Paradosi
patreon
A Song of Blackjack and Hookers (chapter 40)
🕑 Added 2025-09-22 07:31:56 +0000 UTCDavos
Another storm had fallen upon them in the night, the sky above Dragonstone chased with thunder. He knelt in the sept as he prayed for the good fortunes of his wife and sons.
The Seven were silent as they always were, but he hoped they heard him anyway, their statues staring down at him with gemstones for eyes. He had heard said that they'd been carved from the masts of the ships that had carried the Targaryens from Valyria.
His lord had so far resisted giving them to the flames, but as the war turned more sour and hopeless, Davos expected the Lady Melisandre’s powers would only prove more temptation.
Already Septon Barre had complained to him how more knights turned from the Seven to worship at the feet of her fire god with every day.
He sighed. What was he to do for it? He was barely a knight.
Davos met the Crone’s pearl eyes. He had prayed for wisdom, but little of it had found him for it. Some part of him had even wondered if the Seven had abandoned Stannis, but then surely they would have abandoned Renly also. Renly, Joffrey, even the Targaryens in Dorne, it seemed to him that they had only exchanged a sorceress in red for a sorcerer in yellow.
Thunder cracked again above him, the storm as troubled as his thoughts. His eyes glanced at the statue of the Stranger as passed the doors, more animal than human. They all danced with the Stranger now.
The Great Hall of Dragonstone was a dragon lying on its belly, and its bloody red maw the entrance. He spied his eldest sons crowding the lesser tables with twoscore knights and lordlings, and at the highest of them sat the masters of the narrow sea and one red priestess. She caught his eyes with a smile that would see them all burn.
Davos averted them and joined Maester Cressen, the greybeard’s weathered lips turning into a half smile for it.
“We only wait on Lords Celtigar and Chyttering now,” the maester whispered.
He indulged in some of the fare after a nod. It was richer than he remembered, but then Dragonstone’s population and incomes had soared after Renly crowned himself, merchants and bureaucrats who saw his lord as a more steady hand joining those that had already fled the wildfire. Dragonstone’s coffers had not seen so much wealth since the days of the Sea Snake, he had heard said.
The thought served to soothe some of his worries. Renly might hold dominion over much of the Seven Kingdoms, but his strength at sea was at the mercy of winemongers. With Tyrosh’s humbling at the hands of the Braavosi, it would not be in error to say that only the same Braavosi could contest Stannis at sea now.
His lord would soon speak, his voice carrying easily across the hall. “It is fortunate that we have all gathered here ‘fore the storm struck.”
There were murmurs of agreement.
“Renly has sent men to Stonedance, to Sharp Point, to Reeftop,” he continued. “Empty threats, for he has no ships left to him but the might of the Arbor, which will not stir against us or the Greyjoys for fear of making themselves vulnerable to the other. We can resupply at our leisure, and dare my brother to storm their walls.”
There were more murmurs of agreement and a shout or two of treacherous flowers when Lord Monford Velaryon made to speak. “The Braavosi have complained about our efforts to starve Renly of trade, though they are hesitant to pick sides when they are embroiled in their own war.”
The Lord of High Tide had all of the Valyrian looks, all except for his eyes like a summer storm. His silver hair shimmered under the torchlight that surrounded them.
Lord Adrian Celtigar followed. “They will be keen to see that the millions of dragons owed to the Iron Bank is repaid. I’ve never met a Braavosi forgiving of a debt.”
“I have already agreed to begin payments as soon as the throne is returned to rights,” his lord mentioned cooly.
“Beg pardon, my lord, but what does that mean for us?” the ancient Lord Farring asked. “Are we to place Prince Lann upon the throne?”
His nephew boomed in a thunderous voice after him. “Our king stands before us, uncle! The lion queen has all the honor of a Flea Bottom whore!”
A score knights in the room took up the opportunity to shout their support, though they swiftly quieted when his lord only returned a stony silence.
Not all their number were those who had given their hearts to the fire god, so it surprised him less when Lord Guncer Sunglass followed in agreement, the moonstones that bedecked him shining more alike suns in the torchlight. “Loathe as I am to agree with Ser Godry, he speaks true. We cannot trust that mother of abominations not to have birthed more.”
The Lord of Sweetport Sound was close to the Seven, and held even less love for the red woman than him. It spoke to how scant appetite there was for placing any grandson of Tywin Lannister on the throne.
“I cannot take my brother’s crown until I am certain Cersei Lannister has given him no sons. I would be as much a usurper as Renly,” his lord finished tersely.
The hall was silent except for the crack of thunder above them.
