Paradosi
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A Song of Blackjack and Hookers (chapter 28)
🕑 Added 2025-06-30 20:20:26 +0000 UTCSolomon
The locals oft liked to say that a woman's war was in the birthing bed, and that was true enough. Watching Cersei give birth was easily almost as bloody and at least half as loud.
Pycelle and the midwives performed their work dutifully, even admirably, but he wasn’t one to leave things to chance when he could stack the deck instead, and stack the deck he did. Carved ever so slightly into the stones beneath them were Valyrian glyphs, each of them drinking deeply of every drop of blood and every scream that spilled from her.
The more troubled the birth, the more the glyphs were fed and watered, an ingenious bit of sorcery that had at one point practically eliminated the dangers of childbirth. At least for the upper echelons of the Valyrian Freehold that could afford having the serpentine glyphs carved and meticulously maintained. Everyone else could get fucked.
“One more push, Your Grace. I see her now.”
Another scream broke the air and out came his daughter, screaming and crying almost as loud in the Grand Maester’s hands. She was quickly handed over to a midwife and swaddled, though she still proved she was spirited by squirming fiercely.
He saw no reason to hide a small smile at the sight. Only one or two of the midwives even sent him glances anymore, the rest having taken Cersei’s threats to heart.
His son went next, though he wasn’t as feisty as his sister.
It wasn’t long after that that Bobby B stomped into the room to look at them. The unit of a man was already bedecked in his armor, having waited only to see them before the royal fleet left for the Vale.
Stannis was meanwhile sporting a look that could only be described as constipated as he loomed in the doorway, having expected a pair of golden twins. Ned Stark next to him seemed lost in memories.
Cersei could have at least faked a smile, but instead she stared at her husband unhappily until he left with nary a word, his brother and Hand following after him.
Pycelle cleared his throat after, touching the back of his hand to her head. “No fever, and the bleeding has already ceased. I gather you will recover remarkably.”
Cersei’s eyes cut into the Grand Maester a moment, and he nervously bobbed his head as he continued.
“What shall be their names, Your Grace?”
“Prince Lann and Princess Lanna,” she swiftly answered as she stared down at them.
There was something infinitely amusing about her naming her daughter the same as Tyrion’s daughter, but he wasn’t going to comment.
He instead stalked forward as Pycelle hobbled out, the Grand Maester studiously avoiding his eyes with some practice. There he drank in the sight of his son and daughter in Cersei’s arms.
They looked much the same as they had that night in the Storm’s End godswood, his hair and Cersei’s eyes staring back at him.
“Shall I fetch a wetnurse, Your Grace?” The midwife wilted as a pair of green cats’ eyes turned on her.
“Retrieve my other children instead.” Cersei bared her breasts, quieting the fussing babes by offering her leaking nipples. The way she caught his eyes after amused him.
The midwives hesitated only a moment before departing the room.
“Is it safe to speak?” she asked him.
“I would have said were it otherwise.” Really, the only one who knew the passageways was Varys, and likely the cockless wonder already knew. “I am happy to say that not a trace of the curse remains,” he commented as he caressed her neck.
An old lie, but one it was finally time to put to rest. The sigh she breathed out for his words was one relieved, her eyes finding his again.
“Never have I heard a sweeter thing.”
Her smile was so angelic that he had to remind himself of the murderously jealous monster lying in wait behind it.
“Aren’t they just perfect?” she asked, looking down at the twins suckling on her teats with something like love. “I could not help but worry for the birthing bed also, but it was as you said, Solomon.”
As their father, he had to agree. He wasn’t under any delusion that he would be the best dad to ever dad, but he could at least give it a try. He wouldn’t even need a drop of blood from them to visit their dreams, for they were his blood, and a familial connection served just fine for sympathetic magic.
He took her hand, toying with the simple golden band on her finger. “It will continue to protect you as it had today, Cersei.”
“I will always keep it close,” she promised fiercely.
Solomon leaned in to grace either of their foreheads with a kiss, though they were too distracted with their bounty of milk to pay him too much mind.
Cersei, needy as she was, begged for a kiss as well, and he obliged.
Her other children soon interrupted them. Tommen and Myrcella were unsurprisingly as sweet as ever and excited, while Joffrey only seemed bored.
At least he was a variable that always remained constant… at least in the sense that he could always be counted on to do the wrong thing for the wrong reasons. He was much like Cersei that way, though with even less inclination for introspection somehow.
He left Cersei with her children, his thoughts turning every which way. In only a year’s time the world already seemed unrecognizable to what he remembered, drowning in a swarm of butterflies that his every action spawned.
