[74] M-Mother?!
Chapter 74: M-Mother?!
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In less than a day, word of Viserys Targaryen’s triumph at King’s Landing swept through the realm like wildfire. Ravens soared in all directions, sharing stories of a golden dragon that altered the battle’s course, torching Stannis Baratheon’s fleet before the Tyrell forces could fully engage.
Tales of the duel between Viserys and Stannis spread widely, elevating a quick and fierce fight into a legendary confrontation deserving of ballads. Just as Viserys had planned.
Whispers of the dragons' return spread throughout Westeros, prompting nobles to reassess their loyalties. It was clear to the smarter nobles that the Targaryen rule had returned if any of the stories were true.
But while many houses quickly pledged allegiance to the new Dragon King, deciding to send ravens back, others held back, preferring to observe how the situation developed.
The news reached the Northern army’s camp right as they were licking their wounds from the latest run-in with Tywin Lannister’s forces near Harrenhal.
Robb Stark sat in his command tent with fresh bandages around his sword arm where a Lannister blade had nicked him. Around a rough wooden table, a mix of Northern lords and Reach lords sat. Reach lords had brought knights to air Robb in his battle against Tywin Lannister, as per Viserys’ plan. That was why a hundred thousand Reachmen weren’t present in King’s Landing.
Robb’s face lit up with a rare smile as he finished reading the letter describing Viserys’s triumph. It carried the three-headed dragon seal, still warm from the journey.
“Well, my lords,” he said, looking around at the group, Northmen in thick furs next to the more elegantly armored Reachmen. “Let’s go pay our friend a visit.”
On the other side of the world, a ship rocked on the dark waters off Dragonstone, carrying a handful of survivors.
Melisandre, the Red Priestess, stood at the stern, her red robes rippling in the salty breeze as she watched the volcanic fortress shrink into the distance.
Close by, Ser Davos rested on a makeshift cot, his burns covered in linen that was already marked with blood and fluid. The old smuggler had barely escaped with his life from Blackwater Bay, lucky to have passed out on top of a stone during the initial wildfire explosion. Even now, every breath he drew rattled painfully across the deck.
Lady Selyse crouched near the cabin entrance, muttering prayers to both the Seven and R’hllor like she was hedging her bets. Her eyes had that vacant look of someone still in shock over her husband’s defeat. His death.
Melisandre felt almost numb as if she were watching everything from a distance. The ruby at her throat glowed weakly, its power oddly dulled. The visions she’d once been certain of now felt like half-forgotten fever dreams, leaving her questioning everything she’d believed.
They’d heard rumors that Kinvara, the First Priestess of R’hllor, stood proudly beside Viserys Targaryen as he took the Iron Throne.
The realization gnawed at Melisandre. Had she backed the wrong king all along? Was Stannis never the Prince who was Promised?
Strangely, none of Stannis’s followers had turned on her yet. She’d expected it to happen when they heard a Red Priestess supported the man who killed Stannis, but her worry was for naught. Ser Davos, of all people, looked out for her. If anything, the people were too consumed by their grief and guilt to seek revenge.
Toward the ship’s bow, Princess Shireen sat alone, hugging a leather-bound book to her chest. Tears tracked down her face, cutting across the greyscale scars that marred one cheek. “Bad dragons,” she whispered in between sobs, one hand tracing the shiny cover—some old gift from her father. “Bad dragons...”
Melisandre’s eyes drifted toward the girl. Something about Shireen pulsed with unseen power—like a fierce heat flickering under her skin. Even the scaly greyscale patches seemed to glow with an inner spark only Melisandre noticed.
Was it the disease that had done it, or maybe the Baratheon blood mixed with some older magic? Well, Robert Baratheon and his brothers did have some dragon blood. Their grandmother was a Targaryen. Rhaelle Targaryen.
…I wondered since the day I first saw her, what’d happen to a dragon with greyscale disease? Melisandre’s eyes narrowed.
The girl was barely seventeen, but Melisandre sensed a potential so raw it made her own skin prickle. Prophecies usually spoke of a prince, but languages were tricky, and sometimes the true meaning got lost in translation.
Perhaps Shireen, with her royal blood and hidden strength, could learn magic beyond anything Melisandre had tapped into. Mel had been to Asshai before, but she couldn’t hope to use the darker, grander magic she saw there because of the restrictions from her lord. But… she could teach them to someone else.
Maybe Shireen wasn’t Azor Ahai, but she might become something else. A force to reveal false prophets and pretenders who claimed that divine mantle.
Truthfully, Mel didn’t trust Kinvara’s judgment. That old wench.
Slowly, Mel stood up and approached Shireen. The ship cut through the waves, leaving behind a place that Melisandre had thought was the closest thing to ‘home’ in centuries. Dragonstone’s black stone walls vanished into the smoky dusk.
