"It is not brand seared through flesh but a permanent imprint

On the face and its name and its characters within.

Marked and dead

Unless the dead defeats he who is Faceless.

One who conquers Death becomes it."

Faceless Creed; 37th leaf

"Love is madness and lust is poison," the wise Lannister would always tell him. "Pray tell. Where do whores go when they depart from this world?"

"Why are you even speaking of whores? I am speaking with you of this girl—"

"Girls, women, whores," Tyrion Lannister emptied his goblet in a single gulp, turned to Aegon the Sixth. "Forgive me for being a repulsive, wretched creature. I am no better than worms that feed on the flesh of dead men, after all. The only part in them that must interest you is that which they have between their legs, nothing more. My whole life since I've learned how to fornicate, I've lain with corpses—"

"Women who can't feel, yes. Very well, let us stop this," Aegon chuckled uneasily. He now wore his silver hair that fall perfectly past the nape of his neck. No concealment necessary, the Known must know his pure dragon's blood, time is nigh, let it not pass as they say.

"Ah, but if you would be king, you must have a whore to rule by your side," Tyrion replied. "You need the same whore to mate with you morn to night on that kingly carpet of yours while you vomit the excess of wine you've had. That whore must wait for you abed, legs wide open to receive you—believe me, the small council is more exhausting than a journey to the Wall in the fiercest of winters." He poured himself another goblet. "And you need that whore to further the lineage, and gift this world with more whores and more men that would sleep with them."

The Imp had finished a whole bottle. There were others though in the manse's cellar, but the Prince was quick to lay a hand upon his arm, commanding him through mere gesture that he remained where he is. There was drunkenness to the intoxicating nectar of grapefruits; there was this drunkenness too, to the equally rousing nectar pouring graciously out of a woman's core when urged. The wise Lannister was inebriated beyond control with both.

"The best to love—they are gifted at concealing their own shattered hearts," the Imp claimed. "Even if you do grace their dinner tables and return after six crescent moons, they will not compete against the sea for your affections. To be granted such liberty from emotions, perfect detachment. Oh, how I'd shoot my lord father's chest with quarrels over and again for that gift."

"You sound too exhausted," the Prince observed.

"Oh, not at all, my Prince," Tyrion stood and patted the lad's shoulder. "Not at all."

"What is it with you and women?" Aegon inquired. "Not every woman is Shae, my friend."

The Imp chuckled as he regarded the Prince. A mere boy, he thought. Comely lad, rebel Prince, a damnable dragonrider. Of course, he would think of things ideal. "No, not every woman is Shae, very good! Some women," he raised a forefinger to emphasize a point. "Some women are Sansa Stark."

"That is one other whom you have not mentioned."

"So I may not despoil her name," he said. "The schemer. Shae is…Shae is that woman who knows you're grotesque, dismisses it, because her cunt is as deprived as her pockets and coin satchels. To her, you are not a man—you are fine liqueur and lavish food for the starving belly, satin fabric, golden necklaces, a featherbed with drapes. Gaomagon, as the Valyrians would say, after eleven minutes of ecstasy and bursting carnal froth, done. True whore. Same as any other."

The Prince nodded with sympathy. "Even the most depraved of women can become mothers…"

"The disillusioned," the Imp cut him. "Sansa Stark—a maiden who once dreamt of a Knight of Flowers who would claim her, ended up instead with a degenerate king whose purpose in life is to inflict torture and wreak catastrophe, run from the cap-sheaf of battles and gain glory for himself when those battles are won. Caught in the middle of sadistic schemes, married off to a dwarf whose kin slaughtered her family in a wedding, no less. Still, she stands, collecting the fragments of what was lost, rebuilding."

"A Stark in the Vale, a Tully quite close to the Riverlands," the Prince mused. "She's gold in any conquest. How very serendipitous that she is married to you."

"By paper, not by blood," the Imp replied. "Never got to consummate the marriage, never wanted to. Ah, but how she managed to run the Vale, with a sickly young boy and a wily brothelkeeper turned lord, beyond me. A mere child then, but her skin of porcelain urn had turned to ivory tusk, had turned to Valyrian steel."

Don't lie, Sansa. I am malformed, scarred, small, but blow out the candles and I am no worse than other men.

Tyrion sighed.

I could even be…good to you.

Tysha. She is to blame in all these.

Where do whores go when they depart from this world?

"Mothers and mistresses," Aegon continued the trail he had left. "One time you bed her, another time she gives you little ones. They are beautiful creatures. How can you even be this bitter about all of them? It's as if you have never had a mother who cradled you—"

"Accurate," the Imp answered. "I killed her too."

The Prince raised his brows in surprise.

"Then, I rest my case."

Aegon the Sixth rose and surveyed the stretch of the insula by the covered upper promenade. Melodious descant of harps and hearts echoed in his ears. Finally, the lovely Wolf in his dreams. Powerless, he mused. How can surrendering oneself to another's unknown person make so much sense? In this realm he had fought battles, lost some yet conquered more. Night of all nights, he had called it. Not only was her face revealed to him, but her seat of affections that surpassed all limits and spells and chances, and her devotion to him that never faltered, even after their years of seeking their soul's other half.

Return, or leave me here dying…

If it so happened that they had named each other dragon and direwolf from time past, such for him is inconsequential.

I can't even blink. There was the quick flutter of my lids when wintertide blew, and the Griff's voice calling for me. A second later, gone.

Aegon the Sixth decided.

We cannot be mere subjects in a dream realm. Too perilous, this cannot be.

He rubbed his lips, contemplated. "Volantene history—you were right. Dragons are needed for conquest."

"Of course, I was right," Tyrion replied. "When you took heed of my proposal and set out for the Stormlands yourself without any fire-beast's aid, you have embraced your fate as the begotten scion of your great house. In all my confabulations with Daenerys Targaryen, she had nothing but questions about you. How did you manage the twenty-five thousand strong? What were your stratagems upon sight of Shipbreaker's Bay? Where does the conquest proceed from here—north to the Straits of Tarth or northwest to Kingswood? Who were your envoys to Dorne and the Reach? When will you set out for the Crownlands?"

