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A Song of Blackjack and Hookers (chapter 22)
🕑 Added 2025-05-13 22:14:41 +0000 UTCThe Wild Child
She grinned as she beat the shadowed figure back across the godswood, steel clashing against steel.
It was always in the godswood, and it had taken so many times that she could not count them all, but Arya felt as if she might finally beat her teacher. Her hand even moved instinctively to guard against a sneaky strike as she continued her assault.
She was so close.
Then she saw it again, but it was a feint this time, and she felt the flat of the sword give a painful swat to her bottom as she stumbled.
The shadowed figure laughed at her, challenging her to go again. Teeth grit, she got back to her feet, raising her sword threateningly.
Their dance began anew, until she felt something wet and slobbery on her cheeks, the Winterfell godswood being replaced by her chambers and Nymeria licking her face.
Arya gave a noisy sigh as she scratched around her ears like she liked. “Must you always do that?” she asked as she threw the covers off.
Nymeria only looked up at her with innocent eyes.
Sometimes she still found it hard to believe she had her own direwolf pup now. Other times she imagined herself riding Nymeria like a warrior queen from the Age of Heroes when she wasn’t a nosy pup anymore.
She still hated that she wouldn’t be there to see the stupid face Sansa would make when she saw the pup that Robb sent with some of Father’s men, and Bran as well.
She just knew Sansa would be too scared to even come close to such a savage and improper beast, the perfect lady that she was, but Robb had scolded her for saying as much. He had grown so bossy with Father gone to King’s Landing.
“Breakfast then?” she asked.
Nymeria gave a happy woof in response.
Arya quickly put on whatever was on hand, running down the hallways with Nymeria. They soon found Robb already on his lordly throne as he listened to the smallfolk. She snickered at the look on his face as she sat, feeding Nymeria some of the meats she liked from her hand.
She spied Theon and the Bolton at another table with Jon, though he joined her instead when he saw.
“Robb will be upset at you dressing like half a wildling again,” he told her.
“He can make me wear a dress himself if he likes,” she said as she stuffed her mouth full of honeyed ham.
Jon sighed as he tussled her hair. He was always her favorite brother.
“At least you’re not as much a terror as Rickon. Robb almost begged your lady mother to return to Winterfell,” he admitted to her quietly, drawing a snort from her.
“The southrons always say we Starks are half wildling anyway. We’re not supposed to wear fancy dresses and simper at boys.”
“Are we talking about Rickon or you?” he teased. “And those words are rarely meant as a compliment.”
“That’s because they’re stupid,” she argued, and he could say naught to that because he agreed. It was the southrons who hated bastards the most.
Arya spied Jeyne at the table on her other side, the Poole girl glumly poking at her fare while Beth tried to cheer her up. Really, she had been like that ever since Sansa had gone south with their lady mother.
It served her right. Should have learned to ride a horse instead of turning her nose up at it being unladylike. Though for her part she would have been more unhappy going to Highgarden, making stupid sounds at the flowers as she batted her eyelashes. Yuck.
Robb soon joined Jon and her, his eyes taking in her state of dress unhappily. “Arya—”
“The dress tore,” she quickly answered.
“All of them?” he asked incredulously.
Arya glanced at Jon to save her, but he pretended he didn’t see. “No,” she mumbled.
Robb at least didn’t push further, instead calling a surprised Jeyne over. “My lady mother writes that Sansa will be staying at Highgarden for the time being and wants you to join her. Beth as well.”
Jeyne looked like Robb had just asked to marry her. “Truly?”
“Aye. Your father has agreed if you wish to.”
“I do! W-When do we go?” Beth pulled at her ginger curls with a faraway look as Jeyne fanned herself with a hand. “Gods, I have to prepare my…”
Arya gagged as she turned away to find the red eyes of Jon’s direwolf staring at her. She scratched around his ears as well.
Then she poked Jon in his side. “Race you around Winterfell again.” On a horse even her brothers couldn’t beat her.
