Work Text:
The Seventh Tale
The sun was hanging low in the sky like a ripe gourd as the boy hurried past Old Fishfoot. Last night he had been too long in the granary and sat too far from the fire, all the other spots squashed in closer to the bard. Tonight was the last night of the harvest, and he couldn't bear missing another story.
That first night, it had been luck that brought him down to the alehouse. His young brother had dragged him there against his will, and he had little interest in the childish frivolities of games and paintings, the best hope he had was in getting a piece of the great pie all to himself. The Lords Manderly had supplied each harvest night with their own pie for over a thousand years, the song said, and they sang their thanks to the Merman in a song that often ended with the fathers draining their tankards as the mothers clapped their hands.
The boy was in the middle years, too small for ale, too tall for bags of treats. His mother didn't give much thought to his disinterest all the same, and he was told in no uncertain terms to be sure to use that penny she gave him for his brother; to the woman who painted your face up like a squisher or a grumkin. He had more love for his brother than he had pride, so he told him friends he wouldn't be able to meet behind the Wolf's Den after all. Laemlys was said to have a jug of her father's wine, and there would be fellowship, but his little brother felt big and couldn't bear to go with mother.
When Ser Gareth raised his hands to call for quiet, and for the children to come forward, it was known it was time for tale. Growing or not, the boy never missed a story. He took his brother by the hand and brought him forward, seating themselves on the carpets, so old they joked they were brought over from Andalos on the first ships. They were no great cushion, but there was comfort in community all the same.
The boy was no great fan of Ser Gareth's tellings, if the truth could be known. He kept too simple, winking for the babies to know not to be frightened. But a story was a story, and it had been a year since they had heard of Lord Crane and his battles against the sinister rider, always a roar when the pumpkin was revealed at the end. This year, it seemed, was to be different.
Ser Gareth bowed, but then raised his chin and asked the children "are you not tired yet of being scared?" "NO they yelled. He looked doubtful "What of your poor dreams, filled with ghouls?" "NO!" they laughed back, excited for the stories to begin. Ser Gareth smiled then, and lowered his tone to the earth in mock intimidation "well this harvest, my Lord uncle has a special gift for you, my friends. My family has the honor of bringing to you, from far, The Black Bard."
A whispered confusion bubbled through the crowd, but some of the men and women in the back clapped, which began to spread. The boy's eyes went wide with excitement. He had heard whispers of the man, a storyteller well known for his songs and stories which chilled the air on the warmest nights. A tall man walked up to the stage and pressed his palms together, insisting the honor was his.
He loomed, it must be said. Though he smiled at Ser Gareth and placed his hand on his shoulder, his face was solemn as he lowered himself to the stool and leaned forward. His cloak, starless black, draped on him like the wings of a demon. He placed himself between the children and the fire, casting his face in shadow.
He began to speak, a strong voice, different from when he spoke in introduction, snaking through their ears and constricting their comfort. He told a story of THE MOTHER - a widow in Braavos who had met a charming man with a locked closet. Though he seemed the perfect husband, the locked door confounded her. One day, this woman had come through the door and found the walls filled with faces of the wives who came before her. The story was scary, the story was good. In his dreams, the boy felt the cold knife removing the skin from his face as his mother watched in fear as their new father hurt them. He awoke terrified.
He was front row every night after that, catching every word of each macabre tale, all told in honor of the seven gods. The stories terrified him, excited him. He found himself each day seeking out his friends, regaling them with the latest yarn, pulling their interest and bringing them to the fireside with him to hear the dark man spin the gossamer of nightmares across the dusky breath pouring in through the open doors outside the inn. His sleep suffered, but his imagination thrived.
They learned of the crone, and her grimoire drawn with inky blood from the pit of the seven hells. The story of the maiden, in service to the dragon's bastard, lured into the baths so her blood could fill the tub. The smith, and the saw he used to dismember wayward travelers. Some stories he had heard told over fires, some were new to him, but the telling was what drove him mad. The Black Bard knew how to speak to him, and the sunset called him back each night, he almost forgot the pies and cider.
Tonight, where our story began, he was melancholy, knowing that this was the final night of the harvest festival, and the last evening of the bard holding court before him. He hustled his brother and mother along at a fast clip, her sewing and quiet time set aside for the big celebration. The seventh night was the most bountiful, for the Lord's maester predicted a white raven's arrival in the next month, if the gossip at the well could be trusted. Winter rations lurked in the future, but tonight was warm and the twilight was velvet. The Merman's son was there, handing out wooden toys to the children and accepting a tankard from the innkeep, handing her 10 silvers in kind, though she insisted it was her honor to serve the Lord's heir. His mother told the boy that the inn often suffered during a long winter when laces were tight, so the money was a charitable gift pretending to be a payment. She sounded tired, and as if she would have liked some silver for herself. She saved her widow's copper and sewed well enough for food, but the boy had heard enough tales of winter to worry it wasn't enough. Surely he had made no great example in the fishery, but the Lord's cousin had noted he was never late, and he hoped for an extra coin when the raven came as a thank you.
