Hey guys! Hope you all like this chapter. Mature scenes ahead, be warned.
"To understand power is to die.
Command over the ancients,
Favor of those above men.
However, a weakness—
A fervent spirit."
-Songs of the Faceless; XXIII
"Eternal truth and ultimate reality. What is the difference? The gods are all-pervasive."
"He had a man almost convinced—Aegeus. He has…ways of knowing things. A man cannot be fully sure of it, but it seemed to me that he too, can see visions through obsidian candles."
"Maybe he can, maybe he cannot. Who can be assured of what he says? We all had instruction on blood magic in Asshai after all. When did the dreams stop?"
"Three years ago. It crushed us, almost. The blood mages almost gave up on us too—resisting the dreams of the faces, it wasn't fair to the dead. They needed their histories heard by anyone who would listen. To wear the faces and conceal their chronicles through sorcery is just detestable; in a man's opinion, at least. And the souls of most of the departed whose faces we have donned—they are undead, in the spiritual sense. Most of them have not yet spanned the realm between, and it has been centuries since the Doom. They forbid it, that their faces be used to conceal the intent of slaying men—"
"Attack of conscience? You worry yourself too much. Detach, brother. When did the dreams return?"
"Three nights ago."
"Are you sure about the things you've seen?"
"Yes."
"Then, the god is conveying messages straight to you. The texts are not enough, it seems. Not all men can read between lines. Not all men do read."
Late afternoon, and the setting sun's warm rays penetrated the small window in the Waif's workroom—a panoply of petals and peril. There was still the faint glimmer, candles might be for a later time. The mild incandescence was all the natural light she needed in order to perfect the concoction. Ash residue and dark grass from the Lorathi's acquaintance—a female in lacquered mask made of starlight. They met her near The Gate, and the Waif had learned that she is one of the few who worked with shadows. Her lips were riddled with riddles, and it seemed as if only the Lorathi could unlock her cipher of phrases. Yes, that woman had aided them in obtaining the last essentials, even so, the Waif was indecisive on matters of trust. It was true that Faceless Men use certain enchantments to carry out tasks, but the likes of her are dark sorcerers said to be without limits.
Yet her tongue kept on uttering the words, with calm madness and obsession: "I am No One, but she is the Mother of Dragons."
"Do tell that you possess no plans of introducing the Asshaii priestess to the girl, brother," the Waif had told the Lorathi once they were out of the woman's earshot. "You know how enthusiastic the girl could be when it comes to charms and runes. She practically revered you for all eternity when you showed her your magic tricks."
The Lorathi smirked. "A man doubts that a girl would have the need to meet one from the Shadows. No, a man does not plan for them to even lay eyes on each other."
And it was true. In the Lorathi's memories were the girl's dreams of a masked woman with a voice that seemed to be whispers of stars—one who was warning her of a looming threat. Bringer of four, Bringer of Four, the mask itself had named the girl. He cannot dismiss these threats as all-mundane; there is pitfall in every corner where there is air, now that the lords of Old have returned with their plans for the Winter. Shadowbinders are known to have hidden intents— excluvists, as the servants of the red god name all other gods demons. He spoke with the masked woman, and only the gods knew how he toiled to keep his ruminations concealed so she may not gain access to them.
There were still bigger worries.
Eight thousand years, four centuries—the Long Night, the Doom. Now, various faiths are naming their own chosen ones—and confusion comes when elucidation is necessary, for most of the texts were written in High Valyrian.
What is happening in the past right now? The Lorathi thought. Do wise men even know how their acts in their own time affect us all? The eons are victims, and are thus subjected to circuitous series, such that what had happened before is bound to happen once more. Or perhaps, everything happens simultaneously. Saviors with swords are being reborn everywhere, and all matters of faith are slowly becoming farce.
The Waif added the dark grass onto the concoction, and it easily dissolved into the mixture. The Lorathi sat beside her, watching the process. Suddenly, he spoke to her in a quiet yet seemingly tortured voice.
"It cannot happen, sister. It must not happen."
The Waif kept her eyes on the now boiling poison. She knew very well what the Lorathi was telling her.
"Of course, in your judgment it must not, brother," she replied. "But are you allowed to do anything about it?"
The woman noticed how tormented the Lorathi was, albeit she could do nothing except to watch him despair and offer a listening ear to ease his grief. A few moments passed without them uttering a word. The woman continued adding the grass onto the mixture until it achieved a thick consistency of chartreuse hue.
One more ingredient and the Death of Dragons will be complete.
The comely one entered the chamber as if he owned the temple. "Please, do not let my entrance interfere with your discussion. I just need a large table." In his hands was a large scroll containing the mapped out lands of the Known. With style, he slammed it onto the hard wood and unscrolled it.
"You wish to travel for a task?" the Waif asked the man.
"Will you be warming my cabin bed should I decide to?"
"No."
"Then, I do not wish to travel."
So bold, the woman thought. To jape in such a way, unmindful of substances I have in my hands.
At the corner of her eyes, she watched the Lorathi sit sullenly beside her. He brusquely rubbed his handsome face with his hands and to her, he appeared unfathomably hurt.
"A girl does not even know what she is doing," the Lorathi said monotonously in an effort to conceal his sentiments. "She does have a very progressive mindset, but she is a child. What does she truly know about it? Our methods are incongruent with the codes—chastity is a must for priests as ourselves. We must revisit the Ways, realign it with the Creed. Inconsistencies, too much! How can the Masters not have seen through it during the turn of the first moon? Tasks such as Arya Stark's must not be commissioned in the future."