The clusterfuck brewing across the narrow sea for one. He had hoped Khal Drogo would take things poorly, but he wasn’t going to pretend that he expected the Braavosi to come in with the steel chair. Though credit where credit was due, it was impressive how quickly they had put everything into motion.
What he had expected and planned for accordingly was that everything would change. It was rather inevitable, and so it would inevitably fall on his command of sorcery to stay in the game.
Through skinchanging he could gather information. Through blood he could warp the world. Through both he could craft a mirror that allowed the walking of dreams.
He couldn’t help some childish wonder still at knowing he was a sorcerer and knowing others knew it, but there was always that nagging in the back of his head whispering that maybe he wouldn’t like where it was taking him. Easy to ignore at first, but not as much now that the price stared back at him in every reflection or through another’s eyes.
Throwing Varys’s assassination attempt back in his annoyingly plump face had been satisfying in the moment, but casting himself that far without any guardrails, it had broken something he didn’t know how to fix.
It took a conscious effort not to slip his skin now, like he had outgrown his clothes but had to keep wearing them. And they just kept shrinking.
It meant leaving for Volantis earlier than he would have otherwise liked. Valyrian sorcery was not as self-destructive, and he would have to trust it held the answer to the progressively deteriorating connection between his mind and body. He had already seen some success for spilling some of his blood and Cersei’s, but it had been an obscene amount and only halted the deterioration for some days.
It was not as if he had access to any great font of power like the Valyrians did the Fourteen Flames either, so it would have to be blood.
Maegon had been surprised to hear it, but then the guy was just as surprised that he would keep his promise at all. The local sorcerers really gave the honest ones like himself a bad rap.
Back in his own private apartments at the Red Keep, he retrieved the mirror from his person, staring into its depths a moment. It had mostly returned to its former glory now, having drunk deeply of Cersei and her ladies-in-waiting as well as Margaery and her many cousins. He had even managed to spirit away a few drops of Bobby B’s blood, for which he had the Iron Throne to thank for.
A quick stop in Dorne should also be enough to return some Targaryen blood to it, and perhaps Martell as well.
He would be meeting Renly soon, but first there was something he needed to confirm.
Reaching into one of his many pockets, he plucked out a deck of seventy-eight cards and smoothly went about shuffling them. He had shied away from this kind of sorcery for how easily it can mislead one to folly, but continuing to be stubborn would put him at the mercy of those with fewer scruples.
Eventually he decided on a compromise. He hesitated to put his trust in what the old gods or the flames showed him, so why not try and find his own way?
It wasn’t his first time messing around with tarot, but here he was a sorcerer, not just bored.
He drew and placed card after card down on the table. Each one was a masterpiece in its own right, hand-painted for him by a funny guy with a funnier hat. Lannister coin spent well by his count.
And just like the past three days, the cards he drew were the same. The odds of it being a coincidence this many times in a row were scarcer than scarce. And seeing as he had poured his blood, sweat and tears into the endeavor for the past two months, it left a smile of satisfaction on his lips despite what it meant for Westeros and everyone in it.
Robert Baratheon would never return to King’s Landing, and the only outcome that could lead to was a war stretching from the Wall to Dorne. Which meant every plot and scheme he had put in place would soon be tested thoroughly.
Renly met him with all smiles and a cup of Arbor gold in his own apartments closer to the evening. “Robert and Stannis have already sailed for Gulltown. Curiously my brother has left his red priestess behind.”
“The Lady Melisandre hesitates to abandon her new flock,” he replied absently.
“It has certainly curled the humors of the Faith,” Renly commented with a softer smile. “If hundreds or even thousands hadn’t seen her work through the night to save the city from the wildfire, likely they would have blamed her for it. A few still do, naming it the trick of a foul demon.”
Solomon took a sip of the saccharine wine. “At least it has distracted them from demanding my head.”
“Not all of them,” Renly cheerfully informed him. “Though they have certainly turned more outlandish. Just two days ago Loras heard a pair of begging brothers preaching about you being the Mad King returned from the seven hells to haunt them.”
That was certainly creative, he had to give them that.
“I should say that His Grace will not likely return from the Vale.”
Renly’s smile went slack at the sudden revelation, though he quickly recovered. “I suppose I need not ask. You have not been wrong yet.”
“Do you intend to go through with it?”
The ambition gleaming in his blue-green eyes made Renly’s next words seem redundant. “I do.”
“Then you shall have my support, Your Grace.”
He seemed to like the words. “I will keep Stannis’s wife and daughter and Cersei and her children safe and sound in the Red Keep. Stannis and Tywin will have little choice but to capitulate.”
