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Harry Potter and all of its characters belong to J.K. Rowling.
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"Dialogue"
'Thoughts'
-Author notes-
Chapter 142: The Sorcerer's Wrath
The funeral was held at dawn.
The sky above Meereen was grey and cold, the sun hidden behind a veil of clouds. The city had gathered in the great square before the pyramid, thousands of freedmen and former slaves standing in silence as they prepared the pyre.
Saera's body had been washed and dressed in her finest gown…a blue silk dress that matched her eyes. Her hair had been brushed and braided, her hands folded over her chest. She looked peaceful, as if she were sleeping.
Joffrey stood at the front of the crowd, his face a mask of stone. He had not slept yet. He had not eaten. He had not spoken more than a few words to anyone since he had returned from the harbor, his hands still stained with the assassin's blood.
Daenerys stood beside him with a serene expression. She had tried to stay at his side and be supportive.
Tyrion stood on his other side, his mismatched eyes red-rimmed. He had known Saera for years now, and had grown fond of the girl. She had been kind to him, had never treated him as a lesser man. Her death was a loss for all of them.
The pyre was lit. The flames rose, crackling and hungry, consuming the wood and the silk and the body within.
Joffrey watched.
He watched as the fire took her, as her face disappeared behind the flames, as the smoke rose into the grey sky.
'I am sorry,' he thought. 'I am so sorry.'
He had failed her. He had let her die. And now he would make the world pay for it.
<><>
The council chamber was quiet.
The members of Daenerys's small council had gathered. Ser Jorah was absent, still recovering from his transformation, but the others were there.
Tyrion served himself another cup of wine to calm his nerves.
Grey Worm stood near the entrance of the chamber, his expression as impassive as ever.
Lord Varys was watching everything with his dark eyes.
Daenerys sat at the head of the table, her violet eyes fixed on Joffrey. He stood at the far end, his back to the window, his face hidden in shadow.
"I know who hired the Faceless Assassin," Joffrey said, his voice flat.
The chamber fell silent. Tyrion leaned forward, his mismatched eyes narrowing. "Who?" he asked.
Joffrey was silent for a moment. Then he spoke.
"Jaime Lannister. He went to Bravos and hired the assassin to kill me. That's why he was waiting in my chambers. What happened to Saera was unfortunate collateral damage. I was the target."
The name hung in the air. Tyrion's face went pale. He opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again.
"That's... I cannot imagine the real Jamie doing that," he said, his voice trembling. "He would never... he would never hire an assassin. Not to kill you. Not to kill anyone. Despite what people say about him…he values his honor."
"The assassin was wearing his face," Joffrey said. "I saw everything in the assassin's mind before he died. The contract was made by Jamie Lannister. He paid them in gold and even gave them his face to use during the job. He gave up his identity to see me dead."
Tyrion shook his head, his hands gripping the edge of the table. "No. No, this must be a mistake."
"There is no mistake." Joffrey's voice was hard as steel. "However, if I knee my uncle as well as I thought…this was not his idea. But instead, he was following someone else's ploy."
Tyrion gasped. "You think Cersei…but she is your mother."
"I doubt she sees me as her son at this point; you should have seen her face when I last visited King's Landing," Joffrey said. "She wants me dead, I have no doubt about that. She has always wanted me dead. And she would use Jaime to do it. She has used him before."
Tyrion was silent, his eyes fixed on the table. He could not deny it. He knew his sister. He knew what she was capable of.
"I am going to Braavos," Joffrey said. "I will confront the House of Black and White. I will make them pay for what they have done."
Daenerys looked at him, her violet eyes filled with concern. "You are going alone?"
"Yes."
"That is a bit reckless, even for you, My Prince," Varys said, his voice smooth. "The House of Black and White is not a place to be trifled with. They have killed kings and princes."
"They killed Saera," Joffrey said, his voice cutting through the Spider's words. "They took an innocent girl and cut her throat like she was nothing. I will make sure they pay for that."
Daenerys was silent for a long moment. Then she nodded slowly.
"Take your time to grieve," she said. "If you wish to travel to Braavos alone, I will not stop you. We will wait for you here, in Meereen." She paused, her voice softening. "But before you leave, I will only ask you one thing."
Joffrey frowned. "What thing?"
"I want you to check on Jorah."
"Jorah?" He had almost forgotten about the old knight. He had also been a victim of the assassin.
When he found him in his chamber, he was near death and had been inflicted with a deadly venom.
