A/N: GoT has always been one of my favorite books. And ever since it aired on HBO, it also became one of my favorite TV series.

Truth be told, this one shot was conceived months ago (back when the final season of GoT was airing, to be exact). Never got to finish it then and now I know why. XD

Slowly but surely overcoming writer's block now. And I'm happy. Just taking it one day at a time. :)

Thanks for reading my other stories and leaving reviews, faves, and follows on them. :) I'll always say that :D

The Faceless Woman

"And pray tell, what service could you possibly offer me that I shall let someone as dangerous as you live — if what my men claim are true?"

"Give me a name, and I shall deliver them unto you. One life that will prove my worth."

She did well on her word then. It hadn't been a full day later when word had reached him. The person with the name he'd given her had died after he fell from the battlements. But he knew better… Knew who has behind the sudden loss, and realized that he had good use for her after all.

Dressed in rags that barely concealed her chest and covered in soot, his men had brought her to him bound and gagged — a supporter of the rebels in the Reach, they said. The only reason why they hadn't left her for dead was because she'd killed more than a dozen of the men they had sent to scout out the area. Allegedly, she had also been their main culprit for dispatching several other scouts in the previous days. But as word after word had reached him, it quickly grew convoluted and made less sense than the ramblings of a madman from the North.

There were accounts that told him they'd spotted a man, then an old woman, a middle-aged pregnant mother, a young girl. The day they'd brought this culprit to him for judgment, she had donned a homely face — crooked nose, broken teeth, warts and everything.

"I am what is known in Braavos as a Faceless Man, my Lord."

Ah yes… The term wasn't strange, by any means. He'd heard once or twice of the Order cloaked in obscurity. He hadn't met one, and certainly had never seen one. Well, up until this woman came and claimed it was what she was.

He fixed his enthralling violet eyes on irises fashioned out of emerald. She was dressed in a simple womanly shift now, auburn hair twisted up into a half ponytail, hands folded primly above the rustling skirt, pale skin glimmering underneath the candlelight.

"A woman who serves in the House of Black and White, if I am not mistaken."

"Served, my Lord."

Interesting…

"Humor me. How did someone like you find their way to Westeros? What purpose do you serve?"

"I was dishonorably dismissed from the Order, my Lord."

If she managed to get caught that easily, then he shouldn't have been surprised…

"I can see why."

A smile slipped onto her plain face, veiling some form of a jest that he was sure he was not privy to. The gesture answered to his mischievous grin, though, but it wore off as quickly as it had appeared when she uttered her next words.

"My Lord, have you ever considered that perhaps I wanted to get caught? To capture your attention?"

He cocked an eyebrow as he turned away from the blazing hearth and the warmth it provided. "What could a Faceless servant possibly want from a nobleman living in Westeros?"

He watched the light in her eyes change as she brazenly stepped forward and came around his large ornate desk to stand before him in her rags of clothing.

"I may be like the others — just another loyal subject wanting enough gold and food to feed me for a lifetime. Or perhaps I want something else."

Her smile, despite the crooked teeth and the gaps in between were intriguing — enough to compel him to find out more. With confident hands, she reached for him and leisurely traced the sigil of his House — the shape of a red crane mid-flight against a backdrop of solid black.

"Who hasn't heard of Lord Lelouch Lamperouge-vi Britannia — eldest son of Empress Consort Marianne and Emperor Charles; 11th Prince of the Seven Kingdoms; 17th heir to the Iron Throne; Highest Military Advisor and Overseer to the Emperor's illustrious armies; Conqueror of the North? You have quite the reputation — for an eighteen year-old boy. How could someone like me pass up the opportunity to serve under a lord so powerful?"

"I see you've memorized every single ridiculous title they gave me. As if there is any real value to it at all." He laughed to himself and stepped away from her to give himself some space. "You wanted my attention, so you resorted to essentially surrendering yourself to my men. Have you not thought of the consequences?"

"I have no need for considering consequences when I have taken note of every possible outcome, and have prepared myself how to act for each one."

True to her word, she had stayed loyal ever since he'd admitted her into his service — turned her into his sword in the darkness. In a year of having her in his company, he could scarcely count the number of enemies he'd snuffed out before they could strike. And it was all because of her, and her ingenious way of thinking. They had disagreements, but for the most part, her thoughts always ran parallel to his.