Being her favorite brother, he easily agreed. And he gracefully accepted his defeat as well.
Arya knew that if he truly left for the Night’s Watch that she would go with him. Just to keep him company if nothing else.
The last thing she wanted was to be stuck with Theon and his stupid smiles and the Bolton with his stupid harp.
That night she faced down shadows in the godswood again. They always mocked her whenever she lost, but it only made her angrier and more determined to win.
It was better than dreaming of boys. She would sooner throw herself off Winterfell’s walls.
Margaery
She closely watched as Solomon plied her garden, his nimble fingers working with a grace that put to doubt his inexperience. His hair had grown longer since she had seen him last, thick dark locks touching the back of his starkly yellow half-cloak now, and his skin more sun-kissed.
“It warms my heart to see how far you have come from one rose, my lady.” His voice was just as pleasant as she remembered, like cream and honey.
“I assumed you must have seen something in me to have given such a gift,” she quietly admitted. Grandmother would be displeased at how free she was with her tongue, she knew.
And yet she had already given her noble blood more than once to his creation, and the blood of her cousins as well. The die was cast and her heart was set.
“You will be a queen they will whisper about when both our bones are naught but dust.”
When he said it, it felt more than a dream. It was a promise.
The sound of footsteps saw the queen stalking into her garden past Ser Morwyn, the sun catching on her golden curls. Solomon leisurely stood to greet her, not caring at the dirt sticking to his clothes.
The same could not be said for Cersei as she tried to hide a sneer.
“Your Grace,” Margaery simpered. “You look radiant today.” She made a show of sweeping the dirt off her own silks, forcing some red to her cheeks. “I fear I am much less presentable.”
The words had not soothed her as they normally had. No doubt she was still smarting from both her brothers vanishing to Braavos with only a letter left for the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.
Cersei cloaked herself in a false smile as she drew close to Solomon, her gown stretched almost obscenely around her belly. “You do yourself an injustice with your words, Lady Margaery. After all, you have even caught Solomon’s eye.” Her painted nails were tickling his arm in an altogether intimate way now. “And how could you not when you look as sweet as a peach in the bloom of summer?”
Her cats’ eyes flashed dangerously, but it was all Margaery could do not to laugh, for he had not even kissed her despite her making every sign that she wanted him to.
She lowered her eyes as she tried to ape a fireplum instead. “You are kind to say so, Your Grace.”
Again it hadn’t soothed her. Cersei would never confirm the rumors about them even when she had subtly poked and prodded these past months, but now she hardly seemed to care as she draped herself over him.
Then her mercurial mood shifted as she stalked behind her instead, nails digging into Margaery’s sides almost painfully. “Don’t you agree, Solomon?”
She didn’t need to fake all her embarrassment now as a hand cupped her womanly parts.
“And a maiden still as well, just waiting to be plucked.”
Margaery avoided his eyes, though his continued silence soon turned Cersei’s already troubled smile nervous. And just as quickly it was smothered in more jealousy.
“I do not imagine Renly would even notice if someone had.” Her golden curls tickled Margaery’s cheek as her words tickled her ear. “You need only ask him, my lady. Have I not taught you to be honest?”
While she wondered at the right move here, Solomon had almost glided over the dirt to them, his fingers gently caressing Cersei’s cheek.
“And why would I want a maiden when I can have a queen as bright and lovely as the sun?” His words must have surprised the lioness, for the maw around her neck retreated. “Especially when she also has a maidenhead that remains unplucked.”
He took her royal hand and she watched with some surprise of her own at how meekly Cersei followed him. Soon they had left her garden completely.
Though she should feel relieved at the specter of danger vanishing, Margaery could not help some small hurt at the rejection. Grandmother would have hated that the most. A lady could not afford to be ruled by her heart she would always say.
Her feet almost moved on their own as she followed them, and she soon found herself in Princess Myrcella’s garden. It was not as grand or as yellow as her own, but she could tell the princess had put her heart into it.