“We do not even have the boy,” Ser Axell Florent dared to speak. “We will be hard-pressed to stir the men to fight for such an uncertain cause.”
“Am I not their lord still, Ser Axell?” Stannis asked in a dangerous voice. “If we fall prey to what is easy now, how long will it be until the smallfolk ask the same question of themselves?”
The assembled lords nodded mutely as he continued.
“Already my brother flirts with lawlessness. If he would have it his way, each of your Houses would become a battlefield.”
Those words saw the red woman stir, or so Davos had thought until…
“Patches!” Shireen shouted in her high voice.
Every soul there turned to stare at the waterlogged fool that had vaulted into the hall, every part of him soaked in the storm. The bells that draped o’er his helm sounded with every movement, and Shireen had even stepped from her seat to join him despite Lady Selyse’s hiss.
“You’re all wet,” Shireen complained as she looked him over. “You’ll catch a fever.”
He was more curious as to how the fool had returned to them from King’s Landing. In the midst of a storm no less…
“I finished my new song!” the fool seemed to boast, even as his head turned to and fro as if he searched for onlookers.
“Get him something warm and dry,” Stannis muttered to the servants.
“Two eyes, three eyes, twelve eyes, under the sea they all watch as mermen feast on soup and stew. I know, I know…”
One of the servants gently led him away, Shireen fast on their heels.
“As it stands, Renly schemes to take the westerlands and the Vale by force,” his lord continued. “I imagine he even has some clever plan to bring the Dornish and ironborn to his side. But war is not a tourney. It is cruel.” His Baratheon eyes raked across assembled lords. “I intend to teach my brother that lesson soon.”
There were shouts of Stannis again, though sans the crown. Soon his lord stood and looked to him. “If you would join me, Ser Davos. You as well, maester.”
He dutifully followed, only sparing a glance at the Lady Melisandre. She continued to stare at where the fool had stood with a queer look, the stones still wet.
Stannis brought them to the highest room of the Stone Drum, where the Painted Table sprawled across its length. The storm had only grown louder as they ascended, the thunder deafening.
His lord stared out across the breadth of the Seven Kingdoms pictured. “Lord Eddard Stark is sailing to Dorne to treat with Prince Doran Martell.”
Davos clutched at the pouch around his neck holding his fingerbones. “Saan will hesitate to stir from the Stepstones when he has the Braavosi and Lyseni breathing down his neck.”
“I do not intend to waylay him as Renly no doubt expects me to.”
The question stuck to his tongue. He did not even understand why Renly Baratheon would imperil his Hand with such a ploy.
“I intend to send you to Dorne, Ser Davos.”
An awkward cough escaped him for it. “It would insult the Dornish to send so low an envoy,” he tried.
His lord did not seem much moved by his reservations. “You will not go as my envoy. I have need of my words to reach Lord Stark with Renly none the wiser. If you would, Maester Cressen?”
His own thoughts turned to Dorne. He had visited the shadow city thrice in his years as a smuggler, and Planky Town twice that number, but it had all been many years ago. He would count himself lucky if even a single of his old contacts remained.
The old maester had put a quill to parchment in the meantime, though not before he dabbed it in an inkpot.
His lord had to raise his voice to be heard over the storm.
Margaery
The trees were a nuisance. Though the godswood at the Red Keep did not possess a weirwood at its heart, it still teemed with oak, elm, alder, and black cottonwood covered in smokeberry vines, the canopy they all formed leaving scant sunlight for anything beneath them.
She knew what she was to do, had planned it ever since Solomon had laid a crown upon her brow. Tonight she would see it done.
The rose at her belly squirmed for the thought, a mirror to her heart. Her steps soon returned her to the oldest parts of her garden, only for her grandmother to find her.
“Would it kill you to add some some variety, my dear? I’m rather fond of pennyroyals and poison kisses.”
A smile she placed upon her lips. “There is beauty in simplicity, grandmother.” A breeze kissed her garden at her words, and so kissed her. “These are the colors of our House.”
Her grandmother gave a snort for it. “Your father and brother might be great fools, but I am not.”
Margaery did not let a thought show. “It passes the time.”
It would not do for her image to falter. Much like her garden, it was something to be carefully cultivated.
“You will join me for supper. The gods know your mother isn’t one for courtly intrigues."
“I couldn’t refuse our mistress of whisperers if she wants to whisper in my ear,” she answered in teasing.
The servants set down a table for them at the heart of her garden. As they piled cakes and tarts upon it, she sighed, taking in a deep breath of that sweet scent.
She only regretted not beginning her work sooner.
“His game with our lord of Stark is more amusing than I dared to hope.”