Aegon smiled, humbled. "And what did you tell her, if I may be allowed to ask?"

"Nothing," Tyrion shrugged. "Nothing but this—that it is you who have raised the dragon's sigil in Westeros once more, and that her arrival to Dragonstone was a little delayed. As it is, you have besieged a quarter of the Stormlands. She had laid siege on naught, even with those beasts of hers."

"Forget you not, she had warred against the Great Masters and the Wise Masters, freed slaves by the thousands," the Prince countered.

"Conquering the bay of slaves is different from conquering seven whole kingdoms with castle strongholds housing liege lords and their vassals, marchers, entire armies," Tyrion dismissed the lad's feigned modesty with a hand flick. "Indeed, she is Aegon the Conqueror with breasts, but you are Aegon the Conqueror in the flesh. The Targaryen sigil has three dragonheads—you are her kin and together you form the two. Targaryens must set this straight once and for all, show the lords. This is the whole point of conquest."

The Prince turned to the Imp, amused. "Aegon the Conqueror with teats? Ah! How fortunate you are to return to Pentos unscathed by dragonfire despite your audacity."

Tyrion scoffed. "Let us not fool ourselves, my Prince. Those dragons are here in Essos—mating with your call. Daenerys Targaryen cannot proceed yet from the Stone, her dragons had gone defiant. I read quite a lot, still I could not understand a thing about dragon ownership."

"Summerhall," Aegon replied. He walked to where the Imp was, expression of melancholy and passivity. "Perchance, that tragedy had brought quiet laughters to critics of dragonspawning. Aegon the Fifth died in the fire along with a few others. Despite the blaze, those three eggs never hatched. They found those unborn beasts when flames died down—Jaehaerys then Aerys the Mad. From kings to princes, and Rhaegar inherited them, passed them onto me."

"But only females can hatch dragons," the Imp concluded. "Ill-luck you have a cock instead of a cunt."

"Ill-luck, indeed," Aegon smiled. "Still, they fascinate me—women. How they could spawn life from seed, form such life and give it breath from within them, birth it into the world? Even dragons follow this unwrit course."

"And now that girl had planted in you an obsession for babes that shatter quiet nights, I suppose."

"Perhaps."

"Good."

"Why is that?"

"You need heirs. Daenerys Targeryen cannot bear children."

The Prince met revelation with silence.

Without heirs, she cannot hope to rule for long. Dragons are creatures of magic; they can outlive the lords that hold domination over them. The lord dies, the beast prevails. Another lord of apocryphal motives may emerge from the proverbial crevasse and decide to hold purse strings over it. Anarchy.

Is this why she came to my aid faster than the wind could carry her?

"Speaking of women and heirs, the House of Black and White has sent us this," Tyrion informed him. From his breastpocket, he took a scrolled parchment, laid it on the table. "Might be about the Lady Arya. Forgive me, I am a knower of intoxications and all that come with it, but I know little about tongues."

The seal of the guild was concealed in layers of dried stamps formed from signets of Essosi noble houses unknown. Such seal is not perpetually used, as it varies from agreement to agreement. There was the hand that paid for the gift and his eyes, and between the House and him is the exclusive ratification of a pact. Once unsealed, the trace to its source vanishes.

The seal was broken. Aegon didn't mind.

"Where is she?"

"Braavos."

He read the contents.

The entire message was three paragraphs in length, enshrouded in an unsystematic yet methodical comingling of derivative tongues of three—Valyrian, Lhazareen, Qartheen. Thirty characters glowed from various words in various phrases and sentences sprawled across the parchment. His eyes were quick, and they must be, for after those letters showed themselves in gleam, they vanished from the thin paper—ink, speck, shadow.

Any man gifted in tongues—from Common to Asshaii—would not be able to decipher the cryptic tidings. It was only meant for the eyes of the beseecher.

'Naejot aōha āeksion, naejot īlva sȳz.'

'To your gold, to our gain.'

Dragons must not make slaves out of free men but free men out of slaves.

Aegon the Sixth rolled the parchment once more. A nod to Tyrion Lannister. "Found."

"Next course of action?" the Imp asked.

The Targaryen smiled disarmingly.

"Play the game of thrones."

The death god's eyes were upon them both, as they walked hand in hand to the House of Black and White.

The divine adumbration that the connection between the Chosen and her Shield was other than what is in the Songs was only the Lorathi's conception. It never came from the god. Men merely choose what they want to believe, on the basis of what they needed to preserve within themselves.

And the deity can feel—ah, but gods created sense, did they not? She felt him, in slow, painstaking progression, turning his back from her, from his oath. And yes, the oath is not the oath of one Faceless.

Such a pact was conceived between them both before he had ever laid eyes on the House of Black and White—centuries, centuries for mortals.

It has not been that long for the death god. For her, in all her celestial capacities and essences, the pact was made and it matters not when. The gods do not live in time, time lives in them.

A man and a girl entered the weirwood and ebony doors of the temple and proceeded straight to the atrium. By the poison pool, the Kindly Man awaited them. His eyes immediately darted from the blissful faces of his two assassins, to their hands clasped together. As if their hands caught scorching fire, the girl immediately let go of the Lorathi.

Jaqen H'ghar motioned for Arya to stay where she is, as he approached the Elder with arms held out in an effort to explain.

"Elder, a man will obtain the name from the Sealord, please," he began, but the Kindly Man held out a hand to signal that he must do no further explaining.

"We have the name."

The Lorathi's brows arched in surprise. "W-we do?"

"Indeed," the Kindly Man replied, his expression blank. He then gestured for the girl to come to him and she did as she was ordered. "Arya Stark, welcome home." He patted her head with the fondness of a father to a doted child. A tone mellifluous. "You have concluded the task as Winter Maiden exceptionally well. Sights of blessing look down upon you. There you have unearthed the Sealord's most intricate plans, and now Braavos is no longer on the blind side of things."

