Swift as a deer.

Ba bump.

Quiet as a shadow.

Ba bump.

Calm as water.

Ba bump.

Quick as a snake.

Ba bump.

What do we say to the God of Death?

"Not today. " she whispered. The girl lunged forward, flicked her wrist and it was done. Needle pierced through his throat, its bloodstained tip glinted in the torchlight through the back of the aggressor's thick neck. He thought he had her cornered and only realized he had walked right into her snare as the girl retracted her sword, cleaned it and slid it back into its sheath. The fat man's devilishly toothless grin dissolved from his face while a malicious smile grew on hers. The acolyte watched as the light in the man's eyes diminished and his body slumped onto one of the many dusty back alleyways in Braavos.

'Beth' took a pitying glance at the lifeless merchant lying on the ground before her; his sausage fingers still adorned with precious gems and metals, his limbs limp and his expression pained. His body was clothed in fine silks that had formerly been dyed a hundred different shades and hues, now ruined only by the deep scarlet liquid that flowed like a spring river from his mortal wound. The Red God takes what is his, and only death may pay for life. A shame that it had to be your own son who sacrificed you to save the life of his concubine. Valar Morghulis, poor man, and one day, it will be his turn. The smell of death drew scurrying rats near. She patted the dust from her hands and took her leave, trotting sluggishly towards a sunset that looked so familiar and yet so foreign.

It was in the light of this glorious blood orange dome that 'Salty' had arrived in Braavos and found herself in the House of Black and White. She had killed more men and changed more faces than she would care to admit, though time and time again, she put down her sword and returned to the face of Arya Stark, just to see how the girl looked at the height of adolescence. Two years ago they had stripped a girl of three and ten of all her possessions and commanded that she become 'no-one'. She did exactly as she was bid.

Well...almost.

Needle was Westeros. Needle was Winterfell. Needle was Mother, Father, Jon.

Needle was Arya Stark .

Casting the sword away was ridding herself of all identity and the girl simply did not possess the courage to do it. It felt like she was committing some crime against the essence of her being. She knew removing any 'sense of self' was crucial for a Faceless Man. She knew of the consequences to be suffered on the event of the Faceless Men finding her sword. She thought of all the times she could have easily disposed of it . Yet, something within her held onto Needle for its dear life and she could never let the sword go. It's the direwolf, he is clinging to it, she thought, it's the icy north encrusted deep within that you have tried to melt in the tropics of Braavos. Yes it wanes and weakens, but it lives on. You are no-one now, girl, just a vessel of the Many Faced God, you promised yourself that this fat merchant will be Needle's last kill. Get rid of the sword. Being wielded by the likes of you will only shame Needle, you will never do the sword justice, nor will you ever let Needle fulfil its true purpose. Give it to someone more worthy, someone who at least lives with the face that their mother and father bestowed upon them.

Felicity and festivity did not slip away from Braavos as night overshadowed the city. Music and cinders filled the air. She was engulfed her a warm, easy breeze while the stars directed her path to the forge, desperately trying to ignore a searing pain that pinched her heart. She had passed the forge so many times, basked in the heat that seeped from its walls, listened to the songs of iron, tin, copper, gold and silver steel but never paid much attention to the place. Only now she decided it was a most fitting place for Needle. The sword would be born again from this forge in Braavos, taking on a new name and perhaps even a new look. The girl took the sword from her belt and placed it gently at the doorstep. Good luck Needle, she thought, and goodbye.

She felt empty. A part of her was gone. Arya Stark was dead and done. The girl held her tears as she ran back to the House of Black and White, refusing to acknowledge a gaping hole that appeared where her heart had been, even though it was hurting unbearably, even though she knew she could fix it by simply retrieving her sword. The Ironmen got it right for once; what is dead may never die, she told herself fiercely, the wound will go away when you become a true Faceless Man, you will be brave and strong and feared, you will stop hurting and you will forget.

