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A Song of Blackjack and Hookers 46 (Sansa IV & Cersei VIII)
🕑 Added 2025-11-03 06:49:04 +0000 UTCSansa
She enjoyed another bite of the roast capon, having lost herself in the fare to escape the awkward airs. It was rich and buttery, with a slight hint of something sour to tickle the tongue.
“It heartened me to hear the news from Dorne, my lady.”
The words drew her back to the world, a gentle smile having taken the Heir of Highgarden opposite her.
“You are kind to say so, my lord.” However tumultuous her thoughts were, there were certain courtesies expected of her.
“Lord Eddard has even succeeded in brokering a peace with the Dornish. A more capable Hand we could not ask for.”
Her smile warbled in spite of her. It was as if all her worst fears had come true these past moons, and now she could not help but worry when it would all go wrong again.
“You worry for your brother,” he mentioned more softly. “I do not think even the savage mountain clans would harm a hair on Bran Stark’s head.”
“I pray for his safe return each night,” she whispered lowly. “Yet I worry for Robb also.” And Jon, she thought to herself. The distance between them had felt so vast at Winterfell, where now she could hardly stir herself to care that he was a bastard.
“Garlan will not let any harm befall him, my lady.”
The thought brought her some small comfort. Ser Garlan had struck her as the very picture of a gallant knight, and as much a terror in a melee as Ser Loras was ahorse.
There was something closer that tugged on her thoughts also. “Should we not worry that Highgarden might come under assault?”
It was only a fortnight ago that the news reached them. The Lord of Goldengrove had suffered a disaster that had seen him slain and scattered thousands to the winds.
“Have no fear,” he soothed. “Highgarden can withstand a siege indefinitely so long as we’ve rains to water it. Nor is the Kingslayer fool enough to try when Loras can rally an army from the crownlands in short order.”
She dared to take heart in his words. Sansa had never seen Ser Gregor Clegane, and she hoped she never would.
“Our situation would be poorer had Samwell Tarly not sounded a retreat in time. Between our horse at Goldengrove and Ser Emmon Cuy besieging Crakehall still, the Lannisters will be hard-pressed to repeat such a feat.”
There was something thoughtful to him still as he stared at his own untouched capon.
“Would you tell me a story, my lord? Her Grace had said you had a talent for it.”
A small smile sprouted on his lips. “Margaery had always been fond of them.”
He hummed a moment before he began, speaking of Garth Greenhand and his many sons and daughters. He spoke of John the Oak, fathered on a giantess. He spoke of Florys the Fox and Rowan Gold-Tree, both mentioned as having mothered Lann the Clever. He spoke of Harlon the Hunter and Herndon of the Horn, twin sons that loved a witch of the woods, Maris the Maid that had wed Uthor of the High Tower, and some dozen more. But there was one that tugged at her curiosity the most.
Brandon of the Bloody Blade some of the stories said had a son by that same name, a son who had gone on to found his own House so very far away.
A House she knew to be her own.
That night Sansa had dreamed of a man with a wolfish smile and a bloody blade, the corpses of a thousand giants and children of the forest at his feet. And for a moment it had seemed as if his face was Robb’s, a cruel black crown tangled in hair like blood.
The sight had frightened her so much that she woke deep into the hour of the wolf still, her heart racing like a hummingbird’s wings. The shadows on the wall seemed longer somehow.
She stirred Jeyne and Beth from their beds, if guiltily.
“It was only a dream,” Jeyne argued with a yawn. Beth was only a step from falling back into slumber.
“What if it wasn’t?” Sansa voiced. She hesitated to mention the white hart and the old gods, worried about how they would look at her. Skinchangers were all wildlings and half-mad…
“Robb is kind and gentle,” Jeyne followed with a dreamy smile, drawing a sigh from her. “He will find Bran and set the Vale to rights.”
Beth had lost her battle in the meantime, snuggling her nose into the sheets.
“I know he will. But what if something happened…”
Jeyne hugged her. “I’ve dreamt of a thousand things that never came true, Sansa.”
“You’re right,” she whispered, even if her heart said otherwise.
As dawn broke and Jeyne began to tangle her hair into a braid again, she found herself slipping her skin, the nightmare seeming more and more fleeting as she soared above Highgarden.