Arya Stark breathed her relief. She almost thought that the Kindly Man would strike them both with his undying training stick at having seen their entwined fingers. "I owe it to this temple," she replied. "I did not get the name, but apparently, someone else from the Order did. Whoever carried out the task on my behalf, and the manner by which he or she carried out that task must not matter, since we already have what was desired."

The Kindly Man smiled. "Very well," he paused, seemingly irresolute on how to continue. "A child must rest. She no doubt had a truly…sensational yet exhausting evening." Then, turning to the Lorathi, he said, "Proceed to the Hall of Masters at once. Valar dohaeris." At this, the Elder walked away, leaving two Faceless in the atrium.

Upon gaining certainty that the Elder was out of sight and out of earshot, Arya opened her mouth. Jaqen placed one forefinger against her lips to block out any words from her.

"Go to your bedchamber," he said quietly. "A man will come to you as soon as the gathering concludes."

The girl gently held her master's finger which silenced her lips. She kissed it then pulled it a little to her lower lip. Then, delicately, she buried her teeth against it, teasing him.

The Lorathi's eyes widened with beguilement, then chuckled. "Arya, please…"

"Fine…" the girl coyly replied, swayed her hips as she walked away. The Lorathi just bit his lip, smiled. She paused to look back at him. "Please Master, if I am already asleep upon your return, wake me up, yes?"

"Fine…" was his reply.

His impassioned eyes followed her out of the atrium.

The Lorathi walked unhurriedly towards the Hall of Masters, replaying in his contemplations the fanciful exchange they had mere minutes ago. Her words still stirred his heart.

I love you, Jaqen.

High spirits—such that he had never felt, engulfed him. Suddenly, everything in the entire world seemed altogether trifling. Only she remained.

A man must decide what the next course of actions must be.

Once faceless, faceless thereon. Such is written in the Creed. One of the vows of a Faceless Man is to remain celibate for their god. Essentially and ultimately, Faceless Men are priests of death; and their ordinance requires the fullest loyalty only to the precepts and calling of the House—they must not engage in any form of lasting relationship with another. They must cut ties with their families, they must not marry. This must be, in order for them to keep their dispassion—to carry out tasks without burden, without connection to their inherently biased selves.

However, the ritual by the goddess pool may have overturned all these for her.

Aegeus had planned this all along—the courtesan task and the enchantress proclaimed.

'Water from me to you, water from you to me.'

It was banishment, purification, immersion. When Arya Stark rose from the waters of that great bath, she had accepted that aspect of herself that was lost in her memories. As Faceless, she is unknown through her many guises, but as Arya Stark, she embodied one universal divinity. The enchantment that had been unleashed that whimsical night was enough to fray the fabric among the different realms.

Concession is wise.

She is Queen Nymeria of Ny Sar and Arya Stark of Winterfell. Not two selves but one.

It is neither rebirth nor re-entering the flesh, unlike what most would understand, for men believe that souls aspire for freedom while their bodies hold them prisoner.

It is a cycle of ascending spirals. She carried the same face, same spirit, same essence. Different name. There are many versions of the self that connect and disconnect in various realms, it does not mean that these versions cannot unite to form the person. It serves a whole purpose after all—restore previous existence, connect it with the self that exists in the now, shape an existence that is newfangled and unique. If she accepts all versions of self, she can harness the powers she did not even know she possessed.

By the wrath of the deities it must be so.

By the grace of the deities it must be so.

Not two selves but one—in the sacred confluence where they drank their own blood, her Self is 'him'. No one can say that the self that existed in the past is gone; and that only the other self that exists in the present must matter. If there is one thing that Aegeus had unraveled through obsidian candles and unfinished mapping of the Known and Unknown, it is this: that time does not move in a manner straightforward, like an arrow that was released by the bowstring that held it.

Anomalies of time—tomorrow can exist in yesterday. This is the true rune West of Westeros. If men possess true knowledge about reality around them, it would matter not if time was in a state of disarray. And these overlapping realities of selves within selves ungoverned by time is beyond what the death god can understand, because gods have no concept of clocks, chronologies, inconsistencies. They live in infinities.

From the most mundane to the most profound, all tales must be told.

A coming together that is all-good, all-powerful. Back in the days of Valyria and Rhoyne, fire and water in all its forms had united.

Altogether, they are going to defeat the Old, and with it, Winter.

On matters more personal, why did he even risk obtaining his dragon gold from the mazes of Lorath?

It might be that he did it in order to protect her, though she neither demanded nor expressed the need for it. He is her Guardian after all. Oh, but there was surely more to it. The Lorathi battled against the desperate cries of his affections.

The more he thought about this almost irresistible impulse, and her…the more he felt himself exploding like alchemy gone awry.

So trusting and innocent the girl was, to undress herself in front of him.

To let him taste her, delight himself in her nakedness, her wonderful mounds.

Arya.

Jaqen H'ghar knew that it was not only temporary warmth with her that could quench his feelings of unrest.

Something…something eternal.

Something deathless.

Finally, he reached the Hall of Masters. The Lorathi entered but was surprised that except for the Elder who knelt in front of Him of Many Faces, there was no one else in that chamber.

The man stayed beside the door. The Elder who no doubt sensed his presence, spoke to him.

"Sit."

The Lorathi sat on his usual seat behind the weirwood. By chance, he already had an inkling of what the Elder might tell him, and he had rehearsed in his mind countless upon countless of times his explications. He is a Faceless Man, yet he is Guardian, as well. As sworn, the Guardian must in all aspects preserve she that was chosen and she that was sent. Had he not done that—

"Such encumbrance, the Many Faced One had bestowed upon me," the Elder stood and turned to him calmly. His voice was firm and foreboding. He slowly walked from his god's statue and sat opposite the Lorathi. "The burden of having to run a House full of willfully rebellious children. One was seen bargaining with a Shadowbinder, and another was seen taking active part in the Winter Maiden's bidding, despite the Burners of the Pass giving him stern warning in this very temple. Made the bid in his true face, no less."