The Waif tried hard not to laugh. But the Lorathi noticed her lip tip up. "Speak, if you must," he told her.
"Our affinity, our brotherhood is more meaningful for me to just throw in the wind by speaking my thoughts," the woman replied. "Pardon me, but I cannot indulge you with my opinions today."
"Please do, a man will take no offense."
"Very well," she slowly placed the glass vial on the table, deliberating how she will utter the words. "Three things, brother. First, she is not a child anymore—you, of all people, should know this." The Lorathi gave his sister a questioning look which she rewarded with a meaningful smile. "Second, 'chastity' was operationally defined in the Creed—it's the purity of intent to which it refers, and will always refer. Chastity is beyond physical—it is transcending notions on physical virtue so the pureness of all motives and purposes for the death god triumphs over all others. Valar Dohaeris."
"Yes, Valar dohaeris," the Lorathi agreed. "But—"
"Third," the woman said, ignoring the Lorathi. "It certainly cannot happen between the both of you no matter what your tight, bulging breeches might will you to believe."
"Damn right," the comely one offered, 'full' focus on the mapped out lands still. "Damn right."
The Lorathi was dumbstruck, his expression that of denial. "A man never said it must happen between the two of us. She is Chosen. We are Faceless."
"You did not have to say anything. Tell me, why was chastity not an issue for you when one of our own offered to warm Daenerys Targaryen's bed to act as the Order's sleuth?" The Waif wiped her hands with stained cloth. Years of toil in this chamber of miasma had burned and calloused her hands. Now, her fingers, in contrast with the rest of her, appeared pruny and worn.
"Acting as male paramour was his personal decision," the Lorathi replied. "He had rubbed himself with filth a hundred times. What is the difference?"
"A thousand times," the Waif corrected him. "This was what he always says—'a thousand women in my bed, never a dragon'. Seems it had changed."
"He was merely tasked to take the face of a Stormcrow, gather information." the Lorathi. "The Elder refuses to believe he had gone rogue, seeing though that he's running the Mereenese show on behalf of the Silver Queen, who's to say he's still with us?"
"New information is passed on to the Elder about the Bay at each turn of the moon. He's still with the Order," the Waif said. "Give him due credit, he had persuaded the Stormcrows and the faithful Mereneese nobles to endorse the Silver Queen—a brilliant tactic, should anyone ask."
"Knowing him, he's not one to stay in Mereen for long."
"Of course," the Waif smiled. "The name he chose for himself, the name of that face—Daario. To possess. To possess his own life in this world, despite all improbabilities as clear as day in the Creed; to possess not only the Silver Queen's trust, but her affections, too—again, an excellent maneuver expected of a Faceless. Expect him to sail for Dragonstone in a month."
"Indeed, he has lost it."
"Not as much as you did."
Awkward silence enveloped the work chamber. The Waif took the vial of obsidian containing ash residue and placed the ingredient on a thick, iron plate. The ash seemed to sear through the plate, but the Waif was quick in pouring liquid neutralizer to slightly weaken the reaction.
"Do me a favor. Wear those cloth gauntlets and pour this residue into the concoction. Practice care, don't let even a single drop of that touch your skin or you'll be looking at your own seared flesh." The Lorathi did what was requested. "Soon, you would have to bring her back to Winterfell," the Waif said, as if the Lorathi could bear any more agony. "There will be endless talks about it all—the other prophecies and the great darkness, she must learn of all these."
"I know these things," Jaqen H'ghar answered in a weak voice that was verily unlike him. In small amounts, he poured the drops of the now liquefied residue into the poison mixture.
"You carry this syndrome—the childbearer and the whore," was the Waif's admonishment. "You think of her weak, unable. Why, brother? Because she is female? She's Faceless, might I remind you? Nay, unnecessary for you to act as if the only role she can fulfill is that of an infant-cradling mother to be kept inside safe chambers. No soul is asking you to rescue her from the evening, like some gallant knight to a harlot. We are No One."
The Lorathi did not answer.
The Waif regarded her brother with pity. "What has she done to you, brother? Really?" She softly asked, careful so the other will not hear them.
Jaqen shook his head in pure desperation.
"I was dead, may the death god forgive me," he began. "The girl infused flesh to my bones," he said, eyes fixed on the iron plate. "A man knows nothing of it all, but it may also be, that she breathed spirit into that flesh. How did she even—I don't know…I don't know. Please, do not ask me these things. To speak of all these is to sin."
The Waif only smiled and thought of the beauty in her brother's words. It has become a pattern—apparent slip in the Lorathi's speech. It was as if asudden, Jaqen H'ghar was indeed coming to life right before her very eyes, and even though such a state was a bitter and abominable paradox to every creed and code the Faceless Men believe in, to witness it was nevertheless breathtaking.
Jaqen is existing.
The woman's life had been nothing but servitude—at a very young age she was offered by her lord father to the temple to keep her safe from her stepmother's ploys. She knew the temple's simplicities and complexities, mastered the creeds and methods by heart, selflessly obeyed and surrendered her life to Him of Many Faces.
And she was so tired of it all.
Certain ideologies, though believed by most to be true, do not necessarily make a person better.
If she would be true to herself, and she owed herself some form of it as she would believe, what made her stay in the temple was the kinship, especially with the Lorathi and the Tyroshi. Like many others, she was a child forsaken by her own kin and accepted into the temple. However, it did not accept her for who she was. It made her desert her own self—a prerequisite, a payment for a roof above the head and food for the starved belly. And most of the time, being No One is too arduous to the point of death.
