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A Song of Blackjack and Hookers (chapter 19)
🕑 Added 2025-04-20 21:37:09 +0000 UTCEddard
Ever since he had arrived in this accursed city, it seemed intent on greeting him with some fresh disaster on every morrow. The North had its troubles, certainly, but it still allowed itself to be ruled.
Ned could not say he ruled the Seven Kingdoms. He could not even say he ruled King’s Landing, as it were.
He had held some bitterness toward his foster father at first, for not reining Robert in, for turning a blind eye to the den of vipers the court had become, and more still. He knew better now. There should not have been one Hand, but two, one for each arm. Perhaps even a third and damn the symbolism.
As soon as it felt like he was making progress on finding that treacherous whoremonger, his master of whisperers vanished like a false summer. Thinking about it now almost drew a laugh from him with how mad it all was.
When he then heard the news that Stannis Baratheon had returned as suddenly as he had left to hang a dozen men, he even felt some small relief that it was not something worse. Listening to the merchants drone on about their rights was the least of his worries.
Now he only felt numb as he stared at the Kingslayer.
“I don’t imagine even you would make a jest as this, Ser Jaime.” The knight still avoided his eyes. He could not fathom what madness had taken him to only say this now.
“Not a jest, Stark. With Varys in the wind, it is… prudent that I informed you.”
Ned had never been a man quick to anger, and yet now he wanted to shout that prudent would have been when he had first walked into the throne room to see the Mad King dead at his feet.
“Then perhaps I might count his disappearance a blessing,” he said icily instead.
The Kingslayer finally met his eyes, green eyes like a hissing cat’s. And after a moment he looked away again. He would not even defend his folly.
“What changed, ser?” he tried more evenly.
“Wildfire… it becomes more potent and unstable with time. Not less.” It was whispered so softly that he was hard pressed to hear it. But hear it he did. And all the places he mentioned those accursed pyromancers had hidden the pots…
Gods, he could see it now, the city devoured in ravenous green flames, leaving only black ash and char, just as it had his father. It was a mercy that Cat and Sansa had already left for Highgarden.
Ned took a deep breath as he forced himself to calm. His hatred for Aerys had been weathered down by the years, but now he found himself cursing his name yet again. To try and turn a city of half a million souls into his funeral pyre? That was something beyond madness.
“And how was it you discovered this?” he asked, thrumming his fingers on the wood.
There was a smirk fixated on his handsome lips again, his arrogance returned. “I think you know, Stark. Brienne the Beauty knows him well.”
Ned’s sigh was more of a hiss. He had no surprise to spare.
They would have to remove it, he knew, but the logistics left a pit in his stomach. If even a whisper touched the wrong ears, it would cause a panic that would be impossible to contain. Even a loyal man might let something slip deep into his cups and so doom them all.
His thoughts were so far away that he had somehow missed Ser Wendel’s immense frame entering the room, the merman of Manderly embroidered on his vest.
“News from the docks, my lord.” His walrus moustache quivered as he glanced at the Kingslayer… Ser Jaime. Ned soon motioned for him to continue. “A sailor happened to spot a man matching the mummer’s description aboard the ship of Stannis’s smuggler turned knight. Stannis and his red priestess have since joined them.”
He was quickly beginning to reconsider not allowing Tywin Lannister to take the position. If there was any man living that deserved this misery, it was that butcher of children.
The last he had even heard of the bedamned mummer had been from their vanished master of whisperers, having somehow found himself in Dorne with Balon Greyjoy’s own daughter. And now…
“Will you continue to brood or shall we go, Stark?” Those green eyes seemed amused now. “If Ser Wendel here has found out, it will not be long until my sweet sister and Renly have heard as well. We wouldn’t want to be late.”
Ned gave a tired sigh as he stood, retrieving Ice. Not that he expected to have to use it.
They soon found Lady Brienne at the door, her cheeks slightly red for listening in. Then her jaw set and he knew he would not dissuade her.
Jory and three more of his men joined them as they left the Tower of the Hand for the docks. It was fortunate at least that the Mud Gate was also the gate closest to the Red Keep.