A queer gathering of lords and knights further along the Mander which Highgarden sat upon soon caught her keen eyes, and she followed the sudden flight of fancy. Resting on one of the branches of the tree they had taken shade under, she spied apples and foxes and black castles sewn into surcoats or engraved into armor.
Two of their number she recognized, a Ser Ashton Ashford and Ser Bertram Beesbury, having greeted them at the harvest feast only some days ago.
“Tarly is determined to play the Tyrell’s fool,” one of the two red apple knights seemed to complain.
“No,” another with three black castles on their surcoat said. A Peake of Starpike. “He knew our lord of Rowan would lose his head, if perhaps not in such a fashion. Tarly has more reason than most to loathe the Fat Flower, and now Renly has spat in his face with this Dornish peace. Another Dornish whore for a queen is what he would have us all swallow.”
“If he will even beget an heir,” a knight followed with a smile sly as the fox on his breastplate. “He seems more intent on seeding Ser Loras. Unless Ser Morwyn has said otherwise?”
“My son says all he needs to,” the Peake knight spoke again. “If she misses her moonblood, I will be among the first to hear it.”
“It would certainly serve yours if she doesn’t, Alekyne.” The two bees that fastened the Beesbury knight’s cloak shook as much as his jowls when he spoke. “As if the miser hiding on his miserable rocks will be a friend to the Reach.”
The Florent knight sneered in response. That was all it took to make himself familiar to her. Ser Alekyne Florent was Lord Florent’s only son.
“It wasn’t enough that they mocked the rights of Gardener blood near three hundred years now,” the other red apple knight spat, his beard as red as his apple. “Now they would bleed us all for a chance at lording over all the realm for another three hundred years.”
The Fossoways of Cider Hall were descended from Foss the Archer, she remembered, a son of Garth Greenhand.
“Tell your father and green apple cousins to stir themselves if you mislike it so,” the Peake knight returned.
“He won’t risk acting with the Queen of Thorns so near to Renly’s ear,” the Fossoway knight defended. “He sends us in his stead.”
“A third and fourth son,” Ser Alekyne muttered under his breath. “We should be honored.”
“Sansa?”
Ser Ashton stirred as she fled her songbird back to Highgarden. “If we are done bickering, Ser Baelor will…”
A frown took her, and her fingers tangled nervously in the soft fabrics of her nightgown as she tried to make some sense of what she heard.
“Normally you’d already be marching us to the godswood,” Jeyne teased behind her.
Sansa felt a touch of anger take her next. The old gods had not spoken to her since she spurned their words, even when she spilled her blood and pleaded with them to tell her if Father would wake. Now they would send her nightmares?
“Not today,” she whispered heatedly. “Elinor made mention of riding with her younger cousins around Highgarden today.”
While she had never taken to it like Arya had, she had tried to indulge in it more these past moons. Lady especially was fond of chasing after her on horseback.
“But first I want to write to Robb…”
Cersei
The cavernous throne room was quiet as a crypt, no petitioners bedecked in grime and tatters to sore the eye and ear. A smile curved her lips as she caressed the throne that had sat every Lannister since Loreon the Lion, her nails red as blood.
Once she had thought the world of her father, someone to whom the realm bent from one hard stare. It was a girl’s idea of her father, not the weak, frightened craven she had seen him for now. Not only had he spurned her birthright, he had gone so far as to suggest she play broodmare to some misbegotten fish.
Cersei wanted to tear out his eyes the moment the words had left his lips. Then she would dress him in motley…
The sound of footsteps ruined the picture she had painted, and the voice that followed only soured her humors further.
“Cersei! Might I say you’re looking ravishing today.”
Ser Mandon touched his sword as she turned around to level him with a poisonous stare, though he pretended not to notice either.
“I told you to keep your compliments to your whores,” she hissed.
“Yes, you had, but I fear my tongue acts in spite of me.”
“I could have it torn out,” she sweetly returned.
He feigned a gasp for her threat, marring her lips with another frown. How she loathed his mockery. “The whores would be at your doorstep within the hour. They much like my tongue, if not as much as my coin.”
