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A Song of Blackjack and Hookers (chapter 5)
🕑 Added 2025-01-11 20:30:42 +0000 UTCJaime
His sword sent sparks through the air as it slid across the flat of Ser’s Mandon’s blade. Jaime had meant to slip the point past his guard, but Ser Mandon managed to catch it in time and press him back. The fish-eyed knight’s brute strength reminded him of Ser Gerold, a man who had appropriately bore the moniker of the White Bull.
Slinking back with a small smile, he prevented any counterattack easily enough.
Again their spar returned to a stalemate, Ser Mandon too practiced at sparring with him to fall easy prey to a feint or a lightning-quick flourish. Normally, it would have bothered him, and he would have done something daring to break it, but today his mind was elsewhere.
Years and years ago, he had pleaded with Cersei to run away with him to the Free Cities, or further still. He would have won coin enough for her with his sword hand, and they never would have had to hide their affections.
As if it could have been so easy with Cersei…
His sister had always been far too enamored with the idea of a crown, even when they were children. In one breath she had kissed him, a beautiful smile on her lips, and in the next she was talking about how comely Prince Rhaegar had looked.
It hurt him each time, but he loved her like he had never loved any other.
It was for her sake that he had joined the Kingsguard, for her sake that he had stood in silence as Aerys played the monster. In the end, he had slit his throat, saving King’s Landing from becoming a madman’s funeral pyre. His just rewards? Kingslayer. Kingslayer. Kingslayer.
Ser Mandon pitilessly tried to take advantage of his being distracted, but his sword arced again and put a stop to it.
Lowering his guard, he watched Ser Mandon do the same.
“Another day,” Jaime whispered, sweeping from the yard. He could have said something more, but he didn’t find a need to make excuses to the knight, whose only love was duty.
He had become more familiar with Storm’s End, though the sheer expanse of it still meant long minutes of walking in complete silence, his thoughts turning inward. What did it say about how low their brotherhood had fallen that Ser Mandon Moore was among the few he held any esteem for?
The less said about Cersei’s creatures, the better.
Jaime found himself at Solomon’s door, pondering what he would say to the sorcerer. His already poor mood quickly turned for the worse when he saw Cersei inside, staring at him sweetly. Jaime forced his eyes away.
“Ser Jaime,” Solomon greeted. “Her Grace had a few concerns she wished me to address.”
More things she was keeping him in the dark about, he thought. Jaime tried for a smile anyway, but he imagined it was a miserable thing. “Can we speak?”
Those dark eyes watched him for a moment before he nodded. “Of course.”
Jaime glanced back at Cersei. He knew her well enough to tell that she was annoyed, something that drew a truer smile from him, however petty it was.
Following Solomon out, he matched the sorcerer’s sedate pace, though he still struggled with what to say. He did not want him to think less of him.
“You are upset with her.”
His heart skipped a beat, though the surprise bled away quickly. He should have just spoken honestly.
“I know it is not her fault,” Jaime bit out. “He—” Even if he loathed Robert Baratheon, his instincts betrayed him. You are to guard the king, Ser Jaime, not judge him.
“I do not blame you in either case, ser. You love her dearly, and love can be a madness.”
He sighed like a man on his deathbed. He knew the truth of those words all too well. They were nearing the stables when Solomon continued.
“I must admit something to you. Of all the futures where King’s Landing burns, it is your sister who most often lights the match. Most times from grief, but sometimes spite.”
Something hard caught in Jaime’s throat. He wanted to deny it, to defend her even now, but he knew it would be nothing more than the sweetest of lies.
Pulling himself atop his destrier, he watched Solomon do the same with his mare, a gentle thing that he suggested after the sorcerer had asked him for riding lessons. They were soon thundering through the fields outside Storm’s End.
Solomon was a much less clumsy rider now, which left Jaime free to enjoy the wind tussling his golden hair.
“That doesn’t mean there aren’t others,” Solomon said when they slowed. “Petyr Baelish for one.”
Jaime made a small sound of disgust. “Littlefinger.”
“He still remembers how Brandon Stark humiliated him, and how his foster father turned him away when he was at his lowest. He would not be unhappy to be king of the ashes.”
“He would only be king of worms with a sword through his heart.”
Solomon’s dark eyes found Jaime’s again. “When the time is right, can I count on you to do the deed, Ser Jaime?”