Joffrey cowered in a dusty storeroom, his once-fine clothes now stained and ripped. He’d fled the Red Keep and holed up here on the second floor of some abandoned merchant shop. It felt more like a cell than a safe house.
His stomach rumbled loudly—he hadn’t eaten in over a day, making his thoughts nastier.
“That lizard bastard,” he growled, pacing on the creaking boards. “How dare he? HOW DARE HE?” He nearly shouted, then remembered to keep his voice down. His fists balled up as he imagined what he’d do once he got his precious throne back.
“I’ll have his head on a spike,” Joffrey hissed to himself. “No, first I’ll feed that scaly beast to my dogs—piece by piece—then I’ll burn him alive just like the Mad King deserved!” It gave him a familiar twisted thrill to picture it.
However, when Joffrey wondered how he’d take back the throne, everything seemed… messy. He chose not to think about it.
Suddenly, a clamor broke out in the streets outside, breaking him out of his daze.
Hooting, jeering, and the sound of many feet shuffling. Joffrey tried ignoring it, knowing he needed to stay hidden, but curiosity prodded him. He crawled to a crack in the wooden wall, pressing his eye against it.
“Damn peasants,” he said. A rowdy crowd had gathered around someone in the road… no, some woman—completely naked, arms chained, being dragged through the grime. Joffrey stared, a little fascinated despite himself.
Even in this humiliating state, she had a strange grace. Her tangled gold hair still caught bits of light coming through the buildings. He’d been offered women before; heck, even his own uncle sent two whores to his bedroom, but while Joffrey wouldn’t call them ugly, they didn’t quite get his thing reacting. But this… this woman…
Joffrey felt a bulge in his pants.
“Move it, you Lannister whore!” someone yelled, yanking the chains.
What? Joffrey blinked at the insult, and then his heart practically stopped when the woman turned her face in his direction. He knew that profile, the proud angles, now streaked with mud and tears.
“...M-mother?” he breathed, horror twisting his gut.
Without thinking, Joffrey turned around and ran. He exploded out of the shop’s entrance, face hot with rage. “You filthy dogs, let her go! I order you, as your King—!”
The street fell silent, everyone staring at him.
In that second, Joffrey realized how stupidly he’d just revealed himself. He saw the way the crowd’s eyes gleamed—not with pity, but with the greed of gold.
“Ten—” someone shouted. “Ten thousand gold!”
The mob surged at him in a rush of hands and growling faces. Joffrey tried to dart back inside, but they yanked him by his arms and legs, snatching at his clothes.
“Joffrey! Joff, no! Stop!” his mother cried out, voice thick with misery. He barely caught it before something slammed into the back of his head, and darkness consumed him.
“Bahahaha,” I leaned against the Iron Throne, laughing at the delicious irony of it all.
So Joffrey decided to show up while Cersei was doing her walk of shame? I didn’t expect that when I decided to bring her back to King’s Landing like that.
All those Lannisters who strutted around like peacocks were finally getting what was coming to them. Cersei, the proud lioness, stripped bare for the whole city to see. And Joffrey, that little fool, running out to defend her at just the right moment?
It was almost too perfect.
Right now, the throne room was empty and quiet, moonlight spilling through the high windows and painting long shadows on the floor. I hadn’t budged from the Iron Throne since I first took it yesterday—way too much to do, and I kind of liked the feel of it anyway. Every second spent here reminded me that I’d won.
Ros knelt between my legs, her flame-colored hair glowing in the dim light. I threaded my fingers through it, savoring its silky softness while her soft lips and skilled mouth did its work. “Tell me about our guest. How’s our ex-king holding up?”
She stopped bobbing her head, releasing my cock with a pop, and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Still asleep, Your Grace. The milk of the poppy should knock him out for a few more hours.”
“Excellent.” I twisted a lock of her hair around my finger. “So, what do you think we should do with him once he’s awake? Didn’t he torture you and your friend at one point? I still remember feeling my blood boil back then. So we need to make sure he learns a lesson.” My grin widened. “And after that, a very public execution, of course.”
Ros’ eyes lit up hearing the first part. She must feel so grateful realizing that I remembered. “A-and his mother?” Ros asked, an eager spark in her eyes.
“She’ll be there, forced to watch it all. But we have some time till execution. Robb Stark will not be here until a few days later, we can’t do it before that,” I let go of her hair. “So until then, we play. Go get that room ready like I told you.”
“As you wish, Your Grace,” she got to her feet, grinning at me as she walked away, hips swaying. She knew how to get a man riled up, being a whore and all. Well, former whore.
She was now the Mistress of Whispers, as I promised her. Although I’d only make it official after the execution.
I leaned farther back on the throne, feeling the twisted metal edges press into my back. Other kings might have found it uncomfortable and painful, but the swords merely gave my thick skin a massage. I thought it was a perfect reminder of power. Closing my eyes, I let the satisfaction wash over me.
It really did feel good.
Nothing like taking a nap on my Iron Throne.
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