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A Song of Blackjack and Hookers (chapter 33)
🕑 Added 2025-08-03 23:45:44 +0000 UTCEddard
The winds blew colder tonight than they had in nearly ten years now. The long summer was waning. Winter is coming, and none of them will see it.
He was the Hand of the King and yet he felt as helpless as a Flea Bottom beggar. Even now his silence haunted him.
If he had argued Robert down, he would have grumbled and cursed him for a fortnight, aye, but it would have passed. The realm would not be one step from war and he would not be half a fool to Renly Baratheon.
He had pleaded with Renly not to go through with this madness, that if the royal children were truly bastards, to let the matter go before a great council as Lord Selwyn had suggested. All of it had fallen on deaf ears and a smile that could have been carved from stone.
He had next asked to retire from his position and leave to go to the Vale, only for Renly to deny him that as well. An army would be gathered from the north and the riverlands, but he would not command it.
Renly instead seemed intent on turning him into a glorified farmhand, ensuring that King’s Landing was fed and watered. Now he would be expected to do the same for two armies, one to take the westerlands and the second to pacify the Vale, and he was to do it all with the narrow sea closed to them.
He would have named Renly a usurper then and there had the consequences not stared back at him like a starving wolf. It was not only his fate that was at stake. Bran was still lost to them, and for him to turn against Renly now would only throw the Vale into further chaos. No greater gift could he give to that treacherous snake in Gulltown. And Sansa…
Neither Renly nor the Tyrells had said as much, but it was clear as day all the same. Sansa had become to him what Theon was to Balon Greyjoy, a bitter, unpleasant irony to it all.
And now news of a new King-Beyond-the-Wall…
The last had near brought the north to ruin, and he knew it was only a matter of time until this Mance Rayder tried the same. It was the fate of every wildling with a crown upon their head.
The hearth he stared into held no answers for him still, only a shallow warmth that scarcely held the cold winds at bay.
For all Winterfell was some thousand leagues to the north, one would not think were they there. Brandon the Builder had the foresight to build it over a number of natural hot springs, the scalding water and steam trapped within the stones meaning that even the worst winters would not turn Winterfell into a lichyard.
Ned could not say the same for the Tower of the Hand, as drafty as an old ruin and with as many passageways as a stormlands cheese.
He should have already retired to his bedchambers. Enough sleepless nights had already made him seem as if he had one foot in the grave.
It was near the hour of the wolf when he finally passed the doors and graced a pillow with his head. And when he dared to close his eyes, he saw the crabs feeding on Robert’s corpse.
True slumber would not come for a time more, and when he woke in the morning, it was as if he had not slept a moment.
Jory soon brought him his humble fare, worry crossing his northern features at the sight of him. “Perhaps I should ask the Grand Maester for milk of the poppy?”
He felt the temptation, but he could not allow himself to fall to it. “I will need my wits speaking with the grainmongers arriving from the riverlands and stormlands. I imagine they will try and bleed the treasury dry, but I fear they are a few years too late.”
“There is also a small council meeting in the evening.” Jory seemed hesitant to even have reminded him.
“I will defer to His Grace in all matters that I can.” He had almost spat the courtesy.
There were few crimes the old gods hated more than when brother fought brother.
The rest of his morning was spent poring over parchment. Cat had written that they had received demands of ransom for the lordlings that had been with Bran, but nothing about their son. It only deepened the terrible pit in his stomach.
From the westerlands had also come ravens proclaiming that they were all to travel to Casterly Rock to pledge their rightful fealty to King Joffrey. Ned did not imagine the lords of the realm were in any rush to obey, not even the Dornish or ironborn that had as of yet kept quiet.
Whether Balon would don a crown again and so doom his only living son he did not know. The ironborn were all a step removed from madmen.
With him here in King’s Landing, it would fall to his son to swing the sword. It was not a decision he would have ever wanted Robb to make, and he could only pray he never had to.
Robb had also written to him to say that the banners had been called. His son spoke of grumbling from some of the lords, but nothing more.
The rest of the day was spent with merchants more miserly than any he had ever seen. He was sorely tempted to throw the worst of them into the black cells, for they complained to him about every copper while turning a blind eye to the thousands still starving in the streets.
He left the Tower of the Hand for the small council chambers as the sun began to set, Jory making to wait outside as he entered.
Renly already sat at the head of the table, a smile already set on his lips like it was a part of his raiment. It was Ser Loras that was a queerer sight, a rainbow cloak having replaced the gold.
