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A Song of Blackjack and Hookers (chapter 37)
🕑 Added 2025-08-31 01:49:19 +0000 UTCBrienne
The cheers from the stands drowned out the world as the third tilt between Ser Morwyn Peake and Ser Ryamar Belmore began. One could even be forgiven for thinking the realm hadn’t been put to the torch with all the souls swarming the tourney grounds outside the King’s Gate, highborn lords and hedge knights from as far south as Starfall in Dorne and as far north as Winterfell.
Admittedly, the Lord of Starfall was only a boy of one-and-ten years, and a squire to Beric Dondarrion. The Dornish had otherwise spurned the tourney.
A crash sounded with that thought, unseating Ser Morwyn. The tragedy struck at the way he fell, the stirrup caught with him. The marcher knight reacted deftly enough to avoid the worst of it, but his steed was not as lucky.
Brienne had heard a gasp from Her Grace as it happened.
For all the songs oft mentioned the crash of lances and the sighs of noble ladies, she had yet to hear one speaking to the mournful cries of a horse with a broken leg.
Ser Ryamar circled back a moment, holding a moment’s vigil as his opponent assessed the damage. After a sigh, Ser Morwyn opened the throat of the ruddy-maned stallion with his sword. He was the second of the Rainbow Guard that the Vale knight bearing the seven bells of House Belmore over his heart had unseated, and the sixth knight.
Ser Ryamar would face Ser Loras on the morn, though likely he had already won a rainbow cloak for his victories.
That left only one color still unclaimed. While Renly had already offered to name her Brienne the Blue for her victory at the tourney at Highgarden, she had demurred, making a claim that all the realm should see her earn the honor in the mêlée.
In truth her heart was uncertain. A great council as her lord father argued for might have avoided a war, but Renly had not cared for it. Now he would send the Hand to treat with the same Dornish he had spurned.
It was not as much folly as marching an army through the Red Mountains to take Dorne by force of arms, a feat even dragonfire could not accomplish, but the practicality still eluded her. He could hardly wed a Dornish princess as Daeron the Second had when he was already tied by the hip to the Tyrells.
Her eyes went to the man who would have to see it done, the grim northern lord showing as much interest in the tourney as a septon. His goodbrother, Ser Edmure Tully, sat next to him with the sons and daughters of his father’s bannermen.
Hoster Tully was too sick to travel as she had heard. In all likelihood his son would soon be Lord of Riverrun.
The rest of the day found her in the training yard. Even if her heart was a knot of doubts, she would not dishonor her opponents by sparing them her best.
The Lord Commander of the Rainbow Guard made for a princely sight the next morn, his rainbow cloak interwoven with a hundred flowers and his patterned silver armor shimmering under the sun. Ser Ryamar was not quite as splendid, but the enameled steel of his armor had been polished to a shine, each of his lances decorated with seven bells.
Ser Loras she saw held the favor of his sister, where Ser Ryamar held the favor of his betrothed, a girl some years younger watching dreamily from the stands.
Brienne suspected the Knight of Flowers would win today, though it would be a close thing. Mace Tyrell’s youngest son had a skill with a lance that only came once a generation.
It was not hard for her to spy the fat lord seated with his mother, their new mistress of whisperers. With his daughter newly crowned and half the small council with green in their veins, the Tyrells had never been more ascendant, not even during the days of the dragonlords that had raised them up from stewards.
The first tilt had seen neither knight unhorsed, nor the second. It was not until the seventh tilt that Ser Loras had managed to maneuver his lance ever so slightly past the Vale knight’s guard to strike him in the chest. It was a clean fall also, the cheers from the crowd again drowning out the world for a number of breaths.
Renly had already stood, the crown upon his brow a mirror to his reign, a stag of carven jade amidst a field of golden roses. The sun glinted off the thread-of-gold embroidery of his black and green raiment as much as his crown.
He would soon join the two knights upon the paved dirt, his voice traveling far as he towered over both.
“The vows can be said another time, but will you accept a rainbow cloak from your king, Ser Ryamar?”
The knight removed his helm and fell to a knee, his lanky, boyish features showing he had only been a knight for a scant few years. “Gladly, Your Grace.” His red-and-orange curls shadowed his features as he bowed his head.
Ser Loras retrieved the cloak from a Tyrell squire, offering it to Renly.
“Rise then as Ryamar the Purple.”
The knight stood to the cheers of the crowd again and received a rainbow cloak around his shoulders.
“Such pageantry warms the heart,” a familiar voice spoke to her side. Brienne had thought herself imagining it, yet there he was, with a smile that could only be his.
He… He was still in Volantis last she heard. “Is this a dream?” she asked much like a mouse.
Somehow he had still heard her. “It is and it isn’t.” He took her hand in his, the warmth of it as she remembered, and her belly squirmed for it. “It is as real as you want it to be.”
