There are cowering whispers of a war that is soon to be waged on the realm, destroying castles, starving people, decimating armies. A war for the Iron Throne, and a war against it. A war to hide secrets and a war to betray them. For death is power...
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There was a loud ringing in his ears as Remi sat on the stone floor.
A man called Petra Daime.
His mind seemed to crumble into tiny bits, and he felt a gust of icy wind blowing the particles away like they were nothing but mere dust. His insides were coagulating into a single solid hard mass, it felt. And the change was painful, so painful that Remi felt like he was being strangled. Because he couldn't breathe.
Kostob noticed the sudden change in the bard's behaviour and gently touched his shoulder. "Issi ao sȳz?"(Are you fine?)
"Was he from Braavos?" Remi heard himself stutter out.
"Why, yes. I heard he was a Braavosi." Kostob suddenly widened his eyes in realisation. "Oh Zumanos! Did you know him? Was he your friend?"
Friend. Remi wanted to but wasn't able to physically scoff at the word. As if his bond with Petra could be reduced to just friendship. Petra had once been everything to him.
The flickering lights of the torches died in the edges of his vision and Remi felt his eyes darken. His throat felt heavy, drooping, as if a rusted iron chain was fastened around it, weighing it down. His breath trembled in the air before him, his heart was gone. Remi abruptly stood up.
Kostob barely noticed the shimmering of tears in his eyes before he staggered out of the slaves' courtyard without a second look. The blacksmith got up sadly, and a few other slaves huddled around him, startled by the sudden departure of the otherwise cheerful bard. Kostob sighed as he looked down at the stone floor, at the object Remi had left behind.
A mandolin.
....
A man called Petra Daime.
The dreadful sentence had repeated itself in Remi's mind for the past three days. Every minute. Every hour. Every single time reminding him of the absolute horror that Petra had gone through, the absolute horror that every time he tried to envision, would result in unbearable pain in his body, especially his chest. Perhaps that was why he hadn't sung for three moons in a row. It was very unlike him to not hum blossoming golden tunes to himself at night, and the crew had noticed the disturbing change, for they themselves used to fall asleep to his silvery soft music.
It was extremely odd, they discussed in the nooks of notorious taverns by day, in the silent corners of their dingy inn by night, that their beloved bard had one day stumbled drunk into his bed, weeping quietly to himself till the sun came up in the sky, and thereafter had descended into isolation. It was odd, that his mandolin had been missing, and that he hadn't caused a ruckus for his treasured instrument by then. It was odd, that the chirpy young man had barely said a word in three days, his cerulean eyes dulling into a bleak grey with each passing minute. Even his lapdog Barry's persistent questions had incited no remark from him, the latter merely brushing off the topic every time Barry asked him the matter.