“Happily.” He would look Littlefinger in the eyes when he ran him through, all the whoremonger’s plots and schemes going up in smoke.
Such thoughts were not worthy of a knight, so he kept them to himself.
“I will be travelling with Renly to Highgarden,” Solomon said. “There is a plot to supplant your sister with Margaery Tyrell, something she would not take well. I thought I would deal with it before it comes to that.”
Jaime could see it. Dangle a pretty thing like Margaery Tyrell in front of him, make the right noises, and even his lord father’s displeasure might not seem so terrible before the bounty of the Reach.
Some spiteful part of him might even enjoy seeing Cersei burned so. He had warned her, and still she chose a crown over him.
“And Varys?” Jaime asked. He still remembered how easily the perfumed eunuch whispered poison in Aerys’s ear.
Solomon’s smile this time was darker. “Patience, Ser Jaime. I have already set a few things in motion.”
He watched as Solomon picked up the pace again, and matched it, happy to indulge in the simple joy of riding for a time. The rest could wait.
Margaery
The chirping of the birds and the sweet smell of the fireplums in full bloom helped to set her mind at ease, even as she continued to watch her grandmother smear a fruit jam over a piece of soft pastry. Her eldest brother appeared similarly bemused, until she pointed at them both with her spoon.
“Do not look at me like newborn ducklings,” she said with a tut. “You know why I have called you.”
“Renly is riding to Highgarden,” Willas said softly.
“It will be good to have Loras back amongst us,” Margaery ventured herself. “At least for a time.”
There was a snort. “Yes, my son has already called for a tourney. Always thinking about his poor old crone of a mother, for he knows there is nothing I cherish more than having to watch young fools knocking one another around with sticks.”
Her grandmother’s tongue had only grown sharper with age, so much so that some had taken to calling her the Queen of Thorns, something she encouraged in her own way.
“His father was similarly thoughtful, even threw himself off a cliff when he knew I’d grown tired of him.”
“Grandmother,” her brother admonished.
“Don’t you ‘Grandmother’ me. It is a happy miracle that you did not take after them.”
Willas made an exasperated sound. “Do you believe Renly managed to convince His Grace on Father’s plan?” He seemed doubtful himself.
“No, and we should thank the gods for that as well. Marry our Margaery in the bloom of her youth to that fat fool of a king? The best we could hope for from that match was that he would beget a son on her before the wine did him in. A plan worthy of my son, to be sure.”
Her brother shared a glance with her after, one that had Margaery fighting a smile.
She knew her lordly father only wanted the best for her, which in his eyes meant placing a crown upon her head. Mayhaps she even imagined it sometimes, being a queen as brave and wise as Good Queen Alysanne.
“Loras also made mention of a Solomon the Magnificent arriving at court,” her brother mentioned next. “He is riding with them now.”
Grandmother was quiet for a time. “Is it not curious that a mummer has so quickly found a receptive ear in not only Cersei, but also the very man who schemes to unseat her?”
There was a small frown on Margaery’s lips as she thought about it. Was he Cersei’s creature, or Renly’s?
“As to these stories about sailing the Sunset Sea,” she continued with a scoff, “something so outlandish as to draw the eye intentionally.”
Margaery hummed quietly, remembering a certain detail in the letters Loras had sent them. “Yet he had arrived in clothes fine enough to make Renly seem a beggar.”
“Most likely he hails from one of the Free Cities,” Willas commented as he fiddled with his summer doublet the color of cream and leaves. “There is precedent with the master of whispers, and both Lys and Volantis have artisans that would make those at Highgarden seem like children with crooked needles.”
Grandmother harrumphed. “Now we sound like old fishwives gossiping. Renly will be here within a fortnight.”
Standing with the help of her cane, she hobbled to the door before glancing back at Willas.
“We shall see to my son. An old crone and a cripple on his lordly doorstep, we should have our fool make a jest of it.”
He dutifully followed after her with the aid of his own cane, though not before gracing Margaery with a brotherly kiss upon her forehead.
Plucking a few fireplums from the branches after they had gone, she wrapped them in a cloth before returning to her apartments. Her younger cousins were inside playing come-into-my-castle still, though they were swiftly distracted by her bounty of fireplums.