The last she had seen him, his skin had turned corpse pale and waxy, the shadow of an old curse, he had said, from an old foe with a blacker heart than any she had ever heard of. Now he looked again as any maiden’s fantasy, a man who should never be looking at her in the way he was now.
She noticed that it had turned as quiet as a lake at night, as if all the tourney waited on a sorcerer until it dared continue.
“Will you be Brienne the Blue, my lady? I already know that you will win, for there is not a knight with a heart even half as true as yours.”
His words had her heart beating even quicker, not that she dared tell him. “I am not as certain,” she whispered from her heart as well.
“You are disillusioned.” He raised one of her mannish hands, pressing a kiss to her skin so gently that her cheeks grew hot. “The Maiden had not fallen for Galladon of Morne for his prowess at tourneys, but for the strength and breadth of his love.”
She was not as selfless, she wanted to say. None of the Seven had come down from the heavens to bestow upon her a sword with which to smite the wicked.
“There is naught I can do to stop the bloodshed to come,” she whispered instead.
“When has that ever given you pause?”
He soon claimed her with a kiss, and it was all she could do to not make a fool of herself.
“Use this tourney as an opportunity to show these knights of summer true chivalry,” he whispered as he toyed with his favor around her wrist. “Perhaps some of them might remember again.”
He had gone as suddenly as he had come, his seat left cold and empty, for none cared to sit with a horror as her except for her father.
Yet she could still feel the warmth of his hand. He had said it was as real as she wanted it to be, and so she would not doubt it.
Her father touched her other arm as the tourney came to life again, as if sensing something was amiss, while Renly announced to all that the mêlée would begin after a day’s break. Tomorrow the archers would compete instead.
While she dutifully attended, her thoughts were far and farther away. The winner of the contest was all that had stood out to her, a sly and nimble-fingered man from the Dornish Marches, beating out a knight in Ser Balon Swann and a prince from a world away in Jalabhar Xho.
The first day of the mêlée dawned after a spate of rains in the twilight hour, though thankfully the mud had mostly gone by the time they entered the field. There were ten score too many knights and other combatants of some notoriety for the mêlée to only span a day, so it would stretch across three instead.
Three of her father’s knights had joined her: Sers Teryn, Meramyn, and Barney. They gave her strength as much as the favor tying around her wrist.
Soon the horn sounded and the fighting began.
She still had all her retinue when the last competitor for the day surrendered to a small group of the Hand’s household guard. She had seen them at work once or twice throughout the grueling struggle, picking off knights on their lonesome when they could.
She could not blame them. A mêlée could be a profitable endeavor if one managed to avoid too many bruises and broken bones.
The biggest surprise perhaps had been that Ser Loras Tyrell had already surrendered the field, having been caught between a contingent of Vale knights led by Ser Ryamar and riverlands knights led by Ser Edmure.
The next day saw no rains, more solid ground giving her the freedom to leverage her strength more easily. Brienne could not deny some small satisfaction at breaking Red Ronnet Connington’s arm with a heavy blow from her morningstar. Had she still had it, she would have thrown the rose he had given her at him also.
Ser Barney had taken an unfortunate blow to his head when they had engaged a group of crownlander knights near the end of the day. Her heart had only lightened when one of the maesters mentioned that he was likely to recover in short order.
The competition had become much sparser as the third and final day dawned. Of the Rainbow Guard all that remained was Ser Morwyn, the queen’s sworn shield having revealed himself a terror with his two-handed flail. Ser Ryamar had surrendered to Ser Edmure and his river lords after they had done the same to him as the Knight of Flowers.
There were three other groups that still threatened her, though only one of them matched the riverlander contingent in numbers, led by Ser Baelor Hightower and Ser Emmon Cuy. The other two were a northern contingent led by Ser Wendel Manderly, the knight’s immense bulk making him an implacable foe, and a queer trio of Beric Dondarrion, Thoros of Myr, and a man she only knew by the heavy yellow cloak patched with deerskin around his shoulders.
It was Ser Baelor that found them on the field first, likely hoping to leverage his superior numbers for a quick surrender from her.
Brienne had not hesitated, only stirring a sound of surprise when she smashed into the Hightower knight hard enough to bowl him over. That it left her surrounded hardly mattered to Ser Baelor with her morningstar now in reach of his head, and he quickly surrendered.
In a sprint none of them could hope to catch her, and she escaped with only a glancing blow across her helm, leaving a ringing in her ears, but otherwise unharmed.
Ser Emmon was more wary of her after, not affording her any opportunity to surprise him, but the field had changed.
The Heir of Riverrun had tried a similar strategy against the unlikely trio and had seen more success, Ser Marq Piper seeming to have thrown the red priest’s flaming sword to the dirt to spit and crackle. Outnumbered, the lightning lord had soon surrendered.
It caught the Reacher knights in an uncomfortable position between her and the riverlanders. One that quickly turned into a brawl as they all converged.
