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A Song of Blackjack and Hookers (chapter 6)
🕑 Added 2025-01-18 07:37:59 +0000 UTCEddard
It was a cold summer’s night, the kind that brought grave news and reminded one of winter. Those grave news had come in the form of the letter from King’s Landing, held loosely in his hand.
Cat rested her chin upon his shoulder, her breasts pressing into his back as her long tresses of hair tickled him. “Robb is ready, Ned. He’s been watching you for years.”
His lady wife had tried, but she still did not truly understand how precarious a position theirs was, the scars the Mad King had left still raw. Many of the lords were still unhappy that he had taken a southron fish to wife, and Lady Barbrey Dustin continued to nurse a grudge against him as she ruled the barrowlands in her own name. That she also happened to be close to Roose Bolton’s heir, Domeric, was only more trouble in the making.
At the very least the boy had not taken after his father, if what he had heard about him was true. Domeric had only recently returned from the Vale, having been fostering with Lord Horton Redfort. It brought back fond memories of his own time as Jon Arryn’s ward alongside Robert.
“Robb will make for a fine Lord of Winterfell one day, Cat, but he is still a boy.”
He returned his eyes to the letter in his hand. Of all the years he had known him, he had never known Lord Arryn to be as cryptic as this. That alone was a sign of trouble in King’s Landing, if the Hand of the King had reason to fear that someone else might read this.
“You need not be gone long,” Cat whispered as she kissed his shoulder. “See what has Lord Arryn so worried, and perhaps take Bran with you. He is nearing an age to be squired, and you know how much he dreams of being a knight.”
Ned was quiet as he turned the thought over. While most of the North did not have much care for a knighthood, there were parts that did. House Manderly was one of his principal bannermen.
“Yohn Royce is a principled man, and House Royce of Runestone are well regarded in the North.” He idly traced the parchment with a thumb. “House Blackwood also.”
“Making an offer to House Blackwood but not to House Bracken would prove a thorny issue. The Brackens will see it as a decision of House Tully, not only House Stark.” His lady wife hummed a moment. “Better that it be House Mallister.”
Ned remembered Jason Mallister from the Greyjoy Rebellion, a brave and honorable man. They were not an Andal house, though they had taken the Faith of the Seven close to their heart.
It would not be a bad match, he decided. House Mallister and the Ironborn were ancient enemies, something they had in common with the North. They had both warned Robert not to let Balon Greyjoy live, for a man such as that would never be cravened by a hostage.
It had all fallen on deaf ears for Robert had always been too eager for war and too happy to excuse it with mercy…
“But I think my nuncle would be best, Ned. Lysa’s son is of an age with Bran. It would do them both well if he joined her in King’s Landing.”
Ser Brynden Tully, or the Blackfish as many know him, was a knight almost as acclaimed as Ser Barristan Selmy. He could see the sense in it, and it would keep Bran close to him. If Bran were also to become fast friends with the future Lord of the Eyrie, then all the better.
“You have the right of it,” he told her.
She gave him a smile. “I will write to him. The journey from Gulltown to King’s Landing is short, and he may very well arrive at King’s Landing before you and Bran.” Her nails danced across his skin lightly. “Have you decided then?”
Ned grimaced. He well remembered the fates of the last Starks that had gone south, for they were his father, his brother, and his sister. All he had left of them were their bones and his haunted memories of them.
Finally, he let out a withering sigh. “Jon would not have asked without good reason. I will set out for White Harbor with Bran at the moon’s turn.”
“Then come to bed.”
He relented after another moment, though not before throwing the letter to the fireplace, its contents turned to ash and smoke in a breath.
The days until the new moon passed swift as a wolf on the hunt, the suddenness of the news turning Winterfell into a den of whispers when they thought he couldn’t hear. The children were the worst of it, though he didn’t begrudge them for it.
The day of their departure fell upon a warm summer’s day. Whether that was a good or bad omen, he could not say.
Ned came before his eldest first as they all stood in the courtyard. Robb still had some marks of boyhood, but with each moon the stubble on his cheeks grew. Though his hair and even his eyes were more Tully than Stark, the lines of his face told a different story.
There was a nervousness there also, stirring him to clasp his son’s shoulder. “You will be Lord of Winterfell in all but name, Robb. I have no doubt you will do me proud.”
