Knowing Songs and Waking Dreams
Twenty Third Day of the Twelfth Month 293 AC
You have never held a lute before in your life and all protests aside your singing voice is naturally no better than Dany implied. Here and now none of that matters, your fingers find the chords unerringly, your voice strikes just the right notes as you recount the tale of the bold Ser Geralt passing under the shadow of death's woods where winter lingers under the eves.
With verse and melody you paint a picture not far from the truth of cold and lonely places where men huddle 'round their fires while in the woods dark things walk and to this place you add that figure dearest to a Reacher's heart. The knight errant bold and true off to hunt not common beasts but monsters, seeking neither glory, nor gold, nor even land to call his own but keeping safe the lives and souls of those who cannot protect themselves.
Rare is the day the good folk of Ashford wait with baited breath to hear of the fate of Free Folk in their haunted vales. Still, the whispering grows hushed, even tankards and cups furtively raised as you describe the glimpses the knight catches of the monster in the woods, a wolf's head, stag's antlers or hawk's wings only to be revealed at last to be all smashed together in a
horror, ready to snatch the hearts of their victims and feast upon them.
Was that a scream in the back? Perhaps you have been a little too skilled in describing monsters. The song flows on, accounting for how the bold knight bested the beasts with wit and cunning, nets and snares before he could face them with cold steel. Thus you sing to mark the battle's end:
"Yet that is not the tale's end for these were but the hunting hounds
And in those dreadful woods their masters' darkness yet abounds
What then, I ask you gentles all, did bold Ser Geralt choose to do?"
And thus the crowd sang back the now familiar refrain:
"He hunted foes, day into night passing, the cursed dark to hack and hew!"
Feet stomp and tankards are slammed into tables, a goodly bit of their contents spilled, unintended libations to your song while you carried the story ever onward from slavering beasts to evil more sublime. You sing of the cold notes high and pitiless and winter's chill embrace winding in the wind and sinking through steel that had guarded the knight so well and then to your surprise Rina begins to sing alone. Her voice is fair, her words are measured with some skill she had learned in girlhood, but it is the
knowledge heavy in those words that seems to steal the breath from listeners' lips. A chill falls upon the common room, an echo of the deadly cold.
For a moment you worry that it might pain her to recount such grim matters in this game of wit and song, but the smile is still upon her lips, her expression one of relief.
To sing of the Others not as a looming threat or ancient peril, but as a foe that can be vanquished with courage in one's heart and a sword in hand... Not hard to see how that might be.
For his part Ser Richard waits patently, as you extol his virtues and his skills against 'the ice fey at the world's edge', drawing from the memory of a score duels and more. Faints and prairies, leaps and clever dodges, the crowd hangs upon your every word and at the last verse when your proclaim the ice fey fallen the cheers shake the rafters.
***
Twenty Fourth Day of the Twelfth Month 293 AC
The day the joust is to begin dawns warm and clear, though not as quiet as you might have hoped. You are startled from reading the preliminary inquisitorial report on Lord Dayne and his favored septon by the sound of angry voices downstairs. On their own angry voices in a tavern are hardly of note even at this hour of the morning, but your hearing is sharp enough to catch some of the words.
"Fey..."
"Beast... he's one of them stag monsters that tear your heart out..."
"Fetch Ser Geralt quick, it must've followed him here..."
You have been entangled in quite a few odd situations over the years, but sometimes you doubt a peryton would be considerate enough to let a tavern's patrons argue over its nature rather than simply ripping their hearts out. Which is not to say it couldn't be dangerous if they antagonize the wrong spirit, you know, recalling Lord Owen's supposed penchant for fey friends.
Ser Richard is predictably already outside the door waiting for Dany and you to come down and Rina is not far behind. "I can't feel anything...
cold," she assures you as the four of your rush down the stairs.
You nod, expecting the answer, though before you can reply aloud you see the cause of the commotion, all three hundred pounds of him garbed in gleaming armor, his cloak red as autumn leaves rippling in some unfelt breeze. He might have been confused for nothing more than a knight, if an exceptionally well armed and armored one, if he did not have the head of a stag crowned with delicate back-swept antlers.
The warrior's eyes sweep over the head of the frightened and stuttering innkeeper to meet Ser Richard's. "Ser Geralt I presume, for I see nothing of you or your companions but what the eyes of flesh can tell," turning to you he nods a second greeting. "And you are the bard who sang with such knowing skill of those Fallen to Night. Tell me, oh Buttercup, how did you know to sing the tale you did?" From the way his gaze lingers on Rina it is clear he has some suspicion already.
As he speaks you notice that several more knights have entered the tavern after him, all mortal or seeming thus, bearing the arms of House Ashford, House Leygood and a red-apple Fossoway.
What do you reply?
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OOC: I struggled a bit with getting the feel of the song across. Hopefully it worked out even with only a few verses proper included.