Chapter Text
Day 1 : The Catcher in the Canals
“Mercy, Mercy, Mercy” was what she sang as she walked through the foggy streets of Braavos. Mercy was the type of girl who walked with a spring in her step. Mercy had never seen the world outside the crooked city and its green canals, she had no home to miss, no past to mourn, what Mercy had was actually nothing; her treasures, her clothes, her words, even her name didn’t really belong to her and that was the beauty of it.
“Mercy!" The self-appointed king of mummers had welcomed her with a flushed and panicked face, Mercy bit her lip, she was the last addition to Izembaro’s mummers and that meant that she had to endure the actor’s whims.
“Mercy! I need a new crown! I can’t be the king without my crown!” the man spoke all at once, Mercy had spoken Braavosi her whole life, and yet sometimes it didn’t sound natural at all to her ears.
“I can ask the Snapper to make you a new one?” Marcy smiled as she proposed a solution, she had a pretty smile, Izembaro himself had told her that.
“No! No! No! It’s not good, Mercy! She made a crown with rags I need a real one! No paper, no rags! A real crown! Can you find it for me? I have to be the king!-
A brief image flickered before her eyes: a broad man, his voice thundering, dark hair and yellow robes, on his head a crown fit for a king, but it couldn’t be; a girl like Mercy had never met a king.
-I… - The girl didn’t want to disappoint the panicked actor but she had no idea about where to find a crown. People said that if one looked thoroughly through the crooked alleys of Braavos, anything could be found but Mercy knew that those who searched for treasures often were found by troubles.
- I’ll give you a part! With lines to learn! You like that, Mercy? You’ll be an actress! Find me a crown and I’ll make everyone remember your name!- Izembaro was charismatic, hell he was an actor, a king of his trade, but Mercy wasn’t stupid, she was quite bored tough.
- I’ll find your crown… - she promised. Izembaro smacked a wet kiss on Mercy’s cheek and thanked her loudly before finding another soul to bother, fucking mummers.
“Mercy, Mercy, Mercy” the girl wandered aimlessly as if a crown could be unveiled from the mist at any second.
“Are you lost, child?” a voice from the alleys, she wasn't lost.
“I'm not a child!” Mercy answered, turning around to see who had talked, but the dense fog hid everything.
“Who's there? Who are you?” Mercy wasn't scared.
“Who are you?” The voice asked again, at that precise moment the girl realised they weren't having a conversation in Braavosi, it was the western tongue. Mercy spoke only Braavosi but she had answered anyway.
Mercy tried to follow that mysterious voice but whoever had spoken it seemed like was made of mist itself; suddenly a sound, a soft humming and then a delicate tinkering. The girl walked until a shop was unveiled before her eyes, treasures of every kind and shape were stacked for everyone to see, an old woman guarded them as she sang.
Mercy observed all those objects forgotten by time, fishing nets adorned with seaglass and tiny shells, vases and pots of every shape and dimension, an arp and a broken drum, linens and silks and lace and brocade, all piled among dusty shelves and old chairs. The girl kept walking and observing as the old woman ignored her completely. There was an old mirror, its surface cracked into so many pieces that it was a miracle the wooden frame still held it all together. What was the point of storing a broken mirror?
Mercy looked at the glass and a girl stared back at her, the reflection was all distorted, the sharp edges of the glass turning her into a broken portrait of herself, of the girl she had once been, of the girl she could be one day but in that exact moment she knew she was nothing, not even Mercy or one of the thousands disguises and names that she had used during her exile, she was no one.
A glimmer of gold caught the girl’s attention, she ignored all the thoughts that had started haunting her mind and just followed the light, and there it was, almost hidden by an old hay sack; there was a crown fit for a king.
“Is that what you want?” The old woman hadn’t even looked up from her needlework.
“It’s not for me… how much is it?” Mercy asked, taking the crown in her small hands.
“I don’t possess any of these treasures; they are for those who need them… but are you sure you got what you need, little girl?”
The girl bit her lip, unsure about what to answer.
“What is your name?”
“Everyone calls me Mercy…” she answered, but she was no one, even if some pain was too heavy to forget, even if in her dreams she howled to the moon, she had to be no one, being someone else was too scary even to consider.
“Now go! You’ll be late… I know I’ll see you again… and then you’ll know your name…” The woman smiled, a smile so serene and wise, Mercy wondered if it had all been just a dream, but it hadn’t.
Mercy hid the crown under her skirt as she walked toward The Gate, Izembaro would have been happy with her, she even wondered which part he would have given her as a reward.
She arrived as they rehearsed, it was a new play called The Bloody Hand, Mercy looked at the actors hitting their marks and repeating their lines, the scenes alternating between sorrow and joy, a chaotic, colourful, haunting beauty.
Was she fit to play a part? Was she meant to become a mummer, learning by heart somebody else’s story just to forget her own?
The girl was turning the crown in her hands, maybe all life was just one cruel play, but was she brave enough to finally take back her role?
Was it possible to be Arya Stark again?