Chapter 1

The Frog

The Frog had almost forgotten the ache of sore muscles.  In the swamp, there were few paths solid enough for a bicycle.   The county road he now travelled, however, was hard and unforgiving, perfect for rubber tires,  but not for amphibian legs unused to long travel.  I need a soft bed and a hot meal.  Holy Wood can wait.

That was when he saw it—an inn looming over the crossroads, not a hundred yards away.  With renewed strength, the Frog hastened to read the name of the establishment and, perhaps, its Zagat rating.

The El Sleezo, thought the frog.  Probably foreign food.  The doors flew open and the frog wrinkled its nose at the stink of onions, stale beer and vomit that wafted past him.  Suddenly, a grizzled figure was tossed bodily out of the inn to land in a pile of refuse.  The man rose from the pile of trash and eyed the inn with cold loathing.

“That’s the toughest, meanest , filthiest shithole in the Seven Kingdoms,” he said.  He spat a wad of blood and phlegm, then thoughtfully probed his teeth with a finger.

“Perhaps you should complain to the innkeeper, then,’ offered the frog.

“Complain to the innkeeper? ‘’ The man laughed humorlessly.  “I am the innkeeper.”

The Frog could think of no reply, so he braced himself for the worst and entered the tavern.

The common room was noisy and crowded; at one end there was a stage and piano; at the other, a long wooden bar  was  tended by a stout and reeking taverner with a greasy billow of a beard and a pinstripe suit.  The tables were packed, and the crowd mingled freely:  sable-hatted gangsters from Volantis haggled with swarthy Dornish merchants in flowing robes and sunglasses; a pair of sallow mimes from Highgarden walked into a wind that touched no one but themselves; a motorcycle gang from Braavos eyed a handful of boorish sailors from Pyke, recognizable by their blue suits with white sash and cap,who hit ceaselessly on the El Sleazo cocktail waitresses, resplendent in cheap Myrrish sequins and flecks of chaw.

“Watch out!  Hot plates coming through,” called a serving boy bearing trenchers covered with steaming stews. “Ya gotcha ragout of frog legs, ya frog leg fricassee, ya medley of smoked frog legs cured three ways and served with sustainable mango chutney, ya saddle of venison stewed with eel,  juniper berries and dornish fire peppers and garnished with a leek aspic foam and frog legs…”    One by one, the trenchers were set before the hungry guests, who gave their noisy approval, then tucked in.  The Frog glanced down at his own legs.  You may not be perfect, but on the whole, I’d rather have you beneath me than before them in a sauce.  I must be cautious.  He made his way to the bar.

“Hello sailor.  Buy me a drink?”  A smoldering beauty with an unfamiliar accent had sidled up next to him.  She was clad in the vestments of a priestess of R’hllor, though her brazen overtures were anything but holy.  Despite her friendly greeting, she seemed tired, a bone-weariness that chilled her smile and frightened him, telling as it did of the terrible costs this world could exact.

“I’m no sailor,’ he said then, “just a frog seeking the Holy Wood.”

“Cut the small talk then, and buy me a drink—or are you all fins and no stones?”

A second figure suddenly loomed over him.  He wore the traditional black of a man of the Night’s Watch, but it was unclear whether he was her protector or her procurer.  The Frog had a mad urge to shove a cherry lollipop  into that fearsome scowl, but had none to shove.

“Hey, you making a move on my girl?”

“No, Sir.”

“He did too,” insisted the dubious priestess.  “He touched me naughties.”

“So wash.”

The man turned to the frog.  ‘If she gets warts,” he hissed through sourleaf-stained teeth “I’ll rip off those pingpong ball eyes with my teeth and fuck the hole they leave.”

Fuck the hole they leave?  the Frog thought, absurdly.  Who would want to fuck felt?.  “I assure you,” he said, “that thing with the warts is a myth!”

“Perhapt,’ said the thug, rising now with his hand on the pommel of his sword, “but she’th my mith.”

“No, no!  Myth!  Myth!”

“Yeth?” interjected a woozy blonde who appeared from nowhere.  She wore the same colors as the thug, and the Frog feared once more for his safety. What the hey?  He thought, painfully aware of his lack of a weapon.

“Showtime!  Showtime at the El Sleezo!”  a voice from the back of the room provided a distraction, and the Frog slipped away from his accusors.  “And now. filling in for the vacationing El Sleezo dancing girls… the Harlequin of Highgarden!  The Quipster of Qarth!  The Wit of Winterfell!  Fozzie Bear!”