Chapter III: The Crane and the Pearl
“I can’t help it if your language is so confusing,” Alayne joked as she and Tarry were cutting some deep red cloth for the dress they were working on. “Why you need so many different kinds of words for things, I will never understand.”
Tarry smiled. It suited her well, since her dimples could charm even the coldest of hearts. “You’re doing better than I expected, really. You just need to work on getting the word endings right.”
Alayne sighed. Learning had never been her strongest suit, and yet she had to admit that Tarry was right. Circumstances had turned her into a good learner of languages. Or at least of the one language. Within only a few moons she had learned to speak about whatever she wished, however imperfectly and accented her words might be. She no longer needed to stick to Sera’s side like a barnacle. They were still good friends, though.
“Alayne!” Sera called. Speaking of, Alayne thought. The other girl sounded particularly enthusiastic. Then she didn’t even wait for a reply and almost stormed into the work room. “Mistress Sarnel has agreed to give us liberty for the first day of the Uncloaking as well as the last! You absolutely must come!”
Tarry nodded in agreement.
“All right,” Alayne said, although she was not thrilled. It was not that she didn’t want to go to the opening market to look at exotic wares and mummers. The Uncloaking was a yearly festival that lasted for ten days and that celebrated the Uncloaking of Uthero centuries past, when the city finally gave up its secrecy and revealed itself to the world at large one hundred and eleven years after its founding. It sounded like everything she would have loved, a few short years ago. There would be music, dancing and feasts. But now, she didn’t know if spending a dark evening among a lot of people who ran around in cloaks and masks appealed to her as much as it would have then. Danger lurked everywhere, especially in mobs.
And then there was the money. Alayne wanted to save hers, not spend it at a market. One day, she dreamed, she would return to Westeros and see her family again. News from Westeros was sparse and distorted, but as far as she knew, Joffrey’s death hadn’t ended the wars at all. There were rumors about Tyrion—her husband, as far as the world was concerned—being on trial for the murder, and rumors about her father’s armies still being trapped north of the Neck by the Freys’ betrayal. And then there were fantastic stories from the east about a Targaryen amassing armies for an invasion of Westeros. Now was not the time to return, but she didn’t have the money yet anyway. And if she spent it on frivolous things, she never would.
But maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, she reckoned, to get out a little. Mistress Sarnel paid for their food and board, so she was earning very little, but unlike Shaena, Alayne didn’t buy tortoiseshell combs, and unlike Sera or Tarry she didn’t buy scented soaps and perfumes. No, she made do with plain soap and a simple brush, mended her dresses as much as she could and already had more money in her purse than any of the other girls. If she kept saving like this, she’d need an account with the Iron Bank, her mistress had japed.
“It’s great to see you having some fun for once,” Dia told her as they all got ready with the new cloaks they had sewn themselves and the masks they had bought the day before. Alayne’s was plain white with dark rings around the eyes and blue feathers at the sides.
“I do have fun,” Alayne argued, and her voice sounded strange and claustrophobic with the mask on her face.
“No, you don’t,” Tarry shot back. “All you do is work and sleep. Even on your free days, the most you do is walk around a little in the city. You aren’t even taking any rides in the gondolas to spare your feet.”
That was true, but Alayne preferred exploring on her own, without a gondolier telling her whatever came to his mind. It was a freedom she had never known, and Braavos offered so many different sights. Alayne had visited the Isle of the Gods a couple of times to see just how many gods people followed. She had never even heard of most of them. She had even found a weirwood carving of a heart tree in a corner of the Holy Warren, where the northern gods had been placed since they knew no temples. And then there were the Sealord’s Palace, the Moon Pool and the Iron Bank, and so many canals and manors and merchants to see. It was adventure enough for a girl who had never left Winterfell before her brief stay in King’s Landing.
Now all five girls walked those no-longer foreign streets to the main square of their isle. Many others did the same. Some carried paper lanterns or torches, making the dusk less gloomy than it usually was in a city as gray as Braavos.
The square was packed with little booths where masked vendors hawked their wares. There were glazed baked apples and little glass figurines, stuffed toys and meat pastries. Alayne made sure to stick close to her friends for fear she might lose them in the crowds, though Sera’s blonde hair and black mask at least stood out in the sea of cloaks and lacquered faces.
At one of the stands, Alayne bought her own little lantern, and at another, a lemon cake. The smell alone made her mouth water; she hadn’t had any sweets in ages and these were her favorite. Then she went to join Tarry and Shaena, who were admiring some jewelry displayed on black velvet.