"Elder, if I may—"

"No, you may not!"

Jaqen was dumbfounded at the response. For the first time, the Elder had expressed his absolute lack of intent to listen to him. The Lorathi was one of his most trusted, someone whose words he never had to take under advisement—as if his words were wise enough, or perhaps wiser, to even be questioned. Gatherings would not be concluded without him having some final say to the Order's courses of action. Had he truly done something so unforgivable this time?

"You will not open your mouth, for once," the Elder said calmly, though it was beyond obvious that he was containing the anger underneath. "You will not lend me your ears, you will surrender them to me fully."

The Lorathi expelled air from his mouth and nodded.

"I have mentioned before how I detest having to deal with complications when carrying out tasks," he began. "But you intentionally disregarded my words. Even without you saying a thing, you have questioned my insights and decisions about matters concerning the Winter Maiden."

The Lorathi's face betrayed no emotion as he listened to the Kindly Man.

"You participated in the bidding," the Elder continued. The Lorathi scoffed, as if saying that it was not that big of a deal. "And it was crystal-clear, a response to your personal motivations. Faceless Men do not engage themselves in concerns that promote nothing but individual vainglory."

This time, the Lorathi did not anymore bother hiding his thoughts. "With all due respect Elder, you have the name. Why must it matter still that Arya Stark got out of the Winter Maiden's barge uncorrupted? Why must it matter that a man saw to it that she remained chaste?"

All of a sudden, the Elder rose to his seat and crossed the distance between him and the Lorathi. Upon reaching his seat, he slammed his right hand forcefully against the weirwood table, leaving atop it a black and white slip containing the name.

The skies and the earth beneath seemed to have overturned themselves on Jaqen H'ghar. As he took the slip in his fingers and stared at the name, he realized the irreversibility of what was done.

Shame, for time could not reverse itself that fast.

Facelessness.

This was entirely why dealers of death must act only with objectivity. One wrong judgment and consequences may indeed be severe. Servants perform for the death god the dirt, soil their hands with blood of other men—righteous, contemptuous—but they do not decide who must die.

Arya Stark.

The Elder shook his head in disappointment. "Had you let the Sealord win the bid, he would have gone to the Winter Maiden. Arya Stark would have so easily pried on his thoughts and learned that it was she who he would name. Arya Stark would have carried out the supplication of your beloved sister in the Order and murdered the Sealord that instant." The Lorathi covered his hands with his face, then brushed his hair despairingly with his fingers. "Right after the bid, Tormo Fregar gave the temple the name."

"How can he even know about the Winter Maiden's persona? How can the lords know?"

"Through a traitor in the Order. A master."

The impact of those words registered on the Lorathi. Certainly no soul could betray the Faceless Men and live to brag about the act—either the masters could smell the betrayer within the temple, or kill him before he even makes any attempt. How good was this conspirator, that he was able to conceal his intents from ten others?

"Who?" the Lorathi asked through clenched teeth.

"That is what I am trying to discover," the Elder answered. "The only thing I am most sure about is that it could not be you, as you are apparently…" he chose to leave the words in the air. He shook his head.

The Lorathi laughed bitterly. "This cannot be," he replied, then eyed the Elder intently. "How can anyone name the Electi? She is No One. We all are. Death requires a real name—one with existent identity."

"She is faceless and nameless; but beyond these, she wears Arya Stark's face and carries Arya Stark's name and bears Arya Stark's gifts from the old gods. Why do you think would the temple conceal her identity to the point of one faceless man's death? She had to be faceless and a Stark, and that latter state of hers is most necessary, despite it being a possible cause for her downfall. Heavens, even I am getting enervated of hearing my own words over and again," the Elder explained, albeit heatedly. "The price has been paid and all men must die. Even the Chosen, when named."

"A Faceless Man cannot kill anyone whose name he knows."

"The agreement with Fregar was twoscore moons ago, prior to Arya Stark's arrival in the temple. Not a soul in the temple could have known her by then, the shierak qiya had not yet appeared, as prophecies said it would. Your Braavosi brother had waited for the astrography of the Moonsingers and the reader of this temple before he could confirm the girl's identity. Agreements must be honored, or the death god will have all of our heads."

"The death god will never do such thing," the Lorathi replied.

The Elder laughed bitterly. "The death god favors certain persons, yes—a reason why you are as bold as you are. But for the lot of us who are mere servants, following the Creed is higher than the highest of obligations. War against the Creed is war against the god—it is not a war of flesh and bones, but of souls. No one wins but the one who is higher."

"And Braavos?" the Lorathi retorted for lack of a better argument. He hastily rose from his seat. "What about your cyvasse games with Volantis and the dragonlords? And the realms, too! A man supposes you will just let them claim victory now, yes? I suppose you have no need of Arya Stark now?" Jaqen angrily stood, rushed to the wooden shelf on the far corner of the room and rummaged through it, intentionally dropping books on the floor. "There must be certain exceptions in the Creed." He said, his voice breaking. Jaqen pulled from the shelf a massive, worn out book and slammed it on the table. He began flipping through the pages. "Damn it!"

The Elder only regarded his Jaqen with the pity a father would feel for a son. Forbidden, he thought, so young and pure.

He should not, but the only thing he could give the almost crestfallen Lorathi was a glimmer of hope. "Thirty-seven."

Jaqen glanced sideways at the Elder then quickly turned to that leaf. He let his fingers run through the page and paused when he found one particular verse. It was not much but supplicants cannot have too many choices.

The Lorathi pinched the bridge of his nose, shut his eyes tight. The Elder spoke.

"We cannot challenge the deity on this."

"A man knows."

"How well did you train your apprentice?"

"Well enough," he exhaled.

