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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 138: The Many-Faced God's Due
Saera felt the warm afternoon sun on her skin as she walked back to the Great Pyramid, her servants trailing behind her with empty trays and cups.
She felt lighter than she had in weeks.
I almost told him,' she thought. 'I almost said the words.'
She had come so close. Standing there in the arena, watching him train, watching the frustration fade from his eyes when he saw her…she had wanted to say it. She had wanted to tell him that she loved him, that she had loved him since the first moment she saw him, that she would love him until the day she died.
But she had not. She had held the words back, swallowing them down like bitter wine.
'Because he does not feel the same,' she reminded herself. 'Because he never will.'
She knew that. She had always known that. Joffrey Baratheon was not a man who loved. He was fire and steel.
He did not have room in his heart for a simple handmaid from Volantis.
'But he cares for me,' she thought. 'In his own way, he cares.'
That was enough. It had to be enough. She would rather have a fragment of his attention than the whole devotion of another man. She would rather be a fool at his side than a wise woman anywhere else.
Saera smiled, a small, private smile that she hid from the servants. She was a fool, she knew. But she was a happy fool. And that was more than most people could say.
<><>
The pyramid was quiet when she entered, the halls filled with the soft echo of footsteps and the distant murmur of voices. Saera made her way to the kitchens first, returning the trays and cups to the servants there, then to the small chamber she used for her personal tasks.
She had work to do. Joffrey's chambers needed to be tidied, his clothes laid out for the evening, his bath prepared. It was simple work, but she did not mind. It gave her purpose, gave her a reason to be near him.
As she worked, she found herself thinking of the conversation she had shared with Daenerys earlier that day.
The Queen had summoned her unexpectedly, a rare occurrence. Saera had been nervous, afraid that she had done something wrong. But Daenerys had been... kind. Curious, even.
"You care for him," Daenerys had said, her violet eyes studying Saera's face. "More than a handmaid should."
Saera had not denied it. She had seen no point in lying. "I love him, Your Grace. I know it is foolish. I know he does not feel the same. But I cannot help it."
Daenerys had been silent for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she said, "He cares for you. I have seen it. In the way he speaks of you, the way he looks at you when he thinks no one is watching."
"I know," Saera had replied. "He cares for me as a friend. As a servant. But not as..." She had trailed off, shaking her head. "It is enough. It has to be."
Daenerys had looked at her then, something strange in her eyes. Something that might have been understanding. Or perhaps envy.
"You should tell him," Saera had said, surprising herself. "Tell him how you feel. He will not reject you. Not you."
Daenerys had blinked. "W-what?"
"I have seen the way you look at him, Your Grace. The way you speak of him. You love him too. Perhaps differently than I do, but you love him nonetheless." Saera had smiled, a sad, knowing smile. "Tell him. You might be surprised by his answer."
Daenerys had opened her mouth to respond, but Saera had not stayed to hear it. She had bowed and left, her heart heavy with the weight of her own words.
'I will never have him,' she thought. 'But perhaps she will have the chance…perhaps she can make him feel what I can't.'
<><>
The Sun had completely gone down by the time Saera made it into the main hall and saw Ser Jorah approaching.
The old knight looked troubled, his weathered face set in a frown, his hand resting on his sword.
"Ser Jorah," she greeted him, her voice polite but distant. "You are patrolling today?"
Jorah nodded, his eyes scanning the hall. "I could not sleep. Something feels... wrong."
Saera tilted her head. "Wrong? What do you mean?"
Jorah hesitated. "I do not know. You can call it a bad feeling. A sense that something is about to happen." He looked at her, his eyes sharp. "Have you noticed anything strange? Anyone acting suspicious?"
Saera shook her head. "No, Ser Jorah. Everything has been quiet. The Prince is at the arena, training. The Queen is in her chambers. The council has been dismissed."
Jorah nodded slowly, but his frown did not fade. "Be careful, Saera. If you see anything strange, alert the guards immediately."
"I will," Saera promised.
Jorah looked at her for a long moment, then turned and walked away.
Saera watched him go, a strange unease settling in her stomach. She shook it off and continued on her way.
<><>
Joffrey's chambers were quiet when Saera entered. She went to work immediately, tidying the bed, laying out fresh clothes, and preparing the bath.
She was in the middle of folding a tunic when she heard it.
A faint noise. A whisper of movement coming from inside the wardrobe.
Saera froze, her heart suddenly pounding in her chest. She stared at the wardrobe, her mind racing.
'Probably just a rat,' she told herself. 'The palace is full of them.'
But deep down, she knew the sound had not been a rat. It had been something larger.
She was about to walk towards the wardrobe and check when the words of Ser Jorah resounded in her head.
'No, dont be a fool.' She turned towards the door. She would alert the guards, she decided. She would not be a f-
The wardrobe burst open without a warning.
A figure lunged out, moving faster than anything Saera had ever seen.
She opened her mouth to scream, but a hand clamped over her lips, silencing her.
'No, an intruder!' she thought. 'The amulet!'
Her hand flew to the chain around her neck, where a small crystal pendant hung…a gift from Joffrey, a magical artifact he had enchanted to protect her in emergencies. All she had to do was activate it, and it would transport her to safety.
