MTLNOVEL Chapter 24: Chapter 24
The tavern's warm candlelight flickered against the walls, casting an amber glow as Lyra stepped into the center of the room. Her gaze swept over the gathered patrons, noting their curious eyes and hushed breaths. She began, her voice soft at first, almost a murmur that grew as the notes poured out, a haunting melody carrying through the room.
Lyra:
"The world was on fire
And no one could save me but thee
'Tis strange how desire hath a mockery made of me
I never dreamed I would meet someone such as thee
I never dreamed I would lose someone such as thee."
The weight of the words hung heavily in the air, an invisible web that seemed to hold every listener captive. Lyra's voice wove a sense of yearning and regret into every note, and her performance echoed the sorrow of lovers long gone, the bittersweet memories, and the burn of lost desire. It was a tale as old as time, yet tonight, to every ear in the room, it was as fresh as an open wound.
Ned Stark:
Ned watched her, his jaw tight, feeling each word like a needle through his chest. Lyra's voice brought forth memories of Lyanna—his sister, spirited and willful, too wild for her own good, and always chasing a dream that would ultimately destroy her. In Lyra's song, he heard Lyanna's heart, her longing for freedom, and perhaps, just a whisper of her pain.
"I never dreamed I would lose someone such as thee..."
The line struck him deeply, and for a fleeting moment, Ned could picture Lyanna, her laughter ringing out, her eyes bright and full of life. How quickly it had been snuffed out, and in the end, he'd been left to carry the weight of her secret alone. The guilt, a constant companion he could never shake, settled heavier in his chest with each note of the song.
Robert Baratheon:
Across the room, Robert sat, transfixed, his gaze fixed on Lyra's face, though he didn't truly see her. In her song, he saw only Lyanna. His mind wandered back to his youth, to the days when he'd been a young lord, strong and fiery, with a woman he'd wanted more than life itself. Lyra's song stirred up the ghosts of his desires, the ache that had never quite gone away. Lyanna's name was never far from his lips in those days, nor from his heart, and hearing this song...it felt as if she were speaking directly to him.
"No, I don't want to fall in love
No, I don't want to fall in love
With thee."
The words cut through him. He clenched his goblet tightly, swallowing the thick sorrow rising in his throat. No one could understand the depth of his feelings for Lyanna, how the thought of her haunted him. She was the love he'd lost, the one he'd never had a chance to save. His face, once filled with longing, twisted with bitterness as he muttered to himself, "If only she'd waited for me…"
Cersei Lannister:
Seated beside Robert, Cersei rolled her eyes subtly. She could tell what her husband was thinking; his face might as well have been an open book. Always Lyanna. It was Lyanna he dreamed of, Lyanna he mourned, as if the dead girl were some goddess reincarnated just to haunt her marriage. And here was this tavern girl, singing a tune that dredged up all of Robert's old feelings, stoking them with each line, each mournful note.
"What a wicked thing to say, thou hast not felt this way..."
It reminded Cersei of her own past, of her own foolishness, and the dreams she'd once had of love, though her dreams had carried her toward Rhaegar, her forbidden prince. Those days were gone, long buried under a mountain of ambition and bitter reality. But the words lingered, a quiet reminder of what she'd once wanted, the love she'd yearned for but would never have.
"Ridiculous," she muttered under her breath, though she felt the faintest twinge of longing deep within. Still, she quickly stifled it and took another sip of her wine, as cold and calculated as ever.
Ser Barristan Selmy:
Barristan, with his steady, weathered gaze, watched Lyra with a somber expression. Her voice echoed in the small tavern, and he felt the melancholy in her words. The tune reminded him of the many young, hopeful faces he'd seen over the years—the lovers who had been torn apart by the folly of war, the lives ruined by the ambitions of lords and kings. But most of all, it brought to mind the fate of Elia Martell, the woman Rhaegar had left behind, and the girl Lyanna, taken to the Tower. He had guarded them both, watched them fall into despair.
"What a wicked game to play, to make me feel this way..."
He knew it was no game at all. Love and desire were dangerous things, capable of tearing apart entire kingdoms. And though he sat quietly, Barristan's heart carried the weight of those memories, the many losses he'd endured in silence. He respected the song's raw honesty, the way Lyra sang without pretension or artifice.
Other Patrons:
Around the room, other patrons leaned in, some captivated by the performance, others lost in their own memories. A young woman wiped a tear from her cheek, clutching her lover's hand, while an older man, grizzled and hardened, looked down into his ale, his eyes far away. The song seemed to speak to each person differently, stirring up memories and emotions in ways they hadn't expected.
"The world was on fire
And no one could save me but thee."
The words echoed, haunting and beautiful, touching everyone who heard them. The younger men glanced toward Lyra with newfound admiration, captivated by the vulnerability in her voice. Some of them could barely tear their eyes away, caught in a spell woven of melody and memory. The older men, those who had seen the tragedies of love and war firsthand, drank deeply, as if the song brought forth memories best left buried.
"'Tis strange how desire hath a mockery made of me
I never dreamed I would meet someone such as thee
I never dreamed I would lose someone such as thee."
The song concluded, fading into silence, leaving the room thick with the lingering weight of loss and regret. Lyra let the final note hang, then released it, drawing a quiet sigh from the room. The patrons, some still dabbing their eyes, others lost in thought, broke into quiet applause, subdued, almost reverent. It was as if she'd sung each of their stories, weaving their own heartache into her song.