Joffrey turned to Tyrion. "How did the ritual work?" He had honestly not expected Jorah to survive the night. He was in a very weakened state, and the blood dragon ritual places a tremendous pressure on the body.
But he also knew that this was the only chance he had.
Tyrion nodded slowly. "The ritual worked…well, mostly."
"Mostly?"
"He is alive," Tyrion said. "But there were... unexpected changes."
<><>
Tyrion's private laboratory was a small chamber in the lower levels of the pyramid, tucked away from the main halls. It smelled of herbs and chemicals, of dragon's blood and burnt metal. Shelves lined the walls, filled with jars and vials and books.
In the center of the room, on a low bed, lay Ser Jorah Mormont.
Joffrey approached slowly, his eyes fixed on the knight's form. Jorah was unconscious, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. His upper torso was uncovered, revealing a latticework of scars…old wounds from battles long past, new wounds from the assassin's blade.
But it was not the scars that caught Joffrey's attention.
It was the scales.
They covered patches of Jorah's skin…his shoulders, his chest, his neck. They were small and hard, glinting in the torchlight like polished stone. They spread across his body like a disease, a map of some strange transformation.
And on his face, they covered almost half of it. The left side of his face was a mask of scales, the skin beneath them darkened and rough. His left eye was closed, the lid sealed by the scaly growth.
Joffrey stared, his mind racing. He had seen the scales appearing before, in the Dothraki they had experimented on. But never to this degree. Never so extensive.
"The ritual," he said, his voice quiet. "It changed him much more than the others."
Tyrion nodded. "I followed your instructions. The dragon's blood, the incantation, the ritual. But he was already dying when we started. The poison had spread too far. His body was... too weak."
"That is why," Joffrey said, understanding dawning. "He was too weak. The ritual is meant for strong, healthy subjects. When the body is compromised, the transformation becomes... unpredictable."
"Is it permanent?" Tyrion asked.
Joffrey studied Jorah for a long moment. Then he nodded slowly.
"Yes. The changes are permanent. He should consider himself lucky to have survived at all." He paused, his eyes narrowing. "But the changes are not necessarily a bad thing."
Tyrion frowned. "What do you mean?"
Joffrey reached out and touched one of the scales on Jorah's shoulder. It was warm, warmer than human skin. He could feel the power beneath it, the dragon blood that had been absorbed into the knight's body.
"Most subjects only absorb a small fraction of the dragon's blood," Joffrey said. "Their bodies reject it, fight it, and they are changed only slightly. But Jorah... his body was so weak, so desperate to survive, that it absorbed much more than the usual amount. The physical changes are a sign of that absorption."
He smiled, a cold, calculating expression that did not reach his eyes.
"He may have received unexpected rewards."
"What rewards?" Tyrion demanded.
Joffrey did not answer. He simply turned and walked toward the door.
"We shall see," he said. "If he wakes up."
<><>
The morning sun was rising over Meereen, painting the sky in shades of gold and crimson.
Joffrey stood atop the flying carpet, his cloak billowing in the wind. Fawkes perched on his shoulder, the phoenix's golden eyes gleaming with an inner fire. The city stretched below him, a sprawl of yellow brick and torchlight.
The only one there to see him off was Daenerys.
She stood at the edge of the pyramid's terrace, her silver hair whipping in the wind, her violet eyes filled with sorrow. She had not tried to stop him. She had not argued. She had simply... watched him.
She knew this was something he needed to do and would not take a no for an answer.
"Be careful," she said, her voice soft. "And come back to us."
Joffrey nodded at her, but his mind was elsewhere. His thoughts were of Saera. Of her smile, her laugh, her touch. Of the way she had looked at him, with love and devotion that he had never deserved.
'I should have sent her away,' he thought. 'I should have been there to protect her.'
He had failed. He had been too focused on his own problems, too consumed by his own power, to see the danger that lurked in the shadows.
He cannot change the past. All he can do now is to make sure those responsible pay with their lives.
"I will return soon," he said, his voice flat. "When I am done."
He did not wait for her response. He simply raised his hand, and the carpet rose into the air, carrying him away from Meereen, away from the grief and the pain and the guilt.
Below him, the city shrank into the distance. The pyramid became a speck. The bay became a smear of blue on the horizon.
And ahead, somewhere across the sea, Braavos waited.
'I am coming,' Joffrey thought, his eyes fixed on the eastern sky. 'I am coming for you, House of Black and White. And when I am done, there will be nothing left of you but ash and memory.'
The city of Braavos would soon feel the wrath of the Sorcerer Prince.
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