Foxi's notes : so this is a vagueish slew of my k/asoiaf au headcanons wrapped up in a oneshot. a very shippy one. playing with second person narrative - the red king's pov.
The night is dark and full of terrors
But the fire burns them all away
The climb down is steep. Your mount handles slight, rocky switchbacks well as plodding down a meadow hill. It has grown accustomed to carrying you both – with his lithe body settled sideways in your lap, cradled in your sunbeaten bare arms, a head of blond locks resting against your shoulder. This is fortunate since his own mount took a very unfortunate fall.
Its meat will feed most of them for a short while. Flame roasted to a nice blackish color with the most divine smell... you cannot shake the thought.
"I've never seen a horse go lame that way," he muses lightly and his nose wrinkles, "without warning."
" 's a bad sign."
Your breath rattles with its own exhausted depth. Miles of riding begins to take its toll.
"You don't actually believe those kinds of things. Do you?"
"Starting to."
"You're starting to believe her too~"
That irritating lilt appears in the way he says it. You refuse to regard the wise little smile peeking up at you.
"Because you're growing as fond of her as the rest of us. I can tell, ever since we found her."
"She's still lucky it's us who found her. This isn't Essos; her kind's not exactly revered in this part've the map. Could've been captured and used easy."
He blinks thoughtfully, picking up none of the harshness.
"But her power is only getting stronger here... it must be because she's so close to them now. Oh, dragons will do that she says."
"She says," you grunt in refrain.
Your mount comes to a halt near the ledge, only far back enough to be hidden in the branches of the surrounding cedars. Survey the far spanning stretch of kingdom below the mountain.
You could have it, if you want. Utter just two words. They're never far from your tongue.
"M'still sore with you both for lyin' to me," you say to him instead. Updraft ruffles the fringe of your terribly red hair.
"Ah-ah... only by omission."
Some times you wonder if this is a game to him. In a way it merely is to you. Something simpler, more baseless than pieces on a board. Except you're the one with incinerated entrails and blood all over your hands that will never quite wash off.
Think of something else.
"Forget it. I need to get you out of here before any kind've strike. The mouth of the river's not far. And there's a port."
"Alone?"
"With an escort. A nice ship out've here..."
"You wouldn't," the curve of his pretty lips warms, burns your throat somehow– close as they are to your bare chest, "you need me. And my fallen horses. Who else is going to feed you?"
Dapples of sunlight catch the golden hem of his light cloak when he draws your face down, cupping cheek in palm, to touch his own. Nose to nose. Breath to breath. He curls the other hand to clutch the leather strap across your chest to tug you close.
Your mount shuffles beneath. The reins fall slack in your grasp when he kisses you.
Exactly what do they all fear in you, and why?
You are helpless to the will of your weakest subject.
Hoof-falls cresting the cliffside signal the rest of them, bold and loud through sparse trees. Your King's Hand is shouting a battery of reprimands after them. The wild little vanguard– his horse painted up with red markings all over its body to match the ones on his – kicks up dust and calls something back... no doubt spinning it out to let more dirt fly.
They are getting closer to the end, getting restless, more volatile. You are, without question, their lord.
And you are very tired.
What bastard would pray to bring this title down upon himself? You would let anyone have it, just or unjust. Watch men tear themselves apart for your empire of scorched earth.
… If not for the mantra of one miniature red priestess. From the back of her white pony – her crimson cloak dripping down to its fetlocks – from under the hood that so often fall to cover her knowing, strange red eyes.
Her small voice at your side : "Their world will fall to the tendrils of flame, to the breath of your children. The Lord of Light has chosen you."
A wrathful god is enough to rob you of sleep at night.
You part your lips from your only source of peace and rest.
Then there's the rush of wings, leathery with talons at their ends, tearing through the thin canopy above. They will find you both easily.
The leather strap belted across your shoulder only covers so much. Your flesh around and underneath it is marked with deep, jagged scars where your children missed their mark and sank those talons in. You have allowed them to perch there since they were babies; you always bear it without flinching. He does the flinching for you, tries to slather salve on the cuts by firelight the best he can. But as your Hand always says, "It's hopeless. He's hopeless."
It is nice to have someone understand.
There are three dragons for the three of you : yours, the largest, is red and black of scales; the other two identical in shimmering molten gold that appears as hot to the eye as the heat of their breath.
The smallest of the golden two is his. It emerges from the trees and he greets it like a son and nuzzles back where it lands, faithful, on your shoulder. It screams, delighted, pushing its terrible, spade-like head between the two of you. The horse does not make a sound.
A forked tongue tastes the air. It screams again, asking for its brothers.
"Hush now," he soothes it, still close in your arms. He lays a taming hand over its mouth the same way he's done to you so many times before.
"It's fine."
You find yourself smiling. There are claws digging into your shoulder. You are so very tired.
...
"Who are you talking to again?" Kusanagi growls.
Startled wings flap away at the sound of your loyal Hand receiving a facefull of branches and cursing the rest of his way down.
"Seven hells, we thought you lost the fucking trail..."
At his voice ringing down the cliffside, your arms are empty. There is no weight or warmth in your lap, only thin mountain air.
Emptiness curls up and roars wild in the pit of your being; a furnace heated to be opened, unleashed upon the world below in the coming hours.
You remain there staring off the edge without answering. Grief stricken, amber eyes affixed to that world below.
You lied to them – but only by omission. This strike is a one way passage for you.
It will end with your life severed away if you're lucky enough to defy the Lord of Light.
Defy the god that gave you fire to hold, scaled beasts to wield.
But you cannot defy him alone.
The burden will fall on some sad and noble lord, with a kingsguard of waterdancers – blades sharper than talons, quicker than flames – poised at his command. Your children may fall to their swords.
At last.
Pass on the burden to younger men on painted up horses shouting over the sound of buildings burning and crumbling to ash. His body is gone in the same way. Yours will be soon.
For what other place could be home to the Father of Dragons without smoldering at his touch.