As the night settled and the bard assumed his perch, the mood grew anticipatory. The crowd had waxed and waned, some grumbling at the lack of songs or dances, but these were White Harbor folk. The shadow of the Wolf's Den fell over many of their homes, and they were no strangers to queer sounds from the river. They were friends with fear and could not turn away one so familiar. The boy was ready, for tonight, submitted for their approval, was the story of the Stranger.
The bard spoke of Winterfell, and a harvest festival coming to the end much like their very own. The King Stark had laid a large feast, and he honored the small lords of the mountain clans with the seats of honor on the dais. During the night, the dance continued, and he found himself on a bench beside the Lord of the Dreadfort. " friend," the King said, "I have been waiting to speak to you about a great gift I have received". Bolton looked at him through his icy eyes, "my ears are yours, your grace, please tell me of your bounty this season". Stark laughed, and declared the bounty was for them both - old friends, and here winter is coming, but he had a cask in the cellar, a rare vintage, Arbor Red. Lord Bolton allowed he could be convinced to share a glass or three, and the two friends excused themselves from the hall, with only King Stark's servants walking behind them.
Down the hall they went, to the courtyard. Every child in the hall had yet to see their first winter, the bard reminded them, so they could not know that the snows piled higher than a man's head. Small fires and quick shovels kept the castle's walkways walkable, otherwise the men would be trapped inside with nothing to eat but each other. As he talked about the scrunch scrunch the snows made, and the chilling wind icing the breath of the two lords as they spoke, the boy was wondering why there was a winter snow during a harvest festival. It made Winterfell feel like a dangerous place, much more so whe
n the two lords in the story reached an ancient, heavy warped door nestled into the side of a wall.
Lord Bolton's eyebrow raised. "the crypts, my lord?" - this was a sacred place, a Stark place. Lord Bolton had helped inter the previous ruler, and did not want to cross that threshold without an invitation. "The crypts indeed" he confirmed with a nod, and gestured for his servants to open the door.
Torchlight kept the shadows at bay, and the cool air kept the miasma from their nostrils. The steps echoed as they walked down. An old tradition, King Stark said, and one better shared with a friend. A bottle of wine, a toast to the season, a tribute to the harvest. A bottle of arbor red for the occasion. In those days, the Boltons and the Starks were often at swords and one man had recently paid insult to another. House Stark was mighty then, as today, (the audience made noises and raised their tankards), but the duty of the rulers is always to serve their people, as the bard raised a hand in tribute to his hosts, the Merman's son and nephew.
As they reached the lowest level of the stairs and moved towards the back, the King in the North lead the Lord down the cold dark hall that never seemed to end. He walked quietly, while Lord Bolton made small attempts at conversation to the Stark's silent back. The quiet became uncomfortable. "The cask of arbor red, my king?"
Ah, yes yes, the king assured him, just ahead. Just a little further. Lord Bolton looked to the serving men behind him, they failed to meet his eyes. He looked ahead beyond the torchlight and didn't see a destination. "These crypts are quite large, my King, could there be a chance we are not near the cask of Arbor red?" The King nodded, and promised they were close to the end of their walk together. Their footsteps muffled by the dark. One step after another. Finally they reach a large crate. "Open it" the king commanded his servants, "so we may do what we came here to do".
The children all leaned forward in anticipation for what would be waiting, and the bard dawdled with a long sip from his own goblet to draw out the moment. The mothers on the benches worked their hands nervously, and even some of the husbands wiped their mouths. The bard licked his lips, and continued.
The cask was raised from the crate, spigoted, and two cups were filled and passed to the great men gathered in the darkness. "Winter is coming, we will thank the gods of the earth for our harvest, we will honor the gods of fire by keeping out hearths ablaze, and we will fear the gods of ice with humility" and raised his glass. The King and the Lord drank together for the last time, and lowered their goblets.
"Not my best words, but my father taught me a simple honor could be truer than a performance of tribute." Indeed, the Lord affirmed, and the old traditions are nothing if not simple. Important, and true, as your Father King says. Why, he is here tonight watching us? Lord Bolton gestured to the empty cups, the serving men stepped forward. The King glanced to the darkness "He is close, of course. This night above all others, when the lands of death open their gates, and-" Lord Bolton reached for his goblet. The King reached out and touched his throat. His bade was sharp.
