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White Harbor, The North. Year 286 AC
The arrival in White Harbor with the baby elk was a triumph. Lord Wyman Manderly, instead of being embarrassed by the interruption of the hunt, exhibited the small white animal as if it were a golden trophy; since ancient times, white deer and, by extension, similar elks, were revered in Westeros as a symbol of royalty.
The elk was simply named "Snow," installed in the best stable, bundled with fresh straw and wool blankets. Maester Theomore, now tasked with investigating the diet and care of a rarely seen albino elk, was on the verge of exciting apoplexy. For a maester with repetitive work, something of this style is always gratifying.
Corbyn, recovered from the exhaustion, became Snow's shadow.
'I feel a bond with little Snow; it's a strange sensation. I'm sure I should soon be able to use my skinchanger abilities,' Corbyn thought, while stroking Snow's soft coat, who was now drinking goat's milk from a bucket.
The baby elk's constant presence was crucial. It gave Corbyn a perfect excuse for solitude and a purpose that no one questioned. His father was too proud, and Maris was too grateful that her son had returned safe to complain about the stable's mess.
The morning after returning from the hunt, after ensuring Snow was fed and cared for, Corbyn took advantage of finishing his class under the tutelage of the Maester, who was trying to teach him the differences between a lion and a hrakkar in the stories of the First Men and the Dothraki sea.
Corbyn began his true exploration of the Castle. For anyone who didn't know, it seemed silly, but until you live in a castle, you don't realize the immensity of halls, levels, constructions upon constructions, and isolated areas.
His attentive and keen eyes soon noticed a side hallway in the lower areas of the castle. It was a secluded, dusty tunnel. It was not ancient, but rather a service route used by the Manderlys to leave or enter without being seen by the main guard. It was exactly what he needed. It led to an exit to the city of White Harbor, the largest trading point in the North of Westeros.
The next day, Corbyn used his new route to step out into the sunlight of White Harbor. The street was bustling with sailors, merchants, and the smell of wood, fish, seafood, and spices.
As he moved with the silent agility that Mero, the Braavosi master, was instilling in him, his ear caught a sound that made him freeze momentarily and awakened a memory from his past life that had nothing to do with battles or strategies.
It was a melancholic, clear baritone voice, accompanied by a six-string guitar (a rarity from the South, perhaps the Summer Isles).
The bard was sitting on an empty barrel. His hair was curly brown, and his fingers moved over the strings with a virtuous skill that indicated obsessive dedication. He sang:
High in the halls of the kings who are gone
Jenny would dance with her ghosts
The ones she had lost and the ones she had found
And the ones who had loved her the most
The ones who'd been gone for so very long
She couldn't remember their names
They spun her around on the damp old stones
Spun away all her sorrow and pain
And she never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave
Never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave
The melody, simple and sad, made Corbyn stop.
'Jenny of Oldstones.' The famous song. First, because it was the song played at the famous Tourney of Harrenhal which caused Lyanna Stark to fall in love with the dragon prince, Rhaegar Targaryen. It is also the song that, at Tyrion Lannister's request, Podrick Payne sang on the eve of battle, accompanied by a group of ancient enemies of the North united to defend Winterfell.
'It's one of my favorite moments of the series, it's the same scene that sees Brienne of Tarth knighted, without a doubt one of the best scenes of season 8. I must not allow such a situation to happen.'
The song was an omen of fatal love and inescapable loss. It was the whisper of a past and future that Corbyn wanted to avoid, and the sign that the great events, though distant, were already in motion.
The bard finished the stanza and waited for coins. Corbyn took the opportunity to approach, his blue eyes fixed on the musician.
"The song... of Oldstones?" Corbyn asked, his child's voice barely a whisper.
The bard smiled, showing a row of slightly yellowish teeth. "That's right, kid. It's a sad song, but sadness sells."
"I want to learn it," Corbyn said, pulling three small copper dragons from his pocket, a fortune for a child.
The bard raised an eyebrow, impressed. "Music? Why music, little brat?"
"My mother says my... my grandmother was good with the harp. Must be the blood," Corbyn lied, thinking of his elven heritage, a race that sang to the trees and to time. Music was a language that the human Alex had never mastered, but that the elven instinct was screaming at him.
The bard burst out laughing, a clear, loud laugh. "The blood, of course. My name is Lucian. Alright, brat. I'll teach you."
Lucian looked at the copper coins with mischief. "But my time is expensive, and I doubt your father will pay me to teach a Manderly brat to be a bard. I'll teach you how to play the guitar and to use that melancholic voice you have. In exchange, anything you earn playing on the street will be mine, if you earn anything at all," the bard Lucian laughed.
Corbyn straightened up. The mockery did not affect him. It was a deal, and he understood that.
"Done," Corbyn said, extending his hand with the seriousness of a Lord closing a pact.
Lucian shook his small hand. "It seems not only your grandmother had a talent for melody, but for business too. Tomorrow at the same time, brat."
Corbyn walked around the harbor a little longer before returning to the castle through the passageway. Snow, the elk, greeted him with a soft snort. Now, his training was no longer just the Braavosi sword and law books. He had a master-at-arms, a master of laws, and now, a master of music.