II-20: The Bard II
"Dael."
The word left Lord Veder's mouth like a hiss, and the bard stepped back instinctively at the sheer vitriol in the sound. His fingers twitched around his newly recovered lute—he'd heard murder in men's voices before, but never quite like this, never with such cold precision wrapped in burning hatred. Now there's a song waiting to be written, if I live to write it.
It happened in the blink of an eye.
Quite literally.
Oren closed his eyes for one moment, and the next opened them to see his savior wielding a blade of pure white. "By the Seven," he whispered, the words falling from his lips like a prayer.
The same blade he'd seen the young man wield last night, threatening any villager who dared stand against him after announcing the lord's crimes to all awake. The memory rang clear as a bell—the boy's voice carrying across the village square with all the authority of a king, while common folk gathered like moths to flame.
Like before, it made his breath catch in his throat with its beauty. White as the driven snow, with a perfectly round blue gem of great size where the hilt and crossguard would be if it had one. The whole thing was entirely smooth and made of the same material, with nothing to imply it was ever made by human hands.
Not even the finest smith in all the Seven Kingdoms could forge something so perfect, he thought, fingers itching to pluck at strings, to compose the ballad this weapon deserved.
A weapon out of myth and story and song, something crafted by spirits or gifted by gods. The kind of blade that appeared in the oldest tales, passed down through generations of singers. "The sword of morning light," he hummed under his breath, already composing, "born of starlight bright..."
This was something a Hero of Legend would drive into the heart of a dragon or wield against demons, not a simple tool of war but a symbol of divine right.
And it was wielded by the deft hands of a boy.
A boy who claimed he wasn't a lord.
Falsehood, if there ever was one, Oren thought, suppressing a laugh that threatened to bubble up despite the tension in the air. No, the bard knew nobility like he knew the strings of his lute, and this boy could have claimed to be the bastard son of Tywin Lannister himself and Oren would have doubted him simply for aiming so low.
Every gesture, every word that fell from the boy's lips sang of power beyond mere lordship. He wasn't sure where the boy hailed from, what part of Essos so steeped in magic that it could produce a lordling like this, or craft a blade as this one, but Oren felt the overwhelming need to pay that land a visit. What songs they must have there, what tales yet unsung...
That same blade was pointed directly at the neck of the guard on the ground, the man the lordling clearly knew if the violence in his eyes said anything.
"Grrrr..." The odd bear cub at the boy's side that couldn't be any simple bear clearly recognized the man as well, the way the animal's odd red eyes narrowed and the spark of raw flame somehow bubbling in its maw threatened to burst loose. The sound carried across the muddy town road, drawing fearful glances from the few townsfolk brave enough to linger near the inn.
Seven save me, but that's no natural beast. For his own safety, Oren felt the need to take a few more steps back, hiding his wooden instrument behind his back as if the lute might somehow draw the creature's attention. His fingers danced nervously but quietly across the strings, even still. The villagers who had dragged the guard to the lordling's feet clearly felt the same as they quickly allowed the boy space, boots squelching in the mud as they retreated.
"...Dael," Greg repeated the name, blue eyes flashing violently. The word cut through the crisp morning air as a cart creaked past on the far side of the road, its driver keeping his eyes carefully averted from the scene unfolding before the inn.
"Aye, that be me," the guard answered back, still smiling, voice marking him as a man of the Vale. His words danced with an odd lilt that seemed out of place this far North, a summer song played in winter. Even kneeling in the mud, there was something in his bearing that spoke of carefully crafted nonchalance, as if his current position was all part of some grand jest.
A Southerner then… Oren frowned slightly, loosening his grip on his lute as he reconsidered the boys origins. Was he wrong then? Was the Veder lordling a Westerosi?
"What are you doing here?" the blond spat, each word sharp. "Where's Merek?"
"I'm 'ere doing good honest work, simple as," Dael replied, his smile never wavering even as his accent thickened with what might have been fear.
Oren's brows rose as the blond's blue eyes hardened to chips of ice, growing even colder as the blade neared the man's neck. The Valeman's eyes widened slightly as beads of sweat trailed down his brow despite the morning chill, his careful composure cracking like an icy river on its first morning of Summer sun.
"Ah, n-not in th' mood for a jest, then?" Dael's voice wavered, sounding not too far from a poorly strung instrument, though his lips still curved upward in that persistent smile. The expression seemed more mask than mirth now, false as a copper dragon in a goldsmith's purse.
Greg remained silent, the sword's edge kissing the kneeling man's neck now. The blade whispered against skin, a song Oren knew well enough from tavern brawls gone wrong. He found himself unconsciously humming under his breath, a nervous habit that always emerged when violence threatened to erupt beneath an open sky.
"W-wait, wait!" A drop of blood slid off the sword as Greg pulled it away, red as a winter rose against the milk-white metal. The guard let out a shaky breath, smile still plastered on his face. "I'm jus' 'ere 'cause I reckoned runnin' 'bout wi' the good merchant was a quick way t' get meself killed, what with you roamin' free bout the North, unstoppable 'n all. Thought ye'd be on 'im first, I did. Foolish o' me, eh?"
Greg lowered the blade slightly but the violence in his gaze had yet to fade. "And Merek?"
"The good merchant scurried on back to 'is master, he did." The guard's words tumbled out in a broken melody, each syllable wavering with barely concealed fear. Oren's fingers twitched, longing to capture the tremor in that voice with his lute strings.