The appetizing aromas of fresh bread and warm soup did not cheer the girl as she ate her dinner quietly beside a marble pillar in the Hall of Gods. The hall was a curious place; twelve giant stone statues of various deities embellished with sparkling jewels stood in a large circle facing inwards, each with pools of coloured water placed before them. The Red God had a pool of ruby red water; the God of Light's pool was topaz; the Smith's onyx, the Warrior's sapphire, the Mother's amethyst and the Father's emerald. In the centre of the circle stood a thirteenth statue; the Many Faced God was a figure with twelve bodies joined at the back and twelve faces that reflected the exact features and expressions of the twelve gods that surrounded him. Encompassing the statue was a ring of clear water. Spears of liquid would rise and fall periodically, dancing around the Many Faced God like a circle of soldiers parading their spikes and cheering their lords before battle. The large stained-glass windows brought coloured light into the Hall of Gods in the day and gleamed beautifully by torchlight during the night. The high ceiling was covered with paintings of ghostly weirwood trees, representing, according to the Kindly Man, the old gods of Westeros.

The girl was so engrossed in watching water spears that she did not notice the man until he was seated beside her. She observed him from the corner of her eye; curly platinum blonde hair, pale as paper, round coral coloured eyes, high cheekbones and thin lips almost hidden by a thick moustache. Probably just another Faceless Man, she thought calmly. The girl stood and began to walk away when a voice called out to her;
"Was it weasel soup that they served tonight, sweet girl?" it said slowly in the common tongue. She turned abruptly on her heel and shot him an incredulous glance.
"No." she answered firmly, finally meeting his gaze. A smile split across the stranger's face.
"A man has a thirst, a girl could make a friend" he said, cheekily. Her eyes widened in realization while her heart pounded excitedly like canary bird trying to escape the captivity of her ribcage.
"I have friends." she replied, trying to hide her grin. She spontaneously threw the contents of her tankard at him, he moved to avoid the attack but water managed to catch his sleeve.
"Has a girl quenched a man's thirst?" she asked teasingly.
"No, far from it." he replied with a sly smile and proceeded swiftly to splash water onto the girl from the pool of The Maiden with his hands.
"Jaqen." she whined in her now wet clothing. It had taken the girl quite unexpectedly and she giggled. They ran about the statues trying to throw water at the other. He cupped the water with his hands and nearly always hit his target. She filled her tankard from the various pools but missed the man by an inch or two each time. The sounds of water droplets and laughter and voices and footsteps echoed through the Hall. The girl could not to recall the last time she had laughed out loud or felt so alive. It must have been more than a lifetime ago, she contemplated wistfully.

By the time the pair grew tired of the game they were both drenched to the skin from head to toe.
"A man sees that a girl has learnt much from the House, but clearly not enough." he taunted.
"Oh but Jaqen, in case you hadn't noticed you're wet too from trying to splash water at me, how very immature of a Faceless Man." she retorted. "You knew I was here all along, why did you not come to see me?" the girl accused suddenly.
"A man had duties, lovely girl. Besides, it was the lovely girl who refused a man's offer."
"Hmph!" she grunted cutely, pouting. He chortled lightly in response.
"A man apologises for his absence, lovely girl, and asks for forgiveness." The man moved his right hand from his chin to his forehead; his skin tone darkened slightly, his moustache was replaced by stubble, lips filled, cheekbones lowered, his hair flowed red with that familiar silvery-white strand and his eyes again gleamed greyish-blue.
"A man has come, will a girl return?" he asked in that velvety voice with outstretched arms.

The smile disappeared from the face of 'Beth'. Increased atmospheric tension became evident. He made that promise to Arya Stark, but I tried to dispose of her. No. She cannot reappear, not when I had just set the boundaries, not when I have just given Needle away. She was a perplexed girl with a resolve as strong as Valyrian steel. She took a step away from the man.
"I can't" she said firmly, "I can't return to being Arya Stark if I want to become a Faceless Man."
"Oh?"
"I am no-one now. You can't keep the promise you made with Arya Stark because she is gone from this world. Goodbye Jaqen H'ghar." she said coldly as she turned to leave.
"Girl, wait. A man came across this." She turned and looked at him wearily. Jaqen held out a thin sword with both his hands. Needle.
"It seems that a girl dropped it." he said, throwing the sword at her. She caught it in her left hand. "Or did a girl leave her sword at the doorstep on purpose. Is 'goodbye' what she said when she abandoned it?" he accused in a sarcastic tone.
"I cannot be a true Faceless Man if Arya Stark lives. Surely you know that better than anyone. You were the one who gave me the damn coin and taught me Valar Morghulis!" defiance and anger now spawing in her voice. You are the one who made me what I am!
"A man regrets" he said ruefully. "He saw great potential in that girl. He wanted to keep her at his side so he offered the coin. He made her a promise but he cannot fulfil. That wilful, spirited, cunning little girl is gone and it is a man's fault."