He did not think it would go near as smoothly as Renly hoped. “I trust you will—”
One Loras Tyrell suddenly interrupted his empty words, the flowery knight’s breaths heavy. “A mob has taken the Great Sept of Baelor. They’re accusing the High Septon of consorting with demons and sorcerers as the faithful starve.”
Renly sighed. “Never a dull moment. What of the red priestess?”
“They are stirring themselves to march on the Dragonpit and root her out. I trust the gold cloaks to disperse them, but more than a few might turn their cloaks if we force the issue.”
Solomon drained the wine. “Allowing a repeat of the slaughter at the Alchemists’ Guild would be unwise. They will only be emboldened to rise again for any perceived offense.”
He knew that he might have just signed the death warrant of thousands with his words, but they were no less true for it.
“The first wagons from the Reach should be here in a few days. We must make certain they understand that.” Renly’s eyes caught his as he continued. “I will convey it to them myself.”
His lover did not much like the idea. “It is madness out there, Renly.”
“Then all the more important that I not sit here. It is no coincidence that they resort to this lawlessness as soon as my brothers sail for the Vale. I am the master of laws, Loras. What would be said of me if I did not enforce them?”
Renly stood after his words, a cape in Baratheon colors slung over his shoulder. He certainly made for a kingly sight, but then that was the point.
“Summon the lords and knights. We will ride for Sept of Baelor in force.”
“I think it best I remain here,” Solomon commented himself. “My presence will only agitate them.”
He still watched through the eyes of a bird as a hundred men resplendent in armor rode out from the Red Keep. It was the grisly sight that found them that was anything but resplendent.
The High Septon was with the mob, but as a fat head raised high over the crowd on a pike. He spied a fat arm or two raised high as well.
There was something funny at him sharing the same fate here, but it would probably be untoward to laugh.
There was a man in threadbare brown robes at the head of it, his strong voice rising over the clamor. “THE SEVEN WILL NOT GRANT US SUCCOR UNTIL WE HAVE WIPED THE CITY CLEAN OF THE FOULNESS THAT HAS INFESTED IT!”
The gold cloaks barred their path now that Renly was there, and the would-be king did try and speak to them still. The crowd just drowned him out as they tried to push through to the Dragonpit looming over them all.
“THE STRANGER TAKE THOSE WHO PROFANE THE SEVEN WHO ARE ONE! MERCY TO THE FAITHFUL!”
The crowd took up the chant, pushing through the gold cloaks that barred their way. The Hand and Brienne had arrived also, but they were rather helpless. There must have been thousands in the crowd.
It was when they pushed through the gold cloaks that Renly acted. What followed was a slaughter as a hundred knights carved into the crowd armed with nothing more than cudgels.
The septon or begging brother at the head of the mob hadn’t even died to a sword or a lance, simply vanishing under hundreds of hooves. The crowd quickly dispersed as emboldened gold cloaks started to hack at them as well.
The sun soon set on the blood-drenched streets.
The wagons did bring relief to the starving city the day after, but the High Septon being (quite literally) torn apart and the massacre that followed weighed on it.
That same day he had an unexpected visitor in the form of a red priestess, her red silks trailing after her as she entered his apartments.
“You are departing for Volantis soon. R’hllor has seen fit to show me it.”
“Want me to pass a message along?” he teased, though she only looked uncomfortable at the idea.
“I would only ask that you spend some time at the temple there. The Lord of Light has a purpose for you. I am certain of it.”
“As you say, my lady.” It was irreverent perhaps.
She neared closer, smoky red eyes searing into his. “All of us serve either the purpose of the Lord of Light or the Enemy. There is no other way.”
He spun a lock of her red hair around a finger, returning the power play. “You can rest assured that I have no interest in being a slave to the Great Other either, Melony.”
“There is no virtue in vanity,” she insisted.
“There is no virtue in slavery either, to a god as much as a man.” Assuming R’hllor existed at all.
“Will you refuse to breathe so as not to be a slave to air?”
“There’s an idea,” he snarked.
“You are stubborn to a fault,” she husked to him, “but then most who practice the higher arts are.”
His brow rose in question as she laid her hands on his arm. The scent of smoke and faraway spices grew stronger with it.
“I am not ungrateful either. I have seen the part you played in seeing me safe from a gathering too blind to see the real enemy.”
These were very dangerous waters.
He booped her on the nose to her chagrin. “Give me some credit, Melony. I am not giving you my seed.”
Her smiles remained in spite of his rejection. “You burn bright enough that I would not exhaust you so easily.”
“Mmm, the answer is still no.”
She went on as if she was deaf. “I find it simplest to teach with a demonstration. I would take no more than I need for one.”