Wouldn't death be sweeter? She thought.
The Lorathi was thoroughly losing himself fragment by fragment and he must not.
The death god never forgives. And he or she—whoever the deity may be, is a rapacious one. Lukewarm submission is aversion to the eyes, it must be and only be total surrender.
Being Faceless was never about selfhood against self-abnegation. Such a choice was never given.
If one bargains with the death god, the price is high, hence explicating the seemingly extortionate cost of an assassination request from the Black and White. For those who make direct deals however, such as themselves, expectations from the god are way higher.
People never speak of it, writings seemed to have dismissed it from its pages. Why wouldn't they now? It is a thing even more doomful than Doom, possibly as infernal as the Heart of Darkness. It is the torture that awaits traitorous souls, and the Lorathi may be in danger of being one of them.
The 'Pass'.
I want to meet this death god, the Waif decided.
The Lorathi might think her the vilest of all persons, but he had to be stopped from foolishly creating his self-indulgent castles in the air. They all had to be stopped.
"You do not have the right to Arya Stark, brother. Nobody does. Except for Him of Many Faces. We don't have the right to one another in this place and in this life."
Jaqen recoiled at her words but kept his silence.
"What have you given up to be Faceless?" the Waif asked. "What did the god demand from you upon your return?"
"A man had surrendered many things," the Lorathi then spoke, smiled bitterly. "Believe a man now, you will detest him in this life and the next if he speaks more of it all. A man would never wish for that to happen."
"Tell me. I want to understand. No judgments."
"Of the seven facets, six," the Lorathi confessed. The Waif tried to hide her shock. Extreme responses to revelations will not aid, but hinder. Corpus, animus, arbitrio, memoriae, veritus, impetus. Too much, the woman thought. The Lorathi had allowed the death god to fully consume him—almost. They are humans, and servants more than this, existing in space and time, subjected to action and non-action. To give up too many of one's facets, despite one being faceless; to give up on the bearings themselves that make men who they are…
It must have been a truly costly bargain. And he's not getting the better end of it. The death god wears many faces, the deity is a deceptive one.
"I have none of those now," he explained. "Essen—substance, that is what I have left. And I cannot lose even this—how would I exist if I do?"
After the surrender, the Lorathi had become nothing but an entity suffused with life force—a shell. Such state leaves one defenseless. This is a world of the material and the immaterial, and if the substance that was left in the person is not resilient enough, immaterial entities will battle against one another to occupy that self.
An abomination.
The Lorathi had reached a state of total emptiness, the state where there is simply nothing to hold on to anymore.
Until the confluence. Until Arya Stark.
It seemed as if Syrio Forel had died for a reason. He should have been Guardian had he not died. The woman thought of the Songs and its many verses. One had stuck to mind.
'For her Self is him.' Arya Stark had become Jaqen H'ghar's causal being after his renunciation of himself, when they drank their own scarlet.
How powerful is this girl, or whatever it is that now binds the Lorathi to herself, for her to unconsciously assume the role of the god's rival in the latter's claiming? The texts—the marriage of words in its old yet astute pages seemed to tip the balance towards Arya Stark, such that through her, the Lorathi is gradually reacquiring all of his lost facets. All these now point to the girl, especially impetus—his purpose.
The woman smiled softly at the grand thought.
The girl is like a little god—'Live,' she might have told Jaqen H'ghar. 'Breathe,' and he did.
'Abide in me.'
"Beautiful," the woman had whispered.
"What is?"
"Nothing," she lied. "All men must serve, brother, but yours is a sacrifice the likes of which I have never heard before. Do you wish to succeed the Elder of this House?" she japed. "Have you no other choice?"
"No other."
"You must have truly loved that woman."
"To the point of death, yes."
"When will you tell the girl about her?"
"Soon."
No judgments. It was never their prerogative to judge.
The Waif looked at the Lorathi, therefore, with kind understanding. She rose and embraced him from behind—a consoling gesture, and placed her chin atop his head. Both of her arms wrapped themselves around his sinewy frame—loose enough to not overwhelm him, tight enough to provide him solace, to strengthen him.
"We will win this, brother. Worry not." She kissed his hair gently enough so he would not feel her lips against the locks. "We will prevail."
It was dark epiphany.
The comely one smiled upon completing his conjectural mapping of the Unknown from the Known. One master—the Lordling, as the girl so aptly named him, had given him the almost-mangled fragments of the scrolls containing what were so far discovered by a few bold expeditioners. The sanctum had its secrets, and perhaps the Elder knew not of the other maps.
Who to fool? The Elder knows all things. He discloses not a thing, and these are different.
No One knows what lies in the City of Night that is spread out in all directions upon Ash, past the Shadowlands. No One knows what truly lies West of Westeros, except for what is shown by obsidian candles, which in themselves, are influenced by holders of magic. It is said that to map the Unknown is to challenge the deities, but the comely one is not a fanatic of superstition.
Playground of the gods, he whispered, shaking his head. The bastards.
Those who work with shadows must surely know of this, but all fear to speak. Prophetic visions are for believers and for those favored, and it is impossible for the red god to not grant its servants with even the smallest of apparitions.
It may be that the gods are at war.
And they're twisting everyone's subconscious—that one host of blind faith.
He turned to the two other masters, they must know it somehow. His knowledge is limited, but there is some truth to it.
"We will win this, brother. Worry not. We will prevail."
The woman had her arms wrapped around the Lorathi, and upon his crown of scarlet-and-ivory, she had planted two feathery kisses.
