The Crossroads Inn

[Ollie]

A red-roofed in sits just east of where the Green, Blue, and Red forks converge and continue into the rising sun to empty out into the Bay of Crabs. The River Road stretches to the west, the Highroad east, and the Kingsroad disappears into the northern and southern horizons. The inn itself is a great sprawling thing, rooms, halls, and wings obviously added on throughout the years, the various brick and timber structures in varying states of aging.

[Ollie]

A weedy, narrow-chested boy sulks in the corner, nursing a cup of wine in a fashion that makes it obvious it’s one of his first. He wears rough spun brown and green linens that have faded to near grey, and a wide brimmed leather hat sits high on his head. A dusting of brown freckles covers the bridge of his button nose, and loose tangles of muddy brown hair hang over his eyes. With a grumble, the boy pulls a bronze paring knife from his belt and digs into the wood of the table’s edge sullenly.

[Horas]

A young man with a lute strapped over his back and a shortsword at his hip walks into the inn. He has floppy brown hair that falls into his eyes and a cheerful charm about him; he appears to be a travelling minstrel of sorts.

The man shakes snow from his hair as he enters and takes a seat near the hearth.

[Ollie]

The draft from the open door is what causes the boy's head to snap up; the minstrel's lute is what keeps it up. His moss-and-mud flecked eyes grow wide as lizard-lion eggs, but after catching himself, his mouth remains downturned at the corners and his bright gaze fades glumly.

The boy digs caked dirt out from under his fingernails with his bronze knife, the tavern's crackling fire returning the warmth to the common room. After his ten-second eternity, the diminutive lad lifts his head and calls out in a soft voice almost comically trying to sound older in years, "What can you play?"

[Horas]

"Play?" the man asks, warming his hands by the fire, "Why I can play any song you've ever heard, m'boy. Symond the Singer, at your humble service."

[Ollie]

"When Fog Fills the Forest? Croakbull Kiss? The Mossy Maiden? Pain of the Purple Petal?" the boy asks. Each song is stated like a challenge more than an inquiry.

[Horas]

"He likes his songs from the Neck, does he?" Symond says. He takes his lute from his back and strums the opening to The Mossy Maiden. "I can't say they're very popular to most, but I spent a little time among the crannogmen a few years back."

[Ollie]

The song sounded queer being played on the southron lute rather than the familiar reed pipes of the Neck, but it made the boy's frown fade none the less. Scooting forward in his seat, the young crannogman hums the first verse in a low, thrilling tone.

"... and forever she sat just right there, with moss growing down from her hair." the now finished with Symond.

[Horas]

Symond's voice is harmonious and pleasant, and his fingers never miss a note. "You don't have a bad voice yourself, lad," Symond says to the youth. "Have you ever thought of being a bard?"

[Ollie]

The half smile that had begun to grow upon the boy's lips at the compliment quickly faded at the question. "They ain't like to teach bardin' at Oldtown, are they?" he said with his head hung morosely.

[Horas]

"It does seem doubtful," the singer agrees. "What awaits you in Oldtown, young ser?"

[Ollie]

"Fetters of guilt to bring me there, a cell made of duty to keep me there, and above all a chain, to bind me forever," he said sullenly, picking up his dagger and resuming excavation of the wooden table.

[Horas]

Symond smiles, despite the boy's sulleness. "Truly poetic, young ser. Tis such a pity, these chains of yours. A wandering bard answers only to himself, and is welcomed at any hearth, great or small. Of course, I suppose there are some who'd rather just do what they're told."

[Ollie]

"Boggy Bella always said my singin' was more beautiful than all the crickets chirpin' and toads croakin' on the last summer's night," he said, eyes looking up at the bard longingly. "But I gotta go..." he said, his blue sulk resuming. "If I ain't in Oldtown, I can't learn from the maesters. And if'n I can't learn from the maesters, House Reed'll never be nothin' more. You know that Greywater Watch don't even have a maester? Not ravens neither."

[Horas]

"Is that so?" Symond says, "Does that make you a Reed then, young ser?"