That he had taken her there tickled a part of her almost as much as seeing Cersei on her hands and knees, her cloth-of-gold gown slashed with red velvet already dirtied. That she allowed it meant the lion queen had already been thoroughly tamed.
Her creamy thighs were revealed as the gown was unceremoniously hiked up, and Margaery’s eyes soon caught upon a part of him that met the waning summer air. It was not the first she had seen, but it was such that she wondered if he wasn’t named the Magnificent for it.
She watched as Cersei’s eyes turned skittish, her painted nails digging into the dirt as he positioned himself behind her, his dark eyes smoldering as he held her firm. And yet she had not commanded him not to as she could have, she only huffed and puffed through grit teeth, pleading with him to be gentle with her.
Margaery did not think such a thing could be gentle, though she would not deny it was a sweet sight seeing Cersei taken like a whore on the Street of Silk. Though she also struggled more than any whore to accommodate him, feverishly clawing at the dirt.
If the smallfolk could see their queen now…
Cersei cats’ eyes soon popped open comically as he must have lodged himself inside completely with a satisfied sigh, and he only waited a few breaths before he continued, his movements harsh and tempestuous.
Margaery’s heart caught as his dark eyes suddenly found her, though he hadn’t even paused, his muscles moving powerfully as he took his pleasure again and again. A smile as haunting as it was handsome was on his lips now.
Not wanting him to see her as scared or a fool, she returned his smile with a sharpness like a thorn.
The sounds would only turn more debauched despite Cersei trying to smother the protests of a woman having her bowels opened in her sleeves, a sticky and cloying sound joining that primal dance of flesh against flesh.
She felt a trickle of honey slide down her thighs as she watched, her imagination caught in the moment. Margaery saw herself clawing at the soft dirt of her yellow garden, no part of her untouched.
She was soon distracted by Cersei having abandoned any sense of decorum, instead grunting and even growling as he quickened.
Was she actually enjoying this? Surely not. Even a whore was unlikely to pretend near so well, if at all.
Solomon seemed to find it as queer as she did, though he was more appreciative, leaning in to plant kisses along her shoulders and neck. And when she somehow reached her peak, he smothered her scream with a final kiss.
He soon gripped her golden curls in one hand, leaving her panting breathlessly as he moved as a beast might now. Her own nails bit into the red bricks as she watched him spend his seed fruitlessly with a faraway look, the lion queen beneath him only able to muster mewls and whimpers.
Margaery’s thoughts felt not unlike a whirlwind as she drank it all in, amused and envious and lightheaded all at once.
She saw him plant a few more kisses as he playfully righted the crown atop Cersei’s head, though it just made the lurid pop as he pulled his spent member from her seem all the more debauched, leaving it hanging heavily.
She quickly fled back to her garden, trying to calm her racing heart and thoughts. But then she heard footsteps again, Solomon having followed her.
“Did you enjoy the show, my lady?” He continued before she could conjure up an answer that didn’t sound silly to her ears. “No matter, I have a much grander show in mind. Tonight if you are willing.”
His dark eyes turned upon the yellow roses all around them, and he seemed to greedily drink in their scent.
“After all, it wasn’t just my hands I promised to you,” he whispered with a husk to it that had her heart all aflutter again.
She still marshalled herself. “Tonight,” she repeated.
Margaery heard him leave, though not before he placed a lock of hair behind her ear. Sometimes she struggled to understand him.
She soon left with Ser Morwyn at her back to break her fast. Lady Stark she saw had returned to King’s Landing, while Sansa Stark would stay in Highgarden until the end of this new year they had found themselves in. If there would be a betrothal would only be decided then.
While it would cut her number of ladies-in-waiting by half, she quickly made the decision to send those of her cousins Sansa had taken to best back to Highgarden. With the Starks would also come the riverlands and at least some part of the Vale, a power bloc that would stem from the Dornish marches all the way to the Wall.