But she was too slow.
A sharp pain pierced her back, and Saera gasped, her eyes widening. She looked down and saw a blade protruding from her belly, the steel gleaming with her own blood.
"You are not the life I came here to take," a voice whispered in her ear. It was a man's voice, cold and emotionless. "For that, I am sorry. Allow the Many-Faced God to welcome you into its embrace."
Saera felt the blade at her throat, cold and sharp. She tried to speak, tried to scream, tried to do anything. But the blade moved, and her world turned red.
She felt herself falling, her body growing cold, her vision darkening. In her last moments, she thought of Joffrey. Of his green eyes, his rare smiles, the warmth of his hand on hers.
'I will not see him again,' she thought. 'I will not…'
And then there was nothing.
<><>
Ser Jorah Mormont could not shake the feeling.
He had been patrolling the pyramid for hours, his hand resting on his sword, his eyes scanning every shadow, every corner. The feeling had grown stronger, a sense of impending doom that he could not explain.
'Something is wrong,' he thought. 'Something is very wrong.'
He had seen Saera in the hall, had spoken with her briefly. She had seemed fine. Happy, even. But there had been something in her eyes, a sadness that she had tried to hide.
He knew about her and the prince, of course. Everyone did.
It was a tragedy, but not an uncommon one. Jorah had seen it before, had experienced it himself. He had loved Daenerys for years, had served her faithfully, had hoped that one day she might see him as more than a knight.
She never had. And she never would.
'But at least she is alive,' Jorah thought. 'At least she is safe.'
He was about to return to his quarters when he heard the footsteps. Loud, hurried, panicked.
Two Unsullied were running toward him, their faces pale beneath their bronze masks.
"Ser Jorah!" one of them called out. "Ser Jorah, come quickly!"
Jorah's hand tightened on his sword. "What is it? What has happened?"
"The guest," the Unsullied gasped. "Jaime Lannister. He has escaped. He killed the guards at his door and fled."
Jorah's blood ran cold. 'Jaime Lannister,' he thought. 'So this is why.'
He had known. From the moment he had first seen the man, he had known something was wrong with him. The way he held himself, the way he spoke, the way his eyes seemed to look through you rather than at you. It was all wrong. That man could not be the son of Tywin Lannister.
'He had to be an impostor.'
And now he had escaped and was lost inside the pyramid. But what is exactly his purpose?.
"Where is the Queen?" Jorah demanded. "Is she safe?"
"She is in her chambers, heavily guarded," the Unsullied said. "She is safe."
Jorah nodded, but his mind was racing. If the impostor was not after Daenerys, then who? There was only one other target in the pyramid.
'Joffrey.'
But Joffrey was not in the pyramid. He was still at the arena, training.
And then Jorah remembered. Saera. She had been going to Joffrey's chambers. She was there now, alone and defenseless.
Jorah drew his sword and ran as fast as he could.
The door to Joffrey's chambers was ajar.
Jorah pushed it open, his sword raised, his heart pounding in his chest.
The room was quiet, too quiet. The bath was half-prepared, the water still warm. Joffrey's clothes lay folded on the bed.
And on the floor, in a pool of blood, lay Saera.
Jorah's breath caught in his throat. She was on her back, her eyes open, staring at nothing. Her dress was soaked with blood, her throat cut from ear to ear.
'No,' Jorah thought. 'No, no, no.'
And standing over her, a bloody knife in his hand, was a man in a dark cloak.
Jorah did not hesitate. He lunged forward, his sword swinging in a wide arc. The assassin turned, and Jorah saw his face.
It was Jaime Lannister's face. But it was wrong. Twisted. The features seemed to shift and flow like water, the eyes dark and empty.
'An assassin!' Jorah realized. 'It's one of them.' The ones from Bravos. He was sure of it now. It all finally makes sense. His instincts had been right.
The assassin moved with inhuman speed, dodging Jorah's blade and slashing with his knife. Jorah parried, the steel ringing against steel, and struck again.
They fought across the chamber, their blades flashing in the dying light of the torches.
Jorah was armored and armed with a sword, but the Faceless Man was faster, more agile, and far more skilled in the art of killing.
Jorah landed a blow, his sword cutting into the assassin's shoulder. The Faceless Man hissed in pain, but did not slow. He lunged forward, his knife finding a gap in Jorah's armor, slicing into his side.
Jorah grunted, stumbling back. Blood was pouring from the wound, staining his tunic red. He could feel his strength fading, his vision darkening.
'No,' he thought. 'Not yet. I cannot die yet.'
He swung his sword again, but the Faceless Man was already gone. He had slipped past Jorah, had reached the door, had disappeared into the darkness of the hall.
Jorah tried to follow, but his legs would not hold him. He fell to his knees, his sword clattering to the floor.
'I failed,' he thought. 'I failed her. I failed him.'
He looked at Saera's body, at her empty eyes, at the blood that pooled around her.
'I am sorry,' he thought. 'I am so sorry.'
He heard footsteps approaching, the sound of voices calling his name. But they seemed so far away, so distant.
'Khaleesi,' he thought. 'Forgive me.'
And then everything went dark.
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