Warm tears streamed down the girl's face. He had the truth of the dilemma. The girl, naive in her years, had nowhere to go so she came to the House of Black and White, knowing that she would find Jaqen here but oblivious to the ramifications of becoming a Faceless Man. Yet, the girl soon found that those who serve the Many Faced God have no faces of their own. Sentiment was the virtue and vice and weakness and strength of Arya Stark. 'Beth' and 'no-one' did not possess emotions; for 'love', 'hate', 'anger', 'melancholy' was undeniably malapropos in the House of Black and White. The Many Faced God be damned! she thought frustratedly. The girl remembered the last time she cried. Harrenhal. He had kissed her on the forehead, comforted her, let her rest in his arms, gave her a temporary sense of safety and courage. She reached her hands up, wiping tears away, putting on a false mask of bravery. Her face felt strange; the jaw was too wide, the eyes were too small, the skin was rough and the bridge of her nose was crooked. She hated it.

He watched as she moved her right hand from chin to forehead and smiled solemnly. Her skin became pale, her nose became straight and tall, her jaw slimmed, her eyes were adorned with the icy-grey rings that he had come to love so well.
"Damn you Jaqen H'ghar," she cried, "It's you! It's always you. You lure out my weakness, you bring out Arya Stark and I am left completely defenceless!" Jaqen stepped forward and engulfed Arya in a tight embrace, to which she made a mediocre attempt at struggling.
"It is part of a man's charm." he said soothingly.
"I suppose so..." she sniffled. He trailed his hand down the side of her slim jaw, tilting her chin up towards him. She looked up at him longingly as he slowly pressed a line of kisses from her forehead and down her cheek, finally capturing her lips. The girl immediately tried to take control and so he let her dominate the kiss for several seconds before he gently slithered his hand to grasp her hip, feeling the soft feminine curves of her body, his tongue stealing its way into her mouth and tickling the back of her throat while his teeth scraped her lower lip, re-establishing his dominance.

When he released her, she pulled back quickly, struggling for breath, her lips swollen, body tingling, head dizzy. Her partner's kisses were undeniably passionate and demanding; the man would not let her go until he had done a good and thorough job of exploration, sparing nothing. She leaned her forehead against his, smiling and panting, the tip of his nose nuzzled hers, her fingers entwined in his hair as they looked into each other's eyes.

"Jaqen?"
"Yes?"
"Can 'that' night be tonight?" she asked airily.
"If a lovely girl wills it so." he answered seductively.

Her nimble fingers went to unlace his breeches while he pulled the wet shift over her head and discarded it into the growing pile that consisted of clothes, belts, knives and various weapons. His lips searched for hers again as he backed the girl onto his feathered bed. Ridding her of her small clothes, he took a second to drink her in with his eyes; observing the way her rounded breasts would rise and fall with her breathing, the way her long limbs glided gracefully against his bed sheets, the way her misty grey eyes looked at him with anticipation, as if challenging him to make the next move.

She watched from his bed as he peeled the wet clothes off his body and made a mental note of a few new scars that decorated his abdomen, adding to the man's masculinity . The man made quick work of his boots and breeches and ascended upon her, his forearms braced on either side of her head, his leg parting her thighs. He was hot, close and heavy; all earth, blood and heat, while she smelt of winter, frost and sugar.

Jaqen kissed her lips swiftly and trailed his hand down to knead her breast, rolling a hardened nipple between his fingers while he began to mark her neck and collarbone liberally with love bites. His lips found their way to the base of her other breast. He nipped at it quickly and took her other nipple in his mouth, flicking with his tongue and biting gently with his teeth, smiling as he noted that she tasted even sweeter than she smelt.

Her body was on fire, blazing touches and rough scrapes of teeth sent shivers down her spine. She arched into his touch while trying to hold back her moans and gasps, now knowing why the prostitutes of Flea Bottom made lewd noises when they were pleasuring a customer. It's because they felt good too, she thought.

His hands traced her curves and his mouth found its way down to the slick wetness between her thighs. She watched as he parted her legs and placed a kiss between her lower lips.