They were not hard to make out between his northmen and Lannister’s white cloak, so it was Stannis that met them from the deck of the ship, his jaw tight. Ser Davos Seaworth stood to his side, shorter than his lord by a head.
One of them then decided that it was a fine time to jest. “Is that you, Stannis? Gods be good, man, I had mistaken you for a second sun! I see now it was only your head.”
“A mercy then that you did not mistake it for a crown.” Stannis’s eyes turned upon him. “I will not bar Ser Wendel and yourself, Lord Hand, but I have no need for the Kingslayer.”
“I fear you will want to hear him out as well, Lord Stannis!” he raised his voice to say.
If they were to rid King’s Landing of the wildfire then the master of ships would be essential, for once the pots had sunk to the bottom of the sea the wildfire would trouble them no more. He could not say the same for anywhere they might store them on land.
Stannis had given a sour nod after a moment.
They all soon found themselves in a small cabin that struggled to fit them all comfortably, and it was there that Solomon the Magnificent turned from an often contradictory collection of rumor and hearsay to a man of flesh and bone as any other. He seemed to smile at Stannis’s red priestess as he sat a chair as if it was a throne.
It was not a smile she returned, watching him warily instead. There was a half cloak he saw slung over a shoulder as well, as yellow as the ribbon wrapped around Lady Brienne’s wrist, though it seemed to drink in the torchlight in a way her ribbon did not.
His dark eyes turned upon them with surprising whimsy for a man in his position, standing and greeting each of them with a hand to his heart and the Lady Brienne with a kiss to her hand, leaving her with a soft smile Ned was not a stranger to.
Ser Jaime meanwhile had dragged another of the chairs to sit on the mummer’s right, drawing a glower from Stannis at one or both of their irreverence. When Ser Davos made mention of finding more chairs, Solomon spoke again.
“Add two extra to the count, ser. Lord Renly and Ser Loras are arriving now.”
There was more than one unlikely look sent his way until they heard a shout of… “BROTHER!” It was unmistakably Renly’s voice, and his elder brother had turned even more sour for it.
Ned failed to catch the mummer’s trick that could have done it, and Lady Melisandre’s uncanny red eyes had similarly narrowed.
Stannis soon returned with his brother and Ser Loras, and now those in the cramped cabin numbered eleven. Twelve, truly, for Ser Wendel could easily count as two men.
“I see you still spurn even the basic comforts as if you were a begging brother,” Renly commented as he sat, a teasing smile on his lips. “Why—”
“Then go,” Stannis cut in sharply. “I am not keeping you here, Renly.” His piercing blue eyes turned upon the mummer or sorcerer. “And you will explain before I have you thrown back into the sea. I have had my fill of your mummery.”
“It will not take you long to understand, my lord.” Those dark eyes found his own again. “I trust Ser Jaime has already revealed the danger that lies beneath King’s Landing?”
“As of this morning,” Ned answered softly.
Solomon sighed as Lannister scratched at his cheek innocently. “Better late than never, as they say.” Stannis seemed fit to cut in again when he continued. “If you would tell it again, ser.”
The smirk wavered as all eyes turned upon him. As Ser Jaime recounted the same tale, those gathered grew paler, though Lord Renly and Lady Brienne seemed to have already heard something of it.
“Madness,” Ser Wendel thundered after. “If this be true then even the seven hells might be a kindness to Aerys the Second.”
There were sounds of agreement as Ned made to speak. “I have had some time to think on this, my lords. The wildfire must be removed, that much is certain, and I see nowhere better to place it than at the bottom of the Narrow Sea.”
“I see the sense in it.” Stannis had been quiet until now, his thick black brows furrowed deeply.
“The panic if this were to get out worries me more,” Renly commented after his brother.
“I had much the same thought,” Ned agreed. “The more tongues we bring into this, the more we tempt a disaster.”
“It is likely to get out whatever you do,” Solomon commented, drawing their eyes on him again. “The former master of coin is a man driven by spite and he has no shortage of it to call upon. What easier way is there to turn the realm on its head than to let this be known?”
