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A Song of Blackjack and Hookers (chapter 34)
🕑 Added 2025-08-12 23:56:38 +0000 UTCSansa
Having read the letter for a second time, she set it down on her bed, her thoughts troubled. While it read much the same as any other letter from Father, she couldn’t shake the sinking feeling in her tummy.
Perhaps it was that her mind was playing tricks on her, making her see shadows where there weren’t any. Ever since she had arrived in Highgarden, news of one horror after another had come to her on the wings of ravens.
“More ill news?” Jeyne continued to brush her hair after the question.
She gave an uncertain sigh in answer.
“Everyone says that Renly will make for a gallant, fearless king,” her friend continued. “That he will right the realm from the evils that have beset it. Already he has driven the treacherous Lannister queen and her sorcerer from King’s Landing.”
Sansa had heard much the same. They spoke of Lady Margaery, or Her Grace now, in the same breath.
“I hope they are right,” she voiced. “I pray for Bran every morn.”
Jeyne hummed a moment. “Come help me, Beth.” Together they began to braid her hair.
Sansa was glad for their presence this past moon. While the Tyrell cousins of an age to her had always tried to include her in their games and gossip, she still felt like a wolf in a kingdom of flowers, a curiosity to be gawked at and entertained.
It was much the same for Highgarden.
There was not a part of it that wasn’t lovely, nor a soul in it that wasn’t courteous, and yet…
“Father said that the north and the riverlands are mustering a great army to send to the Vale,” Beth mentioned boisterously. “The wildlings will surely give up your brother once they see such a force arrayed against them.”
Robb had written much the same to her. It would be an army more than forty thousand strong once the river lords and the knights of the Vale joined with them, though still only half as grand as the army being assembled near the westerlands.
“I think we should visit the godswood again today,” Sansa broached. “Perhaps the old gods will hear our prayers.”
It was not the whole truth she spoke.
She stole a glance in the mirror before they would depart, a thick braid set over her shoulder that reddened in the light, her riverlands-styled gown a thing of soft blues and greys.
Desmond already waited outside the door, his northern features ponderous. “My lady?”
“We wish a visit to the godswood. I think Lady should like to join us also.”
Her ladies hadn’t come to Highgarden alone, but in the company of a she-direwolf with Stark grey fur and eyes as bright as the sun. The words carried on the wind had come to her again in that moment.
You have… the gift… child… even without the lady… meant for you…
The name had already rested on her tongue, and she would not spite the old gods by giving her a name they didn’t know.
Desmond gave a grin. “As you say.”
Her lord father’s men she knew approved of her spending more of her hours in the godswood than the sept, though they had never voiced it outright.
The kennels themselves were not far from the sprawling godswood, and there Lady joined their number, her wet snout pressing into her hand and gently lapping at her fingers. Already she stood almost to her belly.
The songs of birds heralded their procession, a few of their number swooping down from the canopy to soar over their heads. She did not think she would ever tire of seeing the world through their eyes, the sensation of flying like no other.
The Three Singers sprawled across the center of the godswood, three weirwoods that would have seemed one if not for the three faces carved into them. A blur of orange curls soon jumped into one of the piles of leaves, Beth giggling as she pulled a protesting Jeyne in after her.
Sansa herself took a seat close to the tranquil pool beneath their red leaves, her eyes closed. It wasn’t every day that the old gods spoke to her, but it seemed today was one of those days, the wind soon pulling at her braid.
“You have returned… child…”
“I… I am worried for Father,” she whispered back, the wind carrying her words also. “For Mother and Bran also.”
“Save some worries… for yourself…” The voice was stronger than it had been in that lonely grove, yet still hard to hear. It reminded her of the way Old Nan spoke to her sometimes. “How low the Kings of Winter have fallen… to not see what is right in front of them…”
Her heart quickened at the words. “W-What do you mean?”
“How many time have you slipped into the skin of songbirds… child…” the wind whispered almost in scolding. “Yet you never thought… to listen on your captors…”
H-Her captors? “Do you mean the Tyrells?”
“Not every prison… is wrought of iron…”
She felt a frown take her lips as the whispers continued.
“Few things are… without a price…”
Sansa gathered the meaning quickly. It was not without a reason that she hid a meats knife in her skirts, one that she now quietly removed. Her teeth grit so as to not make a sound, she swiftly cut open her fingers on her left hand.
Her blood quickly soaked into the earth as Lady whined.
