Mummers' Show
I don't own anything and I don't make any profit out of writing this.
Chapter 1
A Rider from the North
Where Mance Rayder arrives south
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Elder Brother
A rider came in the night from the North.
He proudly carried a worn, light-coloured cloak, adorned with some rare white and grey fur on its fringes. The hood of the cloak was black. Red threads were sewn through the material, clearly visible in the dark fabric.
The monks masked their surprise under the cowls, for few could find their island with the waters risen high since the white raven came from the Citadel announcing the end of the long summer. It was going to take some time before any semblance of winter would descend on the riverlands, but it had rained so much in the past weeks that the Quiet Isle became wholly cut off from the rest of Westeros by the flooded streams flowing into the Trident.
The rider came on a strange barge made of wet logs and loose morsels of weapons of which the rivers had been full for years, since the start of the War of the Five Kings. His horse swam, a dark brown beast, looking self-assured and not threatened in an unpleasant situation, just like his master. The man was not old, nor very young, he must have seen at least two winters already, but not more. His hair was long and dull brown, with grey hairs plainly visible in the uncouth parts around his ears. He looked as if he could use a good wash and combing but for some reason not even the Elder Brother dared suggest it. For his dark eyes harboured an expression much seen in these parts, that of a man who had seen entirely too much of war. And one could never tell for certain what such men were up to.
Under his cloak he wore a simple black tunic and breeches, bear leather shoes, a pouch with some coin, a writing quill, a longsword and a lute.
"I'm travelling to King's Landing," he told the Elder Brother as soon as he arrived. "I hear they need singers over there, with the times getting difficult and all. The people could use some distraction before the winter comes."
"One man alone could find it arduous to cross unharmed all the way to the capital," the Elder Brother said, the image of calm reigning over his features. "You were fortunate so far, but it only becomes worse when you go farther south. You can stay here for the night if you wish and I would advise you to seek some company for the road."
"I will take your words under consideration," said the rider, taking off his cloak with regal bearing. He led his horse into the custody of the monks lurking behind, who obeyed the unspoken order and took the animal away.
A simple meal was served for all in a large room which could have been a tavern if it didn't belong to the Seven, represented by a candle holder in the shape of the seven-pointed star. There was porridge, and more porridge, dried apples and cheap ale.
The tallest of all monks skulked in the corner, almost immobile, observing the foreigner from a well practised state of aloofness, eager to ask questions about the north, and whether highborn girls red of hair with blue eyes could be found over there, with or without their dwarf husbands. Speaking was not allowed so he didn't break the vow he never took, loyal as a dog to his new masters.
The rider spoke more freely after the meal.
"I don't suppose any of the brothers has a need to go to King's Landing."
"Some might," said the Elder Brother. "There's this rumour about a trial by combat of the Queen Regent, where a champion of the faith will be required. It should pass in four weeks."
"Any other travellers that I could join?"
"There is a girl with her sick father and a few unruly knights, their leader is called Ser Shadrich, I believe. Or Mad Mouse if you prefer that," the Elder Brother unwillingly volunteered more information.
"A girl? Interesting. Could I speak to them?" asked the guest touching a few strings on his lute, checking if it was well tuned.
"Before I answer that, why a sudden change of heart? I don't believe it was my words that moved you to continue south with some companions, or the quality of our cooking," the Elder Brother asked politely.
"If it pleases you," said his dinner companion, mockingly, "sometimes a song is not enough. A mummers' show could be much better. See, I've written a lengthy song about a dragon prince and a wolf girl, which begs to be enacted. It could amuse the crowd in King's Landing no end, and bring me some much needed coin."
The Elder Brother was not pleased. "A dragon prince and a wolf girl, you say. What do you know about such noble animals?"
"Me? Nothing. But I know a few things about taking care of people," said the rider, carelessly, striking his lute a few times as if to underline his words.
The tallest monk started collecting the empty plates and tankards. When he passed the newcomer from the north, he stumbled and dropped all the dishes in his lap. After a very clumsy and insincere attempt at cleaning, the imposing brother left in long strides, presumably in the direction of the kitchens.
"What's wrong with him?" asked the northerner, wiping the rests of porridge from his bony knees, curious, observing the stature and the markings of the man who just disrespected him.
"He led a life of violence before he was brought to us by the will of the Seven. A while ago when he came here he would have cut you in half for what you just said," the Elder Brother smiled in a benign fashion.
"He could try," the guest challenged his words. "But why would he want to do that?"
"He might have a care or two for wolf girls," replied the Elder Brother not moving any of his facial muscles, observing the stranger's reaction like a bird of prey ready to dive forward.
"These are good tidings for my play. I found a dragon prince then!"
"Good luck with convincing him to take part," said the Elder Brother and stood up to retire for the night. "I will let you talk to the girl's father tomorrow."
"Thank you, brother," the northerner replied in earnest, exhibiting the stern straightforwardness of the people from the far cold end of Westeros for the first time that evening.
