Nerd In the North II-16 (Patreon)

II-16: The Bard

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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. The meager light that filtered down from the tiny, barred window high above played tricks on his eyes, casting ghostly, dancing shadows across the rough-hewn walls that seemed to move in time with his slurred singing.

Seven above, even the shadows here have better rhythm than half the mummers in White Harbor, he thought, watching them sway. His fingers twitched involuntarily, seeking the familiar strings of his beloved lute, now surely adorning some guard's chambers as a trophy.

The days melded into one another like verses in a never-ending dirge, 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 always struck a steady beat against the stone floor—tap, tap, tap—a rhythm that made his skin crawl. 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, like a song played too slow."The bear and the maiden fair, oh the bear, the bear..." he mumbled, his voice thick and drowsy. "Black and brown and covered in hair..." The familiar tune helped keep his wits about him, even as the numbing concoction they mixed into his meager meals worked its evil magic. His limbs felt as though they were encased in thick ice, and his head was perpetually clouded, thoughts and speech slow and slurred like a drunk septon's prayers. They kept the prisoners weak on purpose, too feeble to consider escape, too disoriented to shout for help or rally against their captors.

Clever bastards, he mused, forcing down another spoonful of the greyish slop they called food. 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. 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 performances.

One particularly loud sob broke through the usual din, pulling him from his tuneless reverie. He rolled onto his side, facing the direction of the noise, his patience worn thin by the constant display of despair. "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 newest additions, a couple, had arrived just days ago, their condition much like his own upon arrival—barely conscious and poisoned into compliance. 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. 

Yet, his imprisonment was no such fabrication. 

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 honest. 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.

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."

The words had flowed sweet as summer wine that night, and the crowd's laughter had been sweeter still. Worth every moment in this hole, he thought, a smile tugging at his cracked lips. 

Even now, he made sure to sing it often, whenever there would be guards or servants near to hear. He'd catch them sometimes, humming the tune as they passed his cell, trying to hide their smirks. 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. Let him hear it whispered in every shadowed corner of his precious keep.

"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. A shaft of light from the hallway spilled into the dark depths of his prison, momentarily blinding him. The light threw exaggerated, monstrous shadows on the walls, dancing and twisting like drunken bawdy revelers at a feast gone wrong.

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 steps fell in an unfamiliar rhythm, neither the quick staccato of the guards nor the shuffling gait of the servants who brought their meager meals. 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.

"Hey," came a soft voice, startlingly gentle in the oppressive gloom of the dungeon, like a maiden's song amid a warrior's chorus.

Hey? What in the Seven Hells is a h- He cautiously opened one eye, squinting against the dim light. 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.

"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. "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 a winter wind.

"Yeah," the boy replied, his smile bright and white as his hair was gold.

The golden-haired boy knelt down and, with a deft hand smooth as quicksilver, unlocked his chains. 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."