Suddenly she felt as if she was falling, finding herself a witness to Lady Olenna speaking to Willas in one of Highgarden’s gardens.
“It’s played out as you hoped for, grandmother.”
Lady Olenna snorted softly at his words. “He has not only allowed Cersei to slip through his fingers, but that Florent tart also. Now Stannis will glower at us from Dragonstone, waiting for us to stumble.”
“Loras blames the red priestess that vanished the same night.”
“A fine Lord Commander that forgets what a sword is for.” Lady Olenna smeared a spot of jam on her toast, its color red as blood. “I like even less how quiet the Dornish are, and now our gallant king wishes to send Stark to treat with them. They will tell him nothing and he will thank them for the pleasure.”
“You might reach King’s Landing first. Though I do not think the Martells would make common cause with the lions or Stannis.” The sun caught on his hair as he watched the birds, turning it the color of honey. “I could write to Prince Oberyn if that might offer us some insight?”
Sansa worried at the news. Everyone knew the Dornish were as conniving as they were treacherous. What if they poisoned Father to rid King Renly of a Hand?
“He will say nothing without first consulting Prince Doran, who will feed us nothing but empty words and sand. His health has even improved. We are not likely to wait him out now.”
“And Renly has set himself on ruling Dorne. This while entertaining the sentiments of the marcher lords.” Willas toyed with his own fare a moment. “I suppose it will depend on how successful our lord of Tarly is in the westerlands. It is him our marcher lords have rallied behind.”
“Renly will betray them as easily as he betrayed his brother,” she dismissed. “They wouldn’t dare throw their support behind Stannis after they have so thoroughly humiliated him, nor is Randyll fool enough to think his Florent wife will save his beard from a shear.”
“Lord Florent is already riding to King’s Landing to pledge his fealty with all haste. Stannis won’t forget that either.”
Lady Olenna took a moment to chew before she leveled him with a look. “The Stark girl will flower within the year. Will you even try to put a babe in her wolfish womb or will you continue to demure like an old septon? Her fish of a mother has certainly proven herself fertile.”
A frown took her lips at the words. The Heir of Highgarden had been nothing but kind and courteous to her, but she did not love him. They hadn’t even been betrothed yet.
Willas looked at her unhappily. “I think we have done Lord Stark enough of a disservice.”
Lady Olenna tutted. “Poor Lord Stark. Not only will his kingdom of ice and rocks be fed with our grain, but to see his grandchildren rule Highgarden as well? My heart bleeds for such injustice.”
The mention of a disservice had left her dizzy, and the words after…
The godswood greeted her the next moment, staring into the red eyes of the Three Singers as sap just as red seeped from them.
“A prison of flowers… a bed of blood… a heart of sorrow…”
An anger took her. “Father would not agree to—”
“As much a prisoner… as you are…”
“That isn’t true,” she hissed under her breath. “Lady Margaery named herself my sister, and Willas… he did not approve of his grandmother’s callous words.”
“A child you are still…”
The wind soon quieted, the pool again tranquil. Lady lapped at her bloody fingers, as if to remind her.
Sansa nervously stood and pretended to fall and cut her fingers on the stones, which would merit a visit to the maester.
After that she did not know what she would do. The old gods had not soothed her worries as she hoped they would, only leaving her thoughts more troubled.
At least she could say the Queen of Thorns had already gone to King’s Landing…
Margaery
The Great Sept of Baelor sprawled resplendent under the sun, the light catching on the white marble and stained glass.
It served to distract from the shadow of the wildfire stretching across the southern parts of the city.
The lords and ladies of the realm now watched Renly and her as they walked up to the steps to where the new High Septon waited.
The choice had been a clever one by her count, for he had been one of the few septons to argue against the madness having taken hold of the mob. This while still being a staunch opponent to the red priestess that had catered to her flock in the ruins of the Dragonpit.
A flock that had much diminished with her flight, for the only servant of the Lord of Light left to them fancied spirits more than preaching.
She spied Loras as he stood next to their father and grandmother, his rainbow cloak a sight to behold. Ser Arys Oakheart was there as well, or the Green as he styled himself now, the only remnant of the old Kingsguard.
There were three others with rainbow cloaks besides, and her Ser Morwyn was one of them, styling himself the Orange now. He was joined by Ser Robar Royce the Red and Lord Bryce Caron the Yellow.
That only left the Blue and the Purple, which she expected would be shortly found from the tourney to take place seven days hence.