He nodded seriously. “I will, Father.”
Theon beside him sent a fast smile, though one that was as brittle as a blade turned to rust. There had always been a distance between them that couldn’t be broached, though as the boy still believed he was still a hostage to ensure Balon Greyjoy’s good behavior, that couldn’t be helped.
His eyes went to Jon next, his back and shoulders stiff as he avoided his lady wife’s eyes. It was to his shame that he had never been able to mend the rift between them.
For one mad moment he considered taking Jon south with him, but it didn’t take him long to discard the idea.
Sansa smiled at him as he kissed her forehead, ever the perfect lady, though her sister was less than pleased, glaring at Bran sullenly. It reminded him of Lyanna when she learned she couldn’t do something he or Brandon could.
Cat sighed when she saw and fussed over her, holding a sleeping Rickon to her chest, but that only served to turn Arya’s expression all the more sour.
Pressing a kiss to Cat’s cheek to distract her, he turned to the greying maester on her other side, who bowed his head slightly.
“I trust you will provide my son leal service as you have myself, Maester Luwin.”
“Of course, my lord. If he will listen.”
Ned waited as Cat hugged Bran tightly and kissed both his cheeks. It would be the longest she had ever been separated from him, and considering how often Bran got himself into trouble, he understood her worry.
Fortunately, Jory already had experience keeping him out of said trouble, and would be captaining the contingent of the household guard that would be traveling with them to King’s Landing.
Ned clasped arms with Ser Rodrik Cassel at the gates. “Keep an eye on Jon for me. I fear he will only feel more alone now.”
“I will. Though you must know that he has thrown himself into his swordplay these past few moons, and has made no secret of wishing to join the Night’s Watch.”
He sighed, his thoughts going to Benjen, the only brother left to him. It would not be so bad if Jon were to find a place there. There was still honor in the Night’s Watch.
“Keep an eye out for my nephew in return,” Rodrik continued, eyeing Jory fondly. “He’s all that I have left of Martyn.”
Jory made an annoyed sound, though it was softened by a ghost of a smile on his lips. He was not as serious a man as his father had been; his uncle’s influence, Ned knew.
They soon left Winterfell behind and were on the road to White Harbor, making good progress on horseback. Bran had taken to it well, rearing his palfrey with a practiced hand after only a few days.
The first they saw of it was the shimmer of the sun on the whitewashed stone that earned the city its name. Ned allowed Bran to gawk for a time before they continued, a small smile on his lips.
Lord Wyman Manderly met them with as much pomp as he expected from the fat and jolly man, inviting them to feast and make merry for the night, and that he would prepare for them the swiftest ship he had to sail on the morrow.
At the feast, Ned sat in a seat of honor beside Lord Wyman and his eldest son. The fare was rich, with eels that melted in your mouth and all manner of clams and oysters on display, all of it perfectly seasoned, though he had not indulged nearly as much as the lord.
Bran had been placed between two of Lord Wyman’s granddaughters, both girls his elder. It would have been hard to miss the blush on his cheeks as he tried to keep a conversation with both of them.
Jory he saw was speaking to the younger of Lord Wyman’s sons, Wendel, the immense knight’s great walrus moustache quaking as he laughed at a jest.
“There has been queer news from the south of late,” Lord Wyman said as he wet his throat with wine. “His Grace stirring himself from King’s Landing after near ten years on the queen’s suggestion, and now Renly Baratheon has taken the hand of Mace Tyrell’s daughter in marriage.” He must have seen the surprise on Ned’s face. “We have only just found out ourselves.”
“The might of Storm’s End and Highgarden united,” he whispered after a moment.
“The Tyrells find themselves in an awkward position with House Targaryen’s fall, my lord. It was the Targaryens who raised them up, and many in the Reach still remember that they were only stewards, never kings.”
There was a quiet amusement that Ned sensed from the man. House Manderly had itself hailed from the Reach, landing upon the North’s shores after their lands had been taken from them by a Gardener king. House Stark could have ended their line then and there, but instead raised them up, giving them dominion over much of the White Knife.
In return the southron lords had given the North one of the great cities of Westeros, and a harbor by which to trade in grain during long winters.
