II-18: The Bard

His body was sprawled across the cold, damp stone floor of his cell, the sparse straw beneath him offering little more comfort than a maiden's chaste kiss. Each labored breath formed a misty cloud in the frigid air, dissipating quickly in the shadowy confines of the dungeon. Water dripped somewhere in the darkness, each drop marking time like a tired heartbeat.

The meager light that filtered down from the tiny, barred window high above played tricks on his eyes, casting ghostly shadows across the walls that shifted with his slurred singing. Seven above, even these shadows move with more grace than half the mummers in White Harbor, he thought, watching them drift. His fingers twitched involuntarily, seeking the familiar touch of his beloved lute, now surely adorning some guard's chambers as a trophy. The phantom sensation of worn wood beneath his fingertips made his heart ache more than any of his physical discomforts.

"Still got breath for singing, do ye?" The guard's voice rasped through the feeding slot, followed by the scrape of a wooden bowl across stone. "Lord says every drop, understand?"

He turned his head slowly toward the sound, the motion making his vision swim. "Such concern for my wellbeing. I'm... touched." The words came out thick and clumsy, his tongue refusing to cooperate. Even my voice betrays me now.

The days melded into one another, marked only by the scant meals slid through the slot at the base of his cell door and the brief, harrowing visits from the guards. Their boots struck against the stone floor with grim purpose, each approaching step making his skin crawl. The sound meant either more drugged gruel or fresh questioning about matters he couldn't—wouldn't—reveal.

He'd been trapped in this gloomy underworld for what felt like half a moon's turn, though it could have been longer. Time flowed strange down here, each hour stretching endlessly. The stone walls loomed in the dim light, their rough surface creating patterns his mind struggled to ignore. Sometimes he caught himself counting the cracks in the stone until the numbers blurred together like wet ink on parchment.

"The bear and the maiden fair, oh the bear, the bear..." he mumbled, his voice thick and drowsy. The familiar tune helped keep his wits about him, even as the numbing concoction they mixed into his meager meals worked its evil magic. "Black and brown and covered in hair..." His limbs felt as though they were encased in thick ice, and his head was perpetually clouded, thoughts and speech slow and slurred like prayers from a septon far too deep in his cups. This sickening shite they called a meal kept him and all the others down here weak on purpose, too feeble to consider escape, too disoriented to shout for help or rally against their captors.

He gagged at the taste of it every time. The mere sight of the grey sludge sliding from wooden spoon to cracked bowl made his stomach clench in protest. In fact, it was getting to be around that time...

Clever bastards, the young man mused to himself, forcing down another spoonful of the greyish slop they called food. The texture reminded him of porridge left too long in winter's chill, congealed and grainy against his tongue. He'd learned to stretch it out, taking tiny bites throughout the day instead of wolfing it down like the others did. The food was vile, but starvation was not a choice, and the slower he ate, the less the poison seemed to addle his mind.

"She kicked and wailed, the maid so fair..." The words tumbled from his lips unbidden, filling the oppressive silence. Through the haze, he noticed patterns in the stone walls he hadn't seen before - faces in the rough-hewn rock that seemed to watch with hollow eyes. He was not alone in his misery—in the adjacent cells, four other souls shared his grim fate, though they were too drugged to appreciate his attempts at lightening the mood.

"Please," a weak voice whispered from the right. "Please, someone..."

One particularly loud sob broke through the usual din, pulling him from his thoughts. He rolled onto his side, facing the direction of the noise, his patience worn thin by the constant display of despair. The movement sent waves of dizziness through him, but he fought it down. "Shut up, will ye?" he snapped, his voice echoing slightly in the confined space. "I've been here longer than any of ye, and you don't hear me bawling!"

The crying subsided to whimpers, then silence. The newest additions, a couple, had arrived just days ago, their condition much like his own upon arrival—barely conscious and poisoned into compliance. Their fine clothes had been reduced to rags, much like his own. He had overheard the guards muttering about thievery, a convenient accusation for rounding up undesirables. As false as a mummer's smile, he thought bitterly, remembering how the guards had laughed while dragging them down the stairs.

Yet, his imprisonment was no such fabrication. The truth of it burned worse than the poison they fed him. He was a bard, and his downfall had been a song—one that had too boldly mocked the castellan. The memory of that night still rang clear as a bell, untouched by the fog that clouded his other thoughts. The Frozen Hearth had been alive with the sounds of feast and revelry, cups clinking against wooden tables in time with his strings, creating a rhythm as natural as breathing.

One of his favorites, if he was being as honest as any true son of the Seven should. The corners of his mouth twitched at the memory, even as his head swam from the latest dose of whatever vile concoction they'd mixed into his gruel.

And it was the greatest duty of a bard to speak true, especially if the truth was worth coin from entertained smallfolk. His fingers traced idle patterns in the damp straw as he recalled the way copper and silver had rained onto the tavern floor that night, glinting in the firelight like fallen stars. It helped even moreso when that truth came from the wagging tongues of eager serving maidens of the lord's keep and if he had to wag his tongue a little in return, well...