"Jaqen..." she breathed.

"Relax, lovely girl and a man will do the rest." he soothed. He pryed her open with his tongue, sliding up and down, increasing his pressure on an upstroke and lingering the tip of his tongue at the base of her opening. She shivered at his ministrations and Arya bit down on her lip to stop herself from making too much noise.
"Sweet girl," he breathed, "don't hold back. A man wants to hear this lovely girl's song."
"I can't even sing. " she retorted.
"Ah, but it will still be music to my ears."
She began to repay Jaqen's troubles with throaty moans and cries of his name, as if her body was an instrument and he was the musician. The sounds spurred him on: he accelerated his speed, intensified the pressure applied by his tongue, pressed a finger into her folds lightly, setting her nerves on edge.
"Stop, stop teasing me," she said huskily, "Jaqen...I want it, I want it now..."
"What is the magic word?" he purred.
"Please?" she pleaded. He chuckled. She caught his lips in a firm passionate kiss and was somewhat embarrassed by the fact that she could taste herself on him. The girl reached between them and curled her fingers around his throbbing, painfully large manhood, feeling the veins pulse at her touch.
"Will it fit?"
"Ah, lovely girl, for once a man does not know." he whispered teasingly.
"Well, we'll just have to find out."
"Just so."

He nudged at her entrance, exerting an incredible amount of self-control; resisting the urge to plunge ruthlessly into her. The man pushed into her an inch at a time, until her body accommodated almost all of him. She reached her arms up to hold him around his neck, entangling her thin fingers in his luscious hair, ignoring the twinge of pain and the seep of blood. Jaqen hissed; partly because of the tightness that surrounded him but also because the girl bit down hard and marked the muscular shoulder of the man to whom she had willingly surrendered maidenhood. Still the wolf, he thought, always the wolf. For a second, he stilled and waited for Arya's body to adjust to the foreign intrusion. Instinctively, she rocked her hips experimentally against his, encouraging him to move. He proceeded to fill her again with one thrust, eliciting a scream of pleasure (or pain). He pumped into her again, the girl drove her hips upwards in time to meet his. Slowly the pair built up their rhythm; push-pull, give-take, thrust-withdraw, in-out, tense-relax, inhale-exhale. He sucked and nipped at her soft skin, her sweat glimmering in the moonlight like the sweet morning dew, illuminating the strength of her muscles and the loveliness of her body. She clawed her nails into his back with urgency, pulling buds of flesh.

Jaqen began to pound into her with abandon, his rough hands clasping her hips so tightly he was sure to leave bruises, adding to the various sensations. Arya threw her hands over her head, wailing, cursing, moaning, but most of all feeling. Feeling him and only him, concentrating on the man who was atop her, sensing his intensity, his desire, his tenderness, his care and above all: his love. She cried. Not tears of loss or sadness that he had seen many times before, but tears of joy as she felt an incredible storm swirling through her body, centering towards her core. Her climax came to her as suddenly as flash of lightning, thundering through every muscle in her body, making her shiver and howl out his name in ecstasy. She came back to her senses just in time to watch him, still rocking her hips in time to his. His eyes stared at her intently, his white teeth biting down hard on his bottom lip, almost piercing through as he tensed and released inside her.
"Arya," he whispered as he came, "Arya. Arya. Arya. Arya..."
"Jaqen." she chanted in return, "Jaqen. Jaqen. Jaqen. Jaqen..."

He shifted and slid out of her slowly. Lying beside her, he kissed her gently over the teeth marks he had left and ran his fingers through her soft brown hair contently. She felt a strange sense of emptiness when he left her so, she fitted her body against his, hugging him across the waist, using his chest as a pillow.
"Lovely girl, are you alright?" he asked softly.
"Sore, but better than alright. It hurt, but I never wanted to stop." she smiled up at him.
"A girl, for her first time she was..." he said paused, finished for the correct word as he stroked her cheek, "perfect."
"I love you." she sighed into his ear.
"Yer jalan atthirari anni" he said, wrapping his strong arms around her. A while later, she fell asleep feeling happy and secure. He held her close, almost clinging to her and vowing that he should never let go. Yet he knew the day would eventually come when he could never again call her 'mine'.

('yer jalan atthirari anni' is 'you are the moon of my life' in Dothraki :D)