"Then, may the old gods grant her power. May the red god preserve her and may the death god take her not before her time," the Elder said. "You are Guardian, take the task now—defeat the threats, surrender yourself if you must. I will not delegate one specific Faceless Man for this, my boy. You will."

The deliberation was the most difficult. Boundaries must not be crossed, especially those drawn by Him of Many Faces. How can one Chosen be ensconced from pitfalls if the Guardian will capitulate?

Questioning the subject of Death—a curse. Valar Morghulis.

Still, there are those boundaries that must be spanned for the sake of one beloved. Hood's breath will be upon all of them, for the death god despises being bypassed.

To hell with them. A man will cross all damnable boundaries!

"She who conquers Death becomes it. Go," the Elder ordered him. "She must die tonight."

Lyanna…

Rhaegar, beloved.

Our fruits, my love?

You never came back. You swore, you failed. A full moon had passed…

Oh, but I will breathe. Be enkindled.

When? Where?

Before a Doom ends.

Rhaegar, beloved…I need you, my dragon.

A girl had fallen asleep while waiting upon her master's return. Tightly, she gripped the bedlinens as she helplessly relented to her usual dream state. She was running…away and far from the Forks, where she discovered a mutilated, fully naked corpse of one woman.

Her eyes opened…and they saw her.

She sprang forward—past the water's edge, past the thickets. Past a hill. I see darkness in you. Atop the funereal night was a full blood moon, left solitary by the usual scintillating auroras. She howled through her tragic soul.

The flame of life passed from him to her…and by gods, she rose.

Strong winds blew relentlessly on her fur, and she felt cold. Her beastly courage, replaced by one direwolf's woebegone spirit. Weep, weep. Escape was impossible, salvation comes only through lamentations. She called out many names—three, ten. No one replied.

Kill and eat.

A direwolf found shelter in a desolate cave. The howls were replaced by whimpers of anguish. The direwolf's nose touched the dank soil. Stench of decay, of life adulterated. Pitch-black darkness whispered wretchedness in her ears. Bats screeched and soared in all and opposing directions. She waited for the blackness to ebb away.

The woman's flesh was pudding soft, her skin whiter than snow yet putrescent. Half-bald, distorted visage. Her fingernails carried the flesh from where she had clawed her own face.

But her eyes were the most horrifying.

Her eyes saw her, and they hated.

The direwolf whimpered and wailed in the night.

Catelyn.

Lady Catelyn Stark.

Mother.

She spoke. Her voice was petrifying, hollow—as if it came from the depths of the ground of those deceased. Those bereft of life for all eternity would arise if summoned by that voice. She does not belong here. The Elder had claimed how her undeath was an abomination.

There were five names on her dear mother's lips. She spoke of these names to a lady whose capable hands wielded Ice which the Lions have melted.

Find my strong, sweet Maiden, find my Stranger that was lost.

Bring me the Valonqar, the Lord of Crossings. The Mockingbird is mine to slay.

The direwolf walked closer to her, eyes misty because of the chill of Winter and the chill of Death that had failed to claim. The direwolf's vision was blurred as it silently wept, as it mourned and rejoiced at the same time.

Mother, what have they done to you?

Are you Lannister? Are you Frey?

No, mother.

Who are you?

Arya.

Are you Lannister? Frey?

No…

Then, I do not know who you are.

The direwolf howled its loudest during that full blood moon.

That full blood moon had transfigured itself to reveal its crescent form, its shape of a sickle slicing its way into the skies and the clouds that floated upon it, like a scimitar from the heavens.

Old Valyria, with its arched gables, roofless towers, high-rising belfries. Even the sun seemed to shy away from a distance. The Freehold stood with such chaotic profusion, and it showed itself to all beholders with dreadful classicism. Thunderclaps sounded in the Old, but it is not the foreboding sound of tempest, but the sound of the distant flames—all fourteen of them. The chill and damp of the night clung to each and every soul that suffered and reveled.

In all its terrible greatness, there was the redeeming sight of those winged creatures.

Some drifted through the skies and frolicked with the harsh winds, and these winds, they tamed. Some waited on the majestic rooftops of their lords and masters, wings splayed out, prepared for flight. And they flew—it was a chimera of shimmers and colors.

The imperial ones were most feared. Most powerful, most precise. Of their one thousand and sixty-seven glistening scales, five hundred thirty-four are virtue, five hundred and thirty-three are vile.

Their strong movement as they sailed through the sky formed thick hazes of soft-surging waters—for even as they passed through the rivers leading to the Summer Sea and the now Gulf of Grief, rivulets and grand watercourses obeyed them.

And this was because of this water enchantress one Valyrian had brought to the Freehold.

I can teach him, beloved.

Dragons cannot breathe underwater, my sweet.

Not if they resist. Calm as still water—he can and he will.

Such gift would render him unstoppable. Even Urkon…

Yes, and he can hide himself in space through vapor. Let me teach him, Haresh.

The red god through fire, the old gods through water.

Indeed, let them unite.

Of the many offenses men could commit, rebellion is the most detestable in the eyes of Valyrians.

Arya Stark was awoken by the feel of cold steel against her neck. She kept her eyes shut.

Facelessness.

She continued her pretense of sleep. Slowly yet surely, her hands moved beneath her pillow to retrieve her daggers. Her chest seemed to forget how to breathe, but her senses were still alert. In her mind, she rehearsed various manners on how, when, and where to attack this most unwelcome guest. Despite the questions on the assassin's intent flooding her mind that instant, she was able to will herself to channel all of her thoughts and energies to the looming bloodshed. The aura of one who is faceless was unmistakable—the assailant is a woman.

A stab to the heart?

A throat slit, from ear to ear?

A fatal pierce through the eye?

"No need for that, Arya Stark," she heard the Waif say. "Acknowledge your mortality and succumb peacefully to your ruin. Valar Morghulis."