Needless to say, his father nor his family weren't very thrilled with this new addition to his entourage. When he'd ridden back to King's Landing with CC — as she preferred to be called, he had immediately been summoned to court. Entering through the massive set of double doors, he stormed into the familiar throne room with her following a ways behind — wearing a more comely face that time. To say that she had drawn the attention of men was an understatement. They had been riveted to her appearance alone. Appearing with him, clad in leathers and a bit of steel, she had been a vision. Dark wavy locks of hair, tanned skin, and brown eyes.

It wasn't her real face, she had assured him, but she appeared foreign enough to gain people's attention.

She never showed him her real face despite the number of times he had asked, or commanded. She wasn't afraid of him or his power — wasn't fazed with the way he handled external and internal affairs. Quite often, he'd asked her opinion, silently acknowledging her competence and prowess in battles. And when he would give her a name, she would leave, stay away for months, days, hours (it depended); but she always came back — her mission unfailing. Always a success.

He knew how expensive it was to hire a Faceless Man to dispatch someone. He'd often heard one of his father's council men talk of it a couple of times, so he counted himself quite fortunate for landing the jackpot in CC. And no one even need know. She maintained the face she had used when she was brought to Imperial Court with him, but in times where she lounged about his room — dining in all sorts of cheeses and drinking wine — in complete boredom or wandered the streets of King's Landing, she wore different faces.

There were days when she would resemble an old crone; other days, she would be a waif. Or if he had unexpected visitors, she would easily swap out one face for that of a man's. And still, there were times when he would find her in his room with the highly attractive face of a noble lady.

It had been disorienting at first — to have an unsolicited roommate who regularly changed faces like they were clothes or dresses. But as time passed, he had grown used to it. With the passage of time, his curiosity to see her real face multiplied tenfold, and he often found himself thinking of ways he could convince her to trust him enough to show him her true self.

"After all this time, you'd think you could trust me enough to show me what you really look like."

She gave him that secret smile of hers — the one he always found infuriating and attractive at the same time. Toying with the goblet between her fingers, she peered up at him above the rim and took a healthy sip of fine Arbor Vintage Gold.

"I didn't know my face was a cause for concern for you, Lelouch."

"After a year of seeing random and strange faces in my bed chambers, I am warranted to ask." He claimed a seat for himself on the dinner table for two and helped himself to a fine red cup. "Isn't it unfair? You see me, you know my name. And yet I do not know you. Yet."

Feeling her smile grow ever wider at the dozens of implications in his words, she abandoned her unfinished cup of wine and sauntered over to his side of the round table. With practiced grace unbecoming of the noble lady's face she wore today, she settled onto his lap nonchalantly, sliding her arms around his shoulders and pressing their foreheads together — like they'd done so many times in the past year ever since the day he'd unwittingly kissed her when they stood together at the edge of Blackwater Bay.

"I do not know why you complain, my Prince, when you've had no qualms indulging me in lordly kisses so far." Gingerly, she traced patterns on his soft cheek that was void of facial hair. "I come to you always with a pretty face. What more could you ask for from a woman without a real face? I am No One."

His hands around her waist, he slowly begun to undo the laces of her rich dress, fingers sliding barely over slips of skin. "You aren't No One. If you were, your Brotherhood wouldn't have expelled you. And you wouldn't be here."

"Touche."

Hot breaths passed from one mouth to the other as they both gave in to their wants — to feel the other's touch, to kiss as real-life lovers would, to be connected even if it was illusory and would only last for but a fraction of their entire day. Satin smooth lips caressed his own, and he idly wondered if the real CC would taste and feel as good as the disposable facade's.

He finished undoing the laces on her dress, and as the sleeves at the shoulders slowly slipped off, his mouth also followed the motion, tracing an invisible line that went from her lips to her cheek, down to that milky shoulder.

She leaned into him, sighing in bliss as he left kisses across her collarbone, and as his fingers wandered over soft flesh.

She used to entertain herself by counting the number of times she and this Prince had shared a bed in the dead of night or in the break of dawn. But no more… She'd lost count three months ago. It was getting dreadfully boring anyhow. And as the days wore on, it was becoming impossibly more difficult to brush off her lover's requests.

It was funny to think of him that way… A lover. Considering political standing and birth, she was far far below him. By all manner of common standards and practices, she had no right to even sleep in the same bed as him — much less run her hands greedily over his nude body whenever they were joined together underneath the silken and cotton sheets. Him with his comely face, and her in a stranger's mask.

