"Who takes note of a thousand men in a city of half a million?"
Brynden was not a particularly complex man. He sang songs bawdy and dramatic, ribald and tragic. He sang of kings and knights, of knaves and rogues. He traveled the Seven Kingdoms, plus another realm or so. He saw much, he remembered all, and he knew enough stories to keep a village entertained for three moons.
And yes, he had kept track.
Getting caught in a mountain village in the Westerlands just as the seasons turned had not been one of the most pleasant times of his life.
But as far as he was concerned, he loved his life, and would not trade it for the world.
He hummed a tune as he sauntered down a street, one of his many coin purses jangling merrily along. Many heard him come, the sound of coin on coin barely muffled by the thin layer of cloth, but the streets were safe. Mostly. At the entrance of every shop along the long lane of taverns stood an armed guard. Lightly armed, granted, but armed nonetheless. There were few men who were willing to risk an iron cudgel in exchange for a purse filled with what may well be only coppers.
If only they knew the coins within it were worth even less than copper.
Even so, this part of the city was as safe as it got. It might have been close to the harbor, where men from all over the known world were eager to experience the comforts of civilized life on solid ground. In many other places, almost all other places, really, that would have made it quite dangerous to be wandering about alone.
Men who had had no companionship but other men for months at a time, men whose palates had not tasted a halfway decent ale in months, they were not the kind for restraint. This constant stream of men on the prowl for inns and brothels close to their ships usually made for some raucous streets.
But not here.
The Prince had left his mark upon the city. Any shop that had taken his coin was easy to spot, each easily marked by a large man standing beside the entrance keeping a watchful eye upon the people coming and going. A few shops down, at one of the Drakes, that inn's large man was hauling out some troublemakers, a pair of youths who were shouting at the injustice of their situation.
Brynden did not waste his time and kept walking.
It was not a rare sight by any means. Though the people of the city were quick to learn what was and what was not acceptable behavior, there was always something. Newcomers who did not know the rules. Youths who did not believe the rules applied to them. Drunks.
They would learn. Others would come, ignorant of the ways of the city. They, too, would be taught, and the cycle would repeat.
And Brynden would keep on walking until he reached his destination: the Howling Drake.
The Prince, for all his genius, was rather shit at naming things, Brynden had to admit.
Within, past the queer doors that swung both ways and were thus absolutely useless as doors, was the place that served as his home. He was, after all, a singer. And singers had no home. Most would be lucky to have a roof over their heads, but Brynden had profited quite nicely from his service to the Prince.
He tossed a leaded lead coin to the man at the bar, the coin by which he and his fellows were paid by the Prince for their usual information, and made his way through the crowded tables. The faces were varied, with most being natives of King's Landing though he recognized a few from across the sea.
And half a dozen from across the mountains. Their skins were darkened by harsh sun, hair and eyes dark, their features hawkish. They were familiar features, especially for one such as Brynden who had been to their lands.
Dornish.
As panic and fear began to build in his throat, Brynden forced such thoughts to the back of his mind. No, these were not Dornishmen. Mayhaps they were Rhoynar, or merchants with an unfortunate ancestry. There was nothing about their cast that declared that they were loyal subjects of House Martell.
There was no reason to believe they held ill intentions.
"My friends!" he greeted the audience, men who were quite thoroughly consumed by drink that it took them several moments to recognize his presence among them. He made his way past the crowded tables until he reached the elevated wooden dais at the back of the inn. The usual place for singers in the Drakes. "This silence does naught but bring offense to the Seven. How about a few songs?"
In places as diverse as King's Landing, Brynden had several sets designed to appeal to as broad an audience as possible. Oh, those songs tailored to a kingdom usually brought in more coin, but bawdy songs were popular in any place that served some proper drink. There were few, after a generous round of drinks or three, who would object to The Bear and the Maiden Fair or similar bawdy songs.
Since the patrons seemed well on their way to drunkenness, that was where he started.
The men with Dornish faces, however, remained unmoved. It was odd, really. One would think the Dornish would be all about some bawdy songs. But these? They just kept staring at their drinks.
That was good.
If they had control over their loins instead of the other way around, they were not Dornish, just men who looked the part. But they were still bringing down the mood of the entire inn. Fortunately, Brynden was an old hand at his trade. From the Wall to the sands of Dorne, he had managed to find the perfect song for every audience. To him, this was nothing!
Or so he thought.
His vast repertoire of bawdy songs elicited almost no reaction from the men clearly intent on bringing down the joyous atmosphere of the tavern. The riotous songs of Northerners brought as much laughter from them as the more delicately phrased but even bawdier Reacher songs.
Which was to say, none at all.
At that point, any reasonable man would have given up trying to please an unpleasable group.
"Friends, that was all I had planned," he announced, lowering his lyre. All around him, the patrons of varying degrees of drunkenness groaned and jeered in displeasure. Brynden shot a look at the innkeeper. Once he gave the signal to go ahead, the singer raised his hands in submission. "Very well, very well, I suppose I can take a few more requests, yet. You there, in the red, a song if you would."
Brynden could get the measure of a man easily enough. And he knew a Westermen when he saw one. They were generous with coin, more so than most.
"The… uh…" Clearly, the man's wits were addled by drink. Luckily, Brynden was a patient man. "Let's keep it fun. You know The Dornishman's Wife?"
"The Dornishman's Wife?" Brynden asked jovially. "Who doesn't know her? A shame we're running low on Dornishmen to have wives, so best savor it while we can."
A chorus of laughter met his declaration, to no great surprise. Dorne was everyone's favorite target of jokes these days.
And the Dornish women were always popular in the brothels.
But there was something far more interesting that Brynden noticed as he sang of a proper man giving Dornishmen horns. It was from the cluster of miserable drunks, who had finally deigned to react. But not of the shower-him-in-coin variety. No, that would have been too convenient.
It was of the grab-hold-of-mugs-so-hard-they-almost-shatter variety. Of the barely-restrained-rage variety.
His song wound down, and one of the not-Dornish spoke.
"Singer," a slight man spoke, his voice barely restrained. A merchant, he had to be. Who else would make it so far in life with so mall a frame? A noble, mayhaps, but only if they were on their way to the Citadel. Oh, this would be a night Brynden would be doubly glad of the Prince's large men, he could already tell. "Do you know by chance 'come out, ye black and red'?"
Oh.
Oh, that was not good.
He knew that song.
Popular in leaner times, it was, when people wanted to complain.
And also Dorne.
Very popular in Dorne.
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