The comely one's jaw hardened by reflex.
Playground of the gods, indeed.
"Brother, we must go," he said, interrupting their melancholic exchange. "The play begins in an hour."
The interior of The Dome was an impressive arrangement of scarlet cushioned seats, silver draperies, and some other elaborate adornments. The theatron could comfortably seat as much as a thousand spectators, but the venue itself only reaches such number of attendees during special events such as the ten-day Unmasking. Unlike the mummers' at The Gate, plays in The Dome and in the nearby Blue Lantern are more sophisticated; and only highborns and the very wealthy populace frequent the place.
They donned the same disguise as in the Sealord's gathering. The lower mezzanine was perfect, as it was near enough to the orchestra where the Sealord and the Winter Maiden will be sitting. The skene was covered with a gigantic stage curtain of silver and gold, and a large crowd of men and women can be seen walking to their respective sections of seating. The Dome will be presenting Phaedron's 'Libretux uel Mortelum'— 'Freedom or Death', a depiction the founding of Braavos by escaped slaves from the Valyrian Freehold.
It was listlessness the Lorathi felt whilst awaiting the play's commencement. There had been various versions of this play before, and he was somehow required by the Order to see them every year. Significant people marked for death grace the event, and the Faceless had to be there to observe them before taking the hit.
"I have to say, brother," the Handsome Man spoke, echoing his hidden sentiments. "These events are usually nothing but disentrancing in my view—almost like a ritual. But then…" he paused, his attention caught by something. The Lorathi followed the trail of his gaze and his heart sank upon seeing the Sealord enter with the Winter Maiden in his arms. "But then the Sealord and the Winter Maiden are way too interesting to leave alone."
The Elder was precise in his assumptions, the Sealord does dote on her, Jaqen H'ghar thought.
The Sealord's arms were wrapped around the Winter Maiden's waist, and the man did not take his arms off of her almost bare shoulders even when they were already seated. Jaqen H'ghar thought of how perfectly Arya Stark played her part—she laughed at the man's japing, spoke in hushed tones against his ear, allowed him inhale the scent of her neck. Such public display is frowned upon even in the free city of Braavos, but this was the Sealord and as what follows, he somehow possessed a certain form of immunity to these codes of conduct.
The curtains were drawn and hidden in the left and right wings of the platform. Applause filled the Dome as the thespians for the first act appeared—shrill yet rough tones, the sound of dried leaves against combat boots—and they unnerved the Lorathi. Freed from the Freehold, t'is the gift. Songs, lines, movements breathed life to the stage. All eyes were there hence, except for those of the Sealord and the Winter Maiden, who both seemed to obsess over each other with childish enthusiasm that was nothing but irritating.
Jaqen H'ghar was sure that they spoke of many, many things, for their lips never stopped moving and sighing and laughing.
The Lorathi must be, tonight, a mere passive observer.
She has grown—so, so much…and he was slowly losing her from his grasp. It may be true that the girl had hugged him one night in her chamber and begged him to not leave, or that she had tugged at his belt, or giggled at his kisses at Satin's, even asked him for a most arousing kiss at the Bridge of Lights. Surely, for her, these could not mean anything consequential.
She's a woman now—women find romance in everything. They are verily fond of infatuations. They confuse fascinations towards men with something else that is more than what it is. Perchance, it was only confusion she felt for him. Ah, but did he not toil so that their want for each other would not evolve into something else that is more beautiful than it already was? The Braavosi woman spoke of truth only. He does not have the right to her.
She was lonely, that is all. The Lorathi was aware that her thoughts and high hopes have always been about Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn, Robb. The girl merely needed someone to sympathize and somehow…care. And perhaps, a man is the closest to a family that she has.
Arya Stark, bold as fire though she is, was terrified that night at the godswood in Harrenhal. Jaqen H'ghar had heard her pray. "Make me a water dancer and a wolf and not afraid again, ever." His heart broke into a thousand shards with those words, and so he vowed to kill for her one last name. He swore it to the gods—old and new, and to all the gods and their incarnations in the whole of Westeros and Essos, that whatever name she speaks, he will erase from the earth.
A girl whispers if she fears to speak aloud. Whisper it now. Is it Joffrey?
She shook her head.
'It's Jaqen H'ghar.'
Would he die for her?
For all certainty.
The Guardian would be relieved from his duties to the Chosen only after Death had claimed him.
But he could not die that night at Harrenhal, even when she spoke his name. He did not wish to die for he had done it before and it was exhausting, may the death god grant him pardon. He persuaded himself that Jaqen still had to perform his duty to her should she decide to use that iron coin. If he had died that night, how would he be able to teach her what he knows? Or witness the divine fulfillment of the Songs through her? How in the world would he be able to see her face again in his decades of wandering from a body to the next, and share his days and laughters with her, short they may be?
What would become of his will to come back to her if he had died?
Sweet girl, kind and gentle. Unsay one name and say another and cast this mad dream aside.
Faceless—crafty and wise. They never rush into any kill without closely observing those marked for death for a long time, and with painstaking endurance—without getting into the marked man's skin, into his deepest musings if possible. They were supposedly insusceptible to emotions and irrationality. The Self in them is gone, only the duty of Death remains. And why should he care if Jaqen dies? Jaqen is already dead.
No, lovely girl. A man will not sleep unless you unsay a certain name. Now, evil child.