“Your Grace,” he dutifully greeted as he sat. Renly’s head would remain uncrowned until the coronation some days away.
Pycelle hobbled in next, a heavy tome clutched in his gnarled hands. He must have addressed Renly as Grace three times in quick succession before he quieted.
Their master of coin was the last to join them tonight, the lines of Lord Selwyn’s face not hinting at anything as he sat next to him.
“My lords. I think the first order of business is evident in our number. I have given it some thought, but I will not decide without hearing your thoughts first.”
He was about to continue when another joined them, their steps light as a feather. Margaery Tyrell soon smiled at them in a gown overgrown with golden roses.
“Have I interrupted?” she softly voiced.
“We have just begun.” Though Renly’s eyes revealed nothing, her brother was rather less practiced at concealing his surprise.
“Then I would ask if I might join you, husband.” Her hands though clasped showed more scars each time he saw her.
“I see no reason to refuse. There is precedent with Good Queen Alyssane.”
“I wouldn’t dare compare myself to her,” Margaery demurred, “but I find the words sweet nonetheless.”
Though he held scant love for the Targaryen queen that had left the north easy prey for wildlings, Ned found the comparison more than apt himself. The smallfolk loved her as much as they hated Cersei, with Margaery having descended thrice into the city in the past moon despite the dangers. Each time she had shared in the same poor fare as them.
She took a seat at the other end of the long table, her eyes like summer honey watching them patiently.
“Then let us begin with the question of the Kingsguard,” Renly began. “With Ser Barristan lost to us, and so many of its members gone to the winds, I thought it time to make a change. Ser Loras will from now lead the Rainbow Guard as its Lord Commander.”
The allusions were not lost on him. The Warrior’s Sons of old donned rainbow cloaks as well, and rainbow swords upon their shields.
They had never given the north much cause to love them.
“Time after time we have seen the failings of the Kingsguard,” Renly continued. “No knight should be a sword alone, allowing madmen to wield them against the innocent without complaint. Any who I will name to the Rainbow Guard will only be expected to serve for seven years.”
Ned did not mislike the idea. Too many good men had died when he had rode to Dorne because the knights of the Kingsguard saw no life for themselves outside of it. It all made for an uncomfortable comparison to slavery.
“There are three more positions to fill,” Renly continued. “I have already written to Lord Paxter Redwyne to serve as master of ships and Lady Olenna Tyrell to serve as our mistress of whisperers.”
The Queen of Thorns some called her, though he had never met her. A Tyrell queen and two Tyrells on the small council. Three in truth, for Paxter Redwyne was Lady Olenna’s own nephew and so would follow the Tyrells in everything.
It was such a naked power play that a blind man could not miss it.
“And the master of laws, Your Grace?” he asked.
“There I am less certain. I had thought Lord Hoster, but his son informs me that he is too sick to travel. Ser Cortnay Penrose also comes to mind. As does Randyll Tarly.”
A tightness showed on Lord Selwyn’s jaw, though it quickly passed. “It should be a man of the Vale or the riverlands, Your Grace. Your enemies already see too much green in your councils.”
Renly only smiled at the subtle reprimand. “I had the same thought.” His chameleon eyes turned to Ned next. “Who would you suggest, Lord Hand?”
The names did not take long to come to him. “Lord Jason Mallister would be a fine choice from the riverlands. From the Vale I would suggest Lord Yohn Royce or Lord Horton Redfort.”
All three were good men. It was not lost on him that they also presented an opportunity to bolster his own influence on the small council, whatever it was worth.
“Honorable lords all,” Renly commented. A hint that he had seen his ploy? “Then if you would write to Seagard in my stead. With the Vale in a state of disarray, I think it best that we leave Lords Royce and Redfort where they are.”
“Yes, Your Grace. Though I should say that he might refuse me with the ironborn still unaccounted for.”
“Are they not? We hold Lord Balon’s only son.”
“I do not believe that will give Balon Greyjoy as much pause as we would like,” he answered carefully.
“Mmm… You have been as much a father to Theon Greyjoy, have you not? What is his character?”
He paused at the question, Renly’s blue-green eyes and smile telling him nothing more than his words implied.
“Much as you might imagine, Your Grace. He is not shy to name himself a Greyjoy, but he was only a boy of ten when he came with me to Winterfell. He would not understand the ironborn anymore than my sons.”