Though as to the Vale itself, the news seemed to grow stranger with every day. Margaery truly wished Lady Stark luck in making sense of it all, for she was soon to make for the Eyrie.
As the sun dipped below the horizon and night fell upon King’s Landing, she returned to her garden with Ser Morwyn. Several of her flowers would join them, the ones she trusted most.
Giving her torch to a thin slip of a girl by name of Naella, she took a deep breath of the cooler air mixed with the heady scents of her garden.
As the hour drew closer, she looked up at the stars. Maybe it was a trick of the eye, but they seemed brighter this night. The anticipation that had gripped her only worsened.
When Solomon finally joined them, it was in sleek yellow robes that hung loosely off his lean frame. He looked every inch a sorcerer now as the silk seemed to drink in the light from every torch.
There was another with him, the man of Volantis that had returned with him to King’s Landing. Maegon Laessaryon had instead donned purple silks so dark that they seemed almost black, contrasting with his silver hair.
He gave a comely smile but said no words.
Solomon soon stretched out a hand to her. “Are you ready, my lady?”
She took it, banishing the last speck of doubt in her heart. “I am.”
Her brows scrunched as he offered his other hand to Ser Morwyn. “And you, ser?”
The knight was just as surprised, his eyes like burnt honey glancing between her and Solomon. “What of me?”
“You wish to see your lady’s dreams to fruition, yes? There are more ways than a sword to do it.”
Her eyes met the knight, and a soft nod from her had him taking the sorcerer’s hand as he brought them both nearer to the roses. Maegon she saw had also unsheathed the Valyrian steel sword he had brought with him, the torchlight dancing across its smoky patterns.
With no hesitation he brought it across his forearm, a soft hiss leaving his lips as his blood fell upon the dirt. Her garden seemed to like it, for that sweet scent seemed to strengthen tenfold.
Ser Morwyn had hesitantly retrieved his own sword as Solomon’s eyes turned upon him. “You need only spill some of your blood, ser. I will do the rest.”
The knight caught her eyes again as he did so, the devotion she had cultivated shining through. It moved her heart.
“You as well, my lady.”
Margaery held her arm out to Ser Morwyn, returning the trust he showed in her. The dizzying scents that smothered her breath helped to numb the pain when she felt the steel bite into her flesh.
Her garden drank of her blood just as greedily as it did the others.
Finally, she watched as Solomon cut himself open with the Valyrian steel blade. Her garden shivered when it tasted his blood, turning even more yellow. The scent was almost overpowering now, leaving her knees weak.
And when he started to sing in a language she didn’t know, she watched with hungry eyes as her garden began to grow.
“The Old Tongue,” Ser Morwyn whispered under his breath.
The language of the First Men, she remembered. Now spoken only beyond the Wall.
Had he lied when he denied being descended from that same stock?
Those thoughts quickly fled her head as she felt the thorns at her belly also grow and prick her skin, blood trickling from the wounds. It left a terrible itch she could not scratch, and Margaery bared her belly when it worsened into something like fire. Only Solomon’s words prevented her from plucking the rose free.
“It has been happening for many moons now. I have only quickened it.”
His dark eyes stared down into hers, and soon she relaxed. As Solomon returned to singing, she tried not to think about the thorns digging deeper and deeper into her flesh, her teeth tightly grit.
Ser Morwyn helped her stand when the pain became unbearable, and she caught Maegon watching her intently.
When she dared to look again, horror and wonder mixed together as she saw the thorns having cut into her so deeply that the rose seemed a part of her belly now, its yellow petals shifting slightly as it nestled like a babe. Then she looked upon her garden, so much greater than it was.
No, more than that. She didn’t only see it, she felt how deep its roots went now, felt the wind dance across its leaves and branches…
It brought to her a joy she could not put into words, though Solomon had no such troubles himself.
“It is truly yours now.”