It was only fair, after all. One good tongueing deserves another, eh? The thought brought a ghost of his old smile to his face, though his cracked lips protested the movement.

His fingers twitched now, muscle memory seeking phantom strings as the verses danced through his mind:

"The master's tongue be sharp as steel,
Slips down his throat with every meal.
In halls of stone, he takes his fill,
A sword-fed man with iron will."

The cold air of his cell seemed to carry the whispered words away into darkness, each syllable disappearing into shadow like smoke.

He keeps his blade so near his lips,
With murmurs low 'bout sword and grip.
Yet whispers say, when fires grow low,
That steward's taste runs strange, ye know."

He shifted against the damp wall, letting his head fall back against the rough stone. The chill helped clear his thoughts, if only for a moment.

The words had flowed sweet as summer wine that night, and the crowd's laughter had been sweeter still. Every face in the tavern had turned toward him, eyes bright with drink and mirth as the truth of his verses sank in. Worth every moment in this hole, he thought, a smile tugging at his cracked lips. His cell might be cold and dark, but the warmth of that moment still burned bright in his memory, untouched by the poison in his veins.

Even now, he made sure to sing it often, whenever there would be guards or servants near to hear. The stone walls carried his voice far beyond his cell, he knew, threading through corridors like invisible rope. He'd catch them sometimes, humming the tune as they passed his cell, trying to hide their smirks. Their attempts at concealing their amusement only made his imprisonment more bearable. All the best to keep it alive. All the best for fame.

All the best to make that bastard suffer, he allowed himself a slow smirk, feeling the skin of his lips crack slightly with the motion. Let him hear it whispered in every shadowed corner of his precious keep. The thought warmed him more than any blanket could.

"The master's tongue..." he began to mumble, but his tune was cut short by the sound of the dungeon door creaking open, its rusty hinges groaning under the strain like an old man's joints, echoing ominously through the stone corridors. Now, what is it?

A shaft of light from the hallway spilled into the dark depths of his prison, momentarily blinding him. The sudden brightness sent daggers of pain through his skull, forcing him to turn away as spots danced across his vision. The light threw exaggerated, monstrous shadows on the walls, all dancing wildly like bawdy revelers at a feast gone wrong, their shapes twisting and writhing against the damp stone.

Heavy, deliberate footsteps resonated on the stone floor, each step making his heart thud painfully in his chest—not in anticipation of rescue but in dread of what fresh hell might be forthcoming. The throbbing in his temples intensified with each approaching step. The steps fell in an unfamiliar rhythm, neither the steady drum of the guards nor the shuffling gait of the servants who most often brought their meager meals. His fingers curled into the moldering straw beneath him, body tensing despite the weakness that plagued his limbs.

As the keys jangled and the lock on his cell door clanked open—gods, but even the lock has a better sense of rhythm than half the mummers in White Harbor—he squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for the worst. By all Seven of the Hells, did he hate White Harbor. The city had proven as cold and treacherous as its waters. The metallic scrape of key against lock sent shivers down his spine, each click echoing in the confined space.

"Hey," came a soft voice, startlingly gentle in the oppressive gloom of the dungeon, like a maiden's song amid a warrior's chorus. The unexpected gentleness of it made him wonder if the poison had finally addled his wits completely.

Hey? What in the Seven Hells is a h- He cautiously opened one eye, squinting against the dim light that seemed to pierce his skull. The cramped cell swam before him, its edges blurring and sharpening with each heartbeat. A young boy stood there, his features noble, with eyes as blue as the summer sky and hair that shone like Lannister gold—a stark contrast to the dreary, dark cell. The boy carried himself with the easy grace of one born to command, though his dark cloak spoke of stealth rather than station. Through the fog of poison and fatigue, he noted the quality of the cloth, the way it draped just so across young shoulders.

"Don't worry," the boy reassured, hand flashing a key to what could only be his chains, the metal catching the light like a copper star. The key gleamed as it moved, drawing his wandering attention. "I'm here to get you out."

"R... rescue?" Uncharacteristically of him, the bard found himself stumbling over words as his voice cracked, the syllables refusing to dance upon his tongue as they usually did. The poison in his blood made his thoughts swim like leaves in an autumn wind, scattering and regathering with maddening inconsistency.

"Yeah," the boy replied, his smile bright and white as his hair was gold. The expression seemed to illuminate the cell more than the torch light ever could.

The golden-haired boy knelt down and, with a deft hand smooth as quicksilver, unlocked his chains. The metal felt impossibly cold against his skin as it shifted. Within seconds, the weight he had grown accustomed to fell away, the iron's song ending with a final clank against the stone floor. "I'm Greg Veder, by the way."

Slowly rubbing his wrists to restore feeling, the bard looked up at the young rescuer. "Oren... Oren Snowlute."