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A Song of Blackjack and Hookers (chapter 30)
🕑 Added 2025-07-13 23:00:13 +0000 UTCJaime
His eyes had opened at the touch of the sun, the familiar scents of flowers and honey tickling his nose. Another clutched at his arm, still tangled in dreams.
It was the third night he had shared with the Black Pearl of Braavos, or Bellegere Otherys as he had come to know. Also the however many times removed granddaughter of a woman from the Summer Islands and a Targaryen king whose lusts and folly had seen the realm suffer five Blackfyre rebellions in the span of a hundred years.
The thought still amused him as he drank in the sight of her, her skin the color of amber and hair the color of dragonglass. All his life he only had eyes for his sister’s beauty, but a moon in Braavos was all it had taken to disabuse him of that notion.
The famed courtesans of Braavos, at least those he had met, were all as beautiful as his sister.
Cersei would have scratched at his eyes with claws as sharp as any lioness’s if he had even hinted at such a thing before, but now he hardly cared. The beauty at his side might not be his and his alone, but she had never pretended she was, and that much he could live with.
He trailed his fingers down her belly, her skin like cream. It had her lashes fluttering open to meet his, a funny little sigh leaving her lips.
“Your eyes are most like a cat’s in the gloom,” she teased.
Jaime leaned in to nip at her neck lightly with his teeth, drawing some laughter from her.
He knew he would have to return to Westeros, where too many would still whisper Kingslayer under their breaths, but it had been pleasant to pretend otherwise. Near as pleasant as every sigh he’d drawn from the woman drawing circles on his skin now with a dainty finger.
A soft knock soon sounded on the door, their idle fun interrupted. He watched as she stood bare as the day she was born, sending a glance back at him as he eyed the dimples on her cheeks.
Soon she had wrapped a shift around herself and made to answer the door, one of the boys that poled her barge whispering something in her ear.
“Your brother is looking for you,” she revealed as she returned.
“Tyrion?”
“Do you have another brother?” she asked with a tinkling laugh.
“I might.” Likely it was only their uncle here to collect them.
“You do not have to return to your Sunset Kingdoms,” she whispered softly, playing with his hair. “We Braavosi are rather fond of kingslayers as you have come to see.”
He snorted softly at the words. The Black Pearl was not the only courtesan he had bedded in his time here, and not by chance. She had practically thrown him into their arms.
“What awaits you back home but a king you loathe and a sister who only sees herself in you?” she asked, not that he had any answer for her. He was not so much a fool as to speak of the children Cersei gave him. “This sorcerer you mentioned must have sent you here for a purpose.”
“It was a flight of fancy to join my brother.”
“You do not think he might have expected you to?” she voiced, and he could find no words to say against it. It wouldn’t surprise him to know that Solomon knew every thought of his before he even dared to think it.
“My father still dreams of my succeeding him,” he said instead. Nor would the excuse of a white cloak serve him as a shield any longer. “My staying would only cause problems for you and Braavos.”
She gave another tinkling laugh at his words. “Greater men than your father have tried to lay Braavos low. You need only see what has become of Pentos now.”
Jaime pulled her into his lap, staring into her eyes like polished onyx. “And what purpose do you think Solomon might have had for me?”
“Perhaps nothing more than for you to find your own purpose,” she husked, nipping his ear with her teeth. “You could be the first sword of Braavos if you wished it, or a famous captain that has traveled every sea and bedded every beauty in the known world.”
“That sounds more like my Uncle Gerion, my lady.”
As much as he found her lovely, it was not her or even his sister that visited his dreams each night. It was Rhaella Targaryen and Elia Martell asking him why he had abandoned them. It was his brothers staring at him behind shadowed helms. It was Varys’s smile as he whispered into the ear of a man with a red crown on his head.
“We are what we choose to be,” she whispered. “I did not have to be a courtesan as my mother was, and her mother before her. I chose it.”
“I dreamed of being a knight as long as I could remember,” he whispered back. “I knew that I would live and die a knight before Ser Arthur Dayne had ever touched Dawn to my shoulders.”
She gave a dramatic sigh. “We women are such fools for men haunted by their memories. We think we can make you forget, but you never do, do you?”
Jaime looked away at the words. He had let himself forget for long enough. Not the empty vows that earned him a white cloak, but the only vows that ever mattered.
He would not pretend Aerys was innocent, but it was Varys that slowly poisoned his mind with every whisper. The wildfire, the years of rapes, the butchering of Rhaegar’s family, Varys might not have lifted a finger to do any of it himself, but he never needed to.
And for what? To put a Blackfyre on the throne?
Would that he had taken the perfumed eunuch’s head as soon as he was made master of whisperers. He might have been spared Queen Rhaella’s screams. Rhaegar might have even ruled the Seven Kingdoms now.
