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Harry Potter and all of its characters belong to J.K. Rowling.
ASOIAF and all of its characters belong to GRRM
I own nothing but the original characters I make.
"Dialogue"
'Thoughts'
-Author notes-
Chapter 35: The Loyal Maid
Two days had passed since they laid Robert Baratheon in the ground. The bells had rung, the prayers had been said, and the realm had pretended to mourn a king it had never truly loved. But the night after the funeral, the Red Keep was quiet.
The lords and ladies had retired to their chambers. The servants moved in whispers. And somewhere in the dark, the plans that had been laid for weeks were finally set in motion.
Joffrey's chambers were lit by a single candle, its flame casting long shadows across the walls. The great bed where he had slept since coming to this city was unmade, the sheets tangled.
Saera lay on the dining table, her golden hair spread beneath her like a halo, her pale skin gleaming in the candlelight. Her legs were wrapped around the prince's waist, her arms stretched above her head, her fingers clutching the edge of the table as if it were the only thing keeping her from drowning.
"Oh! Your Grace!" Her voice was a breathless cry, half pleasure and half plea. "Please, slow down!"
Joffrey pressed one hand against her belly, feeling her muscles clenching beneath his palm, and drove into her with a rhythm that showed no mercy.
The first two nights, he had been gentle. She had been a maid...truly a maid, not like the Dornish whore Baelish had sent to seduce him, and who he had treated as such. But this was the third night, and she was no longer a maid, and he had no more gentleness to give.
"Ahh!" She cried out, her back arching, her nails scraping against the wood. "Your Grace...I cannot—"
But she could. Her body told him so, even as her voice begged for rest. The flush that spread from her cheeks down her throat, the way her hips rose to meet his thrusts, the small sounds she made when she thought he could not hear them...this told him she was enjoying these activities as much as he did.
A few more strokes and he was done, spilling himself inside her with a grunt that was almost animal. He held himself there for a moment, feeling the last pulses of pleasure ripple through him, then pulled away.
Saera lay beneath him, her chest heaving, her skin slick with sweat. "Your Grace, that was—"
"We are not done." Joffrey's voice was flat, matter-of-fact. He could feel himself hardening again already, the hunger that lived in this young body insatiable.
She looked up at him with those innocent blue eyes, and for a moment, he saw the girl she had been before all of this, a merchant's daughter from Volantis, sold into servitude, shipped across the narrow sea to serve a queen she had never met.
She was not a spy by nature. She had been made one, shaped and trained for his mother's use.
But now she was his.
He pulled her from the table, her legs nearly buckling beneath her, and turned her around. Her hands caught the edge of the wood, her fingers splaying against its surface. She was bent over now, her back curved and her buttocks presented to him like an offering.
He squeezed one cheek, hard, and she yelped with a mix of pleasure and pain.
"Here we go."
He entered her again, and she cried out, a sound that was almost a sob, but when he leaned forward to look at her face, he saw that her eyes were closed, her lips parted, her expression one of pure, unguarded pleasure.
"Your Grace!" Her voice was high and breathless, dissolving into moans as he found his rhythm. "This is...ah!....this is too much!"
But she did not ask him to stop.
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An hour later, they lay together in the great bed, her head on his chest, his arm around her shoulders. The single candle had burned low, its flame a dying ember in a pool of wax.
"Is it wrong?" she asked, her voice soft in the darkness. "To do this tonight? The King has just been laid to rest. It feels..."
"Sacrilegious?" Joffrey's laugh was quiet, without humor. "King Robert loved only three things in this world: wine, war, and women. Of the three, this was his favorite. He would be proud."
Saera said nothing. She did not know how to speak of the dead king, had never known him except as a distant figure, a man who drank too much and laughed too loudly and looked at her sometimes with eyes that made her skin crawl.
She was glad he was gone. She did not say that either.
Joffrey rose from the bed, moving to the window. The night was moonless, and the sky looked especially dark.
Below, the city slept, its lights few and scattered. Completely unaware of what was going to take place very soon.
He had planned for this night. Had been planning for weeks. The coronation would have made things more complicated. Tywin Lannister's arrival would have made them impossible. If he was going to leave, it had to be now.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The soft sound came from inside the wall.
Joffrey smiled. "It is time."
Saera sat up, her eyes going wide. "Now?"
"Now." He was already moving, pulling on his clothes, strapping his sword to his hip. "Get dressed. Do not waste a minute, because we will need them all."
She scrambled from the bed, her hands fumbling with her dress and the ties that would not stay tied. He watched her for a moment, this girl who had been sent to betray him and had instead become his most loyal creature.
It had not been difficult. His mother had chosen her for her beauty, her innocence, her Volantene blood. She had not anticipated that her son would be something other than the boy she had raised.
"Do you remember what you are to do?" he asked, his voice low, urgent.
She nodded three times very quickly. "Yes, Your Grace."
He handed her a bag containing four dark cloaks. "Wait until you have explained the plan to the girls before giving them these. They will be frightened enough without cloaked strangers appearing in their chambers."
She took the bag, her hands steady despite her fear. "I will not fail you."
He finished dressing, settled his longsword at his waist, then turned to the corner of the room where a longer blade waited. The greatsword was wrapped in oilcloth. It was not his, but it was too fine a weapon to leave behind.
"A greatsword?" Saera's voice was puzzled. She had never seen him wield such a thing.
"It belongs to someone else." He hefted it, felt the familiar balance, the way the Valyrian steel seemed to hum against his palm. "Lord Stark's blade. He will have more need of it than the man who took it from him."