At these words, Arya Stark swiftly grabbed the Waif's dagger by the blade, drawing fresh blood from the palm of her right hand. She threw it forcefully and it landed near the open threshold. A quick head-to-head strike and the Waif fell hard from the featherbed to the stone floor. Arya retrieved her daggers from beneath her pillow and attempted to stab the woman on the stomach, enough to immobilize her for minutes. The Waif was quicker both in motion and thought—she was on her feet within seconds. She skillfully seized Arya's wrist and twisted her arms backwards.

The viscous blood in the girl's palms and the excruciating stretch of both her muscles and bones were enough for the girl to unwillingly surrender her daggers to the cold ground. The woman continued pulling her arms in agonizing angles, and the girl writhed and screamed in pain. The woman gripped the girl's body tight, confining the movement of her limbs to almost nothing. She pressed another blade against the girl's neck, and this time, it went deeper—cutting an inch of her flesh near her very pulse.

The girl could feel the trickle of blood.

Arya gasped for dire air. "Who sent you?!"

"Your Faceless Master."

Her eyes widened and for a painful fraction of a second, Arya Stark lost all the will to live.

Jaqen?

My Jaqen?

"You lie!" The girl struggled against the Waif's tight hold. Her voice broke.

The woman placed her lips against her right ear, whispered. "If after this you are still breathing, you could ask him." Gradually, the Waif released her hold of Arya, much to the girl's surprise. The woman grabbed her hair and spoke once more to her. "I will let you reclaim your fancy daggers from the floor. You may run away from the temple, if you wish. Twenty seconds, and I will chase you to the ends of Braavos."

There were two and only two options.

Either she faces the Waif—a full-fledged Faceless Master of the House of Black and White, and beseech Him of Many Faces or whoever gods were listening for an impossible victory against her; or as she had suggested, run and use the twenty-second window to plan a more effective counterattack.

In the midst of her quick weaving of plans for her own survival, she strained yet failed to brush aside the Waif's words about who ordered the hit on her name.

Realization collapsed upon her like colossal rocks from the sky—it may truly be that she was double-crossed by someone in the Order. However, she could not force what she had heard from the woman to coincide with what she believes —that Jaqen…he…he will not do this to her. She endeavored this: to not let herself be defeated by hopelessness, despite the truth that her spirit was slowly being crushed, and that she was falling apart.

I cannot fall. I'm a Wolf.

I am a Stark.

I am Arya Stark.

The Waif pushed her away, and Arya acted in haste.

She picked up her daggers that were strewn on the floor.

Then in the cold, punishing night, she ran.

The girl paddled the boat away from the temple as quick as she could, fighting against the unexpectedly strong current of the canal, enduring the sweltering pain of her left-hand palm. Her wound roughly brushed against the splinter of the paddle, widening the cut and intensifying her agony. She brushed the blood softly trickling down her neck with the back of her hand. It was too dark—the Unmasking is over and most of Braavos is asleep. Her eyes struggled to see beyond the blackness and she caught sight of the bank of the Long Canal. She rowed towards its direction. The boat finally hit solid ground; she rapidly disembarked and whisked away.

There was only one place to go.

Moonsingers.

She dashed across the labyrinthine streets of Braavos. A few locals were still up and about, concluding their business for that day, as ladies awaited in brothels and ship folks entered some serving alehouses. In her state of urgency, she accidentally bumped against some drunken small merchants, thus sending their bottled suds flying in the air or crashing on the ground. The girl tripped on one sailor's leg, and when she hoisted herself up, she inadvertently held the man's trousers, smearing it with blood.

"What in the hells are yeh doin?!"

"That bitch, runnin' 'round over there! Knocking over bottles on purpose!"

Some men walked hastily to her direction, and one grabbed her by the sleeve. "Oy! Stop righ' there and pay for these shite!" Arya struggled out of the man's grasp, but his hold was resilient.

She quickly pulled out her dagger and slashed through the sleeve, freeing herself in the process.

She darted away.

Her chest was exploding, her breathing, sporadic. If the reason was exhaustion, or her multiple lacerations, or the aching inside her heart that convinced her to not give up on her blind faith in her Lorathi, she was not anymore sure.

She kept on running as if chased by unforgiving shadows of high midnight.

Jaqen... Where are you?

Help, Jaqen.

Defense, devotion, your vows. Be Shield to my Sword…

Jaqen?

This was not Harrenhal.

No Lorathi could act as a valorous seraph for the bold Wolf that was a lost sheep that was a terrified mouse. Arya Stark was not asleep in one room in a spectre-riddled castle scorched by dragonfire ages ago, to be woken up by him—he who was sent by the gods—in order to claim three deaths in place of three lives.

One girl could not whisper names in his ear in the bath, catch a whiff of his ginger and cloves, so she could be spared from a painful beating.

And she could not hope that he would come to her whilst she prayed in the godswood for wings, to demand for one last name that became ten and twenty due to his relenting and to her insistence.

She reached the marbled steps of the immaculate Temple of the Moonsingers.

Monsters were in her head. When had the last time been? Fierce as a wolverine. So like a mummer, like one astute of acts and concealments, Arya Stark pretended once more—pretended that in the dark, Ned Stark was with her, Syrio Forel and Yoren, and Jon, and…Jaqen.

Jaqen is dead.

Jaqen wants her dead.

Arya took staggered strides, whimpering in pain as her hands landed onto the cold metamorphics in her effort to keep herself upright. She could barely carry her own body broken by a possible truth of a treachery. The sanguine fluid from her palm left a trail of rich scarlet on the otherwise taintless, ivory-hued steps, defiling them. The moon was full, but at that moment, she was not an undauntable direwolf. She was only Arya. Despite the strongest of urges, she could not howl the pangs and the pain away.

Perhaps tonight, like the wolves in her pack, she too will be taken and slain and skinned. They were all wrong—Starks are not impossible to kill. A mere thought of her Lorathi and she felt like dying for the hundred thousandth time.

A voice in anguish wailed fleetingly through her already muddled thoughts. It was the cry she would never resort to, but she did, out of utter desperation.