Fine periwinkle scents wafted through the air surrounding that burnt castle when that lovely yet devious girl agreed to unsay his name under specific conditions. The conditions were of no consequence to him. Jaqen H'ghar was so possessed by all that is Arya Stark one eventful night that he went rogue killing all those guards for her using nothing but soup. Such recklessness he had never seen in his own self prior to laying his eyes on her.
In what manner has she conquered him? Not by her scheming attitude but…by her outburst of spirit. Did they not say, that which we lack captivates us? And he felt that for her, he was in lack of innumerable qualities. Nay, he cannot offer her much, and since she deserved all or none at all, to grant her anything that was ill-befitting is a sin, a fatal flaw.
Imperceptible, savage hands clawed at his heart. The hands were merciless, for they belonged to Misery. He thought that night was going to be his last.
The death god is all-present, and so he spoke to the deity.
Forgive me. It may be that in my limited understanding of it, I…love Arya Stark. Spare me from your wrath…
Would Jaqen H'ghar die for Arya Stark if she says his name a second time?
His eyes instantly dropped to the ground at the sight of the Sealord smelling Arya Stark's hair, and Arya Stark burying her face against the Sealord's chest.
She doesn't have to say a man's name a second time. She's killing him already.
He heaved a sigh to empty his heart of some heaviness and aching. "Is the play almost finished?" Jaqen asked the Handsome Man.
The comely one shot him a confused stare. "We're not even half-way, brother."
The Lorathi just nodded and tried to persuade himself to perform his duties and be done with it for the day. He ignored every fanciful act the Sealord and the Winter Maiden rewarded each other, as he forced himself to survey the Dome for any sign of the Volantenes, or the Littlefinger, or the flaxen-haired, green-eyed lord. Perchance, they have had enough the night before, he doubts if they would come back to Braavos this soon.
The Winter Maiden giggled at another one of the Sealord's jests.
Jaqen expelled air from his mouth and cursed.
This is going to be such a long night.
It was near the peak of nightfall.
Weakly, he removed his garments, including the chain around his waist. Recollections of the dragonlord that had so boldly entered the city a second time plagued him. He gently tossed the chain to the built-in stone seat where his other clothes lay in a heap.
Jaqen H'ghar closed his eyes, rested his head upon the edge of the wooden tub as he bathed himself in lukewarm water. So exhausted he was—curious, for he did not really do anything physical that day. The Lorathi pushed all unwanted thoughts, attempted to summon in him some mental clarity. He waited for the Waif who would once again dye his hair scarlet. Fourteen days had gone by so quickly, and he was surprised at how rarely he noticed the time and days recently.
The Elder had mentioned that he will be assigned a very important kill. As he was adept at reading words beyond what they meant, he sensed that the task would be the assassination of one of the leaders of the nine Free Cities. Might be, member of a triarch, a magister, a prince.
"What was the price?" He had asked the Elder.
"A very precious life," the Kindly Man replied. "The beseecher wanted to be given the gift; at the same time, she wanted this one man dead. We will speak of the finalities in the next gathering of the masters."
The Lorathi was sure he had detected a hint of sorrow in the Kindly Man's eyes. The old man rarely—no, he never showed open emotions when speaking of tasks as this one. "The beseecher is a woman?" He further asked.
"Yes," was the Elder's answer. He walked away from the Lorathi, as if indicating that he did not wish to divulge any more information.
He heard the door of the bath chamber open then close gently. Sleep for a while, he ordered himself. A full hour with the dyeing, and he badly wanted to rest. His eyes he kept closed, and let the Waif run the dye through his strands. Hands were lighter than usual, she was unsure of wanting to deliver the favor.
Stillness was slightly shattered by the tabby cat's soft yet half-persistent moans. She had let the little critter inside the bathchamber.
Something was amiss.
"Are you wearing perfume?" Jaqen asked the woman with amusement. She was never too vain on herself, so it was a wonder that she was even wearing fragrance and that it smelled undoubtedly expensive.
Her voice was immaculately devious. She was a walking paradox of traits and motives.
"Yes. Bellegere Otherys gave me some bottled ones."
Jaqen H'ghar's eyes flew open.
His lovely girl was very gentle as she applied dye on the Lorathi's strands. She combed his hair with her fingers, and made sure that every lock was coated. These, she did in total silence. Slowly, she massaged his scalp, then ran her fingers along his wavy hair now wet with scarlet tint. Her fingers would unintentionally touch his ear, the nape of his neck, his broad shoulders. Lightly, she tugged at a fistful of his hair to squeeze out excess dye from it. Arya Stark then gently pushed Jaqen's head back on the tub's edge so he may rest it there.
"My Master seems tired," she whispered in his ears then sighed. Jaqen gasped then cursed himself inwardly for being too transparent. Suddenly, he felt the tips of Arya Stark's fingers in soft contact with the damp skin of his shoulders, arms, his naked upper back. His body was not his at all—the hair on his neck stood with her fondling despite his most vehement inner protestations. Arya went on and on, fully aware of the impact her manipulative touches were having on her Lorathi master.
Then, she laughed softly.
She laughed for she had heard his inner meditations—wallowing in the greatest of all conflicts for him. He was reciting the fourth leaf of the Creed in his mind.
Her fingers were soft flutters of hummingbird wings. Her eyes were fascination itself—they resembled a child earnest for an understanding that is beyond her age, encountering for the first time the pure delights of learnedness; and she desired to educate herself about all things Lorathi, all things Jaqen. He was a canon to her, an analect that must be granted the greatest of aforethoughts, for to her he is all-beholding. She tilted her head, discovered his contours as if he was one marbled statue from a great civilization that was lost. He is beautiful…beautiful…
"Beautiful," she whispered.