He felt a soft kiss pull him out of those thoughts, her eyes playful. “There are more entertaining ways we can keep your brother waiting, ser.”
Jaime was sorely tempted to give into her charms again, but he had already antagonized his family enough.
“I will not be leaving this day in any case,” he said. “I think you will find time for me again.”
“Such arrogance is unbecoming of a knight,” she mock scolded. “Especially when the only coin you have to pay is how pretty you are.”
“And not my sword arm or my wit? It is true what they say then. All beautiful women are vain.”
He kissed her again anyway, fingers tangling in her hair hungrily.
It was already noon when Jaime stepped from her barge near the Happy Port, the sight of her dark skin and black locks even more beautiful under the sun.
With how rare a cloudless sky was in Braavos, it was a sight to treasure. Alas, Tyrion only proved a sight for sore eyes after, and he swiftly made a jest of it.
“After the Black Pearl of Braavos? I would be a fool to deny it.” His mismatched eyes turned away. “He sent Aunt Genna. It shan’t be long before she finds us.”
They did make for a rather conspicuous pair.
“I expected it to be Uncle Kevan,” he admitted after a moment. He could also admit he had a soft spot for his aunt that would make this all the harder. “We could tell her, Tyrion. I don’t believe she would—”
“No.” His brother’s eyes refused to meet his still.
Jaime sighed at the rejection. Tyrion had always been the clever one between them, but he was also stubborn to a fault.
They arrived at a richly furnished inn that sat astride the Purple Harbor, for a lady as his aunt would not deign to sleep in a sty. A knight soon recognized them, just as Jaime easily recognized him. Ser Lyle Crakehall, or Strongboar as he was more well known.
“Ser Jaime,” he boomed. “I see you have found us first.”
Truthfully he had hoped it would be Ser Addam Marbrand instead. They had been close once.
“That we have,” Jaime idly replied. “How upset is my aunt for having to take a ship all the way from Lannisport?”
“You’ll have to ask her. I find it hard to read a lady as her. Too many jests to tell which one is true to her heart.” The sprawling knight had an uncanny red to his cheeks, but then his aunt had always brandished a tongue as sharp as it was loose.
All the ruckus had drawn her out, and she was just as shapely as he remembered, her golden hair draped over her shoulder in a thick braid.
“If it isn’t my nephews.” They suddenly found themselves given messy kisses to their cheeks. “You’ve caused us all no end of grief with your antics, most of all myself. Tell them, Strongboar.”
The knight pawed at a stubbled cheek. “We had just passed the Stepstones when we found ourselves amidst a graveyard. Only a few hours earlier and we would have found ourselves in the thick of things.”
Even trying to sound solemn, Strongboar would be more at home in a melee.
He assumed they were speaking of the news that had reached Braavos yesterday. Tyrosh had been caught by surprise between two Braavosi fleets, smashing the bulk of Tyrosh’s naval strength against the Stepstones.
Braavos had not come out of it unscathed, but it was now the uncontested master of the narrow sea, or so he heard said.
“Which is all to say that you two picked a fine time to go gallivanting around the Free Cities,” his aunt continued. “Why?”
Jaime avoided her eyes while Tyrion kept stubbornly quiet.
“Tsk. It was I that convinced Tywin to send me and not some other great fool that would only drive you to further folly.” Aunt Genna sent them both a look like they were boys, a hand on her hip. “I won’t press, but you cannot stay in Braavos.”
“It seems as fine a place as any for a dwarf,” Tyrion snarked.
“Renly Baratheon and the Tyrells have made moves that have unnerved Tywin. Ser Amory Lorch had also abandoned his keep one night and not a soul can fathom why.”
Jaime could not summon a scrap of pity or even interest for one of his father’s monsters. They were as much knights as the Smiling Knight, if not less.
“And need I mention Cersei? This business with the mummer has left him fuming. We could have done without rumors of adulterous queens and black sorcery.”
Jaime kept quiet. There was no good answer there.
Aunt Genna clicked her tongue again. “You will join me for tea, Jaime, Tyrion.”
They both knew better than to refuse her.
The White Knight
The rains were falling so heavily that they drowned out any other sound. They had waited at Dragonstone until a storm abated, only to sail into another almost as soon as they left.
It brought with it memories of the War of the Ninepenny Kings. They had traversed a storm to reach the Stepstones then as well.
He still remembered the strength in his arm in those days. They had all heard stories of Maelys the Monstrous, how he could fell a horse with a single blow of his hand and do worse to a man. It still hadn’t prepared him for the grotesque sight that met him in the field, but he still marshalled his courage and ended the war with one swing of his sword.