For a breath she let herself imagine Ser Mandon taking his head from his stunted shoulders. It was too soon, she knew.
Instead she allowed his mockery to wash over her like rain washed over gold. Tonight had to be perfect. “What do you want, Tyrion?”
“The only conversation left to me is our aunt, and I can hardly shadow her from dawn to dusk.”
“And what, pray tell, are we to speak on? You could not even unearth the source of the disgusting lies that had spewed from a thousand wagging tongues.”
He toasted her with his winecup. “On the contrary, sweet sister. I was rather certain it was Baelish, you see, and then honorable Ned Stark went and set him to flight with nary a thought. A pity that he could not taste your tender mercies.”
She tasted something bitter for the words as Tyrion continued.
“Why, with such allies, what need have we for enemies?”
“Father is a fool to trust Littlefinger,” she tacitly agreed.
The ugly smile that took him made him seem even more a monster. “When all the realm loathes the very sight of you, the only friends you’ll find are those happy to stick a knife in your back.”
He drained his cup before he left the same way he entered. It was not long before she put him and his words out of mind.
Returning to her rooms, she paused near to Myrcella’s door to see her playing a game with two of her cousins. Cerenna and Myrielle were Uncle Dolt’s get, but they were not the dull things she expected for it.
She spied Tommen also, his company of kittens having multiplied since they had come to Casterly Rock. Sometimes she wondered unhappily who he had taken after. It wasn’t her or Jaime. Her uncle Gerion was all that came to mind, and he had perished on some fool quest.
Her twins were some years too young still to ascertain for certain, yet Lanna reminded her more and more of herself with every day. It was still some moons until they would even see their first nameday.
They all needed her to be strong for them, she knew. Even Joff.
Her ladies waited for her with bowed heads. They had been five in number before she had one sent from her sight a sennight ago. The wretch had as much wits as the cock her House carried on their banners.
Her eyes raked over those ladies she kept, settling on her Lannisport cousin first. Lady Jeylessa had all the features of herself, but duller. A gown of red-and-gold samite hung off her pale shoulders, and an ugly thing of gold circled her neck.
Lady Shirrlay Serret stood next to, her mousey brown hair shadowing her features. The rest of her looked much like a peacock, her gown blue and green with cream satin trimmings.
Lady Myriah Kenning stood stiff as a knight, her black gown carved through with paler satin.
Finally, Lady Amessa Marbrand’s burnt-orange hair tumbled down her fiery gown in ringlets. Her knightly brother she knew was close to Jaime, so she had thought to keep her close also. Even if she looked too much like a flame at times, reminding her of a priestess red as sin.
“Armor your lady,” she commanded after another breath.
Cersei spied herself in her mirror as they obeyed, her gown replaced with another of spun gold, gleaming in the sunlight as if it were a suit of armor. They plied golden circles around her arms next, and a sash just as golden around her belly. Her golden curls were carefully decorated with rubies and jadestones that the sunset caught on beautifully.
Solomon would take one look and fall for her again, she knew.
She stuck her silver-and-tourmaline dagger in her sash herself. “It is time.” Her husband was fond of those words.
Their procession to the Stone Garden was a quiet one, which suited her well. All the words she was to say were for the night. When dawn broke over Casterly Rock, she would greet the sun as its equal, he had whispered.
The ancient weirwood met her with its new face. The red had almost gone from its leaves, leaving a storm of yellow that stuck to pale branches.
Beneath them, next to the ancient bones of lions, were seven men trussed up like overgrown pigeons, Ser Boros and Ser Meryn watching them with hard eyes. They were the best her father’s dungeons had to offer her, for a man’s name and deeds similarly determined what they were worth to sorcery.
Cersei stalked to one of them in particular with a smile sweet as honeyed strawberries. The septon her father had thrown into the gaols for his loose tongue returned a petulant stare.
“Do what you will with me, whore queen, mother of abominations, deceiver! I go to the Seven with a smile on my face, where you are set for each of the seven hells.”
The six men at his back did not seem to much agree with him, cursing his name and professing their loyalty. Two she knew for disgraced hedge knights. Another was a merchant from Lannisport.