"Right daft of 'im, if ye ask me," Dael added with a stilted laugh that rang hollow as a broken bell, his accent growing thicker and thicker with his head on the line. "'igh Lord o' the Dread Lands ain't the sort to take kindly to failin', nah. A mercy it'd be at yer hands, that—quick, leastways."
Greg's face twitched, the movement slight enough that most would miss it. "Dread Lands… you mean the fucking Boltons?"
As if by instinct, Oren felt himself flinch at the name, many of the villagers around them doing just the same. There's a tune no mother sings her babe to sleep, he thought, remembering the whispered tales of flayed men that haunted every tavern in the North.
"Th' very same," Dael confirmed, his voice catching.
The young lordling went silent for a good bit, the boy's eyes flicking from side to side, clearly deep in thought. A hand reached back into the finely-made bag on his back, rifling around for a few good moments more. What now, my mysterious savior? Oren wondered, watching the boy's movements with growing curiosity.
Finally, Greg pulled out a straw-and-cloth doll.
Filthy the thing was, splattered with mud and something a bit too red to be mud, like wine spilled across a minstrel's finest doublet. He held it out to the man on his knees. "Do you know anything about this?"
Odd question, Oren thought, raising a brow as he watched the scene unfold before him.
"Nay, lad," Dael answered, his voice dancing between terror and forced levity. "Ain't never been one for playin' with dolls, no."
Greg frowned and sighed, letting his arm hang at his side with the doll. "What do you know of the guest that comes here to visit?" Each word fell cold and sharp as fresh icicles.
"The one what goes down to meet lord Snowthorn, is it?" Dael's words came faster now, a desperate stream of information.
"Yes." Greg's response cut through the air.
"Aye, the Bloody Snow, they call 'im," Dael continued, his accent growing thicker with each word, reminding Oren of how common men's speech slurred when fear or strong drink took hold of them. "Reckon he's Lord Bolton's little bastard, what I 'eard from the good merchant. Took the boy in after his trueborn son went and met with the Old Gods. That's wot 'e said, at least, how his men call 'im Lord Bolton an' all."
"His men?" Greg's voice carried an edge that made Oren stand up straighter.
"Them men o' his. Aye, his bastard boys, they call 'em, they're the ones always lurkin' 'round 'im." The guard's words spilled out now, barely controlled.
"...he hunts and kills people?" The boy's question lingered in the cold air. "He's been murdering for… for fun?"
"Men, aye." Dael nodded. "Flays 'em, too. Women and girls, 'e makes sure to 'ave a bit of fun first, 'fore all the rest."
Greg's hand tightened visibly around the doll as he spoke, his voice a controlled quiet that reminded Oren of the moment before a storm breaks, when even the birds fall silent. "...fun."
"Aye," Dael replied, the single syllable carrying all the weight of a funeral bell.
Greg's next question was direct as a blade thrust, his eyes narrowing slightly beneath that golden hair. "Where is he now?"
"Well," Dael responded, the words rolling off his tongue with a grim sort of amusement, "The bastard Lord... he was 'ere..." His voice danced through the words with practiced ease, before dropping to a more meaningful tone. "Didn't stay long to enjoy 'imself. 'Eard of a boy with a magic sword."
His eyes slid towards the blond lordling with a mix of mockery and challenge that made Oren's skin prickle. Dangerous words, those, he thought, watching the young lad's face for any hint of what might come next.
Greg's reaction was immediate, his eyes widening in disbelief, a spark of fear—or was it anger?—flaring deep within them. "...what?"
"Aye, you 'eard right," Dael continued, his smile widening like a fool reaching the satisfying ending of a particularly cruel jest.
"When?" Greg's voice was a low growl.
"Wot?" Dael smirked, clearly enjoying the control he wielded over the conversation, playing his part with eagerness.
Though he might find his audience less forgiving than most, Oren mused, noting how the young lord's fingers flexed around the hilt of his otherworldly blade.
Forgiving was putting it mildly.
With a sound that most would liken to an animal's growl, Lord Veder's patience snapped. The boy raised his sword again, blade whispering threats as it came to rest mere inches from Dael's neck, forcing the man to lean back slightly. "I said, when?"
Dael's eyes darted around, gauging his options like a rat seeking escape, then settled back on Greg. "But why would I tell ye if ye're to kill me anyway?"
The lordling's stare was unyielding, his sword steady.
"Promise on yer honor not t'have me killed or kill me yerrself, no takin' the Black, no gelding', none of that, ye see?" Dael said, his voice almost demanding despite its playfulness. "Let me go, if I tell ye."
Oren watched as the young highborn paused, the internal struggle clear on his face before the boy nodded curtly and his expression hardened to match a man twice his age, all the authority of a noble passing judgment as he spoke the words. "...I promise."
"Ah, good lad." The beaten guard's relief was palpable, though his smile remained sharp and cunning as a merchant's scales.
The boy took a step forward, voice still hard. "Now… When. Did. He. Leave?"
"'Bout eight, m'be nine days ago, I reckon... on horseback, he and his men was." Dael's smile took on a darker edge, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that seemed to slither through the air. "Went off t'ward Last Hearth, 'eard it was a village the boy was at for quite some time not too far from there."
Lord Veder nearly reared back but the lad held himself still as he leaned forward instead, sword still poised dangerously close to Dael's throat. "What."
"Aye," the guard's smile grew to a grin, stained teeth displayed proudly. "Bloody Snow's paying Frostfall a visit."