“That, my lord, is why I am thoughtful. I will not allow the iron islands to continue as they have. They must be bound to the realm in more than name, threaded into the tapestry as something more than villains that spurn our laws whenever the threads dare fray.”
Ned pawed at the coarse stubble of his cheek. The sleepless nights made him feel all his years.
“You mean to install Theon as Lord of the Iron Islands,” he finally said.
Renly only smiled for his question.
“Does Lord Balon not have a daughter he dotes on?” his queen commented quietly.
The same daughter that was sailing for Volantis with a sorcerer.
“The ironborn will be even less likely to accept a woman on the Seastone Chair,” Renly dismissed easily.
“In times as these few things are certain,” she spoke again.
His eyes went to her a moment. “Mayhaps. Though I admit it is the Dornish that interest me. Have we heard nothing from Sunspear?”
The Grand Maester cleared his throat. “Prince Doran has always been slow to act.”
“The Martells still well remember what had been done to Elia Martell and her children.” Margaery’s words brought his thoughts to Lord Tywin’s brutality barely hidden by three red cloaks. “They will never join the Lannisters in anything.”
“They were not much fond of my brother either,” Renly commented. Those chameleon eyes soon found him again. “I think it prudent we sent an envoy to Dorne. Someone they would not refuse out of hand.”
Why Renly would not give him leave and name another as Hand stared back at him now as much as those eyes. Dorne.
The last time he went to Dorne he had buried a sister and brought home a son.
“I can think of no one more suited, my lord Hand.”
He tried not to sigh like a man on his deathbed. “I understand, Your Grace.”
There was nothing more to say.
Daenerys
The Myrish mirror stood two times as tall as her. It was the haunting purple of her eyes that she saw first, her hair like spun silver and gold having been curled in the Dornish fashion. Only a hint of blue still remained.
Dany had been called a beauty since she had counted seven namedays, though she had never given it much thought until now. Illyrio Mopatis had oft said she bore the same beauty as Queen Naerys, but though she knew the stories, she had never seen her likeness to say how true that was.
When Viserys had offered her hand to the sorcerer that sometimes haunted her thoughts and dreams, the notion frightened and excited her in equal measure. Yet in the days since he hadn’t courted her. He hardly even looked at her. It all left her in a strange mood.
The khal had seen her and from just a look she knew he wanted her, but she did not want him. With Solomon she did not feel at all a beauty.
With his too-green eyes that saw right through her and skin like old milk, he was not a man she would even name handsome anymore. And yet it was in service to Viserys and her that he was left so disfigured, he had said.
He was also a man that would give her a dragon, a man that had even returned to her something of the brother she remembered.
A man whose name that others only dared to whisper.
A man that could make her dreams of a world where no children had to bear a chain or a brand more than dreams. And each night since he had come to Sunspear she dreamed of it again.
All that had she dreamed and still she could not make him look at her like the way men always have.
What else was she to do? Slip into his bed at night? She was not so brave, and she was not even certain if he slept.
She saw something of a petulant frown marring her beauty now, and she quickly did away with it, her fingers absently toying with the laces of her pearl white gown. The material was such that it felt like she was wearing a cloud instead.
Solomon would soon be leaving for Volantis, she knew. If she—”
“Princess,” she heard someone call. “I hope I am not interrupting.”
Prince Tyrstane. Something like annoyance tickled her tongue, but she didn’t let it pass her lips.
Opening the doors, she graced the prince and his knightly protector with a placid smile. “Not at all, my prince.”
He stared at her half a man and half a boy, his lips parted humorously. “I think… that is to say… I wanted to invite you to go riding with me.”
A small part of her enjoyed how flustered she had made him, but the rest of her only saw it for a burden. Now that she knew who her hand would be promised to, she had no reason to even entertain the idea.
“I fear I am not in the right state of dress to ride,” she demurred.
“The water gardens then? The blood oranges are sweetest in autumn, I have heard.”
“On the morrow?” she asked.
“I’d hoped we could go now, but…”
“Then on the morrow we will go,” she interrupted sweetly.
He nodded his head jerkily, and she had thought that the end of it when he leaned in to take her hand and whisper lowly. “You needn’t wed a horror like him, princess. I could speak to my father. I—”
“You are sweet to worry, my prince, but my brother had not made the match without reason. I trust his judgement.”
He turned as sour as a Dornish lemon at her words. “His Grace…” He let out a sigh that dredged a hint of pity from her. “You have the right of it, princess.”
