Notes:

This work was inspired by a discussion about crack pairings.

Joffrey, the King of whatever Seven Kingdoms these were, and Protector of this strange Realm, held out his hand to Mirri. His fingers were cold and waxy, and his palm was as smooth as a snake's belly. His eyes pierced her with their pale green.

As she stared into him, the dull flicker of his curious cruelty faded.

His eyes became those of all the young children who had passed through her healing tent, in the horrible moment before her knife had cut out the taint from their wounds.

Then the smirking cruelty returned to his eyes again, and he was the King. "Go on, get on with it."

This tiny lion was no predator of hers, this child, to rent her open like the rest of his flock. His hand was so small in hers, his fingers as soft as the grassworms she'd pry from her boots on those wettest of days.

"You have not chosen. A blessing or a curse."

Joffrey puffed out his chest, turning in his chair to address Tywin. "A grand blessing for the grandest king of all the Seven Kingdoms."

The buttons on his tunic rattled like the bones of the dead.

"May my enemies die in agony. May Hearteater be overfed." His lips peeled back on cat-sharp canines. "A blessing on my crossbow, that it will always find their hearts, but not at first."

Tywin was behind his grandson, standing tall as the hills of Lhazar, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. His head tilted towards the lit candle beside her, and the two daggers laid out on the cloth. The dagger the boy had given her to use had a jewel-encrusted hilt, but the Great Shepherd had no need for such finery. The plain dagger would serve.

Hefting it in her hand, she sliced Joffrey's palm lengthwise, from wrist to middle finger.

Drops of his blood sizzled in the candle as she chanted.

When it was done, Joffrey stood over her, waving his bandaged hand in front of her face and gesturing to his dagger, its gems glittering in the candlelight. "Why did you not do as I asked?"

A baby lion such as he could only paw at her, and catch his weak claws in the thickness of her wool.

Mirri smiled serenely. "The Great Shepherd guides me. I am only his vessel."

Joffrey slid his dagger off the table before stabbing it into the candle. "This was a curse!" His rage had kindled as quickly as his blood had boiled. "I'll have you beheaded for this!"

"Unless you intend to bring the Lhazareen to our shores," Tywin said, "it would be wise to consider your actions." The heels of his boots rapped sharply on the wood as he strode to loom over his grandson.

He was a lion in the fullness of his strength.

"This woman," he lifted his chin towards Mirri, "is uncultured, yes. Hers are an uncivilized and primitive people. But," he looked Joffrey full in the face, and his eyes were as bright with fierce wisdom as the tiny lion's had been dull with banal ruthlessness, "she is the Great Priestess of her people. How many will come to avenge her death?"

And here were his claws.

"We have armies. We could kill them all." Joffrey's eyes were still rage-bright, but beneath them was a childlike wavering.

Mirri raised an eyebrow. "If you have been cursed," she said, "how do you believe such a battle will end?"

She snuffed out the candle and rolled her dagger back into its cloth. "The Great Shepherd leads his flock on the righteous path."

~o~

The boy king had not come to Mirri again, only glared daggers at her while she ate their strange food and drank their strange drink. Lately, he had adopted the habit of leaving any room she entered with a swiftness she'd not seen from him, the smallest trembling in his hands as he swung his arms wide to sweep past her.

She had bathed and bound up her hair in its cloth; she had used the strange soaps they had given her and washed herself in the spacious tub. She redressed in her old clothing, still musky with spices and smoke, lamb's blood and salt.

Tywin had summoned her to his study. She lifted her fist to his door and rapped loudly, once, twice.

"Enter."

Mirri sat across from him. The only sound in the room was the scratching of Tywin's quill and the shuffling of papers on his desk. She had waited longer: for maggots to devour blackening flesh; for lambs to bleed out their life's blood; for children to slide, squalling and sticky, onto the rough woolen blankets in her birthing tent.

She studied this great lion, this man whose grace was in the coldness of his power. His mind was his magic.

He watched her for a moment, then said, "The King appears to be subdued." There was the slightest twitch in the muscle of his cheeks. His eyes met hers briefly, and some small gleam flickered there.

Testing his claws against her throat, before he made of her the sacrifice he required. She had served her purpose, and now she would be discarded. He would not make use of her blood. Such frivolities were beneath him.

"He does seem afraid," Mirri said. She held her head high. The little lion cub could not capture her here.

Tywin steepled his hands, and his fingertips were white where he pressed them together. "Your capture was a demonstration of my grandson's lamentable tendencies to indiscretion and indecency." He rose to circle the desk and stand beside her.

Mirri remained still. "You will not rid yourself of me, then."

The corner of Tywin's eyebrow twitched. A single furrow etched itself into his brow for a moment, before his face smoothed once again.

"There are wars to come, Priestess. We may yet have need of you."