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The Mummer’s Troupe

The light in the hall was sparse, casting long shadows over the stony walls; shadows that could terrify children in their beds. It was damp and dank, smelling of mildew and mould, and here and there small pools of water grew where rain leaked in from the cracked ceiling. Ygon’s boots splashed such puddles as he strode across the hall, making his way through the ramshackle motley of Lonely Light’s small household. They had come to pay witness: the four serving girls who tended to the fires and rushes, the cook’s boy, the old half-blind washerwoman, the stewardess Masha with her jangling set of keys tied to her belt, Kennos the kennel-master (the title was only a courtesy, for Lonely Light had no kennel and only four lazy dogs), Kennos’ brother Kennet who counted Lord Theron’s coppers, a handful of guards in leather jerkins fingering their dirks, and a smattering of thralls.
None of them paid Ygon much mind, save cold, flinty stares. You grew apart from us, he remembered Black Tom saying on the beach where they had found the white whale. And grateful for it, he thought bitterly, shouldering his way past to find a spot away from them, against the wall, half-in shadow. Pebbleton had been cheerier, and Ygon longed for his friends, his cousins, and his mother left there.
His father’s lordly chair was empty. Black Tom was holding ‘court’ at his behest. At his ear stood Mara, and beside her two of his father’s captains. Gorold was absentmindedly picking between his teeth, bored and impatient. His massive shock of yellow hair and beard had turned white, but men still called him Gorold Goldmane. It was said he was strong enough to bend horseshoes with his bare hands. Ygon thought that was a queer test of strength for there were no horseshoes on Lonely Light to try, nor indeed horses. The last man who had questioned Gorold had had his head dashed against a wall, however, and Ygon would not be the second. The other, whispering something into Mara’s ear, was Hothar. A handsome, thin fellow with cat-like eyes and a vain smile. Younger and skinnier than Gorold, but more agile and equipped with a rare cunning.
I should be up there. Who was Hothar, but some upjumped sailor who had designs on his sister? The scar above his eye, red and inflamed, began to itch again. Ygon peeled off his glove and scratched hard, gritting his teeth. It was the shoddy stitching, and Mara had offered to fix him a salve which he had spurned, and now regretted his rashness sorely… but to hell was he going to go back to her with his tail between his legs. He itched so hard, he drew blood and pus. Fuck, he muttered under his breath, longing for a cup of wine to dull his aches…
Then there was the long shuddering creak of the great doors being pulled open, and a draft with a cold icy edge came skirling in. It lifted the bottoms of cloaks and made the fraying and dusted blood-orange banners of House Farwynd flutter.
They were marched in by Wendamyr, his father’s captain-of-the-guard, a hard man in black iron breastplate and pot helm. They whom had come on the merchant galley with its baudy striped hull, driven off-course by the frigid north-westerly winds and currents.
Ygon straightened up. He expected queerly garbed men, but not the bird. It was striking, bigger than any gull or seabird he’d ever seen. A deep orange hue to its breast, the colour of the setting sun when it shattered against the horizon, bordered with vivid light blue feathers at the tip of its wings, the blue-green of the sea, and and a stripe of emerald lime feathers from head to tail, an immense plumage which reached the length of a small child.
“What is it?” Kennos asked, his finger wagging at the bird. At that, the household started bickering.
“Some demon from the eastern lands,” Meldred, one of the serving girls, answered him fearfully.
“A gull painted with dyes,” said the washerwoman about the matter, squinting at the bird with her milky-eyes.
“No, no, that’s a-“
“A dragon!” The cook’s boy shouted incredulously. Masha clouted him about the ear for that suggestion, setting his teeth to ringing. “Fool boy.”
