A Song of Dread and Bread

How could one bloody person possibly require seven bagel packs? Especially when those bagel packs were in league with the other twelve as they plotted her imminent demise. And her demise was most assuredly imminent if her cold had anything to do about it. Pills were rendered useless against its devilry, and with the looming date of her moon blood fast approaching, death was preferable to such continued torment. But finally, her shift was over. The weather drizzled unhappily, quite aptly matching her mood, but still she waited outside for a view of her white chariot that would take her home. She would not allow her mother any extra stops to second-hand shops or even the marketnot when the call of her bed was nearly deafening in her ears. Bethany. Beth groaned in impatience at the voice behind her. The only people who used the full entirety of her name were the ones she so desperately wished to be free of! Work people. Im sorry, but Im already off my shift, and I am not going back inside. She turned to make her less than sincere apology, and was startled by the rather fantastical woman standing behind her. Donned all in red with equally red hair and eyes, any chill in the air was quickly dissolved by her mere presence. You like to dress up too?

The woman released a simpering smile as she reached forward and grasped Beths arm lightly. The Lord of Light has use of you. We must not keep him waiting. If ever Beth had imagined apparating, she would have thought it was quite like this. She was shmooshed against the woman as the intense pressure of their departure condescend them into an impossible shape, only to be released a moment later. Beth promptly threw up. When she looked up to ask the woman what the hell she had done, she was surprised to find herself in a desolate marble hallway, a piece of parchmentfor it was far too thick to ever be considered papertucked into her palm. She did not recognize the characters, and that troubled her to no end. Languages interested her, and it would have been nice to at least have some indication of who the woman was that so carelessly abducted her. And promptly abandoned her. Her revelry was interrupted by her presence being spotted. She had expected to see possible a museum curator come to chastise her for being in some forbidden hallway. She had not anticipated a set of three guards in full armor rushing toward her as she was grabbed and dragged into an equally unexpected throne room. Beth had always considered herself a short person. Clothing was consistently too long, cups at her friends house too high, and the pedals of her car frustratingly far. She was a giant in comparison to the man before her.

He was speaking to her, she knew that. His lips moved and sound was produced, but it was a dialect she could not place, no matter how she tilted her still cloudy head in confusion. She must be delirious. It would have been nice if her cold-medicined mind could have at least have relieved her symptoms before taking her into this strange world where guards were still holding her arms too tightly, and for some reason now believed she should be bowing on the floor. The dwarf little person man was still speaking to her and she was tired and only wanted to sleep, so she stopped her feeble attempted to fight the guards and merely held up the parchment still clasped in her hand. Curse Wednesdays. Tyrion Lannister was surprised to say the least when the guards dragged such an oddly dressed girl before him. He was thankful however that Joffrey was otherwise occupied at the moment which led to him being the one to receive her, as he did not doubt his nephew would find new and exciting ways to hurt the child before him. He had enquired her name and the reason for her being in Kings Landing, but she had only stared at him, remaining entirely silent. He was used to such looks, though they generally entailed the perusal of his stature, not the blatant staring she had done to his lips. Almost as if she could not understand him. A rarity to be sure, for the common tongue was fittingly named.

She was dressed as a boy, a strange black cap upon her head covering her face adequately. He bade the guards push her lower, his neck protesting peering at the girl in such a manner. She gave him a note, and he frowned at its contents. For Lord Tyrion. Use her as Rhllor commands. -Melisandre Rhllor. The Lord of Light. As foolish a god as any of the others. What troubled him more was this girls deliverance by Melisandre. They had never personally met, but word had reached him of her talents in ensuring Stannis Baratheon would secede the Iron Throne. What did this have to do with the girl? She was silent with her eyes glassy, and he assumed she had been drugged by some sort of potion to make her behave so calmly. If she was there to assassinate him, surely she would have outsmarted a few bumbling guards. He approached her cautiously, waiting for her to protest the removal of her cap, yet she made none. Her face was young and girlish, eyes wide and brown, with hair rather short for a woman. Had it been shorn in some way? Not high born then, it someone was allowed to cut her hair. Do you understand me? She peered up at him from the floorsomething that rather amused him, so rare an occurrence that he should be above someone.

He did not know why she had been given. Perhaps when she either relinquished her act of not speaking the common tongue, orseven hellslearned the language, she would inform him of her purpose. If he should leave her unprotected, either she would be snatched up for Joffreys amusement or taken into one of Littlefingers brothels, to be used until her purpose was known. He did not like either option. Take her to my room. It would appear I have received a gift from Lord Baelish. There. If any of the guards when blathering about the strange girl, she would be considered a whore of little notice or importance. She certainly would not be the first in his chamber. He snorted. And she would not be the last. But for now it would give him opportunity to question her in private, and perhaps allow her to sleep off whatever concoction she had been given. Her clothing allowed him to clearly see she carried no weaponry, though he would be careful not to drink anything she could possibly tamper with. No one ever accused the Imp of being a stupid man, after all. He watched the guards drag her off in the direction of his bedchamber, and he smiled at her heated retort as one of them pulled at her arm. She spoke in a language he had never heard. He wanted to believe she was an innocent. But such hopes had proved wrongly too many times, so he would remain cautious of her intentions. If Melisandre was involved and wanted him to use

this girl, it stood to reason he should use her in a manner quite opposite to that which she intended. He laughed as he followed behind the screaming girl. Perhaps instead of the whore she was intended to be, a bride would send the proper response. It was his mind that crafted his fate, not some Southern god and his plaything. Now only to get the girl to agree.