Disclaimer: I don't own HBO's Game of Thrones or any of its characters, wishful thinking aside.
Authors Note #1: This is my first Game of Thrones story, so I am pretty much testing the waters right about now. I have not yet had the pleasure of reading the books, but I'm aware of the general arc. So, in respect to that, this story is mostly based on the material we have been given on the TV show rather than the book series.
Warnings: This story is meant to fit in some point between the Battle of Black water in season two and before the Red Wedding in season three. This is an AU after the battle of Black water basically. *Contains: adult language, adult content, sexual content, TV show spoilers for all three seasons, smut, a magic spell, 'serious' crack, and cuteness abound!
Dragon's Breath
Chapter Six
"My apologies Your Grace, I am simply overcome with anticipation. Nothing would please me more than to hear the name of my intended," she replied, practically tripping over herself as she finally found her tongue.
The King huffed, hand stilling across the arch of his bow with something akin to disappointment. He made a dismissive sound in the back of his throat, like a child weathering some grand disappointment but still trying to put on a brave face.
He's looking for a reason, she realized. He wanted her to make a scene, to challenge him. He wants an excuse to punish me again.
She bit down on the inside of her cheek until she tasted smelted copper.
"Your hesitation is understandable my Lady, considering the circumstances. Women suffer from a more delicate constitution than that of men, a lack of boldness, I suppose," the King replied, examining his fingernails idly before he straightened, clearly readying himself for something.
"As you say, Your Grace," the metallic tang of blood flooded across her tongue as she forced herself to look him in the eye. He would not be the one to cow her, not again.
"But enough of these courtesies, enough stalling, I am sure my Lady has waited long enough for this happy announcement, her husband-to-be as well," Joffrey practically sang, all haughty arrogance and false smiles as Tyrion glowered, half hidden behind the shadow of his father.
One of the Hound's gloved hands tightened, curling into a brutal fist beside his scabbard. The worn black leather creaked audibly as she kept her eyes on the King. It looked like a promise, a punishment, like a single drop of blood dripping off Ser Payne's blade come execution day.
She swallowed a frightened whimper, half afraid that if she looked at him now, somehow they'd know. It would be all over for them both then, she knew that much. Her marriage might continue, considering her status, but him? He wouldn't live to see the dawn.
And yet, she yearned to know what he was thinking. Did he feel it? Or was his anger for something else entirely? Or worse, herself? Gods, she would give anything just to know what he was-
"I have gathered you all together, on this day, to announce the betrothal of Lady Sansa of House Stark to-"
Only no one was listening. The crowd rippled. There was a disturbance on the further most edge of the room, closest to the doors. And in mid-word, Joffrey's expression suddenly changed, twisting like a child unsure of whether he should break out into tears or throw a tantrum.
She turned just as Ser Meryn drew his sword; clearly seeing something she could not as a frightened hush issued from the Lords and Ladies nearest to the commotion.
"What is the meaning of this outrage?!" the King yelled, voice pitching high in his rage as the shiver of unveiled steel echoed in the unnatural hush.
Out of the corner of her eye, Sandor shifted, one hand dropping to his sword belt as he remained by the King's side, glaring into the crowd as he tried to determine where the disturbance was coming from.
But as it turned out, neither of them had long to wait, because with a deafening murmur, the crowd suddenly parted. Men and women usually so reserved were sent scrambling, stumbling backwards and almost trampling over those behind them until a woman, ancient and cloaked in red, the color of the God of Light, was revealed within their midst.
A startled cry rose up from one of the ladies as the woman drew back her hood, and it was only when she stepped forward, walking with a surety and grace that seemed to negate her age, that she understood why.
Her hand flew up to her breast in horror.
The woman wasn't simply ancient, she was desiccated. Her features were wizened and sagging, milky eyes nearly lost in a sea of wrinkles, discolored by the dark spots that the elderly so often received in their later years, hallmarks of a life well lived. Only this was no natural thing. She was a specter, a crone, something other worldly and wrong, with brittle bones and hollow cheeks. Perhaps even death herself.
She shrunk backwards, expecting the King's Guard to rush forward. But nothing happened. And the King said nothing, did nothing. The room was silent, shocked into an odd, fantastic stillness that took away her very breath.
The old woman, however, just smiled. Her teeth were gummy and yellowed as her lips pulled back in a graceless snarl. What terrible will could keep such a thing alive?
"Boy king…" the crone hissed, throwing back her hood as a thin clump of silver-grey hair shivered to the floor at her feet, the strands so delicate that they sprinkled into powder the moment they hit the flagstones, salting across the dark grey floor as she eyed Joffrey with a blistering glare. Her scalp was nearly bare save for a few wisps of pale white.
"Bastard King. Failed King. You're not even your true father's son," she spat.
Behind her, Joffrey choked on a breath.
"Your soldiers missed a bastard when you ordered the cull on Robert Baratheon's unwanted litter. Sons and daughters no taller than the wheat your peasants are struggling to grow. And yet, you rule."
"Tell me bastard, does it help you sleep at night knowing that children, a dozen, maybe more, died at your order? That a boy of nine - even a babe of not yet a year is dead and buried? Does it?!" she hissed, venomous like only a woman wronged could rightly be.
And in spite of it all, in spite of the horror that was her face, the sunken state of her rheumy eyes and her mad ravings, comprehension slowly started to dawn. Mother save her, the woman had lost her child to-
"We are only as good as the masks we wear, your highness," the crone sneered, walking forward now, each footfall echoing through the Great Hall as the guards closest to the dais flinched in place, "and underneath yours there is nothing but a simpering, selfish child too coddled to know common sense and too cruel to care. You're a stunted cub trapped in a den of lions."
"I know your ilk, boy," the woman intoned, her thin, spidering hands steepled in front of her - a parody of a high born lady's grace, "grown men that turn tail and run - quaking in fear when the sun finally sets in the sky, readying itself for the long night."
"For it is in the dark that you are forced to face the truth, is it not?" she hissed, a string of spittle dribbling down her chin, brought forth by missing teeth and the terrible force she was leveling behind each and every word. "That you are lacking. Insignificant. That you are nothing more than the bastard son of incestuous lust, of unnatural breeding."
Joffrey leapt to his feet, mouth dropping open to shout for his guards, but the crone just talked right over him, berating him like a mother to a disobedient child even though she had to crane her neck to remain level with him.
"You stink of fear, child. You're choking in it. You fear, even amidst your livery, titles and glided things, that history will not be kind - that it will record you for what you are, not what you pretend to be. You fear that when the histories are written, your name will be forgotten, unsung. Your reign unmarked save for a small paragraph in some grand master's history of your House."
"…That you will be known as the incompetent king, the killer king. An untested waif that trembled with the knowledge that somewhere, there was a suckling babe, a child of summer, who bore the dead King's likeness – who was more his child than you ever were – who lived. Does it comfort you to know you stand unthreatened?!" the woman bit out, her red cloak suddenly billowing out behind her, as if caught in some sort of an unnatural wind. It belayed the stillness of the air as a frightened murmur rippled through the crowd at her back.
The delicate hairs on the back of her nape prickled, finding herself unable to look away as the woman's cloak swirled around her feet, expanding and contracting like a stream of blood seeping from an open wound.
The air around her was cloying and thick. Like the night before summer's first storm, everything was close. Possible. She wondered if the Hound could feel it. If he could feel the way the air was pressing down on them, choking and malignant, staggering under the weight of the cloaked woman's scorn.
She could hardly bear it!
A/N #1: Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – The next chapter should be up in a few days.