Biting into one herself, she sighed as its tangy juices danced across her tongue. Her thoughts soon returned to weightier matters, the heady allure of a crown tempered by her knowing it to be a poisoned chalice.
The whole realm knew how well Tywin Lannister handled slights, real or imagined. The fate of the Reynes and the Tarbecks, the murder of the royal children… though no songs were sung about the second, only whispered about after too much wine.
A loud boast from Megga interrupted those unpleasant thoughts, and for that she was grateful.
Joining them with a smile, she argued that they instead play monsters-and-maidens, with her as the great and terrible witch of the forest, Black Marra. It was delightful.
The days passed swiftly, and soon she and all her family waited to welcome Renly Baratheon to Highgarden.
Father had made a grand show of it, the flowery banners of their house resplendent next to the prancing black stags of House Baratheon. He embraced Renly like his own son, who accepted it gracefully, and then Loras even more fiercely.
Margaery’s youngest brother had grown since she had last seen him, standing taller, his hair longer, reaching his shoulders. He was still slighter when compared with Renly, but that was true of most men.
The stormlords the Baratheon lord had brought with him were welcomed next, and she recognized the coat of arms of most of the principal houses of the stormlands such as Estermont, Caron, Dondarrion, as well as a few others. Now that a tourney had been announced, she expected more would join them.
Finally, Renly had stopped before her, and she curtsied and offered her hand.
It wasn’t hard to see why her brother was so taken by him.
“Lady Margaery.” His lips pressed to the top of her hand smoothly, and he gave a comely smile that matched his mercurial eyes, seemingly blue or green depending on how the light hit them.
Loras had escaped Garlan’s brotherly teasing to join them, and she opened her arms for a hug. He obliged her, of course, as he should.
“It’s good to see you again, baby sister.”
Margaery gave him a patient smile. “You’re barely a year my elder.”
“It counts still,” he insisted, his soft brown eyes smiling down at her.
They had just separated when she noticed another pair of eyes watching her. “Ah, this would be Solomon the Magnificent,” Renly introduced. “He had agreed to join us to see how fair Highgarden was for himself.”
Margaery had seen him in the crowd earlier, his dark hair swept back messily as he shadowed Renly and her brother, though he had no banners to his name. He had adopted the trappings of an Andal lord, though the colors he seemed to favor were not common ones, deep blacks and stark whites, the only true color she saw being a very yellow half cloak that drew the eyes.
“And how fair it is indeed,” Solomon spoke, and she only heard a hint of something foreign.
Margaery also thought she saw a hint of some other color in his dark brown eyes, but then he gave a deep bow. The kiss he gave her hand lingered a shade longer than Renly’s.
“Although I fear your brother had greatly underwhelmed your own beauty.”
Loras was saved from her pointed questions by their father and Willas returning from welcoming the stormlords. Father immediately rushed to Renly’s side, speaking of feasts and tourneys until the Baratheon lord found a good moment to interrupt.
“Let us speak more on this tonight, my lord. A downpour had struck us in the night and we had not had much opportunity to rest.”
She saw his eyes flicker to Loras, one that drew some red to his cheeks. Her brother left her after a kiss upon her cheek to join him, their father summoning a few servants to follow after them.
“Is it true the godswood here has three weirwoods?” The question drew her eyes to Solomon again.
“The Three Singers we call them,” Willas answered. “I often visit them to clear my head and read.” There was a short pause. “Would you like to see?”
Solomon gave him a handsome smile. “After you.”
“You are lucky to visit in the heart of summer,” she said herself. “Though it is lovely even in winter’s throes, it would have been a pale shadow compared to now. I will join you, I think.”
“The more the merrier, my lady.”
As they walked, she couldn’t help herself. “Are you truly from beyond the Sunset Sea?”
Willas caught her eyes with something between a sigh and a fond smile.
“Why not? Do you imagine it goes on forever?”
“Many have tried to traverse it,” her brother picked up after her. “Brandon the Shipwright, Ellisa Farman, and more than a few of the ironborn. None of them have ever returned.”
Solomon turned around, his movements graceful despite him walking backward. “Maybe they had made a new home for themselves?”
The sound of her brother’s cane tapping against the dirt and the songs of birds were all she heard for a few breaths.
“Your features are not uncommon among the northerners,” Willas observed, “those who are still primarily of First Men stock. Would you claim descent from Brandon the Shipwright or those who went with him?”
