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A Song of Blackjack and Hookers (chapter 7)
🕑 Added 2025-01-26 08:24:14 +0000 UTCDavos
Grey Gallows looked much as one might expect from the name, grey, and miserable. The best he could say of it was the waters surrounding it were clear and filled with all manner of colorful fish, though even that much was true only in the bloom of summer.
The Stepstones were a common haunt of smugglers and pirates, so he was well familiar with them. They reminded him of a life where his fortunes were at the mercy of the winds and tides; it was not a life Davos had fond memories of, only sweet when compared with scratching out a living in Flea Bottom.
“Steer us clear of the coast!” he called to his son. The rocky nature of the Stepstones had claimed more ships than every pirate there ever was.
There were two settlements on Grey Gallows, but the only one worth a thought was Heavenly Respite. A humorous name that couldn’t be farther from the truth, for you would be hard-pressed to find a place more sinful, or a lord more depraved.
It had flourished since Davos had last seen it in spite of such, even bearing a few stone structures that together hung over the settlement like a great vulture. His old friend had been doing well for himself, it seemed.
He spied the Valyrian among a number of smaller vessels berthed at the docks, and where it was, its master was not far.
Clasping his son’s shoulder, he spoke low. “Salladhor Saan is a friend, but a pirate is still a pirate. If it goes sour, do not hesitate. Weigh anchor and sail back to Dragonstone.”
He could tell Matthos wanted to protest, even demand to come ashore with him, but he was thankfully not as rash as his older brother, so after a few breaths he dutifully nodded his head.
For his part, Davos clutched the pouch around his neck and whispered a quiet prayer before he climbed down the side of Black Betha. A thickset and balding man stood in his way, his wide smile revealing more than a few false teeth that glinted under the sun.
“What do we have here,” he said in Low Valyrian. “Is that you, Davos?”
“Aye.” The last time Davos had seen him, he still had hair. “Do they still call you Black Berrick, or is it Berrick the Bald now?”
“I’ve got my black sense of humor still, they say.” Berrick’s eyes that looked too much like two lumps of coal stared a moment longer. “I’ll waive the coin you owe. Salla would not want me collecting it from you anyhow.”
“I see he’s grown fat on plunder,” he commented, nodding at how much the ramshackle port had changed.
Berrick laughed. “More in his head than anywhere else. Styles himself Prince of the Narrow Sea now if you’ll believe it.”
It was not a hard thing to believe. Salladhor Saan had always been a man of large appetites.
Davos had no need to ask where to find him; a man such as that could not bear to have one of his men outshine him in anything. One only needed a glance at the Valyrian with its three hundred oars to tell that much.
Walking through the streets of Heavenly Respite, he turned a blind eye to the slaves he saw, for there was naught he could do for them.
Davos found Salladhor Saan lounging at the center of his Lyseni garden with half a dozen of his concubines, even spying two peacocks as he made his way to him.
He took some small pleasure in seeing the old pirate’s surprise at the sight of him.
“Do my eyes deceive me? A knight of the Sunset Kingdoms in my fair port?”
“Only a knight of onions, I’m afraid.”
Saan laughed at that. “It is good to see your service has not robbed you of all your good cheer, my friend!” He looked around at the women surrounding his person, many of them naked or not far from it as they stared at Davos as they might a man with three heads, a strange foreign curiosity. “I would introduce you to my wives, but I would not want to keep you here until winter.”
He delivered a swat to the admittedly generous rear of the one closest to him, a Summer Islander with skin as black as dragonglass, and soon all of them had fled the garden.
“I did not know you to be a married man,” Davos broached.
“You had loved yours so much that I had grown as curious as a tomcat. But I could not only have one wife. What would they say of Salladhor Saan if he only had one wife?”
His fair hair had since turned a stark white, though he still made for a striking figure, his slim form bedecked in the most flamboyant colors one could pry from merchants’ hands, and it seemed that he had found a fondness for jade as well.
“Wine?” Saan offered, and he took the bejeweled cup for courtesy’s sake. “A Volantene vintage. Finer than any of your Arbor or Dornish reds.”