“I would still count you as a dear friend and confidant,” she told him gently.
He met her eyes again with a nervous smile. “I will wait for you on the morrow.”
He and his knightly protector had left her door when another followed, her blue-and-orange gown shimmering under the torchlight as much as her golden hair. Lady Tyene Sand.
“I fear my cousin’s poor boyish heart might never recover.” Lady Tyene’s smile was innocent, but her eyes were mischievous.
“Were my words too cruel?” she asked the older girl softly.
“The heart wants what it wants. Better it be now than tomorrow. Better tomorrow than in a moon’s time.”
“I think I understand your meaning, my lady.” To wait was more cruel.
“The words are for you as much as Trys, princess. The sorcerer has three tongues where most of us have only one. A man like that has no heart he can give you.”
Had she been so transparent? A heat came to her cheeks at the thought.
“I would not say it has been clear as day,” the Red Viper’s bastard daughter continued after a small smile. “You hide your intentions well for your inexperience.”
Dany chewed on her lips as she wondered what to say. “Princess Arianne had said that a man’s heart only needs a pretty smile to be taken with her.”
A soft snort left Lady Tyene’s lips. “Arianne has only known men to chase her. I would not take her words to heart.”
Her fingers nervously tugged at her laces again. “Viserys has said it is important that we bind him to our cause.” That was not the whole truth, but it was easier to say.
“Hmm…” Lady Tyene put a nail to her cheek thoughtfully. “He might not have a heart that he can give you, but that does not mean there aren’t ways that you could draw his eye or stir his humors.”
The older girl took her hand, pulling her after her to the parts of Sunspear that she did not often tread. After a time she heard some queer sounds, hard to hear at first, but growing louder with every step she took through the gloom.
It struck her suddenly how familiar they were. The same sounds had come from Asha Greyjoy’s cabin after…
It wasn’t only her cheeks that felt hot as they neared a door, the Lady Tyene’s smile mischievous this time as she turned around. “Look if you dare,” she whispered in her ear.
Her heart hammered in her chest in a funny way as she tried to do so in a way that wouldn’t dirty her skirts. Through the keyhole she saw something that made her belly squirm.
“Nym thought she knew better than me. I’m not going to let her forget it even when we’re old and grey.”
Dany could not see Lady Nymeria’s dark eyes and silken smile as she vented into a pillow, and yet the long braid twisting around Solomon’s hand showed that it was her, the bed creaking like an old door.
Lady Greyjoy was there also, watching lazily as she toyed with her dirk.
Her heart almost fell out of her chest when his too-green eyes found her. Then she felt Lady Tyene pull her away again. “He always knows. It gets tiresome.”
Her tongue felt tied as she followed, and her head still hot.
They eventually stopped at a window that looked out across the sea, Lady Tyene taking a seat on the windowsill as she waited for her to do the same.
“A sorcerer craves sorcery like a glutton craves food or drink, princess. He had spent a moon with the Orphans of the Greenblood for but a few scraps of it and not once had he complained.”
Dany chewed on her lip again thoughtfully. “But I don’t know any sorcery.” She was no Visenya or Shiera Seastar.
“Are you not a Targaryen? They say the dragonlords had magic in their veins and dreamed dragon dreams that oft came true.”
Perhaps she might talk to him of her dreams and what they meant. The thought made her belly squirm again.
“I might also teach you other things,” she heard, deep blue eyes staring through her not unlike Solomon.
Yet it was as she said. In her flowed the blood of Old Valyria as her brother oft said, and she refused to be a craven.
“I would learn,” she finally said, and Tyene gave a tinkling laugh in response.
Her first lesson began soon after.
Comments
Paradosi
Margaery suspected something as soon as Cersei V, but his deteriorating has only become easily noticeable around Arianne's recent PoV. But as his body rapidly deteriorates, the inverse is happening with his mind/spirit/psychic might. It's growing stronger. That's why his eyes are always too-green now. He can't really turn it on and off anymore. You'll start seeing what he's been cooking up to unfuck the situation once he gets to Volantis.
Doleful
“skin like old milk” sounds like his condition is pretty apparent to everyone who sees him at this point. Not sure if him not being considered handsome by Danny is her preference or just a continuation of that, but I thought I remembered him being described as handsome earlier in the story. Either way, I hope he figures out at least a partial solution relatively soon. Decrepit mad sorcerers have a harder time gaining loyalty than handsome ones lol