“What do you think? Does it suit me?” Tarry asked, holding up a bronze bee pendant with large black stones for the dark stripes of the bee’s torso. The wings and legs were made of fine wire and glittered in the lamplight.
Alayne pondered the question for a moment and looked over the rings and necklaces. “Take the one in green,” she suggested. “It doesn’t look like a real bee, but it works better with your complexion.”
“What about this one?” Shaena asked, holding up a rose pendant with turquoise petals.
“There are no blue roses,” Tarry snorted while she fished for her purse beneath the bulky cloak. Alayne could picture her impish smile, but it was hidden under a yellow and blue mask.
“There are,” Alayne corrected her. “But they’re very rare. I heard they’re grown in the north of Westeros. And it’s really beautiful.”
As she looked over the merchandise, Alayne wondered if there was anything she might buy. The things at this booth weren’t expensive as far as jewelry went—only semi-precious stones and lesser metals. She shouldn’t, she thought, she wanted to save, but then she saw a relatively simple hair clasp made of steel and a single moonstone. The metal was engraved to look like a starry night, with the stone serving as the moon.
“I’ll take that one,” she told the woman sitting behind the table.
“You do know how to live after all!” Tarry joked when they went to show Sera and Dia their spoils. The two were standing in front of a small dais where a troupe of jesters and acrobats performed the most astonishing feats. Currently, a bare-chested man with a polished head was slowly pushing a sword down his own throat. His head was tilted backwards, so he couldn’t see the crowd following his every move, but he made sure to turn a little so they could see it was no trick.
“Before, there was a man swallowing fire,” Dia whispered in awe.
The sword-swallower removed the sword with as much care as he had inserted it, then a little boy wearing a fool’s costume threw an apple into the air and the man halved it with the sword that had just been in his throat. He bowed with a twinkle in his eye to the applause of the audience, while the boy went to collect the money the revelers were willing to part with. Alayne gave him a hard-earned coin as well. She was curious what the troupe would come up next.
When she saw it, though, she had to swallow her disgust. A bunch of dwarves, dressed in costumes and masks that she assumed meant something to the Braavosi crowd, started to put on a farce that was altogether too much like the one Joffrey had enjoyed so, before he died. Alayne could see the diminutive Renly ride a bare-bottomed Ser Loras, Stannis and his red witch being beaten back by a valiant King Joffrey, and the wolf-headed Starks were chased off with cudgels by two clumsy dwarves playing the twin towers of the Freys. Suddenly, Alayne no longer felt like enjoying her free evening. Still, she gave the mummers more than she wanted to in memory of Tyrion, who had been kind to her. Maybe she could repay him a little by being kind to other dwarves.
*
The morning after the last day of the Uncloaking, Mistress Sarnel let the girls sleep in. It had been a stressful few days for most of them. Sera had found herself an admirer, and Shaena and Tarry had danced almost ’til dawn after discarding their masks. Little Dia had spent the day with her family and stumbled back into the shop after midnight as well. Only Alayne had avoided the revelries, and so she had woken by the Titan’s roar like every morning. She went downstairs to start her chores, only to find the mistress in her favorite armchair sipping from a mug of tea, a little plate with smoked fish and bread next to her.
“Take something for yourself and sit down, dear,” the usually-stern woman told her.
Alayne hesitated. “Don’t you want me to wake the others so we can get started?” she asked.
Mistress Sarnel shook her head. “Not today. They can start when they crawl out of their beds. I doubt today is going to be very busy, at least not this early.”
Alayne went and got herself some cold food on a plate and some tea before sitting down next to her mistress. She ate in silence while Mistress Sarnel sipped. It felt strange that it was just the two of them. Usually, there was always Sera’s chatter or Dia’s fidgeting to add some noise to these rooms when Alayne was in them.
“You are a good girl,” Mistress Sarnel said suddenly. “You don’t have as much air between your ears as the others do, and you’re a diligent worker, talented. You don’t waste your time on frivolities either.”
Alayne thought of the hair clasp. She wore it, as she had every day since she’d bought it. She felt something like shame at those words. “Thank you,” she said.
“Oh, it’s not a compliment, I’m afraid. Anyone with eyes in their head can see you’ve had it rough. That sort of thing changes a person and makes a woman out of a girl far too young.”