The boy staggered back, just as unsteady as Lord Bolton in the tale. Both of their eyes were wide and their hands went to their throat. A tankard was smashed against the wall, a serving wench wailed as across the hall curses were exhaled. The Bard let the silence fall before continuing.
They lowered the pink Lord into the empty crate, and stepped back so the King could lean over the dying. "The oldest tradition being the blood, my friend. Brandon's promise." He poured the rest of the cask into the dirt then sucked the red off his fingers. "We must hurry now, if you have not forgotten" the serving men grabbed the crate and lifted, ignoring the weak fits his lordship thrased in fear and protest. Yes my king, to the roots.
For then, the bard spoke, even as now, the greatest heart tree grew wild in the center of Winterfell's godswood, and had been well watered since the age of heroes at the close of every harvest. They brought the body to the deep roots, like great white serpents under the world, and laid the Lord across them to finish his bleed. With weak fingers he grasped the King's garb, and solemnly the King knelt beside him and placed a hand on him. "Help me," Lord Bolton gasped, "for the love of the gods, Stark". The King breathed out slow, then leaned forward and kissed his old friend softly.
They said nothing as they trudged back to the steps, past the crate and cask, past the shades of the Kings of Winter. They reached to the top of the stairs and stepped out into the night. The cold winds blew as the snow fell on their heads.
The boy watched as the bard stood and bowed, he smiled at the crowd, pleased with their discomfort and fear. Voices mumbled and cursed as the warmth of the room returned to them. Ser Gareth thanked the Black Bard and invited everyone to enjoy the cakes brought down from the Merman's Court, a gift from his uncle Lord Manderly for his city and his people.
On the walk home, the boy and his friends watched the shadows, looking for the bloodstained ghost of old Bolton. Though the wind whispered coldly in their ears and their footfalls were swallowed by the fog, they made it back to their beds no worse for wear, and slept by the warming embers of their hearthfires. Only the boy lay awake, thinking of the darkness under Winterfell and the cold steel of the blade.
The next morning the sun rose sleepily over the autumn leaves, and the boy ate helped his mother stir the porridge and ate quick before stealing off and heading right back to the inn. When he arrived he asked Old March at the door if the bard was about. "Oh, the Black Bride?" he laughed, "you'll find him breaking bread with Ser Steward up the hill. Make sure to announce yourself before you walk in." He grinned, The boy thanked him and left, marching up to the house where the Knight kept his house and office to keep close to the Lord's smallfolk. At the door he was greeted by the old squire that paid out wages, Steffard, who lazily informed him that Ser Gareth and the Bard were breaking their fast but he didn't expect they'd mind a friendly visit. As long as the visitor kept it brief, if the boy understood, and then he spat red sourleaf juice on the ground pointedly. The boy spat as well, signing the accord, and Steffard laughed as he pushed open the door.
The boy found them in the kitchen, eating at a small table as Marya's mother filled their cups with beer. Ser welcomed him in and offered him some bread with simple courtesy, but the boy admitted he'd already eaten and only wished to ask the Bard a question. "I won't say no," the knight replied, "gives me time to look at some parchment before checking the east gate. You may finish my beer if you'd like, but don't be all day lingering, you hear?". He ambled out, unconcerned, patting the Bard's shoulder as he passed.
The storyteller had been quietly chewing as his time was given away without his say so, but if it bothered him it didn't show on his face or tone. "A question, you say? How may I be of service?" He bowed his head with a kind solemnity, and perhaps the air of an adult humoring a foolish child. He set down his fork beside his fish and tapped his finger twice on the tip of his nose.
The boy chewed his lip, "The tale last night, was that real?" The bard raised his eyebrows. "Real?" he leaned back in his chair and placed his hands on his stomach. "You'll have to tell me what you mean before I can answer." The boy swallowed, his mouth dry. "I couldn't stop thinking, sir - some of it I didn't understand. Wouldn't Lady Bolton wonder why her husband didn't come back out? And it was snowing? And King Stark, he killed a man? For nothing?"
The bard sat back up and placed his hands on the table. He looked at the boy with a sad smile and began to speak. "Well, it snows at Winterfell all seasons, if you'd believe. As for Lady Bolton, maybe there wasn't one, maybe there was and she knew the old ways.. Maybe Lord Bolton's son accepted a pile of gold and a wife as he was raised to Lord and never happened to ask after his old father. As to if a King ever killed a man, for nothing or for something? That should be a question we ask often, though we know the answer in our bones. Is the story real? Of course. Is the story a true telling? Maybe one day a man can say. A tale does not have to have happened to be real."