A girl truly wants a man dead.
"How were you able to convince the Waif to do the dyeing yourself?" Jaqen asked in an attempt to take control of the situation.
Creed precepts doctrines methods.
Your aid, Him of Many Faces. Dare you not let a man die tonight.
"I asked her nicely," Arya replied in an innocent tone. "I can be very persuasive. And she thinks me a mere child—sweet, harmless."
Jaqen smiled at the girl's response. "And a man supposes a girl has questions regarding the strange color of his hair?" He sat a little straighter but he kept his back on her.
"Yes." She brushed his red and white of hair to his left shoulder. Two of her fingers traced his spine, and the Lorathi shut his eyes at the sensation the touch brought in the wholeness of him. "A lot of questions—hair, faiths, intents. But then, the days will be long. The dyeing only lasts for an hour. We cannot afford to raise anyone's suspicions. We will have time for senseless questions in the days forthcoming, Jaqen."
At this, Arya slightly dipped her head and kissed Jaqen's neck.
"Arya…"
The girl only ignored the Lorathi. She continued to lightly drag her lips across his neck, her tongue brushing, her teeth nipping. Jaqen exhaled sharply, could not ask her to stop—she had robbed him of all his sense faculties. He tightly gripped the sides of the wooden tub to keep himself from trembling. Arya's lips cruised to his right shoulder. Drops of water played all over that damp part, and so Arya mildly nipped his flesh to drain it of those drops.
It was a wellspring she was drinking from, and the water was sweet, and so athirst she was that she would swallow audibly after sipping wetness from his skin.
She then gently traced his nape with the tip of her tongue, causing the Lorathi's breathlessness. Every contact of her lips against his skin set him afire. This is Doom, this is Doom…and he felt helplessly shattered yet awakened.
"Lovely…Arya…we must not—"
"Please, Jaqen. We could do this without talking."
What in the hells has gotten into her? Sanity was scarce, and he was slowly losing it even in the dearth, but his lovely girl was far from done.
Arya stood and walked to the tub's other side, so she could face him. She wore a very, very thin nightgown, its fabric translucent, and her entire form was almost visible that Jaqen asked himself why she even bothered wearing any clothes. The gown was without sleeves, and it covered her from the shoulders to the knees. Its soft fabric revealed the contours of her waist and hips, and the perfect curves of her now womanly breasts. Her pink-colored nipples stood erect against the fabric, signaling her apparent arousal. Around her neck was the Queller which he gave her; its rich color of blood glistened then calmed. Jaqen's eyes squinted at the irregular emergence of the Queller's light.
The Lorathi could do nothing but stare with his mouth slightly parted, his eyes wide. Has he died without knowing he did? For he was almost sure that he was already in the infinite cosmos and that she was a beauteous deity.
West of Westeros…an otherworldly place. Elenei—my sweet siren. Mother Rhoyne. Arya—my goddess.
He suddenly shook his head in feigned confusion and waved his forefinger at the gown. "Where did a girl get these clothes?"
She did not answer. Instead, she regarded him with narrowed eyes to show her plain and clear irritation. She knew he was stalling and possibly, thinking of some shrewd rhetoric to get himself out of this situation. Cyvasse games are exhausting beyond words, Jaqen, Arya Stark grimaced. She lifted her right foot slowly and dipped her toe in the soapy water. Sensing that it was still lukewarm, not that she cared if it had gone cold, she submerged one foot after the other in it. The hem of her night gown had gone wet.
Jaqen lurched back and quickly turned his head to the door. Understanding swept over him. She planned this? She locked the damn door when she entered?
He turned back to her. "Arya Stark, stop this, right this instant…" the master in him ordered in a hushed yet firm tone. "We are inside the temple, damn it!"
Ned-cat only mewled softly, as it walked in circles around the tub. Finally, it settled in one good spot, gray eyes on the both of them.
He's the master here, and he must take responsibility, must he not? Arya Stark had terribly gone out of her way with this whole act of hers and she must be reprimanded severely. When will she ever learn how to act with propriety and show esteem to the temple's—hells, even he did not want to believe his own 'honorable' thoughts anymore!
The girl only shook her head and bent to place a forefinger against the Lorathi's lips.
"Shut up, Jaqen…" she whispered. "Shut up, or I will kill you. I promise you this."
Arya carefully sat on the tub with her eyes fixed on his face, then straddled Jaqen's wholly naked body. She paid them no mind—the suds that were now in her clothes, the warm water that drenched her gown, its thin fabric clinging to her body like a second skin, vividly showing each curvature, each mold and outline of her feminine built. Her breasts, her bodily contours were now more visible than before. The Lorathi could not help but swallow at the ravishing sight right in front of him…on top of him.
Still, despite the utter futility of the act, Jaqen H'ghar had to try and restrain her primal urges—their. "A man is beginning to think that sending a girl to be trained by the Black Pearl was nothing but a horrible idea."
Arya Stark stared at him with hungry eyes and smiled. "Did a man not teach a girl before to use every learning she has acquired to serve Him of Many Faces?"
The Lorathi smirked despite the deafening pounding inside his chest. "And how is this a service to Him of Many Faces?" He felt his body tremble as the girl placed all her weight on his legs, her smallclothes coming in slight contact with the virility between them. Licking her lips, she bent her body forward and leaned her arms on both sides of the wooden tub, such that her hands were on top of his. The girl had constrained him—space and movement, and the only escape possible was plain and simple surrender to her whims.