Margaery agreed that he had the dark hair and fair skin of the Starks, and asking after the godswood as well…
“No,” he answered, seemingly amused. “Though it would make for quite the story.” He turned back around, stopping before a peach tree. “Might I taste a peach?”
“We would be poor hosts if we refused you a peach,” she said with a bit of cheek.
Plucking one of those that had fallen, he bit into it without much decorum, the juices sliding down the sides of his lips. “Mmm…” He chewed a few seconds longer. “It’s as good as I hoped.”
Margaery took a peach for herself, though her brother seemed to be more interested in figuring Solomon out.
They soon arrived at the center of the godswood, the Three Singers standing above what from afar looked like a pool of blood, some of their red leaves having fallen into it. They were so ancient that they twisted and interlocked with one another, like old friends, their merry faces only giving life to that thought.
“Of all the sights I’ve seen, these godswoods are the ones I would miss the most, I think.”
“You plan to return?” Willas asked him, having taken a seat on a bench.
“Who doesn’t dream of home once it’s gone?” Solomon whispered with a queer smile. “Thank you for accompanying me. I think I shall stay for a time, clear my head perhaps.”
She watched her brother pull a book from his tunic. “I will stay also. I should hopefully have a few hours until they drag me back inside to play the gracious host.”
Margaery bit into the peach she had taken, if not as messily. Solomon meanwhile had stalked closer to the weirwoods, touching a hand to the white bark.
She stayed a few minutes longer, but they seemed content in their quiet, and she began to feel a stranger. The last she saw was a blue jay swooping down from one of the trees to balance precariously upon Solomon’s shoulder, mayhaps mistaking him for a tree.
The hours until the sun set passed by in a flurry of picking out dresses for herself and her many cousins, all of them gossiping like a gaggle of fishwives. Or young highborn girls, as it were.
Of the feast, Father had spared no expense, the finest foods on display, even some delicacies from the Free Cities. He sat with Renly and Grandmother, indulging in every dish he could reach. The Baratheon lord in contrast ate sparingly, something else tugging on his thoughts.
He made for a striking figure in his ensemble of embroidered green silk and black satin cloak, laughing whenever her father laughed and toasting the assembled lords alongside him.
Loras and Garlan were talking about the tourney, joined by the Redwyne twins, while her girl cousins were still gossiping in between sneaking sips of Arbor reds and golds.
Finally, there was Willas seated with their mother and grandnuncle, and joined by Solomon. As far as she could tell, they were speaking on Oldtown and the history of the Hightowers.
Margaery soon sighed, swallowing some wine herself and smiling at something Elinor had said.
The night continued in the same vein, though there had been a ruckus after a bad jape and a dispute of the heart between a hedge knight, a landed knight, and a lady. The blush on her plump cheeks as they argued was something to behold.
One of the servants had just refilled her cup when her lordly father called for quiet.
“My lords!” he started. “My ladies! I have most auspicious news for you all tonight!” He motioned at Renly, whose eyes were on the assembled high nobility. “Lord Renly has agreed to take my only daughter’s hand in marriage, a marriage that will unite the houses Baratheon and Tyrell together.”
Margaery tried not to look like a doe having caught sight of a hunter as all eyes turned to her. Father could have at least hinted at a change in plans…
“To Good King Robert, long may he reign!” her father toasted, wine cup raised high.
The stormlords cheered a great deal louder than the lords of the Reach, something noticed and rectified as the dining hall thundered. She spied Renly making his way to her, offering her his hand.
“Will you accept, my lady? To be wedded and also to dance.”
Margaery looked into his blue-green eyes and comely smile. The choice was not truly her own, she knew, but she was not unhappy. Renly might prefer her brother’s bed to her own, but he was clever and even kind, and discreet unlike the king.
There was a small part of her that still wondered with a morbid curiosity how he and all of them would look at her if she said no, but it was a part she had learned to ignore.
“I will, my lord.” She took his hand, and he brought her to stand. Her eyes did not even reach his shoulders.
Her father stopped them halfway to the floor to kiss her cheek. “Worry not, my daughter. You will still be queen.”
There were too many eyes on her to raise any questions, so she simply smiled, playing at the perfect lady.
No, she corrected. The perfect queen.