“There has been other news as well,” Lord Wyman continued. “Stannis Baratheon’s ships have been seen in many of the towns and villages across the coast, and his red priestess was seen in King’s Landing.”
“Red priestess?”
Ned knew of Thoros of Myr, had fought by his side in the Siege of Pyke, and had seen his flaming sword raised high as he charged into the breach, but he knew nothing of any red priestess.
“Red witch may be more apt. She had arrived on Dragonstone a few years prior from Asshai. She soon gained the ear of Lady Selyse, and then Stannis. These days it is said she is by his side more than his lady wife is.”
Ned frowned. “Only rumor, surely?” A man such as Stannis Baratheon was not a man he could imagine being so taken with religion, and a foreign one at that.
“Something to ask of Stannis Baratheon, my lord. I can only say I trust the men who have told me it, though the exact nature of their relations eludes them yet.”
He was quiet for a time, and Lord Wyman spoke again.
“There is no softer way to say it, my lord, but all you will find in King’s Landing is a pit of vipers. The friend you remember is a man consumed by his vices completely, caring only for drink and women.”
Ned stared into his own wine cup. “I must still try.”
Lord Wyman nodded. “Then take my son, Wendel, and some of my men with you. He will bring you what news our merchant ships ferret out, and defend you and young Bran Stark with his life if he must.”
He touched a hand to the man’s immense forearm in gratitude.
“Though he might wish to stay after Wylla’s worked her wiles on him!” Lord Wyman exclaimed with a bellyful of laughter. “And if not the younger brother, perhaps the elder? Robb Stark much reflects your own character, I hear. A finer match for Wylla or Wynafryd even I could not think of.”
Ned joined him in his good cheer. “I will think on it, my friend.”
He had much to think on, it seemed, and he doubted it would end when he arrived at King’s Landing.
Asha
Asha took in Harlaw as it crested over the horizon, her smile content as the deck of her Black Wind rocked and sea spray peppered her cheeks. The island was more home to her than Pyke, having spent many of her younger years at Ten Towers running and laughing across its walkways.
“Row, you whoresons!” she shouted. “Row!”
Soon she heard the seagulls and saw the towers, each one different from the other. They should have called it Ten Castles instead.
“Asha.” She saw Qarl’s delicate brows scrunched together as if in thought. It did not sit well on him. “I find it strange the Reader summons you almost as soon as we return from the Stepstones.”
“Who can say what possessed my uncle but him? Mayhaps he wanted to gift me a book for my name day come and gone,” she snarked.
“Will you read it?” he asked, a coy smile on his pouty lips now. That fit him much better.
“You can read it to me like a lullaby.”
His smile soured in a whiny way, and she laughed. For being the best killer among her crew of seasoned killers, and the most pretty, he could be such a child.
Asha soon grew more somber. “Mother will want to see me safely returned as well.”
Qarl attempted to look contrite, but that only stirred another laugh from her.
Soon they docked and Asha made for the tower that most resembled a rotund lord. Her nuncle haunted his library more than he did his high seat in the hall, which he only sat to deliver judgement from.
Not to her surprise, she found him with his nose in some old book.
“Nuncle! Kind of you to call on me.” She sauntered to his side and hopped up on the table, crossing one leg over the other. “I see your beard’s turned even greyer.”
“How were the Stepstones?”
“Dreary,” she admitted. “With the ironborn again reaving only outside the Seven Kingdoms, it’s left slim pickings. The boldest of the pirates that call it home have even begun preying on our longships.”
Maerrenno the Maw and Salladhor Saan came to mind, though she at least had an informal agreement with the second.
“Reaving was ever a fool’s game. You can trust an old fool on that.”
Asha snorted, retrieving her dirk to pick underneath her nails. “Why have you called on me, Nuncle? To grant me a lecture?”
“As if you would listen. Of all of Lanny’s children, you were always the most spirited.”
“Thank you, Nuncle,” she said with sarcasm as thick as lard. “That is kind of you to say.”
He still made her wait another few moments until he spoke again. “I have received a most queer letter. One sealed by the queen’s own hand.”
She paused her knifework, turning to stare at him. “Cersei Lannister? That queen?”
“The very same.”
Asha turned the thought over in her head a dozen times, but came no closer to an answer. “What did it say?”
