THE DARK LADY
"A table, Lady Chataya, a table," declared Fyn the Fiddler ringingly, slamming his hand upon the counter, "and drinks all around for me and my compatriots."
Chataya eyed the musician critically. As usual Fyn looked like a man on the verge of going to seed, but not quite there. "I'll give you neither for free, Fyn. You've been given a great deal of credit here, and proven tardy in paying it. When you bother to pay at all."
The minstrel grunted and tossed a bagful of coin on the counter before her. "I have been retained for the formal elevation of Janos Slynt to the True and Honorable Masters…"
Chataya rolled her eyes at that. "My, I wonder why they would choose you..."
Fyn tugged at one of his jug ears. "If you are implying that I have only gotten hired because of family connections, rest assured, you misjudge things. My nuncle and I are not on the best terms. Besides, I have also been retained for the wedding at Rollingford." He gestured to the bag. "This should cover today, and indeed a good portion of what I owe on top of that."
Chataya took up the bag, and poured it out, looking for bad and shaved coins. She found none, as it appeared for once Fyn was only somewhat exaggerating his funds. "A portion," she said, "though its goodness I will leave to your opinion."
Fyn bowed with a flourish, twirling his ridiculous white and black cape as he did so, then went off to join a party of musicians who were settling near the window. They had all brought their instruments with them, something that she found strangely worrying, especially with Myrthe sitting there, looking fretfully out the window with little Marei on her lap. When Vaettoria went to serve the drinks, Chataya waved her away and took the tray over to their table herself.
"...gone on too long," muttered Hamish the Harper. "Lords start spending all their coin on swords not songs when the blooding keeps on so."
"So I've oft heard," said Fyn grinning, "and yet I'm doing as well as ever."
"You make that sound as if it is impressive," snapped Ilyn the Red.
The fiddler insolently rested his feet upon the table. "I may never have the fits of being fashionable that some of you experience, but I never lack for work. Men will always hire a fiddle of quality."
"Then how is it they hire you?" said Ralf the Robin. There was a general burst of laughter from the gathering, that seemed to increase somewhat when Chataya put the drinks down. Fyn gave a sigh.
"Mock and make merry of me, while you live off my coin," he said, taking his drink. "I can bear it. But do not come crawling to me, begging that I put in a good word with the Masters or Lord Wyce."
"You should be glad the Rollingfords are hosting the wedding," said Ilyn. "I played at Lord Frey's a few months ago, and was barely paid. Aye, and fed cold meat and soup that was barely warmer." He scowled then shook his head. "And then there was the bedding." Ilyn shut his eyes and shuddered.
"Well, I won't have to deal with the sight of Lord Weasel naked," said Fyn. "Just him clucking, like as not with Lord Catfish clucking back at him."
"Oh, Gods, they will both be there, won't they?" said Hamish.
"Shawney was at Lord Frey's wedding," noted Ilyn. "You think he'd give up a free meal? He and Lord Walder shared some conversation on the new Lady Frey." He stared bleakly at his drink. "Faith, 'twas horrible."
"Well, consider this great good fortune," said Ralf. "We are unlikely to see the old lecher wed again. By the Seven, I'm amazed that he didn't die practicing his marital rights."
"He has not," said Hamish. "Indeed, the Lady Annara is with child."
Ilyn winced at that. "Well, 'tis true what my father taught me. It is the wicked things that endure in this fallen world." He took a long swallow of his drink, as his fellows shared a chuckle.
Chataya slipped over to Myrthe's side. The blonde gave her a nervous smile. "L-lady Chataya. I… I am just getting some air. And sunlight. I feel.. I am…"
"You don't need to excuse your actions to me," said Chataya. "Are you sure it is best to do this?"
Myrthe bit her lip and nodded. "I… thought she should see him, as he went," she noted, gesturing to the child on her lap.
Chataya regarded Marei gravely. "I see."
"If you think I shouldn't…" spat out Myrthe.
"I would say no such thing," said Chataya. "It is your choice."
Myrthe nodded at this. "Would… would Alayaya like to…"
"He is nothing to her," said Chataya flatly.
"But…" began Myrthe, but then silenced herself. She smiled nervously. Chataya nodded and walked away.
"...Not going to get much work from this king," said Ralf as she passed the table. "Not a music loving man. Not a man who loves much of anything, to be honest."
A younger singer Chataya didn't know, a slightly chubby man with an already receding hairline, looked at Ralf levelly. "There's always the queen. If the husband will not let you in, why, there's always the wife in my experience."
Ralf gave a dry laugh at that. "Not this queen, Symon. She may smile in public, but at the heart of her, she is as unsociable and grim as her husband. I've heard from the servants the pair can happily spend hours together, glancing at books and exchanging a few words with each other at intervals."
The younger singer chuckled at that. "A very merry marriage, that."
"He's already gotten her with child," noted Hamish, "so it's clearly merry enow."
"Ahoy, is there room at this table for another singer?" Alaric of Eysen strode to the table, and glanced at Chataya. "A drink if you please. I've a thirst for something dark and bitter."
"Alaric," said Fyn as the other singer sat down. "I'd heard you were in Lys, growing rich."
"You heard wrong, my friend," answered Alaric. "I was in Lys, growing poor." He shook his head. "You'll not see me go to that accursed city again, and I would advise every one of you to keep well clear of it. For each coin I made, three I spent, and each gift, it came with a cost."
Ralf rolled his eyes at that. "A pity your tongue was not part of it."