Rhaegar, beloved…I need you, my dragon. Whoever you are, purple-eyed in my dreams…save me.

It was folly—Arya Stark never needed saving. But it was despondency, a mental suffering impossible to subdue, and she needed someone to hold; for her Lorathi, her most beloved, had let go of her hand and allowed her to fall off that declivitous cliff.

Wind blew and strands of hair stuck against her bloodied neck. She reached the temple's double threshold.

Swift as a deer, quiet as a shadow, quick as a snake, calm as still water, fear cuts deeper than swords. The man who fears losing has already lost. Not today.

She lifted her eyes to the temple's thresholds.

The Waif was already there.

Only the gentle sound of a man's robe against the paved floor—only this could be heard in all the stillness that wrapped what they called their place of worship. Quiet as a shadow, for one does not know who or what lurks a few steps forth.

Perchance, it was her blood that desecrated the ground.

He uttered a short prayer to Him of Many Faces. The god will listen. A man has been a truly devoted servant. He drew the deepest and sharpest of all breaths. It was all he could do for him not to rush to the Hall of Faces so this agony of not knowing what fate she has either conquered or suffered could cease. A man had taught a girl well, had he not?

The trail of blood led him to the hall. He took a few more steps. Calm, quiet. His eyes began to burn, his blood seemed to want to escape from his flesh, as his heart throbbed in unrecognizably unpleasant rhythms. As he reached the first pillar where the faces of the departed were arrayed, his eyes met the very face he had wanted to see.

Drenched in metallic-smelling blood, its contorted features a reflection of what could have been an utter excruciation, displayed in the most horrific fashion, was her face.

The Waif's face.

It took all the courage a man could muster to stay composed—to not give away anything. Truth is, he had never been so overjoyed, not since he had met that girl on the exhausting way to the North, not since he had received one message from his Kindly Man saying that the same girl had showed up on their doorstep clutching the coin he gave her.

Not since she had told him she loves him.

Well done, lovely girl.

He was there, at the Moonsingers. He saw everything.

One Faceless had succumbed to death so the other may live, it was a sacrifice done for the first time in the Order. And it was not only the looming battle that led the woman to do it, as it was not merely her desire for repose that served as her driving force. She knew who Arya Stark is to him.

The Lorathi, despite their years together, did not honor the Waif with the one last thing he could give her prior to her self-inflicted demise—his trust.

She had told him yes, Arya Stark will not fall. And she was truest to her word.

Guilt—it was all he felt for questioning the motivations of his most beloved sister.

I'll do it, but you must bleed before she does.

They drew it together using the woman's blade—a straight laceration, from his forearm to his wrist, close to the pulse. Less than half an inch, a slight miscalculation of the gashing, and he would have breathed his last.

Had she done anything at all, to make Arya Stark bleed more than what was necessary, he would have rescinded all precepts and concepts of kinship, and without half a first thought, he would have hurled a dagger straight on the Waif's temple. To hell with all of them! And should the Elder find out about his desertion of the agreement, the Lorathi would kill him too, and peel off his face. And may the Father of all Faceless forgive him in the afterlife. He would take back his imperial beast, and go past the Sunset Sea with the girl, for perhaps, West of Westeros is beyond the death god's sight.

He uttered the longest of prayers so he would not be faced with the decision to perform such an act.

For this is the truth—that between the Order and Arya, he would always choose Arya.

And between the death god and Arya…

Forgive a man, you know who he would choose. Condone me not, mercy. Arya Stark. Always, always.

The relief was short-lived though, for when he turned, he came face to face with Arya Stark's Needle—its pointy end prepared to stab him in his insides.

A man gently stared at his lovely girl's countenance, as if such a gaze could will her to understand.

"You betrayed me," she said, her voice clearly sounding utter hurt. "You told her to kill me."

He walked closer until his chest touched the tip of the sword. "Yes," was all he could say. "But here you are. And there she is."

"Why?" she whispered, shaking her head. Perhaps, she was hoping, praying that this was all a cruel delusion and that she would wake from it any second. Her self, if ever she still possessed any, bruised and battered beyond comprehension.

"How can a man tell a girl this?" he began, as he grasped the blade with his bare hands and pulled it away from him. The sharpness of its edges drew blood from his hand, but a man must be bloody too, for this was all his work. He walked closer to her as she dropped Needle to the ground. "How can he tell her this in a way she would understand? It was never in a man's intention that she suffers any of this."

Tears streamed down her lovely face. Roughly, she wiped them away with the back of her hand. Tears are a weakness, she told herself, he was a weakness. She should have realized this sooner.

Silence ensued between them so she spoke. "I will never understand, but I have the right to know!" She seethed and quickly tried to grab the steel from the floor but he was a man, he was faster and more sinewy. Even before her forefinger could touch the steel's hilt, he had already pulled her down the floor with him, her back against his chest, her whole body enveloped in his strong arms.

Wretchedness howled, anguish burned, spirits suffered. She felt the weight of the world upon her that instant, the stench of betrayal, and she wept.

"Hush…please, sweet Arya," his mouth whispered against her ear. She felt his breath, warm and damp and soft-sounding.

"Tell me, Jaqen. You owe me at least that," she continued through gritted teeth. "Tell me why you have decided to desert me and relinquish your vow to the many-faced god!"

He held her tighter, closer, as he buried his face against her hair. "Look at me," he told her. She only gave him one disdained look; it scorched him, he felt pained. Solitary tear, and the Lorathi wiped it from her face.

"A girl has been marked for death."

She shook her head in disbelief.

"No person on the face of this earth could possibly mark me for death. I am Faceless. I am Nameless."

His expression softened and he nodded. "No person could name anyone stripped off of her identity for the many-faced god. No person can recognize the existence of nothingness, and seek to annihilate that existence. But they can name Arya Stark of Winterfell, and this they did."

"Arya Stark is No One."

