The Festival had Started.
Music also Started playing in the Village.
Not the kind of music carved in ritual or born from arcane rites.
Not the hollow chants of the old towers, or the warhorns that once followed him into fire.
This was string and reed and voice. A lute being tuned poorly.
Someone humming off-key.
Children shrieking laughter in rhythm with wooden spoons smacking pots.
The Festival had begun.
He stared at the wooden ceiling above him for a long time, listening to the sound of a village reminding itself it was still alive.
Then he rose, dressed in the plain brown tunic someone had left him, he suspected Maret again, and made his way outside.
The square was already transforming.
Cloth streamers tied between rooftops fluttered like shy flags.
Baskets of dyed eggs, flowers, and salt bread stood at every corner.
Someone was painting a sun on the side of the old well.
"Ash!"
Arya's voice called out from the bakery porch.