Brienne knew she had to take the opportunity to remove Ser Edmure from the board. And so she had, smashing her mace again and again against his shield until it splintered. He eventually yielded to her with panicked Tully blue eyes and a broken arm.
The Vances tried to avenge him after forcing a surrender from Ser Emmon Cuy, but she threw one into another, allowing Ser Teryn to force their surrender in kind. That only left Ser Marq Piper, who had dealt Ser Meramyn a nasty blow to his shoulder.
The Heir of Pinkmaiden lasted longer, but only until her morningstar smashed into his ribs.
The sweat poured down her brow as she stood under the sun, her arms leaden, but she still towered over the two Reacher knights arrayed against her. They surrendered as soon as Ser Teryn returned to her.
Ser Meramyn was too injured to continue and so retired from the field.
Removing her helm to better survey who was left, she spied Ser Morwyn and Ser Wendel alone in a struggle.
Both had taken blows, yet they stubbornly continued. She approached but did not interrupt then. It seemed to end when the Manderly knight weathered a heavy blow to his gorget to topple his opponent, but Ser Morwyn surprised her, bringing his two-handed flail around again to smash into Ser Wendel’s knee.
Were he not so immense, it might have broken outright. Instead it only unbalanced him, and it soon devolved into a messy brawl. She only intervened so they wouldn’t stain their honor.
They stopped to take her in and Ser Teryn in.
“You are a different breed, my lady,” Ser Morwyn told her wryly, his nose bloody and broken.
“I think I have broken enough bones for one day,” she returned.
The Manderly knight stood unsteadily with a booming laugh, thumping a gauntlet to his heart. “Then the day is yours, Lady Brienne.”
The cheers from the stands were sweet to hear, but tinged with melancholy still, for she knew what she was to do now.
When her king and his Tyrell knight joined her, he had asked the same question of her as he did Ser Ryamar.
She planted her bloody morningstar in the dirt as she knelt. “I cannot accept, Your Grace, for my heart drives me to another purpose. I would go to the Vale to find Bran Stark and return him safely to the Hand and his lady wife.”
This close, she spied a ring curling around Renly’s primary finger, the stylized black onyx antlers digging into the skin sharply. It seemed a queer thing to her.
Soon he spoke. “I would not keep you against your heart, Lady Brienne. Rise, and go with my blessings.”
Though his eyes smiled at her when she stood, she did not think him exactly pleased. Ser Loras openly frowned at her, though he shrugged his shoulders after a moment, no doubt happy to be rid of her.
Her own eyes found her father, a fond smile on his lips. She spied Lord Stark staring at her with some surprise, but soon he inclined his head as he whispered something under his breath.
He would be on a ship to Dorne on the morrow, so she would go where he could not. It was the least she could do for his kindness to her.
A weary Ser Teryn bid her farewell as they left the tourney grounds, only for her heart to skip a beat as Solomon stood in front of her, a comely smile on his lips that made it quicken after.
“I have a gift for you, my lady.”
Brienne looked at him confused, though he paid it no mind as he plucked his favor from her wrist. She could only watch as the yellow ribbon turned as wet as blood or paint in his hands, drops of it falling and smearing across the grass. Reaching into it with his hand, he pulled out by its hilt a yellow sword.
“I admit I am no goddess come down from the heavens, but I hope you will accept it all the same.”
He proffered it to her, the sword less like something wet and more like steel now. Looking boldly into his eyes, she took it, the hilt turning a deep blue when her fingers touched it, though the blade remained the same stark yellow.
It weighed almost nothing in her hand, and when she carved it across the dirt, it cut through it with ease. Brienne struggled to find the right words, her eyes wet.
“I am not even a knight,” she found herself saying instead.
“Neither was Galladon of Morne. The Maiden did not care, so why should I?” He wiped away her silly tears.
“I do not know if I will even find him,” she voiced. “The knights of the Vale have looked for many moons now.”
“Men who cannot see past their own pride. It is no coincidence that after thousands of years, the knights of the Vale are still strangers in their own mountains.” He tucked some of the straw she had for hair behind her ear. “I suspect you will find Bran Stark just fine, my lady. It is what happens after that is less certain.”
She took strength from his words. Though it also tugged her thoughts to him.
He hushed her before she could voice those worries. “I shan’t let a curse vanquish me. If I am to breathe my last, I would have it be from a hero with fire in their heart placing a sword through my own.”
Brienne frowned at him for the unhappy thought, a frown he quickly smothered when he pulled her down into a kiss, not the gentle, courtly kisses she had become accustomed to, but something hungry.
When she dared to open her eyes again, he was gone. If not for the sword that still rested in her hand, she might have wondered if she hadn’t imagined it.
She took in it again, the blade drinking in the sun more than it mirrored it.
She suspected that like the Just Maid it was not a sword to be brought to bear for every challenge that crossed her path. And so she wouldn’t.
All she was missing now was a squire to join her on her quest, she thought in jest.