She caught her grandmother’s pale eyes. “More a game with his brother, no?”
“We might win this war within the year with any luck,” her grandmother said instead after a bite of the tart. “Otherwise it will draw out until the Braavosi tire of him.”
Thoughts of Braavos swiftly drew her to Volantis. Not that she dared to dwell on them now.
“What of the Vale?” she asked.
“I trust every word I hear from Gulltown. Which is to say that we can always trust it to be some fabrication.”
The mention stirred a curious thought. If she could somehow have some of her roses bloom in the Vale or inside Dragonstone…
“As for our esteemed Golden Company, Myr and Lys have both hoped to sign a contract against the other. The captain-general has so far demurred. Some great-grandson of Tomion Strickland, if you would believe it.”
One of many that had been sent into exile after the end of the First Blackfyre Rebellion.
“Neither side is likely to lower their banners as soon as they see a speck of gold on the horizon,” Margaery softly commented. “The Century of Blood had seen a dearth of sellswords for it.”
Her grandmother snorted again. “It would be sweet if the Free Cities dealt with the Blackfyres for us, but it would seem that eunuchs are as sour as old crones.”
The Blackfyres hardly occupied her thoughts at all. There would not be a throne of swords stained in rust to lay claim to in a year’s time.
Her grandmother worried her more, even if the thought left her strangely cold.
The rest of the day saw her reading all the stories of the Age of Heroes again. As a girl she thought them as true as the peaches she had for supper. As a maiden flowered she would have never believed that she would see them as such again in only some scant years.
She wondered what the children of the forest would have thought of the garden she would bring into the world.
Ser Morwyn waited for her outside her door as the hour of the wolf fell upon the night. He had not questioned her resolve, only a smile as he touched a hand to his heart. “Your Grace.”
“If you might take me to the godswood, ser.”
His rainbow cloak trailed slightly across the stones as she followed, his armor enameled orange with pitch for trimmings. She had meanwhile armored herself in a simple yellow gown, for she knew it would not see the sun unscathed.
The three men that met them in the godswood could not look more different from one another, at least if one ignored their eyes, each darkened with lust as they raked across her form.
She had chosen each of them for their thoughtlessness, implying a rendezvous to stir the humors her husband could not.
“Your Grace,” one whispered.
“A beauty,” another husked.
She smiled such that if Ser Morwyn were not there, they would have already lost what crumbs of sense they possessed. The scores of saplings beneath their feet might as well have been a world away.
It was only a moment until one dared to approach her anyway. She could not see it now for the night that smothered them, but she remembered his eyes being a cool blue. “I would steal a kiss, Your Grace.”
“You may.” And just as his lips were a but a breath from hers, it was her blade that found his heart instead.
It wasn’t anger in his eyes she saw, or even fear, for when he had collapsed to the earth he still stared at nothing in surprise.
Another’s panicked shout died when Ser Morwyn’s sword carved though his neck, his head soon toppling from his shoulders. The last stirred in retreat, but her knight was quicker even in armor, his entrails retreating from his belly to decorate her saplings instead.
It had all happened in the span of a few breaths. None of them had even a whisper of a chance against a knight.
A thousand things danced across her heart at the sight, her hands red with blood, her actions anathema to the Seven. Yet it was a guilt crippled by purpose. And had she not only spoken from her heart?
They would lie with her, join with her in raucous delight.
They would forever be a part of her garden. A part of her.
Margaery watched with a smile as the saplings all began to bloom, their scent touching every part of her lungs. Then the rose at her belly thought to shift her ribs, her lips parting in surprised pain.
“Your Grace,” Ser Morwyn worried.
She made herself smile for him, and as the lifeblood of her would-be suitors still fed the earth, she thought to do more. She taught them that the trees were much like the men she had given them, and they listened, thorns turned to spears as they attacked those she named their enemies. Those they couldn’t reach they crawled to.
When the dawn met them, her garden had smothered the godswood, a rose suckling at every tree. It might take a moon or twelve, but in the end her garden would be all that dared to stand under the sun.
Ser Morwyn leaned on his sword. “Shall we retire?”
She had hoped Solomon would visit her again, but there was nothing for it. He trusted her to follow her heart.
A queer sight met her when she touched a hand to Ser Morwyn’s shoulder. Not the drying blood that smeared across her hands and gown, but the petals that poked from the scars a thousand thorns had carved, each as small as a child’s heartbeat. If she closed her eyes, she could even feel each of them shifting under her skin.
“Your Grace?”
She stirred from the sight. “Yes.”
Of the three men come to claim her maidenhead there was naught but a shadow left. And when the rains fell today, even that will have gone…