Stannis made a disgusted sound as Ser Jaime cut in. “I do not know if that whoremonger knows, but you can be certain that Varys does,” he whispered hatefully. “None of you were there when Varys whispered into Aerys’s ear, turning him against his own shadow. He had spun a tale after that he had done it all in the name of sabotaging his wicked rule, and all you lords swallowed it without question.”
“Still your tongue, Kingslayer. I had swallowed nothing. If I had it my way,” the Lord of Dragonstone hissed through gnashing teeth, “Varys and Baelish would have already been shortened by a head.”
“Oh, aye, Kingslayer,” the knight mocked. “Will you shed a tear for Aerys now, my lord? Dead before his time.”
“This is folly,” Ned tried.
“The lord Hand is correct,” Solomon followed. “Would any here say they would not have done as Ser Jaime did?”
Jory then answered to Ned’s exasperation. “No, I would have done it a great deal sooner. I would have said something sooner also.”
Lannister scoffed, though he soon gave a defeated sigh as he slumped into his seat.
“None of us are without flaws,” Solomon continued in his stead softly. “What’s important is that Ser Jaime acted, and now there is still a city left to save.”
“We should act,” Renly agreed, “and prepare for the worst.”
“I trust every man aboard the Fury with my life,” Stannis broached. “If it can be carried to the harbor safely, they will see it gone.”
“If there are as many pots as Ser Jaime said,” Ser Davos murmured awkwardly, “I think even Fury will be hard-pressed to see it done in one trip.”
“Gather the men you trust the most,” Ned said to Jory lowly. “Those who aren’t likely to let something slip deep into their cups, or preferably not likely to get into their cups at all.” He turned to the Manderly knight. “Can I ask the same of you, Ser Wendel?”
The Manderly knight smashed a gauntleted fist into his immense chest, his chair creaking precariously. “It will be done, my lord Hand.”
“Ser Loras and I shall do the same,” Renly smoothly said as he stood.
“It warms my heart to see such unity,” Solomon said from his own seat. “Of course, I will not be idle either.” He gracefully stood to offer Stannis’s red priestess his hand. “The Lady Melisandre and I will be sure to keep a close eye on any would-be troublemakers.”
She stared a moment before returning a sweet smile and taking it, the stink of smoke overpowering the salt in the air as she softly tugged at her red silks.
Ned watched as he went to Stannis next. “And my companions?”
The Baratheon lord seemed as if he wanted nothing more than to be rid of him. “Take them. Though I have half a mind to hang that reaver of yours.”
“Will you hang our mutual friend also, my lord?”
Stannis waved him away, and that is when Ned stood and approached. “I had some more questions if you might indulge me.”
“But of course,” Solomon soothed. “You have treated Lady Brienne with utmost dignity and respect, and that has told me all I needed to know as to your character. I don’t imagine she would disagree with that statement.”
The lady that towered behind him nodded. “I would not.”
Ned tried to take the compliment gracefully. “In the morning at the Tower of the Hand then?”
“In the morning at the Tower of the Hand,” Solomon repeated.
Mayhaps he would make some sense of all this yet…
Sansa
The roseroad led them through the kingswood first, a forest much different than the wolfswood she knew. It was livelier and more colorful, with birds of every kind singing their songs, not only the haunting calls of owls, and there was game aplenty as Alyn had told her.
Truly, she had never eaten more venison than in the days they had traveled through it.
One of those days found them raising their tents for the night near a rocky outcropping. Mother had told her stories of Riverrun to lull her to sleep, and she had been dreaming of it when she felt something rough and wet poking her cheek.
To say she was surprised to see a white hart staring into her eyes would not do it justice. And yet he had been so gentle and rare a sight that she would rather bite her tongue than make a sound and scare him.
Sansa slowly came to sit as the hart watched, and then he nudged her cheek again, careful to avoid her with his great antlers. As he left, he turned back as if to tell her to follow.