Truth be told, it had been quite the surprise to know that her Prince had never been with another woman intimately before her. Twas something she took great pleasure in whenever she teased him about the Springtime season of his youth.

Before her, all he'd ever known was conquering — one campaign after another until the strongholds of the North had fallen one by one; until rebellion was quelled by his silver tongue — spinning cloaks of deceit and charming every Lady at political discourse.

Lelouch vi Britannia would make a fine ruler — had he owned his brother's birthright. But he didn't…

The Crown Prince of the vast empire was too soft for her liking… (This she gathered from her time at Court and during Small Council Meetings where she shadowed Lelouch and stood as his guardian). Odysseus was far too amiable. Always relying on the whispers of the maesters, and the counsel of the 2nd Prince. The perfect picture of an Emperor's lap dog. Quite a far cry from her Prince — who, despite his reputation as an Overseer and Military Adviser, had quite the rebellious streak when he would come to a disagreement with his father's Hand and his brothers.

Over a year and she'd seen more of his life than she was supposed to be privy too. She began as his assassin. But her involvement in political affairs and his personal life had easily turned her into something else. Personally, she liked to think of him as her accomplice. The first few months, she accepted his payment for her services in gold. But after gradually growing closer to him, the pure desire for money had waned, replaced with a growing desire to watch over him and be by his side.

And now here they were… Exchanging lovers' kisses in the gloom, offering her body for his enjoyment in the same way he gave his for her fulfillment.

He was right in saying it was a tad bit unfair that he still hadn't had so much as a glimpse of her face.

But it wasn't as if she didn't want to… It was just that it was quite difficult to peel back one face and unearth her own.

After years of growing up in the care of the Faceless Men and in servitude to the many-faced god, sacrificing one's own identity to embody the god of death had been the goal — the completion. And she had tried. Gods knew how hard she did.

A younger CC had no problem discarding the mask to reveal her true face — her true identity. But after years of practice and servitude, she had donned so many faces, and with each day that passed, it had become increasingly difficult to unearth her real face. Peeling off one mask only revealed another. And another. And another.

So many that she feared she had already lost herself years ago — buried beneath a sea of endless faces.

So well-versed in deception was she that it had been quite easy to evade her lover's requests with coy smiles and flippant words. But underneath it all, she was frustrated… She'd lost count of the times she had spent time alone in his room in front of a looking glass, trying her damned hardest to peer into her own soul through a stranger's eyes.

It was utterly irritating. Especially now when all she wanted was to show her Prince her true face.

It would be her ultimate expression of loyalty and faith. That she trusted none but him to see through the stranger's face and know her for the girl she truly is — underneath all the masks, discarding every flimsy disguise.

Maybe she couldn't… But perhaps he would be able to help her.

Returning his ardent kiss, she slowly pulled away and rested her forehead against his. Looking into his eyes like this, it was easy to see the curiosity. And yet underneath it all, she could see his resignation — his acceptance. Because despite his requests, he never forced her hand into doing something she was uncomfortable with. Such an enigma. And what a man…

"I will need your assistance; if we are to unearth the face I held at birth."

She may not be able to impart every ounce of knowledge and secret passed on to her by her ex-brethren at the House of Black and White for him to fully and wholly grasp the concept of face-changing, but perhaps she could tell him enough to help her with her frustration. Changing faces too frequently in the past have muddied her own memories. She could remember bits and pieces of her old face from looking at her reflection once (years ago), but it wasn't enough to form a vivid and solid image in her mind.

It wasn't enough to conjure it up… But perhaps with his help— Would she dare?

"All I have are bits and pieces of my real face. Not enough to peel the layers that have gathered over the years." Closing her eyes, their noses brushed and she spoke against his lips. "But I remember seeing eyes of Arbor gold in my reflection once—"

He listened to her trail off, and all the while, his fingers threaded through locks of wine-colored hair; genuinely curious about what she really looked like. She'd told him to help her picture out a face — her face. A face he hadn't seen. And yet, he was more than willing to help her in any way he can.

And so he clung to every word, to every description no matter how vague it sounded. With it, he pictured a blank canvas — the kind that his brother Clovis always had in one of the Red Keep's many massive drawing rooms. Upon that blank canvas, he began to paint a picture of what his lover described. He didn't know if he was voicing his thoughts aloud, but it didn't really matter in the face of what was at stake, did it?

Irises fashioned out of Arbor gold.

