Chapter seventeen: The Quiet Struggle of The Future
The new tavern sat at the edge of River's Row, where the bustle of King's Landing faded into a quieter hum, just before the city sloped down toward the docks. Thomas had called it **The Future**, a name that promised more than just ale and food—a place that could become something greater. But it wasn't easy. The location was both a curse and an opportunity; tucked at the far end of a street lined with taverns, each clamoring for the attention of those who passed. The other establishments were loud and bright, packed with drinkers and sailors and the noise of jostling mugs, boisterous laughter, and the shouts of barkers trying to drag in more business. By the time anyone reached Thomas's tavern, they were either already drunk or weary of the trek past fourteen other inns and drinking holes.
Thomas had put every coin he had into making The Future stand out. He'd ensured that the atmosphere inside was different: softer, more refined, with dark wood, warm candlelight, and tables spaced apart just enough to give people a sense of privacy. A small stage took up the corner, raised just enough for everyone to see, where musicians played quietly, the faint strum of a lute and the low thrum of a drum creating a backdrop of sound that filled the room without overwhelming it. Lyra sat poised at the edge of the stage, her fingers brushing nervously against the wooden stool beneath her, ready to sing.
Tonight, the tavern was only half full—a slow night, with a scattering of patrons who'd either wandered in by accident or sought out a quieter place to nurse their drinks. A trio of old men sat near the door, their faces lined with age and stories they rarely told. They had walked in from the other end of the street, avoiding the chaos of the more popular spots, drawn in by the promise of music rather than noise. At the bar, a couple whispered to each other, their voices low, their attention half on their conversation and half on the band warming up.
Thomas leaned against the counter, his eyes flicking between the sparse crowd and Lyra, who was adjusting the mic stand, her fingers trembling slightly. The band struck up a soft tune, and she took a breath, her lips parting as the first notes left her throat, clear and haunting. The song rolled over the room like a slow tide, gentle and insistent.
**"Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene,
I beg of thee, pray take not my lord,
Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene,
I fear from thee, 'twould take naught but a word…"**
Lyra's voice floated out, wrapping the room in its melancholic pull. It was unlike the brash shouts of other taverns; hers was a lament that reached into the quiet spaces of the heart. Each note fell with a softness that lingered, like the gentle drip of rain on a windowsill. The old men stopped their muted conversation, their eyes lifting toward the stage, caught by the wistful quality of her tone.
One of them, a man with a scruffy beard and a tired gaze, leaned back in his chair, his fingers drumming absently on the table. The lyrics pulled at something buried deep, the imagery of auburn hair and emerald eyes sparking memories of a long-gone lover whose name he couldn't quite remember but whose face flickered in his mind's eye. His gaze softened, lost in the music as Lyra's voice drew him further in, the words sinking like small, sharp hooks into the quiet parts of him.
**"Thy beauty is beyond compare,
With flaming locks of auburn hair,
With ivory skin and eyes of emerald green…"**
He nodded slightly, his lips curling in a rueful smile as if acknowledging some unspoken truth. There was something in the way Lyra described Jolene—a cruel, careless beauty that existed just to take, to steal the things others held dear. He sipped his ale, the taste bitter on his tongue, his mind wandering back to the woman who'd once sat beside him, a ghost now, made real again by the song.
Across the room, the couple at the bar turned their attention fully to Lyra, the man's arm resting loosely around the woman's shoulders. The woman's eyes glistened in the candlelight, a flicker of something vulnerable flitting across her features. She leaned into the lyrics, her expression tightening at the line about a voice soft like summer rain. She glanced at her partner, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass, the song resonating in a way that felt too personal, too close to home.
**"He talketh of thee in his sleep,
And alas I cannot keep,
From weeping when I hear thy name, Jolene…"**
The woman bit her lip, her grip on her glass tightening. The name rang out like an accusation, the weight of every insecure moment captured perfectly in Lyra's voice. The man beside her watched her reaction, his smile fading as he squeezed her shoulder, a silent reassurance that she was the only one. But the words lingered, stinging like a half-remembered wound.