You’re no longer a sweet summer child, Alayne thought, hearing Old Nan speak of winter and darkness and evils of ages past. For a moment, she wondered how the old woman was doing. Then she remembered that Winterfell had been sacked. Like as not, Nan was probably as dead as Alayne’s little brothers.
“Westeros must have been hard on you,” the woman continued. “Will you ever return?”
Alayne shrugged. “Not right now,” she said. “I wouldn’t feel safe with all the fighting.”
“That’s smart. Wars are never kind on the common people who just want to live their lives—”
It was obvious that she had wished to say something more, but they were interrupted by the bell that hung over the door of the shop. It was meant to alert them when the door opened or when someone wished to speak to them in the off hours.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Mistress Sarnel mumbled as she heaved herself out of her armchair. “At this hour? Today?”
Together, they made their way down the stairs and to the front door. When it opened, they saw a beautiful woman about the age of Mistress Sarnel, with a heavily painted face and a more colorful gown than was currently fashionable. She perked up noticeably when she saw them.
“Ah, good. This is the third shop I’ve tried. Is nobody working this morning?” She walked into the shop with little ceremony. “I have an order to make, and it’s time sensitive, so if you’d please.”
“I hope you’ll forgive us if we’re a little slow this morning, madam. It’s been a late night,” Mistress Sarnel said, with an air of disapproval.
“Oh, certainly,” the woman said. “So long as the work is done.”
“And what is it you wish to have done?” Mistress Sarnel replied as she grabbed a tablet and chalk to make her notes. Alayne still had trouble deciphering the strange Valyrian letters the Braavosi used sometimes.
“Oh, I don’t have very specific ideas. We already had a dress, of course, but some drunkards barged through our prop room and there was an, well, an accident. We can’t make our own replacement in time for the play and it’s already been announced, so there’s no way to delay it,” the woman explained. She was very chipper, Alayne thought, and she suspected the woman had been out last night and hadn’t slept a wink yet.
“But what is it you wish us to make?”
“Oh,” the woman said, shaking her head. “Where is my head today? The play we’re putting on is Forel’s latest. It’s about court intrigue in Westeros. I play the Queen, so I’ll need a dress that makes me look like one.”
Mistress Sarnel frowned for a moment. “Alayne, come here, please. You’ll be far better at judging what a Westerosi queen should wear.”
Alayne did as she was bade and took the tablet and chalk. Then she looked at the actress. “What kind of Westerosi queen?” she asked.
“Are there that many?” the woman retorted.
Alayne simply tilted her head. “Yes. A Targaryen dragonrider would wear something different than the queens that came later,” she explained. And the women from Dorne had preferred wide, flowing dresses, she thought, as did some of the ladies from the Reach, like Margaery, the queen that almost was. “It will also influence the color scheme. During the Dance of the Dragons, the warring factions were called the Blacks and the Greens, after the colors of the dresses worn by the two queens.”
The actress raised a sardonic eyebrow at that much detail. She was probably wondering why an apprentice seamstress in Braavos knew that much about the history of a faraway land. Although maybe her accent was explanation enough. Alayne was quite surprised she’d managed to remember anything of Maester Luwin’s lessons herself. To be honest, she’d only paid attention to this part because of the dresses.
“It’s based on the current queen,” the actress said, and Alayne knew this would be easy.
“It’ll be red and gold, then,” she declared as she began to sketch. Long flowing skirts, not as high-waisted as the Braavosi dresses, with long, billowing sleeves and a revealing bust. “With golden lions embroidered on the bodice.”
“Why lions?” the actress asked curiously.
“The Queen is a Lannister, and the golden lion on red is her family’s coat of arms,” Alayne explained, then showed the actress the rough sketch she had produced. The woman nodded.
“Then we’ll need to know how much time we have, and your measurements, of course,” Mistress Sarnel said, already brandishing the knotted string that was used to take their customers’ measurements.
“Four days,” the actress told them calmly. “To be delivered to Izembaro’s company at the Gate.”
Mistress Sarnel froze for a moment, then exchanged a look with Alayne. They both sighed and continued their work. “It won’t be cheap,” she warned the woman.
“Cheaper than postponing the premiere, I assure you,” the actress replied wryly. “And the play is going to be a huge success, I know it. Love, intrigue, comedy, fights, it has it all. And with the Westerosi envoy here to negotiate with the Iron Bank, it’ll draw an even bigger crowd.”