"Ill grace, Robin," said Alaric. "Not that I expect much better from you."
"Any news from Essos?" asked Hamish.
"Enough to tell you all to stay clear of it," replied Alaric. "In Lys, they shout of Lord Eseylis, slain before his time by treachery. In Tyrosh, they speak of the Golden Cup and its theft. Both sides sharpen their knives and whisper to Myr, Pentos and Volantis. Meanwhile, all over the Narrow Sea the Widow All in White is hiring crews and ships with abandon-there will come a reckoning from the Master of the Last, Lonely House in time or he will be the Master no longer.
"And elsewhere… a wizard with an army of ghosts has conquered the Lamb Men, or so men say, but news from that far east is frequently half a rumor, half a lie. What is certain is the Dothraki move west in numbers unheard of for reasons none can tell. Some say they do so because they imagine the Stallion that Mounts the World has been revealed, others because Vaes Dothrak has been destroyed. Whatever the cause, they are moving. The Prince of the Tall Men goes about asking for aid, for he says that the Horselords will destroy Saath if they are allowed to. Ib has joined him and they have raised a wall of wood to protect the City of White Walls, but more is needed.
"The Ivory King has built a fleet and sailed from the Isle of the Elephants to the Cinnamon Straits, demanding tribute. He has largely gotten it, and now boasts a fortune of spice as great as his fortune of ivory, but the guilds of Qarth are displeased. Blood will be shed there. And in Volantis, a group of merchants looking to recoup losses from having their ships seized in King's Landing did some slaving in the Basilisk Isles during the rainy season. They brought back the Red Death. The Triarchs caught it in time, and burnt the ships and the slave pens. As well as the slaves. And the men who brought them. Unpleasant, but otherwise, we would be looking at a more dreadful plague than when the grey fever struck Pentos."
"It cannot be so bad as that," said Ralf.
"When it swept through Port Yhos a century ago, the city lost seven of every ten," said Alaric. "It was close to a ruin for a generation after that. And that was one of the milder outbreaks." He shook his head. "A vile disease. And a lingering one. It can lie in wait, after the initial outbreak, only to start again. It was years before it was finally done with Yhos. I hear the Qartheeni sent slaves and criminals to handle the burning after the last wave of deaths. Razed much of the city to the ground before they judged it safe again."
"So how are the Volantenes sure they have taken care of it?" asked Fyn.
"Those slave pens are well outside the city proper, and when the Alchemists burn something, they burn it," said Alaric. "But the Triarchs are keeping their eyes open for now."
"Cheerful thought," said Ilyn.
"Up fellows," said Fyn suddenly, rising from his seat. "Lord Lannister arrives, and well, as I told you, it's up to us to see him off." Chataya froze as she heard this. Her eyes went to the window as she heard the sounds of hoofs and footsteps tramping down the Street of Silks. She saw him, from the corner of her eye then, on a great chestnut steed, at the head of his men. And then the musicians began to play.
It took her a moment to recognize the tune, for they played it differently, jaunty and quick, as if for a jig. But when she did, Chataya's breath froze in her body. The Rains of Castamere, she realized. They play it to mock him. She looked through the window then, to see him. He seemed to stiffen slightly on his horse, but perhaps that was only in her imagination. Whatever occurred, Tywin wrapped his cloth-of-gold cloak around him, and rode on, the Lord of Casterly Rock, as the sounds of The Rains of Castamere played as a sprightly dance tune echoed down the Street of Silks.
The men laughed as they sat back down, while Myrthe carried her daughter away. "Oh, faith," laughed Ralf, "that lifted my spirits it did."
"Gentlemen," said Fyn, raising his drink, "to Lord Lannister, and more specifically, seeing the back of him. May the sharpness of this pleasure be increased by never having to repeat the action-let him stay a long way hence from this fair city."
"Hear, hear!" declared Ralf, then gulped down the remainder of his drink. Most of the rest of the group followed his example, though Alaric nursed his wine as if he wished it to last a very long time.
Chataya went to gather their drinks. "You all kick Lord Lannister hard, when he's on the ground," she noted quietly, half-surprised that she did so.
"Men such as Tywin Lannister will not allow you to kick them when they are standing," said Fyn quietly. "You could ask Olwen Sweetsong, or Lucas o' the Lute, or Wylla the White Rose, but alas, none are here to answer you. It is… odd how that has worked out." He shrugged. "Or perhaps it isn't. It has been miserable having him here these many long years, and miserable having him back these long months. The most human of all actions is to celebrate the end to misery. And I will not be chided for being human." There was a general murmur of assent to this, and a smattering of applause.
"There are others going," she noted. "I am leaving this city, soon."
The table grew silent for a moment. The musicians glanced among themselves, and then Hamish stood. "Lady, speaking for myself, let me say it sorrows me to hear you are going and wish you all success and happiness in your endeavors… wherever they should lead you." Another general murmur of assent followed.
"If you're looking to sell," noted Fyn, "my nuncle is always interested in owning another… tavern."
"Where do you plan to go?" asked Alaric.
'Wherever it is that whores go,' came Tywin's voice unbidden to her mind. "Tyrosh," Chataya said.
"A wise choice," noted the minstrel. "Lys has as much poison as it has brothels. And it has many brothels." Alaric glanced away awkwardly, and coughed. "I am certain you will do well there. But truth be told, I suspect you would do well anywhere."
Chataya nodded at this, and then headed away, indicating to Fennella that she should take care of the table. She went to the room where her daughter was sleeping, picked the child up, and held her, for a long, long time.