Hey guys! Mature scenes ahead. Be warned.
"Rubies flew like drops of blood from the chest of a dying prince.
He sank his knees in the water,
And with his last breath, murmured a woman's name."
A Song of Ice and Fire
"Oh, my bloody Lorathi…"
Arya sat astride him.
She scooped up some water with her left palm and gently poured it upon Jaqen's freshly-stitched shoulder. The Lorathi gazed at her fervently, whilst she removed the scarlet that had dried upon his skin. The girl let another palmful of soapy liquid flow and wash him; and as she was intent in purging him of the blood of traitors and foes, she did not anymore notice herself biting her lower lip as she did the scrubbing. Her fingers were light, and they delighted him more than they cleansed him. She spoke in her immaculate, innocent voice:
"Water from me to you, water from you to me."
The Lorathi inhaled sharply. The Warrior Queen—she always has this talent with language. Even in their madness in the fields, Essoan the tongue, their shared rapture which they concealed from the eyes of their warring clans back in the days of Valyria and Rhoyne, she had always sparked within him the most pleasurable of outbursts.
And even now, the utterance was too suggestive.
This is not cleansing. This is fondling.
He pulled her to him, ravished her lips.
They were once more in the bath chamber—he was naked, and only the soapsuds hid his nudity; while she donned the gown that was a gift from Bellegere Otherys, the one with a very thin fabric. It clung to her skin with the wet, revealing her curvatures, as it previously had. Despite her insistence that she too, must be naked for she will bathe him, the Lorathi demanded that she wore clothes, no matter how uselessly they concealed her womanly frame. "Don't play the part of the temptress," the Lorathi had told her. "The night will be long." The girl thought that perhaps, the gown she wore was not for the night after all, but for soaking in the bath, for it served her that better purpose for the second time now.
The Lorathi forced his tongue inside her mouth. She sucked on it, swallowed his succulence. In the chamber were moans and sighs and insistent want; silent screams and pleas for completions and summits. The Lorathi kneaded her behind, she altered her position a little so she could meet him. Undulating motions, and her body's voyages on top of him were gentle oscillations of calm waves—the still tempests of Rhoyne and its prismatic waters. It has always been like this, as if the river was a grand orchestrator of a union between dragons and direwolves. The maiden goddess, her lover god. Ice and fire. She derived pleasure from it, with the soft flesh inside her slit caressing him—and she felt so, so close to the man that she was almost sure they would then, in the literal sense of it all, border to the oneness the Songs spoke of. Please, the girl beseeched any god, make it happen.
He fondled her breasts, toyed with the crystal-like tips of it.
A thousand 'Oh, Jaqen…' found their way from her mouth to the wind. Her mistral of groans interfused with the stone walls of that chamber, and the walls kept their secrets within their chasms.
It was as if the death god had not orchestrated through them a sickening carnage mere hours ago. The bloodbath was then a thing forgotten, what remained were their bodies, bereft of the fulfillment only the other one could grant.
"Make me bleed, Jaqen…" She murmured against his lips.
He only laughed quietly.
She broke away.
"Stop laughing at me and make me bleed. I know…that with this beautiful thing that you have, you can and will make me bleed every single day," she touched the tip of his now erect shaft. Her hands closed in on it, very tight; and she rollicked with him north to south in a manner intense, unrestrained. Her heart leaped at the sound of his suddenly fitful breathing, but direwolves are known to be merciless. She hastened her strokes. "You can draw scarlet from me forever till blood runs dry, till I have no more; I will wash the bedlinens myself, scrub them taintless. I don't care."
Jaqen moaned. "Ah…ah…" He regarded her with narrowed eyes, a smile playing at the corners of his lips. "Not enough blood for the night?"
He guided her hands, taught her the proper way of pleasuring him. The water was foamy, and it aided them quite well with their shared art. "Enough of theirs. Ah!" His tongue rubbed her bosom tips in soft circles. "I-I'm speaking about mine, my love."
My love.
Does the death god love?
"Arya Stark, nothing about you is meant to be rushed."
She kissed him. "What of the things you told me the previous night then? 'Force myself in you, make you lose your voice, fill you with my Lorathi seed'? I have been promised incapacity to walk for days."
His laughter was rich, bestrewed in every witnessing corner, and thought the girl shrewd in matters concerning making him lose himself. "If we do this thing, you very well know the consequences. The goddess pool had made a woman out of you—"
"You're damn scared of babes, their innocence, their tenderness?" Arya queried, as she fondled him faster. The Lorathi began breathing through his mouth, his stares were ravenous. The girl had become bolder and insubmissive, and she stared back at him with equal voracity. "Your swords and daggers had calloused your hands too much, that you cannot dare cradle anything soft and pure in your arms? Your fingertips will shatter their fragile bodies, is that it?"
The Lorathi jaws hardened. "Yes to all."
At these words, the girl roughly removed her hands from his shaft.
"To create life is to sin, Arya," Jaqen explained. "We vowed to steal lives, not spawn them."