A straight nose. Perhaps even tall and delicately fashioned.

Skin as pale as the Ladies born in the North. Maybe even having the slightest tint of pink.

Thin lips, she said. But all he could think of was a full mouth, slightly parted and peachy in color.

Sharp cheekbones and a softer jaw.

And her hair… The only memory clear enough for her. Hair the color of sun-kissed grass in the height of Spring, locks flowing like a waterfall, stopping a couple of inches above her waist.

What a peculiar face he had painted in his own mind. It was a pretty face, if he said so himself. The measure of his imagination's accuracy had yet to be seen. Subconsciously, one of his hands toyed with the locks of hair as he let her guide his hand towards her face.

The sensation of changing it with her was foreign to him. It bordered between physical and completely supernatural. Perhaps it was both, and he had no right to question one of the greatest mysteries the Island of Braavos was famous for. With her hand on top of his, it felt like effortlessly lifting a sheet draped over a painting perched on an easel — like tangible water in his grasp; there one moment and gone the next.

And just when he had opened his eyes to see if it worked, her weight left his body in an instant. He watched with wide, bewildered eyes as she darted across his chambers, clutching her loosened dress to her body while making a beeline for the mirror placed above the chest of drawers. Waist-length Spring green hair trailed behind her like a floating curtain. And in a speed that matched her own, he left his seat to stand behind her.

He stared at her reflection and took silent note of the unshed and repressed tears glistening in her eyes — irises fashioned from molten gold. Arbor gold. A pale face, her cheekbones that weren't as sharp as he had imagined, a straight nose, and lips that had a doll-like quality to them — not like he had pictured either.

But—

"Is this it?" Was his quiet query as their eyes met in the mirror.

She turned away from her reflection to face him fully, her hold on her dress loosening a bit, letting it slide down at the edge of her shoulders. "Yes, Lelouch. This is my face."

And just like that, that infuriating and coy smile found its way back to her lips. Her real lips, he realized.

"Is it to your liking, Your Grace?"

He returned her teasing smile with one of his own as he stepped closer, and reached for her — brushing a lock of hair behind her shoulder, but not before scrutinizing the odd color with fascination for a little bit.

"Yours is a face worthy of a royal portrait."

The teasing quirk turned into a catty smile as she welcomed his touch and let him draw her into his arms.

"Such flattery. Does His Grace think me a fool that I would fall prey to a tongue that has charmed the noble ladies of the Seven Kingdoms?"

A hand framed her cheek and guided her mouth to his. Lips fusing together intimately, both relishing in different kinds of joy — but joy all the same. Silently breaking the kiss for a breath of fresh air, her body curved knowingly into his — like she had done so many times before.

"Thank you, Circe. Truly."

And when she looked at him with a question in her eyes, he could only smile. To unearth and reveal her true face was to display her own vulnerability, wasn't it? And that alone was a show of trust and faith. And he vowed to the seven gods that he would honor that and cherish it.

"For choosing to be with me…"

And choose him she did as she told him in her own way how much she wanted her Prince. He complied with a smile and brought her to his bed, lavishing his intimate affection on the woman who'd stolen his heart.

Tonight, they could finally make up for the past year they spent blocked by disguises and masks.

Tonight, he would gaze upon her face and know it was hers — truly hers.

And what a night of ecstasy it would be.

Notes:

[Long ass note about the Faceless Men and their portrayal in the book]

I don't exactly know the ins and outs of face-changing by the Faceless Men in Game of Thrones. It involves magic and meditation and other mumbo-jumbo. They don't even touch on it too intimately in the TV series. I can't remember the process being explained thoroughly in the book either. So I added my own speculation about how it works here. xD

The only thing I can recall clearly from the book was Arya having her face changed for the first time. They literally gave her a dead battered woman's face and she conjured up memories from that same dead person — memories of being beaten up, of receiving bruises. And then the Faceless Man reminded her that they are but memories (hallucinations), and told her to focus on her new and "borrowed" face. To slip into that stranger's identity, and yet maintain the fact that it was nothing but a mask.

It's dual and complicated. And I love it. And combining that with CC's immortal witch premise in Code Geass, a Faceless Man/Woman seemed like the perfect role for her if she and Lelouch and the others were ever dumped in a GoT AU.

And if you're still reading at this point, then thanks for reading through the notes and the entire one-shot. xD I might write follow-ups, but eh. We'll see :)

'Til next time! :D