"Oh, Arya Stark," the Lorathi sighed with woe. "She had transcended that state through the Songs. And they knew that the Songs spoke about Arya Stark two centuries after the Doom. The name on the Sealord's slip is yours, and he paid the price." His arms wrapped around her gentle frame once more, this time tighter, as if he could defend her from what is to come, as if all that he felt and all that he is could serve as her rampart against the gloomy skirts of the future. "They knew about it all along, despite all this House's efforts to keep it hidden until we can uncloak the truth."

"The Waif…she let me thrust my poisoned dagger in her heart—thrice," Arya said. "Why?"

Jaqen rose and gently lifted the girl to stand. His eyes traveled to Arya's bloody palm and neck and he gently traced his fingers there. Not deep at all, my sister had been truly gentle. He traced the lacerations some more, and she winced. His forehead was heavily creased; his eyes were misty, as he shook his head in utter remorse. It was the only way to keep her alive without breaking the Creed, without challenging the death god's edicts. If not, the death god—she will have her still, in a manner unthinkable.

All of a sudden, Jaqen covered Arya's lips with his.

Arya…

She did not kiss him back.

Reluctantly, heartbroken, he slowly released her.

"Why?" the girl prodded silently.

A despondent sigh, he answered. "She named the traitorous Sealord. And she named three others. The life of one Faceless Man is that of six kings."

Arya nodded. "And the dead man who conquers one that is Faceless evades Death?"

"Yes."

"You sent a Faceless with a death wish to kill me, so she may concede to her own death and I may live."

He merely nodded.

Jaqen. Tell me…

She's been named.

And…you will act as the faceless that she must quell?

Yes.

Veiling—it's dangerous. The death god will—

Let the deity do whatever she wants with me.

I fear for you.

Don't. Arya—I…I…

You're Guardian. Forfeiting yourself so she gains the veil—this act is a desertion of two full vows. You cannot forsake your task now. The undertaking is beyond what she can endure. You cannot surrender yourself.

Choices. A man doesn't even have a second.

I'll do it. But you must bleed before she does.

Please, don't…

Valar Morghulis. What is the difference between now and a few days? What is the difference between the liquid of death and sharp steel?

Not you, Sabine. No…no.

No, Jaqen. Not you. The realms, Jaqen. Both Walls will fall—the Moonsingers have claimed this.

Battles, arguments, and persuasions—both sound and unsound, cloaked emotions within disconsolate utterances, embraces and releases. Voices were high and loud that night; rage and remorse overpowered all sense of logic. She had assured him of her plans, and that this will not be the end of it all. She had asked him not to weep for her, for there are secrets that must be unraveled. Only when she enters the dark, uncertain curtains could she unmask them—and the death god too.

A concession.

Don't let her suffer.

She won't fall, I promise you this.

The girl gazed at the Lorathi. She must understand, that the temple did what it had to do in order to honor an agreement and keep the Chosen safe. Otherwise, vows will be thrown uselessly in the wind and the foundations of the Faceless Men will not only be shaken, but will be completely lost.

And the death god will have all of our heads.

However, more than all these, with the Lorathi's manipulations of the Creed and the Elder's sagacious schemes, she has been given something that no person, faceless or not, must be bequeathed.

A veil—a cloak.

Arya Stark was marked, and Death should have claimed her. Another intervened—a Faceless.

That Faceless was without name and identity, and her rejection of Self was flawless and uncompromising. Without a designation, the temporal and divine laws governing Death will be nullified, for it needs both appellation and appearance. And that Faceless was supposed to be the dealer of it, yet in that function, she failed.

Chose to fail.

When that Faceless succumbed to her ruination, the true marked gained power over Death which that Faceless had to deal. Circumvention—and this Death, instead of claiming Arya Stark, enveloped her like a protective Shield.

A veil—a cloak.

This veil is spiritual skin, and she will wear it henceforth, so that whenever the death god bids her 'Come', she could politely refuse. It was a privilege from the deity, a grant to whoever has conquered a possible quietus. And this privilege, the death god resents yielding to mortals.

All for the sake of her, the Lorathi had cheated his god. Nothing will ever be the same between them.

Still, her heart ached terribly as she looked at him. Her mind was riddled with thoughts of this one elaborate arrangement.

The lords of Old were determined to eliminate her, she realized. In West of Westeros they have stayed, but not before entrusting the First Daughter with the task of rebuilding the Freehold until they return—thus, the Century of Blood. Two hundred years, and the Moonsingers and the Faceless Men were granted their prophetic visions of one Chosen—aid to the Promised, the Warrior. The name was not known then, but they have orchestrated one plan to murder her from the very beginning—long, long before—with the House of Black and White none the wiser.

The extrapolations were too accurate, too perfect. What better way to slaughter the enemy than to infiltrate the House where she belongs? A betrayer in the Order, it was the sole convincing reason.

The Lorathi placed his forehead against her own, his sensibilities one with a girl's, as a trace of his soul mingled with a trace of hers. In her eyes were tears and something else—something dark and shuddersome.

Fear turned to cold-blooded hatred. With no regard for consequences.

"I will kill every last one of them," she uttered in a whisper, but with unparalleled conviction nonetheless.

He could not fail her, never again. Not when she has pledged her whole life to the Order as if it meant everything to her. And not when she had willingly accepted a fate of self-sacrifice for a city he calls home, not for the Songs, but for him. He gave her his word.

"No, lovely girl. We will kill every last one of them."

Within her, a familiar voice spoke. It was the same voice that had contemptuously decided, though it was not a prerogative of it, that lives be taken before their rightful time. The sound of that voice escaped out of one girl's sweet cords, her precious lips, conceived out of tribulation caused by foes and friends alike. The voice was promulgation itself in front of all souls, both nomadic and settled, of the names who in her sight had infallibly lost their simple right to breathe their next.

Names of degenerate manslaughterers, brilliant saboteurs, traitors.

Ser Ilyn. Ser Meryn.

Walder Frey. Queen Cersei.

Betrayers.

Lords of Old.

Jaqen H'ghar.

Valar Morghulis.