“I know,” Ygon whispered to himself. I know. It was a strange thing to proud of. His nuncle had once visited Pebbleton and gifted him a book with fabulous sketches of exotic creatures, and they had sat on the wharf and flipped through it together. Lord Theron had hacked the book apart when his son brought it back to Lonely Light, but Ygon had consigned his favourite drawings to his memory. A macaw, he remembered, from the Summer Islands, so famed for its striking colour and ability to talk that some pirates and corsair-kings took them as pets. But Ygon kept silent, not daring to say anything. That would only raise questions about how he knew such a thing, and his nuncle was not to be spoken of here. Not ever. Ulrick Farwynd. Just uttering it inside his head was some secret thrill.
The fat man was no pirate or corsair-king, Ygon knew as he watched the man prostrate himself before the lordly chair and then be lifted up by his guards. He wore purple slippers, a robe of purple silk that clung to rondels of fat, and even had a little purple goatee. His perfume was so noxicating that Ygon could taste the notes on his tongue, strangely sweet, some musky flowers from the East. The macaw seemed to dislike him. It shuffled restlessly on the shoulders of the fat man, wings tensed as if it meant to give flight.
“Who are you?” Black Tom’s voice boomed down at him from up high.
“My lord-”
“I’m no mans m’lord.”
“My apologies, my-” the fat man sniffed at the air, as if he smelt some foul smell he disliked. “good friend. I am-”
“The Purple Man!” Hothor quipped. His real name was swallowed up by the noise of laughter and Gorold Goldmane’s great belly-shaking guffaw, and even Ygon snorted in derision. And so the fat man became the Purple Man.
The Purple Man began a long tirade. Something about being a merchant captain from Lys, with cargo in his hold bound for Seagard. After raising anchor at Lannisport, their ship had been blown off-course… until they had spotted a burning light and made for it. “We would have been lost in the Sunset Sea if not for your light, and now I ask after your hospitality, so that my White Lion might wait out this winter storm and take on fresh water and supplies here before setting sail again.”
“Guest right, you want?” Black Tom asked.
“Yes, guest right.” The Purple Man seized on his words like a babe at the breast. “Only there are stories about your countrymen, awful stories. It is said you fall upon your prey with scythes and axes, and take all that they have.”
“By all rights, we should storm your ship and take your cargo.” Gorold spat.
The Purple Man quivered at that, and Ygon thought that the merchant might lose his bowels.
“Why bloody yourselves against my swords?”
His guard stepped forward. Sellswords, Ygon reasoned. All men of the east were sellswords. Large men, carrying swords and axes and even blades curved as the crescent moon. Except one of them had the look of a knight, dressed head-to-toe in steel plate and mail. His face was hidden via helm, and by his side was a great ironwood shield, painted with a tower on a cliff beside the sea. It was the knight who drew his weapon first, a longsword that glinted with the embers of torchlight.
“Let us break bread instead, no?” The Purple Man continued, wringing his hands.
The macaw chirped on his shoulder: “No. No. No.”
“It seems your bird does not agree,” argued Hothor. He had drawn his dagger. “We should take your ship too, and strip it for timber. And your men could be ours, put to work as thralls. As for you…”
“Drown him! Heathen!” The half-blind washerwoman shouted from the crowd, and soon the serving girls and Kennos and Kennet and even the thralls were adding their voices to the call. Ygon rolled his eyes and let out a soft sigh. Drowning is always their solution.
“I am a good man, and perhaps, I think, I would make a fine sacrifice for your sea god. But these are good men too, and will not go so quietly.” The fat man shook his head. “I ask only for you to keep your king’s peace, lest my friends in Lordsport start asking after me-“
Lordsport? thought Ygon from his place at the wall. But… He stepped forward and opened his mouth to speak.
“Seagard, you mean?” Mara called out instead of him. Ygon leant back against the wall, beaten, and dug his hands into his pockets.
The Purple Man turned red. “Begging your pardons, Seagard. Exactly. But we’ll be stopping at Lordsport on the journey, for sure, for sure.” He stammered out.
“Lordsport. Lordsport.” The macaw echoed.
“Why are we wasting our time with this, Tom?” Gorold turned to him, roaring. “Let us get on with it. I want to pluck the feathers of that bird myself and roast it on a spit.” He kissed his meaty fingers, and smiled rottenly down at the Purple Man and his entourage.