Seated now, Davos took a swallow of some and made a sound of agreement, though he could not truly tell too great a difference between them.
“But you have not come only to drink my wine, yes?” The Lyseni’s pale lilac eyes looked him over curiously. “You have come in service of your sour lord?”
“That I have.”
“Then you can tell him that Salladhor Saan is no pirate. As Prince of the Narrow Sea, is it not my right to collect a toll?”
“I didn’t come here to argue your rights or lack thereof.”
The old rogue pulled at his similarly white and well groomed beard as he leaned back slightly. “You are fortunate to have arrived today and not three days hence, my friend. My wives have been asking me again and again when we will return to my manse in Lys, and I could not keep refusing them, for my heart also aches greatly when I am separated from the city of my birth.”
Davos raised a brow. “I remember you fleeing their patrols, not sailing into their harbors.”
“I am a respected citizen now, free to come and go from fair Lys as I wish. Why, I have even opened a bank! Old Sammaro Saan would have laughed himself into the grave if he could hear it.”
He gave him a look, but did not argue as Saan continued.
“Now, my knight of onions, why has your sour lord bid you to sail to the Stepstones?”
“It pertains to your profession.”
“I am a man of many professions. I do not think you have come to ask after my skill at lovemaking.”
“More your penchant for privateering,” Davos admitted. “Lord Stannis eyes the Lannisters and Tyrells cautiously, and would welcome an ally in the Stepstones if it comes to war.”
The Lyseni looked at his fingernails as he lounged atop his patterned settee. “Will he reward me with one hand as he punishes me with the other?”
Davos did not take offense at the words. “He would offer coin, and leave to prey on any enemy of the rightful king.”
“Hmm. He would give his word he will not try and hang me by my neck as soon as his war is won?”
“He would.”
“Then perhaps Salladhor Saan can be a friend to your sour lord. From what I have heard of him, he would sooner choke on his own tongue than betray it.”
Davos nodded with some relief. “There is another matter.” He paused as he wondered how to approach this without sounding a fool. “A man arrived at court near two moons back now, styling himself as Solomon the Magnificent. I have not laid eyes on him myself, but his actions have drawn Lord Stannis’s eyes.”
“Ha! Only a mummer could have come up with a name as that. Does your sour lord trouble himself with mummers now?”
“When they gain the trust of the queen and his own brother.”
Saan gave a lecherous smile. “A man after my own heart. You wish to know if I have ever heard of such a man? I have not. A queer name, Solomon. Not a name in any tongue I know.”
Davos couldn’t help a small frown. Salladhor Saan was well traveled, and had friends as far as Yi Ti.
“He claims to have come from west of Westeros instead of east, beyond the Sunset Sea.”
“Have you ever sailed to the Isle of Toads, my knight of onions?”
His frown deepened. “I cannot say I have.”
“It is one of the Basilisk Isles, a place wet and stinking of rot. The men there are malformed, and some even have webbed hands and feet.”
He could not tell if the old pirate was making a jest or not. He continued his story as the more sensible option.
“I had tracked his arrival down to an old fisherman, who claimed to have fished him out of the sea. Curiously, he had seen no signs of any shipwreck.”
Saan soon pulled a map of the Narrow Sea from his colorful clothes. "Show me." After Davos pointed out Blackwater Bay off the coast of Rosby, the Lyseni shrugged his shoulders. "Too close to your sour lord for any but the grandest of fools to try their luck, and all such fools I know."
"And there was no storm that day…" Davos concluded thoughtfully.
He saw a smile from the man opposite him. "I have half a mind to speak to this most magnificent of mummers myself, or most magnificent of fish, perhaps."
"You must regale me with how it goes if you do. The red priestess at Dragonstone claims him an agent of her god's enemy."
"Ho? Has your sour lord found religion? Even Salladhor Saan has been named a servant of the Great Other, and I am one of the kindest souls you'll ever find." He tried not to look at his old friend too doubtfully. "They find a queer pride in being a slave to their red god, and say I am a blind fool for not joining them."