**"Although it is so plain to see,
How little he doth mean to thee,
My love for him is boundless as the sea…"**
The woman glanced away, her thoughts spiraling, the music carrying her fears like an undercurrent. She let the words wash over her, her eyes distant, and the man's arm around her felt heavier, almost burdensome. The truth in the lyrics was too raw, too real—a reminder that no love was ever as secure as one wished it to be.
Lyra's voice rose, drawing them all into the chorus, the repeating lines hammering home the desperation of the plea, the unspoken tension of loving something that could so easily be taken away.
**"Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene,
I beg of thee, pray take not my lord…"**
A younger man, seated near the far wall with his friends, shifted uncomfortably. He was broad-shouldered, still in the bloom of youth, but something in the song's slow, aching melody drew a scowl to his lips. He stared into his drink, the reflection rippling with each sway of the liquid as Lyra's voice reached him. The lines about risking life and limb, about a happiness at another's whim, struck him like blows he wasn't prepared to fend off.
He tried to ignore the lyrics, but they seeped in, each verse pressing against memories he'd worked hard to bury. A girl from the past, a promise made and broken, a sense of helplessness he'd never shaken. He clenched his jaw, trying to shake the feeling, but Lyra's voice was relentless, wrapping around him like the coils of a snake, squeezing until he felt the weight of every poor decision.
**"Thou couldst have thy choice of men,
But I could never love again,
He is the only one for me, Jolene…"**
He glanced at his friends, trying to laugh it off, but the mirth didn't reach his eyes. They were caught up in the song too, their expressions distant, each lost in their own thoughts. There was a heavy silence, the kind that came from shared understanding, unspoken but felt all the same.
The song built to its final refrain, Lyra's voice trembling with a vulnerability that felt raw and honest, the desperation bleeding through each line.
**"Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene,
I beg of thee, pray take not my lord,
Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene,
I fear from thee, 'twould take naught but a word…"**
The last notes hung in the air, a soft, lingering echo that faded slowly, leaving behind a stillness that pressed against the walls of the tavern. Lyra's voice tapered off, her chest rising and falling as she caught her breath, the strain of the performance evident in the slight tremor of her hands. She glanced out at the crowd, unsure, her eyes scanning the room for any sign of how the song had been received.
There was a pause—a suspended moment where the room seemed to hold its breath. Then, slowly, the applause began, a few scattered claps at first, hesitant and low, then building into a more earnest ovation. The old men at the front clapped the hardest, their hands rough and calloused, the sound echoing sharply against the wood. The couple at the bar joined in, the woman's smile tinged with a kind of sad acknowledgment. Even the young man and his friends found themselves clapping, their faces reflecting a mix of emotions they couldn't quite articulate.
The sound filled the space, bouncing off the walls and filling every corner, a shared appreciation that bound them all together for just a moment. Thomas watched from his spot behind the counter, his expression unreadable but his eyes sharp, taking in the response. It wasn't a full house, but those who were there felt something—a pull, a connection, a reason to return. They would come back, bringing friends, family, curious strangers drawn by the promise of something different, something that didn't just cater to thirst but to the quiet needs buried deep.
Lyra stepped down from the stage, her smile tentative but growing as she caught Thomas's eye. He gave her a nod, the smallest flicker of approval, and she knew she'd done well. The Future was quiet, tucked away at the end of the row, but it had a voice now—soft, haunting, impossible to ignore. And that voice would carry them forward, one song
SFW pictures for free on P@treon and NSFW pictures on P@treon
SFW pictures and 1 chapter ahead for free below. 1 Chapter will always be ahead on the pinned post linking to another page. If you want more you can pay $4.50/month for 9 chapters ahead on the story and NSFW pictures but one chapter will always be ahead in the P@treon page.
https://p@treon.com/swattywriter