Black Tom was not amused. Ygon had seen that face hundreds of times.
“Enough!” He shouted, rising from the chair. His mouth was a single line. “Lord Theron will grant your request, providing you stay only for three days-”
The Purple Man was bowing, and showing a wide smile of glittering teeth. “So splendid, so kind, his gracious Lord Theron-”
And we take a tenth of your cargo as tithe.”
“Yes! Yes!” The Purple Man cried. “And a cask of wine for your good lord!” But Black Tom was already leaving, and Wendamyr and his guards moved to usher out the merchant captain.
Ygon saw Black Tom and Mara leave out of a side-door, no doubt scuttling back to father. The decision reeked of being already decided, and the rest only an act for the benefit of his household and captains. Whilst Hothor sheathed his dagger and slinked off, seemingly unbothered, Gorold Goldmane seemed furious, red-faced and blustering, marching after Black Tom. With the ringing of the macaw’s shrieks of “Wine! Wine!” in his ears, Ygon was seized with a sudden mad courage, a curiosity. He followed after the three, cloak whipping against his ankles, out of the hall and down a corridor, then up a flight of stony stairs. He paused halfway up, hearing loud, angry voices stirring just above him.
“One tenth! ONE TENTH!”
He edged upwards, in pursuit of Goldmane’s shouts. Ygon reached a landing, and peaked around the corner of another hallway.
“We should be taking it all from that smarmy cock. Think of how that gold could feed our coffers.”
They made such a contrast, standing there together. Goldmane was all fury, almost six foot and broad-shouldered even at his age, like some blustery rainstorm armed with thunderbolts. Black Tom, meanwhile, was small and lean yet had a craggy, unfathomed expressionless face - one that told Ygon he had stared down storms like this again and again, and always lived to confront the next one.
“Take it up with Lord Theron.” Black Tom remarked, bored. His hard, black eyes moved away from Gorold and down the corridor. Ygon gulped and dove back behind the stone corner. “And Ygon, were you never taught what happens to the ears of eavesdroppers?”
Ygon stepped back out again. “I was passing this way.” He shrugged this shoulders.
“Save your excuses and make yourself useful. Take some men down to the harbor to collect the merchant’s tithe.”
Ygon bristled, thinking about retorting. But he had no stomach for arguing with Black Tom. Instead, he offered a meek affirmative and fled back down the stairway.
It was a dull task, and a cold one. The wind whipped in their faces, and the roiling sea lashed them with spray and foam.
Gorold Goldmane’s three sons carried the chests down from the ship to the wharf. They were triplets, identical save the smallest of differences, and all three were also called - with a singular lack of imagination - Gorold. Ygon - leaning lazily against a barrel - watched them jostle and bicker and throw elbows at each other.
Ygon had never seen so much coin. Strange coins and familiar coins. Dragons, stag, pennies. Coins of square iron, coins stamped with skulls and crowns, coins adorned with a naked maiden. Golden marks, silver pieces, bronze honors.
Kennet picked up a dragon and bit it with his teeth, before chucking it into a chest with the coins he already tested.
After the sixtieth or so coin, Ygon told him sharply to stop, lest they be standing here all winter and their cocks freeze off.
Kennet looked aghast. “M’lord, I must taste the gold. The taste is the test, you see-”
“This is a tedious affair. Won’t you come aboard for a platter of cheese and olives, lordling?” called down the Purple Man from the deck of his Graceful Cat.
Ygon wrinkled his nose, eyeing the merchant-captain warily. “I’d rather a cup of wine.” He shouted back.
“Wine,” the Purple Man nodded, brandishing his fat fingers. “And have you ever had your fortune read?”
“You can tell fortunes?” Ygon frowned. Fortunes and portents were what the womenfolk of the Thirteen Isles believed in.
“Not me.”
The Purple Man’s quarters were lavishly decorated, stocked with rare treasures, and veiled with a thick haze of burning incense. It was smeet-smelling, but made Ygon’s head hurt feel heady and dazed. As he sat down in the chair offered him, a serving with long silver hair came forward to pour him a deep-red wine.