Her heart was beating madly at the thought, but how could she not? She knew all the stories about white harts, that they were messengers of the gods and a sign of good fortune, and it was a dream come true to actually see one. Jeyne would never believe it when she returned to Winterfell to tell it.
Quiet as she could, she followed, his fur so white that it almost shined in the moonlight.
They had ventured a distance into the woods when she had found herself in an old grove, and in the middle stood a tree she knew well. A weirwood with what looked like a young girl’s face carved into it, a mischievous smile on her lips of white bark.
The hart lowered itself to the dirt as if telling her to do the same, and so she did. There she waited nervously, gently running her fingers through his fur.
A sudden wind came upon the grove, the weirwood’s branches almost sounding as they were whispering her name, a few of its red leaves even falling near her. Was it the old gods that brought her here?
It was all like something from a story, a white hart guiding a noble maiden to a weirwood.
“Sansa… Stark…” There it was again. It was her name. It had to be.
“It is I,” she whispered back.
She felt silly for it, moreso when there was no reply back. What was she thinking? Then after a long time and a yawn from her, she heard it again.
“You have… the gift… child… even without the lady… meant for you…” Her heart thumped madly as she listened. “Why do you… not use it?”
Sansa had not the faintest clue what the whispers meant by it.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she softly whispered back.
“The old gift… child… when men had at last… agreed to peace…” Another leaf had fallen right in front of her. “Their blood… is in your veins…”
Her brows furrowed as she thought. Old Nan had told them many stories, and this sounded as one of them. When the First Men and the children of the forest ended their wars and joined their hands in peace.
“I do not know how,” she admitted. “Could… Could you tell me?”
“Show you…” the wind whispered in her ear. “Though not… without a price…”
Sansa chewed on her lips nervously. “A price?”
“A few drops… of your blood…” The wind tussled in her hair. “As it was… in the old days…”
The old gods would not trick her, she thought. They were honest and wise as Father had always said. But she did not have a knife to do it with.
Her eyes found the resting hart again, his antlers majestic, yes, and sharp.
Mustering her courage, she pressed a finger strongly against the end of one, gasping as it pricked her, drops of blood quickly falling upon the dirt beneath her.
“Come and see…” she heard, returning her eyes to the weirwood. Something red and sticky was trailing from its own eyes. Then she was elsewhere.
Sansa thought she was riding a horse with how quickly she was moving through the grassy fields, but no, it was a wolf. A direwolf, with fur as black as night. Yet for all it frightened her, she felt herself laughing freely.
Eventually the beast beneath her stopped at a creek to lap at, and she slid off its back to do the same, taking her fill of the running water.
It was there Sansa saw her face, but it was not hers, her eyes like Father’s for all she still had red hair.
For a moment she—or the girl—seemed to pause and quirk her head. Then she shrugged her shoulders, and the next moment she was the wolf. Her nose smelled her prey for many miles, and she bounded after one of them.
The deer she soon found could not even run, her neck snapping as soon as Sansa’s jaws closed down. Then she feasted on succulent meat and howled.
Sansa found herself back in the grove, her breathing heavy. It had felt so real.
“Was I… not a beauty…”
She swallowed as she thought. “You are—were—a warg?”
“I was…” The leaves shook again under the wind. “As are you… or as you will be…”
“But how? I still don’t understand.”
“You felt it… did you not…” Sansa tried to remember. “You need only… shed your skin…”
Turning to the white hart, she tried. For some time nothing happened, but then she felt a lurch in her belly, and suddenly she was looking at the forest through new eyes. It seemed so much brighter now.
Just as suddenly she fled, the hart shaking its head before returning to his rest.
There was a giggle on the wind. “He is prideful…” Sansa felt her cheeks redden at the words. “Something small…”
The wind quieted at those last words, and soon the hart left as well. She quickly hurried back before anyone was the wiser.
They left the kingswood by the end of the next day, and with the new moon she finally saw it. Highgarden.
As they neared the gates, she caught sight of her loyal songbird swooping over the walls, and soon she saw Highgarden through her eyes as well.
It was every bit as beautiful as Lady Margaery had described it.