Davos gave a weary sigh. "Lord Stannis finds her council useful, for what she sees in her fires often comes to pass."
Saan hummed as he took a deep drink of his own wine cup, which had even more jewels sticking to it than his own. "I am reminded of something Gorghan said of prophecy. Prophecy is like a treacherous woman, my knight of onions. She will take your member in her mouth, and you will moan and think, how fine, how sweet, until her teeth snap shut and your moans turn to screams."
He did not much like the picture the words painted for him, though he agreed with the gist of the message.
"I would tell your sour lord to pull his cock from her mouth before her teeth snap shut."
"It is not my place to," Davos told him.
"Bah! This is why I do not like your Sunset Kingdoms. If my men knew I was cavorting with a red priestess as if I had lost all my good sense, they would slit my throat in the night and have the right of it."
And that was another kind of madness he wanted to say, but he was still a guest here, and guest rite was not seen as so sacred a thing outside the Seven Kingdoms. He swallowed his words along with some more wine instead.
He would have to return to his lord with no answers, only more questions.
Brienne
The road from Tarth to Highgarden had been a hard one, but harder still were the news she received when she arrived. That Renly Baratheon was to be wed to Margaery Tyrell.
Even knowing that her love for him had always been a fool’s hope, Brienne had still cried bitter tears that night, alone in the room the flowers provided a lady of her stature.
It was as barren as her heart had felt in that moment.
Yet in the morning she had stubbornly risen and requested to compete in the melee, and every morning hence.
Lord Randyll Tarly, she had quickly found out, was a man utterly without shame, willing to mock and even belittle her person for nothing but for how the Seven made her, and every morning he only grew more irate with her.
Brienne could perhaps see why he had been put in charge of the melee, Lord Tarly being one of Lord Tyrell’s principal bannermen, but it still rankled her that she had to deal with him. The times she had tried to approach Lord Tyrell instead, he had always avoided her somehow. It was impressive for a man as fat as him.
This morning would be no different, she knew. But then a voice stopped her dull procession.
“There is another way to get what you want, my lady.”
Brienne turned on her heel to find a man she only knew by his proximity to her liege lord. He had oft been by his side, drinking with him, laughing with him, and yet she did not even know his name.
He was tall, though not nearly as tall as her, dark of hair and dark of eye, and all else that stood out to her was the yellow half cloak slung over his shoulder that threatened to blind her when the sun struck it.
Not wanting to be caught staring, she made to speak. “What do you mean… my lord?”
She saw his smile, but it was not the manner of smile she had grown used to half her life, dripping with mockery. It was almost kind. “I am not a lord of your Seven Kingdoms. Some might call me Solomon the Magnificent, but that is also something of a mouthful. Just Solomon will do, I think.”
Brienne struggled to think of something to say. “The question remains,” she said instead.
“So it does,” he agreed. “You wish to participate in the melee, but that great fool with a Valyrian steel sword could not stomach the thought of a woman fighting.”
She made a sour face. “You have the right of it… Solomon, but I am not a knight.”
“If you were born a man, you would have already been knighted, my lady. You would be celebrated, not only for your skill with a sword or mace, but for your gentle heart, an arena only a knight such as Aemon the Dragonknight or Galladon of Morne could hope to compete in.”
His words strummed her heart, but she knew not their source. “What would you know of me to speak as such?” she questioned warily.
“Only what I have heard others say. Not once have I heard that you had raised your hand in anger at their insults, not even your voice.”
This had to be some jest he was playing on her, for she could not imagine such words to be spoken truly.
“You had said there was another way to get what I wanted,” she said instead.
“Yes. Compete as a mystery knight, my lady. You would not be the first.”
Something settled in the pit of her belly as she wondered how to tell him why she did not want to, but then he continued.
“You wish for him to see you. More than that, I think. You wish all of them to see you as you see yourself,” he said, and her heart seized. “Then simply remove your helmet when you win.”
“What?” she croaked.
“How could he not see you then, my lady? All eyes would be on you.”