Alayne felt faint. She hoped the envoy was nobody she knew. She was safe, wasn’t she? Nobody would look for Sansa Stark when they saw Alayne Stone in her modest dresses. Still, it might be advisable to wear a shawl to hide her hair for the time being whenever she left the shop.
When the actress left the shop after her measurements were taken, Mistress Sarnel turned back to Alayne. Her stern facade was back in place. “Go wake the others, Alayne,” she ordered. “We’re going to work our fingers to the bone in the next few days.”
*
Alayne’s fingers were still hurting when she and the others—even Mistress Sarnel—pushed their way into the Gate for the premiere of Phario Forel’s latest play. After all the hard work they had put into it, not even the throngs of bravos, shopgirls and pickpockets could deter them. They so rarely got to admire the fruits of their labor, and when Alayne saw the theater’s pit, she was worried she might not tonight, either. It would be a shame.
The past few days had been a frenzy. After a look at the fabrics they had in store, Alayne and Mistress Sarnel had to conclude that they didn’t have the right shade of deep, bloody red, and not enough golden thread besides. They only had a yellow fabric that might serve as a contrast in a pinch, but it wasn’t ideal either. So while the others were sleepily getting ready for the day, Alayne accompanied her mistress to a cloth merchant who sold linen and silk imported from everywhere from Lorath to Volantis. He even sold some wool from the Seven Kingdoms. The selection left Alayne speechless, so she just nodded when her mistress had found the right one. She added a better yellow cloth as well. When they came back, the girls had already started on their orders, leaving mistress and apprentice to finish the dress.
It had turned out beautifully, Alayne thought. It wasn’t made from material expensive enough to please Queen Cersei herself, but it was a fair imitation, nonetheless.
The pit was filled to the brim, as were the boxes and balconies. In the best one, Alayne could spy the envoy with his sigil embroidered on this doublet. House Swyft, if she wasn’t mistaken. She ran her hands over her shawl to make sure it covered her hair properly. Then a peddler bumped into her and offered her a greasy sausage. Alayne declined.
The play began. On stage was a lichyard full of tombstones. Then a dwarf stepped from behind one and began his lament.
“The seven-faced god has cheated me,” he declared, sneering at the people gaping up at him. “My noble sire he made of purest gold, and gold he made my siblings, boy and girl. But I am formed of darker stuff, of bones and blood and clay —”
Alayne was taken quite aback. She didn’t know it was to be a play about Tyrion, and evidently neither had the writer, since the longer the play went on, the less like him the dwarf on stage seemed. Tyrion had been made of gold far more than his siblings and father, only he was gold on the inside. They were gilded without, but rotten inside.
The strangest experience for her, however, was when the girl with the red wig appeared on stage. She was the daughter of the old king’s Hand, who had tried to take the throne for himself before fleeing north and leaving her behind. She saw it all again, distorted like the reflection in a disturbed pond: King Robert’s death, her father’s betrayal, the Battle of the Blackwater, and finally, the wedding.
Lady Crane, the actress who had come to them for the dress, was magnificent. She easily stole the scene from her dying “son” and the dwarf’s scheming. All who saw her desperately clinging to the dead boy king and heard her cries were entranced. Her screams to have the dwarf thrown into the dungeon were the only thing that seemed even halfway true to the play’s inspiration. The dress, of course, looked magnificent too. It fit very well and made the mummer look like a true queen.
After the final chase, in which the Bloody Hand killed his unwilling wife and left her body in the sewer, the villain was apprehended and brought to justice. The curtain fell. The mummers bowed before their audience, and then it was time for them to leave. Alayne felt a strange mixture of sadness and irritation. Was that really what people thought of them? That the Lannisters were good and the Starks bad? Alayne hoped not.
“The dress looked wonderful,” Dia proclaimed once they were out of the Gate and on their way back. “You did great, Alayne. I could really see the lions, even from a distance! They looked a lot like the ones on the guards in the envoy’s box.”
“Thank you,” Alayne said. “It really wasn’t as difficult as all that.”
“Don’t sell yourself short,” her mistress said. “You really did well, especially with the little time we had.”
Alayne lowered her head and felt herself blush.
“I wonder if it was really like that, with the Hand and all that. Phario Forel loves to write about things that really happened. I saw his play about the dragon lords once,” Shaena mused.