She touched the septon’s cheek, Ser Mandon holding him steady with a gauntleted hand. “I only wished to show you that you were right, septon. Tonight I will show you the blackest sorcery you spoke of.”
Some uncertainty showed on his weathered features as she moved nearer to the weirwood.
“You spoke of Solomon also. Tonight you will meet him.”
By the time her father and uncles hear even a whisper, the deed will already have been done. The thought swiftly carved another smile across her lips.
“I give a gift of blood,” she whispered, the words catching on the wind.
The knights of the Kingsguard acted with those words, and the slaughter began in earnest. Her gifts screamed as they wriggled and writhed like the worms they would soon feed.
“A gift of flesh,” she whispered a second time, the weirwood’s eyes crying tears of yellow.
She saw her ladies pale as ghosts where she drank the screams like the finest Arbor red.
“A gift of bone,” she whispered a third and final time.
The stink of iron and copper and more ugly things tickled her lungs as all of it seeped into the stony dirt beneath them, a strong wind sending all the leaves aflutter. Her husband stepped into the world like a god, a thing of yellow that only resembled a man.
“Fine gifts…” Solomon spoke, the words smearing the world the same color.
Her ladies stared in naked horror as much as the septon muttering prayers to the Seven like a man possessed, his rags wet with the blood of the butchered. Even her knights seemed troubled, only Ser Mandon standing as if carved from the same silver as his armor.
“I’ve one more gift for you still, husband,” she continued as she unsheathed her dagger, the steel shimmering under the torchlight. “A gift of faith.”
With viciousness that surprised her, she carved a red smile into the septon’s throat, red blood staining her hands. His wet gurgles as he breathed his last were the only sounds to hear.
“I have a gift for you in kind, my lion queen. Come to me.”
Cersei stepped forward fearlessly, caring nothing for the blood that touched her slippers. His fingers smeared more yellow into her golden curls as they tangled in them.
“I will make you as radiant as the sun at noon. Every soul from the Rock to Asshai will know your beauty.” The words crawled into her heart, the sweetest she had ever heard.
“There is nothing I wish for more,” she whispered back. “Nothing I wouldn’t give.”
A yellow smile met her. “I know. Only a few turns of the moon now.” He smeared more yellow across her raiment as his hands roamed over her. “Open yourself to me now, and let not a whisper of doubt remain in your heart.”
There had not been a doubt in her heart since he had vanquished Maggy the Frog, and she said as much.
He stole a kiss, and she did not resist as his yellow tongue crawled down her throat. He tasted of blood and saffron, lemon and honey, and more. He tasted divine.
He crawled inside every part of her, and for a breath it was as if they had become one.
Her flesh suddenly shivered, her legs failing her as a change took her. Her bones shifted, her raiment bulged, and her red nails turned into monstrous claws that gouged into the bloodstained stones. When a scream left her throat, it was louder than anything she had ever heard.
Her breath misted as the pain slowly ebbed, the everpresent gloom of the Stone Garden fleeing from her sight. Her curls fell around her closer to a cloak as she stood, drunkenly at first, until she felt new strength in her limbs.
“Mmm…” It was a purr more than a moan that escaped her, her tongue slithering between teeth like daggers.
The world even seemed smaller somehow, the crown Solomon soon plucked from her head more a toy than she remembered.
“Magnificent,” he whispered as he produced a new crown, a thing of paint and sunshine. “Kneel so I might crown you anew, Your Grace.”
He was the only one she would ever kneel to. What was left of her raiment hung off her loosely as he anointed her as a septon might, and then he placed her new crown upon her cloak of golden curls.
Finally, he spoke to her again in dulcet tones. “When they behold a sunset, they will think only of you. The Sin of Pride. The Sun Resplendent. The Light of the West.”
Her heart crawled with joy.
Comments
Doleful
Just read the updated chapter. The extra info makes things a bit clearer…. And much much creepier lol Excellent writing, can’t wait to see how ‘radiant’ Cersei is now
Lord Sturm
If she can change her shape then it is bonus...
Doleful
So still a bit confused as to what exactly Cersei turned into…. But honestly I’m not sure what he gets from this other than the hatred of a great house? “Hmm the Dowager Queen suddenly turned into a monster, how many people do we know that can accomplish that?”