Brienne met his eyes again and his smile again, and still found nothing mocking. For once, she wished that weren’t true, for then some sense would have returned to the world.
“It seems a low trick,” she hastily argued.
“Need I name all the knights from the stories who had done the same? Would you name them all cheats?”
“No,” Brienne whispered hoarsely.
“Or would you rather try again and again until our lord of Tarly has a change of heart. I fear you might be waiting many years.”
She felt a nervous energy taking her. Was it something she dared to do? If she was mocked now, then it would only worsen after such a ploy.
And yet, if she had won…
Her eyes found his again. “I will do it.”
His smile only grew at her words, until it was almost as bright as the sun. “Then allow me to grant you my favor.”
Suddenly, he took her hand, and she could only watch like a frightened doe as he tied a ribbon as yellow as his cloak around her wrist.
“It is not a lady’s favor, I admit, or even a lord’s, but I hope you will wear it all the same.”
It was as if she had her tongue removed. Her cheeks felt hot, and she had a thought to flee, but he still held her hand fast, and she did not want to hurt him.
“I w-will bear it with pride,” she whispered instead, much like a mouse.
“It gladdens me to hear you say so, my lady.” Brienne could only watch as he tugged her closer to him, his lips pressing softly to her hand. “For I know you will win.”
He left as quickly as he had come, leaving her thoughts a whirlwind. Her eyes soon fell upon his favor still tied around her wrist, and it only reminded her of how warm his hands had been.
It was unorthodox, and yet at the same time it was the most precious gift anyone had ever given her.
Shaking her head of the unchivalrous thoughts that had suddenly intruded, she returned to her room and set about preparing. He had faith in her somehow, faith that she would win and show them all, and she would not disappoint him.
The next week had passed as a blur, the melee dwindling from a hundred, to a score, to two.
Ser Loras Tyrell was opposite her on the field, resplendent in his armor atop a white stallion, a longaxe held tightly in his hand. And as they clashed, she could admit that in skill alone, he was her better.
And yet battles were not won with skill alone, but also grit and daring.
Brienne had thrown herself from her own horse to unseat him, bringing both of them back down to the dirt. It was the last thing he had expected, and he could not resist her as she lifted his visor. She waited until she heard the word from him. Yield.
Her lips curved into a smile under her helm as she stood and took in the cheers, a sight so sweet she hesitated to reveal the trick. With a nervous hand, she plucked her helm and revealed herself to the crowd.
The cheers dulled quickly, and the whispers set in, a sound not unlike a swarm of buzzing bees. Soon, Lord Tarly stormed to his feet, and she could see he was as unhappy as if she had personally dressed him in motley. It made her want to spit some of his mockery back at him, though she shied away from the thought, continuing to simply stand her ground with pride instead.
“You would make fools of us all, girl? You—”
“My lord,” a voice interrupted, “that is the daughter of Lord Selwyn Tarth you speak to, not a mere girl.”
Her eyes turned to him. Solomon. The man whose favor she felt around her wrist still, who at that moment seemed so much greater than all the lords around him.
The Lord of Horn Hill seemed almost like a petulant child in his presence. “I need no lecture from you as to who she is.”
“Peace, Lord Tarly.” Renly had now stood as well. “Solomon speaks truly, and when Lord Selwyn passes, Lady Brienne will rule Evenfall Hall in her own name.” A smile took his lips. “Besides, she is not the first mystery knight whose identity surprised.”
The lord had a sour look about him, and it turned even more sour when many of the gathered lords agreed with her liege lord, shouting the names of queer knights of every stripe.
Lord Tyrell leapt to his feet as soon as the winds turned in her favor, blustering through her honors, but she did not have eyes for him. No, she had eyes only for the first man to stand in her defense, who smiled down at her even now.
There were a thousand things she wanted to say, but none of them passed her lips. Though her tongue had failed her, her body had not, and so she lifted her hand to her heart and smiled, the same hand that held his favor.
While she knew this dream would soon end, in that moment Brienne felt as if she stood amongst the knights she had always read about as a young girl, all of them smiling at her as he was.
It was a memory she would treasure until the end of her days.