Alayne snorted. “Don’t believe a word,” she told them fiercely. “Joffrey was a terrible king. They called him Illborn behind his back, and even to his face when the people rioted because they were starving. And it was Lord Tyrion who saved the city from Stannis. I was in King’s Landing when all that happened.”
It was the most Alayne had ever said about her time in Westeros, she realized, and she hadn’t really meant to. It had just happened. She regretted it immediately and was about to apologize for her uncharacteristic outburst when Sera spoke first.
“Of course you’re right,” she said diplomatically. “But it was an entertaining play.”
They all nodded in agreement and talked little all the way back home, but Alayne could see their glances. Seven only knew what they were thinking. They probably imagined her being menaced by soldiers and the rabble during the riot and the battle. Likely they also cast Petyr, whom they thought her father, as the hero who had tried to save her from it all, only to die tragically just when he had succeeded.
It was a nice story, she supposed. But characters in stories were rarely like real people. Her father had never saved her and Petyr had had his own motives. The people of King’s Landing were just desperate with hunger, not evil villains. Alayne remembered the woman carrying her dead babe. Stannis was the rightful king who only did what kings always did, and fought for his throne. The people just happened to be caught between him and Joffrey. And Sansa had been forgotten.
*
Daily life took over once again the following day. There were always orders to be handled and dresses to be worked on. Mistress Sarnel had also started to teach Alayne and Sera how to keep the books and handle the business side of her shop. Sera was not very good with her numbers, while Alayne had never much bothered with the intricacies of managing a budget. Her mother and Maester Luwin had tried their best to teach it to her, but Sansa hadn’t listened. Now she rued her former self’s careless nature. At least she had Sera, who thought about how much money she could afford to spend as if it was second nature, and whom she helped with her subtraction, addition and the more complicated multiplications and divisions, not that Alayne was all that good at them herself. They were both hunched over their tablets, trying to figure out how to price a dress based on the size of the woman and the quality of the materials, plus the cost they had to factor in for work hours, the house, food, and taxes, when Mistress Sarnel called up to them one evening.
“Alayne, would you come down, please?”
Alayne frowned at Sera. They had both heard the bell at the entrance ring, of course, but Tarry had gone out on an errand with Shaena, so they had simply assumed it had been them. Sera shrugged, and nodded for her to leave.
When Alayne arrived downstairs, she saw that her mistress wasn’t with Tarry and Shaena, but a customer, even though it was already past the eighth hour of the evening, by the Titan’s roar. With her stood a stunning young woman with dark skin and black hair. She wore a dress of fine peach silk decorated with white pearls. On her neck, she wore a choker with the biggest black pearl Alayne had ever seen.
“This is the girl?” the woman asked.
Mistress Sarnel nodded. “Alayne, may I introduce Bellegere Otherys, the Black Pearl of Braavos.”
The Black Pearl nodded in greeting, while Alayne curtsied uncertainly. She didn’t know how to properly greet a courtesan, and certainly not a famous one. For that was who was gracing them with her presence. The Black Pearl smirked slightly.
“You designed the dress for Lady Crane, then?”
Alayne needed a moment to place the actress’s name, then she nodded. “I did.”
“Well then, girl, I want to commission a dress in the Westerosi style.”
Why? Alayne wondered. The Braavosi dresses were a little different, especially in the sleeves, but Alayne liked them just as well as any other. Still, the Black Pearl was a customer, and one who had a reputation for being able to pay.
“What kind of dress?” Alayne asked, before adding, “Do you want any specific colors?”
The Black Pearl hummed for a moment. “A black one, I think. With red dragons. The Targaryen queen in Meereen has made it her mission to abolish slavery, have you heard? And she is my kin, if very distantly. Soon, people will praise her in all the known world, and I intend to make the most of it.”
Although they looked nothing alike, the Black Pearl reminded her of Margaery Tyrell, if she ever started acting the way she felt. Or, more likely, her grandmother. A pragmatist to the bone.
“I also want it to be made of the best fabric—silk perhaps, or brocade, if you think it needs to be heavier,” the Black Pearl continued. “Can you work with those?”
Alayne nodded, then tilted her head. “Winter is coming,” she echoed her house’s words, “and a heavier cloth will likely be of more use than the light silks of summer. A question, though,” Alayne asked, tentatively. “Will you be wanting the three-headed dragon of the Targaryens, or will simple dragons do?”
The Black Pearl smiled like a shark. “A simple, one-headed one will do. One shouldn’t presume on one’s relations’ goodwill too much.”