He was once again a captive. And this time, unlike in the Black Cells and that dispiriting cage with two monsters of men, he would not be able to liberate himself from this.
Evil child…she brought it here from Harrenhal.
"It isn't, Jaqen…" she said, grazing her nose against the rough stubble on his cheek. "But let us not play the part of fools. We really don't care about Him of Many Faces right now, do we?" Her berry lips dampened his perfect jawline. "Turn a blind eye for once and forget about your death god. You're mine tonight."
Perhaps it is this: that no man must be seen devoted enough, great enough, to be bound to celibacy, he mused.
At the thought, Jaqen lovingly stroked Arya's hair, closed his eyes just so he could feel more of her.
Passions burned with unadulterated want and possibly, with something that might transcend that want. Souls suffered and grieved at the truth that every touch and kiss and whisper of tenderness, fondness for each other were nothing but forbidden.
The Lorathi held the girl's chin and tilted her head so she could look at his eyes. "Arya Stark, you don't know what you are asking from a man, do you?"
"Oh, but I do," she said in faked innocence, eyes immaculate, both hands on his chest. "More than I know myself, more than I could ever possibly know myself, Jaqen."
The Lorathi sighed. To hell with all the consequences.
His mouth closed on hers.
She kissed him back with equal passion. It was a competition on the aspect of who could give the other one more ardent kisses. Lorathi hunger is insatiable—it is not to be mocked or toyed with, treated with nonchalance, and fulfillment is almost impossible once voracity has been uncaged. He sucked her lower lips, she whimpered in pleasure. Bellegere, you are a knower of many things, Arya Stark mused, but my Lorathi is a 'master' of all things known. Acts and responses are the way, and so she did to him every single thing he did to her—she suckled and bit, and played with his tongue, and drank from his mouth.
The moon was at its full.
Candles in sconces were creators for the night, as the light casted their shadows against the cobbled wall—two, then one. The flames danced as did these forms derived from the beings of them; and this creature named Ned acted as witness. Its eyes were transfixed on their graceful movements that were so alike those seen in a promenade.
It was deep.
The Wolf-girl was snarling low once more, and it was scarlet from his lips again that she needed. They are assassins, and blood is like water—only better. Bleed for me, Jaqen…she bit hard and he winced. Bleed, bleed, bleed. She was sadist, he, masochist, and they would play the role of the other. At times, roles would reflect balance and symphony with their wild and their tamed, storm and still, dominance and submission. At times, they would clash.
Balance is good. Clash is brilliant.
"Arya…sweet girl," she heard Jaqen moan. His hands were already on both of her hips, massaging them in a thoroughly erotic fashion. The girl led her Lorathi master's hands to her buttocks, guided the movement of his hands so he would know what it is that would please her. The Lorathi obeyed and gently kneaded her there.
They touched and moved and pulled and lurched until water from the tub started spilling onto the floor. The Lorathi smirked in the midst of their exchange—excellent, his lovely girl had the better sense to secure the latch. His hot mouth moved to the flesh of her bosom, planting petal kisses, savoring her.
"I love the feel of you, Jaqen…I'd love to feel you more."
"Dear gods…Arya. Don't say that, don't…"
Time was at a standstill. It was delirium at its finest.
"Hah…Jaqen," she murmured in the midst of kisses. "Jaqen, love…"
It was enough to send the Lorathi falling deep, without the hopes of ever climbing back up. His lovely girl had stripped herself of her nobility to join the Order, had thrown all caution in the wind to be with him, had broken rules upon rules, just so she could call him 'Jaqen, love.'
Forget the gods. Forget Death. Forget every damned thing.
"Arya…sweetheart."
It couldn't have been his voice but it was. How many tenets and articles of faith had he abandoned that night with every kiss and every word? Years and years of training in the House of Black and White, thoughtlessly forsaken for an hour in a night with her…
And in which text was it written that pursuit of happiness is not a right?
Arya Stark broke away from Jaqen's kisses. The Lorathi struggled to catch his breath. She took his hands once more and guided them to various parts of her, as if she was the master and he was the apprentice.
"Here, Jaqen…"
The girl ushered the Lorathi's hands to touch the side of her breasts. She held his fingers as they both traced the curves of her bosom. The wet gown had stuck to her skin, and she appeared practically naked but not quite. Arya rotated her hips gently against Jaqen's lower torso and the Lorathi gasped. She laughed softly and kept rotating her hips in sensual circles—teasing, provoking. The Lorathi began breathing from his mouth. The girl laughed her evil laugh.
"I thought you were a score and three? Why then—it's as if you've never been with a woman?"
"Sweetheart, Arya…please. Stop with the teasing…"
"Oh, sweet Jaqen. Look at you, now. You're not an assassin—you're a green boy!"
"Arya…"
She moved faster. Glissading snake in water—finally, here it was.
"Arya! Oh, heavens and hells…"
As if hearing nothing, she held both of his thumbs and guided them to her nipples. The Lorathi gently rubbed her there, and the girl's eyes grew wide with wonderment at the unexpected sensation brought by his touch. A first, a first, she thought. Glorious sensation…Master…Master.
Whimpers. Stifled moans. His touch was wildfire—consuming her, killing her.
Rekindling her. Inspiriting. Setting her ablaze.
He stroked her faster, until his whole hands covered her breasts. She arched her back, then fell into his arms, as he continued to pleasure her. Arya embraced Jaqen as tight as she could.
"Oh, Jaqen…this is so much better than in my dreams…"
A bittersweet taste of her own cruelty, the Lorathi decided.