The Elder Brother recalled they had a reputation of being plain stupid in the south, unable to look after themselves in a world which was every bit like a single great bog. Just like in the Neck, the swamp was often deeper than it looked. And there were one too many lizard-lions swarming on the inside.
Mance
The morning was chilly and it started raining again. The visitor from the north stood with the Elder Brother in front of a cottage where the girl and her sick father were staying since their arrival. None of the knights who accompanied them stood guard. The monk knocked at the door, which was immediately opened by a slender white hand in long, brown travelling dress, matched with a set of dark brown hair and clear blue eyes in stark contrast with the overall simplicity of the girl's demeanour.
"My name is Mance and I'm a singer," the visitor said, risking his name. It was a common one and not every Mance was the King-beyond-the-Wall. He noticed the girl wincing slightly at the mention of his profession, wondering why anybody would be afraid of singers.
"I'm going to King's Landing," he said, "and I hear that so are you. Perhaps we could travel together and you could be the first listeners for the new songs I mean to sing in the capital."
"I am most pleased to meet you, good ser," the girl answered politely, with only a touch of fear in her voice. "And I would be glad to hear your songs. Be as it may, you should present your proposal to my father."
"Ever a dutiful daughter," commented the Elder Brother from behind, and Mance thought he overheard a note of reproach in his voice, as if the honourable monk did not approve of the girl's course of action.
"May I inquire your name, lady..." Mance tried his best to use the names appropriate for those whose heritage was south of the Wall, with all the lords and ladies kneeling before each other in the right order. And there are no monsters here, no monsters at all.
"Please, I am no lady," she said, sounding way older than her age, "I am Alayne Stone, natural daughter of Lord Petyr Baelish, Lord Paramount of the Trident. Come in, please. I will present you to my father."
"I will leave you in the honourable company," said the Elder Brother and left rapidly down the hill as if he had been waiting for the first courtesy-wise acceptable moment to do so.
"Brother!" Mance called after the tall monk trotting down towards the main settlement, refusing to look back. "We found ourselves a wolf girl!"
"Pardon me, ser, what did you just say?" the girl inquired, her cheeks flushed with the slightest hue of pink.
"Wolf girl. Does it bother you if I call you that way? Hair colour of ash, just like it should be," said Mance, approvingly.
The girl measured him from tip to toe, fixating his lute, and in particular his dark eyes with the blue of her own. Turning sharply backwards as if to check that no one was listening, she slowly answered his question with one of her own: "On your travels, ser, have you seen a long room in a castle made of stone, where the lord and the lady allowed the smallfolk to sit at their table, separated only by a slightly raised dais. I sometimes dream about it and I wonder if it even exists."
Mance now looked at the girl as if he saw her for the first time for real before he dared speaking a small part of the truth. "Maybe, once, I sang about Bael the Bard in the place that you have seen only in your dreams, in the faraway land where the blood of the earth runs red."
"Thank you for talking to a silly girl," she said, fully in control of her expression once more, "it would gladden my heart if my father would agree with your proposal. Honest company is hard to come by in these troubled times."
Mance Rayder entered the cottage, prepared to encounter that Lord Paramount of the Trident, about whom he knew next to nothing. And already the sound of the title was making him believe that he would have no love for the man. So be it, he thought. The Elder Brother was nonetheless right about one thing. He needed travelling companions. A mummers' play, well written, could go way further in convincing the real listeners he had in mind of the truthfulness of his story than even the best performance he could give on his lute, before his life would be forfeit.
If saving my people demands sharing bread and mead with Lords Paramounts of the Trident and their likes, he thought, I'm going to do it gladly.
The Gravedigger
The tallest monk was bent under the hill at the edge of the main settlement where graves had to be dug almost every day. He laboured in a company of an old blind dog, forgotten at the Quiet Isle by a wandering septon. The grave he worked on was half way done when he observed the Elder Brother leading the northerner up the hill to meet whoever was hiding in the cottage at the far end of the monks' colony already for a week. The Gravedigger was never curious. The three knights that guarded the hidden guests were among the sorriest one he had met in his former life of a killer, so he didn't bother to find out whom they were supposed to be guarding.
But now a northerner went up there, so he was irresistibly drawn to see what was going to happen.
The girl, or better, a young woman who opened the door could not be real. No. A ghost of his forcefully sober mind, then. Had he been drinking since he woke up among the monks, he could attribute the vision either to stupor or to wishful thinking. But his tortuous mind was much too clear, clearer than he ever wanted it to be.
And he would have known her among millions.
The Gravedigger continued digging the grave ferociously, with unmeasured strokes, until every limb in his large body hurt. His fingers itched to hold a greatsword. An impulse ran through his veins, to cut somebody's throat, or to slice a man in two, just like that, for no reason at all. If only he could forget what he saw!
He knew that he could not.
So he put the latest corpse in the hole, and he didn't pray to the Seven as the Elder Brother tried to convince him to do.
He prayed to the Stranger to show him the way.