He took a draught from the chalice and shuddered. It was good, but sour. In the corner, the macaw had been put aside in a gilded cage. It paced restlessly.
“A fine vintage, no?” The Purple Man asked. “The knight has a taste for it.”
The knight with the shield stood in the doorway, still wearing helm and armor. It was hard to make out his eyes through the black slits of the visor.
“You don’t speak much?” Ygon asked, looking over his shoulder.
The Purple Man laughed, slapping his belly. “You won’t get much out of him, I’m afraid. My Knight of the Bluffs! See that tower on his shield, atop a cliff on a sea? That was his home, not much to look at but strong enough, and he has taken a solemn oath not to speak or remove his helm in the presence of others until that tower is his again.”
That was odd. Ygon turned to the knight and asked: “Why not just sail home?”
“He’s an exile. An outlaw.” The red women answered him, squeezing past the knight and sweeping into the quarters.
She was tattooed with a tear-drop stain on her cheek, that marked her as a slave. There was a collar of rubies fastened around her neck, and she wore a dress of flowing orange samite. Her face was wrinkled, her hands leathery, but beyond the laughter lines there was a quiet, understated handsomeness… she had been beautiful once, he reasoned. She took the seat next to the Purple Man, opposite Ygon. Her smile was redder than blood.
“What an odd crew you are,” Ygon giggled. “The priestess, the merchant, and the knight. As if I’m in some mummer’s troupe!”
The silver-haired serving girl spoke up. “In Lys, they teach that we are all mummer’s at heart, for the mask we wear is never our true face.”
He thought of her face, and how he’d like to kiss it. True enough for me.
“I’m not truly a priestess, not anymore. Nor is he a knight,” the red woman continued, as she set a bowl of hot coals on the table between them. “I once served at the Red Temple, but won my freedom. Now I go from place to place, selling my visions.”
The Purple Man drew the heavy velvet curtains over the port-side and star-side windows, plunging the quarters into darkness.
“I don’t believe in visions you know.” Ygon told them, crossing his arms.
“You don’t need to believe.” The red woman drew her sleeves up, and touched the rim of the bowl. She did not flinch from the heat.
The only light in the room came from the fire burning over the hot coals.
“What would you want to know, ironborn?”
Ygon blinked the smoke out of his stinging eyes. The Purple Man and the serving girl looked for his answer, but it was the stare of the Knight of the Bluffs in cold armour that perturbed him. His eyes bore into the back of his skull.
Ygon fidgeted in the pillowed seat. “I don’t know.”
“It is an easy question.” She leaned forward over the smoke and licking flames. “Let me make it easier. What do you want?”
Afterwards, Ygon left the ship dazed, as giddy as on his name day. The sharp wind did not seem so cold anymore, and he felt like running back to the castle rather than walking.
The triplets carried the chests through the castle and down to the cellar where their meager coffers were kept. Ygon brought up the rear, grinning.
“Is this all we took?” Gorold Goldmane asked suspiciously. He was waiting for them beside the cellar’s entrance, playing with a ring on his finger. He liked to boast that his mother had been some Lannister of Lannisport, but everyone knew it was only some yellow-haired whore. But nobody could deny he shared there salacious appetite for the finer things in life, like jewelry and gold...
“One-tenth.” Ygon tittered.
Gorold looked at him. “You in your cups, Ygon?”
“The captain gave me some wine…”
Gorold wringed his hands. “This Purple Man is open-handed with wine, it seems, but niggardly with what matters. What did you see on the ship?”
Oh. Much, much more. He had treasures to last a lifetime. And there was this woman, and this silver-haired girl,” Ygon muttered dreamily, placing a hand against the wall to steady himself.
“Say there was some unfortunate accident, Ygon. We would have to take on the burden of that treasure, and that girl, aye?” His eyes glinted in the torchlight of the cellar.
submitted by talesfromlonelylight to GameofThronesRP

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