The Hand could have been carved from stone as he stood with Lord Selwyn and his daughter. Their new master of laws, Lord Jason Mallister, was there also, clad in the silver and indigo of his House.
The Lord of Winterfell was often grim as the north itself, but now he stared as if they were to be given their funeral rites instead. It stirred a shadow of guilt for her part played, for he was a truly good man. The kind of man that should have stayed far away in Winterfell.
There were also river lords and stormlords, Reach lords and Vale lords, the strength of Renly’s fledgling kingdom.
He seemed to drink it all in, but then he always seemed as if he lived in the moment and nowhere else, and all of it a lie. He had his moments of introspection where none could see them, deep enough that she doubted even Loras knew every nook and cranny of his heart.
They knelt before the High Septon and waited as he spoke, the light catching on the crystal that adorned his head and sleeves to shower them in more rainbows. With the words also came the seven oils with which he anointed Renly.
Finally, a crown was placed upon Renly’s brow, the cheers and shouts of the crowd drowning out the day.
Margaery bowed her head as the High Septon moved to anoint her next. The next words however did not sound like his.
“Is this all you wanted? A crown and a court to see it?”
It was a sight of horror that greeted her when she dared to look, rivers of yellow spilling from the mouth and eyes and ears of the High Septon. Soon a pair of hands reached from his mouth with a raw, wet sound, another crawling out of him like a butterfly from a cocoon.
Solomon stared up at the sky with a closed-eyed smile, his dark hair smearing in the same yellow that spread across the white stones like it was paint. Yet not a soul protested, Renly and the court still waiting as if a sorcerer had not crawled out of the skin of the High Septon.
A sorcerer that should be far away in Volantis…
“Renly would answer yes and no and none at all,” he continued with a glance at her kingly husband. His eyes were one of the few parts of him that weren’t yellow, like two green moons. “The motions have always appealed to him more than their ends.”
More yellow smeared across Renly’s raiment just as kingly with the words, and crawled up the Great Sept of Baelor, rainbows cut down from seven colors to one. All of them still turned a blind eye to the desecration.
Was this a dream? Would she soon awaken and live the day again until this moment?
Solomon smiled down at her. “What is the world but a waking dream?” Somehow she only now noticed something slimy caressing every part of her skull like a lover.
The rose at her belly also squirmed as he caressed her cheek, its petals like a legion of fluttery butterflies.
“You are meant for higher things,” he whispered to her, the words touching upon her heart and more again.
There had been a thousand and one queens and there was nothing to being the thousand and two.
“Aegon laid down the Iron Throne as the heart of a kingdom that had no purpose but that. It might have died in the womb had Brandon Snow succeeded, or in the cradle had the Faith only a thimble more patience.”
The yellow had claimed every part of the Great Sept of Baelor as he continued.
“Such low ambitions only serve to distract. It is not unlike a man standing amidst a field of weeds thankful that it is not completely barren.” His next words were as soft as a whisper. “You race against the final hour as we all must now. I would not want you to find yourself there with regrets.”
Margaery understood the truth of them all the same. Her garden had only just taken root in the godswood, but even that was but a small part of the Red Keep.
A few drops of blood could only do so much.
He toyed with a lock of her hair. “I would place a crown upon your head myself, if you would allow it.”
Her heart shivered at the thought. “Yes,” she whispered, not caring who heard her.
She bowed her head again as Solomon mimed the motions of the High Septon, each place she would have been anointed with the seven oils instead smeared with yellow.
The crown of paint that he placed upon her own brow ran down across her back and shoulders like a cloak as she dared to meet his eyes again.
“Then rise, Your Grace. The Rose Unnumbered. The Crawling Garden. The Queen in Yellow.”
Then for the first time he claimed her lips himself, every part of her feeling like it had touched the sun and wanted more.
When she finally found herself turning around with Renly to meet the rapturous crowd, the rose at her belly squirmed a second time. The sensations almost brought her to her knees again as she watched her garden tear out of the Red Keep, a living flood of vines and thorns and petals that spread across the breadth of the city right to them.
Once she would have watched with horror as her roses tore through the assembled court, a dark, bloody red joining all the yellow, and only growing stronger. Soon it swept across the land in every direction, a cavalcade of yellow that let her see the world as a goddess.
It was not the shouts and cheers of a tongue that would herald her, nor the applause of hands, but the sounds of roses shivering and writhing as one. A thousand thousand thousand of them.
It was everything she always wanted.
Comments
LtDan
Well this is escalating quickly.