They didn’t name him Barristan the Bold after that, for Ser Duncan the Tall had already given him that name and a knighthood with it, but it did earn him a white cloak. He still remembered Jaehaerys placing it around his broad shoulders, the sickly king’s complexion as pallid as the cloak.
He had given up his claim to Harvest Hall for it, and the girl he was to wed. He had not dwelled on what he had lost at the time, but as the years wore him down in body, so did they burden his spirit by what could have been.
A wife and children that loved him, not only the cold familiarity of—
His stomach lurched as they must have crested a wave again. It was a mercy that he had not broken his fast since morning.
Seeing those accursed green flames again had only seen his regrets strengthen. He had served Jaehaerys and Aerys after him ably, but what pride he felt at the first had quickly been smothered by the second.
Jaehaerys had once mentioned that madness and greatness were two sides of the same coin. That each time a Targaryen was born, the gods tossed the coin in the air and the world held its breath to see how it would land.
It was not hard to guess on which side the coin landed with his son. Even before Duskendale had broken him completely, he had been a man prone to flights of fancy, chasing a new mistress and a new folly every moon. He and Rhaella had never been close, but he could only imagine the humiliation she felt with every betrayal, and that would only be the beginning of the torment Aerys would put her through.
How many times had he told himself that it was not his place to judge what he saw with his own eyes? Would he still stand by the words that had seemed so easy to say when each of his brothers said the same?
How many had just perished on River Row as the wildfire carved through the lower parts of the city? How many more would have if Aerys had gotten his wish and left Robert Baratheon nothing but charred bones and cooked meat?
After all that’s happened, could he truly face the Seven and say he lived his life as honorably as any man could?
The ship rocked again, drawing a sigh from him.
“Gods, nothing but this bedamned cabin day in and day out.” He found his eyes drawn to his third king pacing the length of it. “Are you not restless, Barristan?”
The stag king had shed some weight in the past moon, but he still stood as wide as an aurochs, the planks beneath him creaking with each tread.
“I am thoughtful, Your Grace.”
“Thoughtful,” he repeated. “I have found it best not to dwell on old memories without a cup of wine at hand. Or at all if it can be helped.”
“There is some wisdom to that, Your Grace.”
“Ha! Am I Robert the Wise now?” The pacing stopped a moment. “Rhaegar was thoughtful, wasn’t he?”
Barristan gave an awkward clear of his throat. “Many would have said so.”
He expected some outburst, but instead it was a queer silence that met his words.
“I worry all we will find is another wild goose chase,” he finally heard.
“That may be, Your Grace, but what can we do but try?” Petyr Baelish might as well be as mad as Aerys in Barristan’s eyes. It took a madman to try and consign thousands of innocents to the flames for a game no one understood.
“You can say I was a fool, Barristan. I drank and whored as my kingdom rotted away under me.”
He averted his eyes. “I would not name you a fool, Your Grace.”
“Ha! Then you would be the fool.” Those stormy eyes were stubborn as he dared to meet them again. “It is a wise king that hears good counsel, so counsel me, damn you.”
“Perhaps it was unwise to put so much trust in Lords Varys and Baelish for fear of ruling yourself,” he softly said. That it was just as much the fault of Lord Arryn he did not say. To speak ill of the dead was as much folly as it was uncouth.
The sea seemed to agree as they crested another wave.
“You would make a better king than I, Barristan.”
He much misliked the thought. “I do not think so, Your Grace. I have never felt the weight of a crown on my head, and I thank the gods for it.”
“Ned would say much the same, has said much the same…”
Barristan wondered what he could say when the stag king suddenly laughed as stomped to the door, throwing it ajar. The sound of rain grew to a cacophony.
“Your Grace,” he tried, but his king had already walked out into the storm, booming laughter following him like thunder.
Barristan hurried after him, hardly able to see through the rain and winds. The sun had already set as well.
“Look at us now, Barristan. Two fools in a storm. What difference does a crown make?”
The crack of thunder true greeted the words.
“We should return inside, Your Grace.”
The stag king only laughed harder. What the jest was he did not know, he could only stand with his king as the rain smothered them.
“Ack, perhaps you are right. The whoremonger could only be so happy for a chill to make an end of me.”
They were almost near the door when Barristan dared to look out across the sea. The sight that met him brought a chill that seeped into his very bones.
A wave three times as high as King Robert's Hammer. Who could he even warn? It was already upon them.
“The Seven have mercy,” he whispered. On their souls and the Seven Kingdoms both.
Then darkness, wet and suffocating.
AN: And so it begins. I think this was suitably foreshadowed. With a hammer, one might say.
Comments
LtDan
Last two lines are repeated twice.
Meep_Meep
Eldritch horror for the win