He stared into her eyes. He had always hesitated to peek into her head, but he was sorely tempted now.
“Teach?”
“I have spent no small amount of time in Asshai learning from the shadowbinders that dwell there.” Her similarly red nails pressed into his skin some. “Will you pretend to not be curious?”
Hmph. He preferred never to lie so blatantly.
“I’ve never had someone try so hard to convince me to get in bed with them.”
“You are not so helpless to play so coy. With how loosely your shadow hangs over you, you would know if I took too much.”
A blind man couldn’t miss the naked ploy to influence him, but she was really striking at his weak spot here. He would have to venture far indeed to find another shadowbinder, and further still to find one that cared to teach him.
Sometimes one had to take risks, and this wasn’t even the greatest of them.
He reached out to touch her slender neck, wrenching her closer as he breathed in deeply of her scent. “I’ll still not seed your womb, but I suspect you’ll figure something out on your knees.”
Maybe it was petty of him, but then she silently fell to her knees anyway, her eerie red eyes not moving from his own.
He watched as one of her hands vanished into the yellow he had been smothering himself with more lately, a hand that was just as warm as he imagined. Even the air around her was warm as she pulled his pride and joy out into the open, staring down the heavy length of it unnervingly.
His brow rose at the sensual way she suddenly peppered the breadth of it with kisses, her eyes back to watching him unblinkingly. Then she bunched up her red hair with a meaningful glance. Soon after she was parting her pouty lips and swallowing him whole, the mass of it already lodged in her throat.
The heat hit him first. It was intense.
He threaded his fingers in her red hair, pressing against her skull. It wasn’t even that she was smoking hot, for he wasn’t a stranger to beautiful women. What tickled him pink was that it was her servicing him on her knees.
He was soon fucking her heart-shaped face with abandon, happy to take advantage of her lacking a certain reflex.
Her eyes watched him even as they turned teary, and she let her hands rest in her lap as he continued.
Fucking a sorceress wasn’t like fucking a queen, he quickly decided. The danger wasn’t abstract, but very real. If she tried to take more than was bargained for, he would need to be ready.
He didn’t see stars when the inevitable happened. Instead he grew more hollow as he held her tight and emptied himself down her throat.
It was also the strongest climax he ever had, but then she was literally sucking the soul out of him…
His thoughts felt heavy as she retreated, and for once in some time he didn’t feel like he would fall out of his skin from a stiff wind. Then under his eyes she violently heaved, coughing up her bounty on the stones. Except with all the white also came something black and smoking.
Even he couldn’t help some horror as a shadow crawled out of her mouth.
“But a shadow of the Shadow in the east,” she husked. Her pouty lips were still marred with spit and white as she spoke.
He looked over the diminutive shadow that vaguely looked like him, a hungry smile taking his lips. “I am your eager student.”
It wasn’t until the morning that she left his quarters, and while he couldn’t say he was truly content, he was satisfied. He would just have to visit Asshai and see the Shadow with his own eyes one day.
And that was but the least of it…
Comments
Paradosi
I have been thonking about how a society built on blood sacrifice (and also siphoning the mojo from volcanos) would function. The bit with the Valyrian glyphs was an easy one that made sense. If blood is going to be spilt anyway in childbirth, you might as well make use of it somehow. It would only get more wacky from there. If it wasn't the Faceless Men that caused the Doom, it wouldn't surprise me if it was the Valyrians going a bit too deep on feedback loops and magically dividing by zero. :V
Batarian Booty-Sprinkles
Blood magic is one of the most insidious and underrated magics in almost every setting, especially on table tops. Arm a morally ambiguous biologist with hemomancy, and watch as they calculate how much effort it takes to create an especially potent ingot of iron out of a dozen blood sacrifices. Solomon’s not quite to that level of madness, but like with working out, that talent’s gonna grow with repetition. The question is which gives first, his morals or his sanity? Especially considering he plans to visit the shadow in the East.
Paradosi
The Valyrians had access to the Fourteen Flames whose power they used to fuel their spells as much as blood did. At least until it all went wrong in the Doom. Some of the magic of the Children of the Forest might not have required a tithe in blood, but it had another price. Bloodraven said that greenseers would not last long in the world until they had to entomb themselves into a tree and live through the ages that way.
LT Butterfly287
I think your usage of magic is far too dependent on blood for it to make any sense. Valyrian used blood magic sure but they also used pyromancy that they conjured without blood and flesh magic which required no blood. Hell magic from the children of the forest required no blood unless there was a ritual. He could really explore his magical abilities outside of trying to fuel everything with sacrifice.
