disguised as a servant or a poisoned goblet, but from an unholy apparition. The Maester Niklaus called it a shadowborn, claiming it had been born with the specific task of killing King Renly.
I don’t know if this is true, but I saw this attacker multiply it’s number from one to six and move to attack all at once. It seemed to be both flesh and darkness and appeared in the form of Stannis Baratheon.
Lord Matteson, Lord Varian Stormwind, Lady Saris Shroud and myself managed to send the shadow back to where it haled, but not without the loss of some of our own blood.
Growing up you entertained us with stories of times when there was magic in the world. Talking of dragon’s, tree folk, and men who could command the animals. Beware Father, I fear these are no longer children’s stories.
Take care and be mindful of this. If the room begins to grow cold no matter the heat from the hearth, watch the shadows and draw your blade. By The Seven, I swear this to be true.
Your loving son,