He gently pushed the girl, his hands never leaving her bosoms. Jaqen tilted his head to the side, observed her, marveled at her articulate microexpressions—responses to his touch. The sweet formations from her berry mouth compensated for the silent verbalizations her closed eyes could not give him:
Caress—a soundless 'Oh'.
Gentle rubs—teeth buried in her lips.
Light pinches on her nipples—audible gasps and moans.
His masterful fingers rubbed more circles on her nipples, his hips met her movement with ardor. He pushed her down to him.
The girl was breathless…gasping…gasping…
"Jaqen H'ghaaaaaaar!" Arya Stark screamed in pure passion. "Ah! Ah! Jaqen H'ghar! I will not let you out of this bathchamber! I will stab you bloody if you stop! Ah! Jaqen! Jaqen!"
The Lorathi's rich laughter saturated every corner, fingers skillfully massaging her still. "Shush, shush…" A playful whisper afterwards. "Shush! We're in the temple…have you no shame at all?" His many caresses on her breasts intensified, testing her discipline, mocking it even. "The other masters might be asleep at this time of night! And here you are with your desperate outbursts! Has a man been such a terrible master that you have not learned anything of consequence from him?"
"Damn you!" the girl cried, and pulled his hair repeatedly. She moaned as Jaqen began kissing and nipping at the exposed flesh of her breasts. He lightly bit one aroused tip, suckled it against the fabric for a couple of seconds, teasing. "I hate you! You magnificent beast, you sweet, sweet bastard!"
Those words…and Jaqen H'ghar realized that he was completely lost. Never again, would he find himself.
"Drink from my bosoms, Jaqen…please!"
Damn, damn, damn.
He found her lips and attacked them, robbing her of air. He touched her some and kissed her some more, and in the midst of their fondling each other, the Queller around Arya's neck emitted a lustrous glow that surrounded the bath chamber to its very last corner. The two assassins were blind to the striking display of red light—their awareness fixed only on each other.
The chain atop Jaqen's garment—the ethereal chain on his chariot which he wore around his waist, glowed with the Queller.
Ned-cat still watched their shadows by the wall.
Arya Stark's shoulders were shaking.
Sounds were coming out of her throat—but they were not anymore sounds of gratification but of…desolation.
His lovely girl was sobbing.
As if her flesh was afire, Jaqen quickly removed his hands from her bosom. He broke away from the kiss and gently held her chin. True enough, tears were coming out of her eyes.
"Jaqen…purge me of him, please…cleanse. I need…"
"Arya, sweetheart…" he wiped the outpour of tears, placed a deep kiss upon her lips. The Lorathi brushed her hair with his fingers and held her tight. "What's wrong?"
"I need you…his touch, his kisses—ghosting all over me, Jaqen," Arya said in between sobs. "His mouth—the Sealord's mouth…it's on my neck, and my cheeks, my ears. And I couldn't kill him because I needed his confessions. I needed anything he could tell me. I wanted to slit his throat and castrate him, I can't! I had to whore myself for him before he gave me anything! I'm filthy…detestable…"
She was hurting herself—clawing at her skin with her fingers, as if wanting the layers to wither away, or better yet vanish. The Lorathi held his lovely girl tight, calmed her, whispered her name, reminded her how very precious she was to him.
Jaqen was dumbfounded. Rage enveloped him. "Arya, a man will speak with the Elder about—"
She shook her head vehemently, looked at Jaqen, dark hatred visible in her eyes. "I will kill that damnable bastard after I kill his Swords. I will murder him with my own two hands—strangle him and watch him cling to his life and slowly lose his breath by the second," Arya claimed through clenched teeth. "I will skin him as he pleads for air. That demonic schemer! And that damned Littlefinger was with him and his ploys—and he has Sansa."
There was but a single explication. The Winter Maiden was able to somehow extract information from the Sealord, as nobody would suspect the intents of a young, beautiful courtesan. Mostly, they are hired to listen to their male consorts' tales, pour them wine, and 'keep them company' in various manners.
But then, would a Sealord be as careless with his affairs to dare tell a single soul about them? It didn't seem to fit. Even the Tyroshi had claimed that the Sealord's cryptic motives were impossible to decode. The Lorathi doubted if the greatest feeling of obsession could lead men to rashly share critical political matters with mere courtesans.
"Did he speak of his intents to you? Where?" The Lorathi prodded gently. He still held the girl tightly around the shoulders, his hands caressing her back in a comforting manner. The girl buried her face on her Lorathi's naked chest.
"He did not speak of his intents. He thought about them."
It was awe the Lorathi felt with what she did to get through the man. She read his inner thoughts, with the Sealord none the wiser.
A girl has many gifts.
Has she read a man's contemplations as well? The reason perhaps, why she is here with me?
Jaqen wanted to ask her how she did it, what she felt, what she has gathered. The gods have been truly, unboundlessly gracious to her. And the great deities have been gracious to Jaqen as well, for giving her to him. His pupils dilated at the thought—it was wild arousal he once more felt. The Faceless Master delighted himself with his private fantasies.
Telesthesia.
Oh, Arya…you're inconceivable. Should we have children, they will all be very—
The girl sneezed. Onto more pressing matters, then.
She was shaking her head.
"Who built this temple, Jaqen? Who wrote the Songs?"
"Arya…"
"Answer me. I've been having dreams, Jaqen. They're…killing me."
He tilted her face towards him and kissed her deeply. Then, he let go.
"We'll discuss everything in your chamber," he told her calmly. "But first, let us get you out of these wet clothes."