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 Seven

Her hand flew to her breast, hiccupping through a ragged gasp when the woman suddenly turned. The crone's milky red eyes fastened squarely on her - expression wild, yet strangely vindicated as the hag seemed to take her measure.

What did she see? What could the woman want from her?

Her lungs fluttered, caught in the act of trying to remember how to breathe. She drew in a shuddering breath, trying to find it in her to remain still as the woman's eyes seemed to pierce right through her.

When the hag finally turned back to face the King, the relief was almost crippling.

"You do not know love, you scorn it. That is why you will fail, why you will always fail. For you cannot have, you cannot cultivate, what you do not understand. You are a loveless creature, sullied and plain. There is no room in your heart for mercy, for honour. You are nothing but a shell. What right do you have to stand here, when so many others cannot? When my son-"

A gasp rose up, but the crone ignored it. Reinforcements from outside the hall were trying to push through the crowd; someone must have slipped out of the room to get help, but they were hindered by the sheer mass of people that had gathered to witness the King's announcement.

There was a difference in the old woman's tone now, something which could have been pity was now coloured with a cold sort of indifference, a resignation that went bone deep. She seemed as though she were preparing herself for something, almost as if she were about to-

Once again, the realization nearly took her breath away. The woman was here to-

But apparently she wasn't the only one to realize it because it was only when the woman raised her arms towards the throne that Joffrey seemed to find his tongue.

"Seize that woman! Seize her in the name of the-"

But the crone was talking again, and before the King's Guard could reach her-

"Boy king…" she growled, advancing on the throne, her steps feeble but unnaturally sure as she flicked a hand towards the red-faced Ser Meryn who was pushing through the crowd, his sword raised and about to strike her.

There was a crack, like the sound of ice shifting on a frozen river and the man suddenly froze in mid-pace. Every part of him from fingers to toes seemed to fuse as he remained motionless, expression caught in the middle of a brutal snarl as his green eyes, the only part of him capable of moving, darted back and forth wildly.

Somewhere behind her a lady fell back in a dead faint.

Joffrey's face was like a child's, deathly pale and trembling as his eyes darted from the woman to the frozen form of his King's Guard. His mouth was open, moving soundlessly as the entire room fell still. Ser Meryn's eyes just rolled in their sockets, his sword catching the low light as the crone coughed, her voice a viscous, phlegm-ridden rattle as she hit her stride.

"Killer King," the crone mocked. "Perhaps it's time you mirror in body what you are in mind!" she cried, her voice hellish and rough as the shout echoed unnaturally through the great hall.

But it was more than just a mere shout; it was almost as if a mountain were speaking from within her, gravelly and beyond scale. She felt the vibrations through her very bones as the crone's eyes flashed, speaking words in a language she didn't understand before hell-fire spat from her veins.

Magic!

Individual curls of flame licked out from underneath her skin, escaping from within as a blast of red flowed through her. It arrowed down her veins – royal blue and withering - and out through her fingertips as a rush of magic pulsed through the air, spearing towards the throne as Joffrey flinched, jerking away from the flare.

The air shifted, changing. And like water beading down a pane of glass, she felt more than saw the Hound begin to move.

It wasn't until later, much later and after more than a few glasses of wine, that she realized she'd been equally in danger. Because the same moment the words of power had left the woman's lips, she'd shifted. But rather than turning away from it, she'd turned into it, instinctively looking to Sandor as liquid fire climbed the walls, ember-hot and glowing.

Perhaps it was a soldier's intuition or maybe it was just the man himself, but before she could scream, before Joffrey could duck away, Sandor was already moving.

The man's white cape swirled as he pivoted. A thick arm whipped out, slamming the King clear off the dais and out of harm - tumbling backwards in a billow of resplendent silk and a pitching cry. Yet, in the same motion he grabbed her waist, yanking her backwards, pulling her into him as the room spun and a blast of heat, hotter than any fire, whipped past her cheek.

He shielded her with his body, turning them just in time, saving her as a flash of fire exploded around the curve of his armour, flickering and crackling until it warmed the flagstones at their feet like dragon's breath.

She felt the impact through his back, his armour taking the brunt of it as his hand tightened around her waist. He shielded her as the magic shattered through the still, sucking the life from the very air. But he held her close, enveloping her as every muscle in his body seemed to tense, crouching low as the sheer force of it brought them to their knees.

The harshness of his stubble burnt across her nape as he grunted. It wasn't until later that she'd remember his ruined cheek pressing against the arc of her throat, sinking into her as he shuddered. He'd almost curled into himself before one thick hand shot out, balancing above her precariously.

Every millimetre of her skin had been covered with his. Protective.

The same moment the awful force of the spell lessened, the haze of red behind her lids disappeared, glowing brightly one moment only to fade into dark in the next. She blinked, uncertain as the Hound wobbled behind her, suddenly off balance now that the weight of the spell had been lifted.

She didn't remember closing her eyes.

She breathed. He breathed. They breathed. He shifted behind her, the press of his groin hot against her back as he straightened. She could feel the heat of him, the coarseness of his breathing, the unsettled thrum of his pulse as his gloves scored across the curve of her chest, rubbing, just so, against one of her ribs. The movement was unconscious, innocent, and she took heart from it. It was all the affirmation she needed to remind her that they were both still there. Together.