“Though I should say that while it may bear her seal, it was not her hand which had written it. It spoke of things that she would give naught a passing thought to, if what I have heard of her is true.”
Asha’s curiosity has been plucked like a jewel by a thief, and they wouldn’t let it go.
“Have you already heard about the Crow’s Eye?” he asked instead.
Her eyes narrowed as he stared at her, the candlelight making his brown eyes seem akin to molten gold.
“Aye. That he went and raped Uncle Victarion’s soft little salt wife, and was banished for it. What of it?”
Of all her uncles, Asha had always liked Euron the least. The way his single eye looked at her, the smiles he gave, it all made her skin crawl and stomach threaten to revolt.
The dark rumors that followed him were not any kinder.
“This letter speaks of him at length. It names him a kinslayer twice over, having murdered his eldest brother and his youngest, and more.”
Asha tried to remember their names. Harlon Greyjoy had been taken by greyscale, and Robin Greyjoy was a sickly boy, the product of her grandfather’s third wife. Most had deemed it the dues of having a child on a greenlander, a lady of House Piper of Pinkmaiden.
“Had the Crow’s Eye made an enemy at the court of the stag king?”
“Perhaps,” her nuncle replied. “They’ve left their name at the end. Solomon the Magnificent.”
She would have laughed if not for how queer this all was.
“He mentioned you by name, Niece. It reads he will be in Oldtown in a moon’s time, at a tavern by the name of the Merry Maiden.”
Asha gave him a toothy smile. “Then it seems I shall not stay at Harlaw long. And if the worst happens and he never shows, slim pickings did not mean none. It should not be hard to find a merchant or three to see to our ill-gotten gains.”
Her father might have soured hearing it despite her having paid the iron price, but the Reader was not her father.
“That is not the worst that could befall you, Asha.”
She smiled sweetly at her nuncle, worried about her. “I could bring you back a book or three. They shan’t miss them.”
He gave a fonder look. “If you are set on it.”
“Let me eat my axe the day I let a man with a mummer’s name make me a craven.” Standing, she stretched her arms much like a cat might. “I think I’ll go see my mother now.”
He returned to his book after a nod, holding the letter out for her to take. Asha plucked it from his fingers, deciding she would read it in full when she cared to.
It was a dull thing, reading. Her favorite uncle’s love for it had long been a source of queer amusement for her.
Asha stalked to the Widow’s Tower next, so named for her widowed aunt. A prickly woman, that one, though Asha was plenty prickly herself, a black rose with thorns as sharp as Valyrian steel.
Her mother was staring into the Sunset Sea from a window when she found her, the waters blacker than pitch now that the sun had set.
Asha called for her, drawing her eyes. There was something familiar there, leaving Pyke behind and returning here had done her some good, but she was still not as Asha remembered her. Lady Alannys had been proud, with laughing eyes not unlike her own.
Now her mother’s eyes were sad, her hair white.
“Asha,” she whispered with a smile as sweet as milk of the poppy. “You are safely returned to me.”
“I am,” she said as she neared. “Lys is beautiful, and the sun is not always swallowed by the clouds as here. I wish you would come with me to see it.”
“I must wait for Theon to return,” she chided. “Have you heard any news of him? He was a handsome boy, healthy, always laughing. You remember, don’t you?”
Asha bit back a sigh. “The wolves keep him safe and sound still,” she dutifully said. “You would think he was one of their own.”
“Until my husband dons a crown again.” Her mother’s eyes had turned stormy, choked with tears, and for a moment she even seemed lucid. “He will never give up his mad dream. He could have a hundred sons taken from him, and still he would love his crown more.”
Her eyes soon returned to the sea. What she saw in it, Asha couldn’t say, and she fled, for she could no more conjure Theon for her than she could a kraken.
Sometimes she wondered if the god laughed beneath the waves as he watched the greatest fools in all the world sing his praises as they drowned.
She scoffed under her breath. Such melancholy was beneath her. Why should she give a single thought for the gods when they had never given one for her?
On a whim, she pulled the letter from her sleeve, reading it underneath a shivering torch.
When she reached the end, she laughed. Her nuncle had spoken true. Solomon the Magnificent, it read, in an ink unpleasantly yellow.