He settled the greatsword across his back, but kept the entire thing wrapped in the cloth. The blade was light enough as not to be cumbersome, despite its massive size.
He looked around the room one last time. The bed where he had slept, the table where he had eaten, the desk where he had written his letters, making sure nothing had been forgotten or overlooked. He would not see them again.
Saera was watching him, her face pale in the dying candlelight.
"You are afraid," he said.
She nodded.
He moved to her, cupping her face in his hands, and kissed her gently.
"We have rehearsed this," he said against her lips. "You know the tunnels. You know what to say. If you follow the instructions, you will not be in danger." He pulled back, meeting her eyes. "Do you understand?"
She nodded again. Her eyes were bright, but she did not weep.
He released her and moved to the fireplace, his fingers finding the hidden switch. The mechanism clicked, and a section of the wall slid open, revealing the darkness beyond.
The tunnels that Varys's little birds had used to creep through the Red Keep, that had carried spies and assassins for three hundred years. They would carry him to freedom.
He turned to Saera. "You go first. If you become lost, the map is in the bag. It is all clearly marked."
She stepped into the tunnel without hesitation, and he watched her go.
She would not fail him. Of that, he was certain.
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The tunnels were built by Maegor the Cruel, or so the Prince had told her.
She had heard rumors from the other maids about many things hidden inside the castle. There were many stories and legends about dragon eggs and magical artifacts left behind by the Targaryen rulers.
Saera did not know if she believed in magic, but she believed in the Prince, and that was enough.
She moved through the darkness with a confidence that surprised her, her hand trailing along the cold stone wall, her feet finding the path without stumbling.
The maid had walked these tunnels a dozen times in the past nights, learning the turns, the branches, the places where the ceiling dropped low, or the floor was slick with moisture. She had walked them with a map at first, then by memory, until the way was as familiar to her as the corridors of the castle.
Behind her, she heard nothing. The Prince had said he would follow later, that there were other matters to attend to before he could leave. She did not know what matters, and she did not ask. It was not her place to question. All Saera cared for right now was to complete the task entrusted to her.
After ten minutes, she reached the place where the tunnel widened, and she could hear voices through the stone.
"—cannot sleep with you talking so loud." That was the younger one, Arya. Her voice was sharp and annoyed.
"You are always complaining about something." The other voice was softer, more patient. Sansa. A girl with red hair and blue eyes, who dreamed of knights and songs and did not know that the world was not made of such things. The Prince's betrothed, at least for now.
A tinge of jealousy flashed over Saera's eyes, but was quickly pushed away.
Saera found the lever, her fingers closing around the iron. She pulled.
The wall slid open with a sound like grinding teeth.
"What—"
"What is that?"
The voices were high with fear.
Saera stepped through the opening, her hands raised, her face calm. "Lady Sansa, please—" She pressed a finger to her lips. "Please, be silent."
Sansa stared at her, her blue eyes wide. She was wearing a nightgown, her red hair loose around her shoulders.
"Who are you?" The other girl, the friend, Jeyne Poole, had gone pale as milk.
"An assassin!" That was Arya, bursting through the door with a blade in her hand, her grey eyes fierce, her small body coiled to strike. "Where did you come from? How did you—"
"No! No assassin!" Saera kept her voice low, her hands where they could be seen. "Prince Joffrey sent me. He sent me to get you out."
Arya did not lower her sword. But Sansa stepped forward, hope and fear warring on her face. "Prince Joffrey sent you?"
"He said to tell you he keeps his promises." Saera met her eyes, willing her to understand. "He said you would know what that means."
Sansa's hand went to her chest, pressing against the fabric of her nightgown. "He said... he said he would keep us safe..."
"What about our father?" Arya had not lowered her sword, but her voice had changed. "We cannot leave him."
"Someone went for Lord Stark." Saera pulled the cloaks from her bag, four of them, dark wool that would hide them in the shadows. "We are to meet them. At the boats. Please, my ladies, there is no time."
A knock came at the door. Not the gentle tap of a servant, but the heavy fist of a man who expected to be answered.
"Lady Stark?" A voice, hard, unfamiliar. "I heard shouting. Is everything all right?"
The four of them froze.
Sansa looked at Saera. Saera shook her head.
"It is nothing, Ser." Sansa's voice was steady, though her hands trembled. "I had a nightmare. I am sorry to have disturbed you."
A pause. So long. So terribly long.
"Very well, my lady. Try to rest."
The footsteps retreated. Saera let out a breath she had not known she was holding.
Arya had lowered her sword. "I know you," she said, studying Saera's face. "I have seen you with Joffrey. You are one of his maids."
Sansa nodded slowly. "I remember now. You came with us from Winterfell. You serve the Queen's chambers, do you not?"
"I serve the Prince now." Saera handed each of them a cloak. "Put these on. Cover your hair. And please, my ladies...do not speak unless I tell you. Do not stop and do not ask questions. There will be time for questions later."
Arya pulled the cloak over her head, settling her sword at her waist.
Sansa looked down at her nightgown, at Jeyne's thin shift, but there was no time to change, no time for modesty.
Footsteps were approaching again. More than one set now. The guards were making their rounds.
"Open the door, Lady Stark." A new voice, harder than the first. Commanding. "Open it now."
"I dont think they believed you, Sansa." Arya pointed out.
"Quickly!." Saera gestured toward the tunnel. Arya went first, then Jeyne, then Sansa, who paused at the threshold to look back at the room that had been her prison and her refuge.
"Now!" The voice from the corridor was urgent now, demanding.
Sansa turned away and stepped into the darkness.
Saera pulled the lever, and the wall slid closed behind them, sealing the chamber.
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