The Hound sucked in a breath and choked on it. The sound provided a stark contrast as somewhere behind the dais, Joffrey whimpered. Boy King.

The room was deadly still, poised on a dagger's edge as a queer sound echoed above their heads, deafening and close. She caught sight of the crown just before it reached the edge of the dais, following its progress as it rolled down the steps, clattering dully as the entire room stood spellbound – watching.

She couldn't help but think it strange when it came to rest at her feet, jerky and awkward without a head to hold it. Her lip curled. Empty thing.

After that, everything seemed to happen at once. Ser Meryn snapped out of his trance, joining the King's Guard as they converged on the woman in red. The crone, for her part, shrieked in rage, her great revenge thwarted, held fast by at least seven men as she writhed and struggled with a strength belaying her age. And to their credit, rather than stand on ceremony and wait for the King's word, she was swiftly gagged and dragged from the room, lest she regain the power to try again.

On the other side of the dais, the small council rushed to the King's side, helping him rise as the entire court dissolved into frightened yells and angry cries. Joffrey's voice was chief among them as he demanded the crone be brought back and made to answer for her crimes. He was raving, almost to the point of hysteria as the Queen tried vainly to calm him, daubing at a cut on his cheek before he pushed her away with a vicious snarl.

"Dog!" the King yelled, quaking in rage as he clambered onto the dais, bringing the room to an unsteady calm as Lord Baelish called for silence.

"Bring her to me! She will feel the weight of the King's justice for this treason! This was a foul plot! An insidious attempt on my life and honour! There will be no mercy for this outrage, I will-"

Sandor reared, as if to answer, before he suddenly halted, remaining hunched over for a long moment - collecting himself, before he wove unsteadily to his feet.

"Muzzle her and bring her back! She will answer for this travesty!" the King raged, not seeming to notice that his dog had made no move to carry out his orders. She could feel the eyes of the entire room shift onto them, ignoring the King even as he fell back into his seat, fingers clenched, claw-like around the armrests of the Iron Throne.

Somewhere above her, the Hound drew a sharp breath, as if he were trying to recover from some sort of blow, stance shifting. Something was wrong, he wasn't-

She felt drunk. She felt like a woman overtaken with fever when she finally looked up, forcing herself to see the wrongness she knew in her heart was already there as his hand firmed around his sword belt - tightening until the leather creaked, desperate for something to steady him.

He looked like a puppet that'd been freshly snipped from its strings, graceless and limp as he looked around him with a mere shadow of his usual stony glare.

Her curls were wild and tangled around her face as she watched him pull on his collar, acting like a man starved for air as he forced himself to straighten, unsteady and strangely directionless. His eyes were unfocused, uncomprehending until he caught sight of her, still sprawled in an ungraceful heap at his feet.

"Little bird, are you?"

She watched with a horrified, yet detached sort of interest as his features started to blur. His hair thinned, losing its unruly coarseness as his beard began to do the same. It vanished back into his skin as the edges of his burn began to shimmer, warping and twisting until it too disappeared from sight, leaving nothing but smooth, unmarred skin as a collective gasp rose up behind them.

The magic!

He blinked, mouth fish-tailing as he ripped off his glove. His thick fingers ran down his skin almost wonderingly as he took stock of himself, perhaps for the first time since his childhood as she stared up at him in undisguised hunger.

He was handsome, in a rough-shot sort of way. The lack of his scar lent more focus to his strong brow and expressive eyes. She realized that the scar had only served to make him look more menacing, fierce and violent in a way that overshadowed his natural features.

And despite how daft it sounded, she found herself immediately missing his scar.

His armour sagged across his shoulders, chest deflating, like air being let out of an empty wine skin as his sword belt slid down his waist. It hit the floor with the unforgiving clang of metal meeting stone as the lacings of his boots suddenly slackened.

One of his gloves fluttered to the floor at her feet, followed by its twin not a second later as the bilious thing slipped right off his hand in mid-gesture. It was almost as if every article of clothing had suddenly become five sizes too large. He was sinking into himself, she realized, like a turtle retreating into its shell. He stumbled backwards, losing his balance as his chin dipped into the collar of his jerkin.

No! Not shrinking, he was getting younger!

The King leapt to his feet, and quite suddenly everything around her was chaos. Someone behind her was yelling about demons and mages from across the sea. Half the crowd was crying out, panicking, while the other had frozen as the entire room seemed to realize what was happening at the same time.

For a fire had started to glow within him. It was shining through his fingers as Sandor raised a hand, terror and wonder struggling for place as his features regressed. The glow seemed to radiate from his very bones, like a fire born on the inside. A wave of heat, flickering flames and scalded air, hit her when she reached forward, forcing her to recoil asred flames spat forth from his open palm.

He caught her gaze before it happened, before the glow exploded outwards, sending her toppling off the dais with sheer force of it. Letting loose a firestorm of red and orange spirals that exploded through the vaulted windows, muting the torches and shrouding the room in darkness save for the one point of light that remained. Him.

And for the first time since she'd laid eyes on him all those months ago, just before the blast of red sent her flying; she caught his gaze and saw fear reflecting back at her.

The Hound was afraid.


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.