"Are you not yet exhausted of all these, Jaqen?" She ran both hands along her hairlocks. "Your reservations and uncertainties, your too irrational fear of the god? I'm sick of this!"
"Oh, come now, Arya."
There was only his lust for her sweet, young body before. Yet seeds grow to saplings and saplings to trees, and once leaves fall to the ground helplessly and by nature's course, there is no putting them back up in their branches. Over and over, he had fallen far and deep.
The gods know how he sought to triumph over the arduous internal battle to not want her in these ways. Successful he was, at first. Oh gods, and who was he fooling? He had already declared to Aegeus his love for her, despite his very limited understanding of its many abstractions.
In line with the events that had transpired these days past—his bidding for her, her confession to him, he had realized much.
Perhaps, to love is to desire for a person to be happy, without you being the necessary cause of that happiness.
Jaqen H'ghar wanted her safe, clothed in protection that was both physical and eternal, and these silent supplications of his, in view of her sublime place in the Songs, might be altogether difficult if not impossible to attain, despite her conquering Death.
He had spoken to the death god once, and for the first time in his woe, tears came out of his bronze eyes. Thorns found home in his heart, and in his declaration he had thought of dying…
"Do you know of love? Forgive me, because I…love her. And though she chose this one fate over endless others, I still wish for her a lifetime of bliss. There may be many things I cannot give her, for you have stripped me of all things I once possessed. Still, let me offer to her whatever it is that you have not yet taken away from me."
"Do you love me, Jaqen?"
One second, two.
She waved her hand, as if to dismiss her question. "Do not answer that one, the hell I care. There are things one cannot simply force—such as one's self on someone else. I could love you enough for the both of us, you don't have to feel a tiny speck of it if you don't want."
She rose from the wooden tub, despite her Lorathi's protests. She turned once more to him, forefinger raised to make a point.
"Every night, I thank the gods—for the Songs," she smiled bitterly, and her voice was trembling. "The prophecies in it led you to me. Forgive me, Jaqen, but I was glad that you were left with no other choice but to be a Guardian—it is a burdensome drudgery. If not for the Songs, oh then, there would absolutely be no reason at all to bind us together. Forgive me, love…for my selfishness, for basking in your misery of not being able to decide for a life you may want for yourself—"
"This is the life a man wants for himself, Arya," Jaqen replied. "In this life and in all possible others, a man will embrace this one choice the Order has made for him. No regrets—I would not be able to dream of a better this." He shook his head. "One behest lovely girl, please, do not ask a man to choose between you and the death god."
An embittered laugh escaped from Arya's lips. She covered her mouth with one hand and the hand was quivering. "Oh, my love. I'm not asking you to choose! I know…I'm never going to win against that death god of yours—ours now, for I embraced the god too, for you." A solitary teardrop. Arya wiped it away. "She is a god, and though I was Chosen, how in this world and in another would I be able to compete against her for your devotedness?"
Imperceptible hands stole wind from Jaqen. He sat upright. "How did you know this about the death god, Arya? What more do you know?"
"You gave her away, when you spoke with Aegeus. And…nothing." Arya let out a despondent sigh. She had shed tears once more, and she hated herself for it. "I know nothing but this: there is something between you and her that I am not allowed to question. I cannot be jealous of her, I cannot profane her name, or forsake my vows to her, for if I do…I would lose you. And I am not one to force out answers from you, love. I may weep at your response should I ask you to choose."
"Come to me, Arya," the Lorathi bade her. She shook her head. "You know that a man had chosen you over and over in countless plights—"
"But she owns you, Jaqen. Not just in the way that she would own a Faceless. More…more than that."
Jaqen H'ghar closed his eyes. No argument with that. He ran his fingers through his hair and cursed himself repeatedly. That bargain truly had its cost—an unreasonable one. But he needed to do it.
"Keep her—your god," Arya Stark smiled, despite the tears. "Keep me, too. And nay, do not speak of the vows: 'A man must keep you, he swore it in front of ten more Faceless'. Keep me the way you would keep something of yours, Jaqen, not the way you would keep a chosen child in your holy texts. You surrendered to the death god everything, we all did. Withhold me this time, keep me for yourself, love. Own me, Jaqen. Since I lost them, and Winterfell, I have never been owned by anyone, not in a very long time."
You came, Arya. Everything about a man started falling apart. Piece by piece you picked me up and formed me again. What is a man without you, do tell?
If that is not love…
The Lorathi's soul screamed, yet with a calm exterior, he stood up and beckoned her. "Come, my sweet. Let us rest."
Arya ignored her and stepped out of the wooden tub, lifted a thick cloth to wipe herself dry. "I am aware of your plans." She faced him. "You have intentions of summoning that firebeast and facing those three Valyrian kin of yours. I forbid it, Jaqen. We did not orchestrate this whole alliance with Daenerys Targaryen just so you could play all dragonrider in warfare again."
The Lorathi walked to the girl. He held both of her shoulders, embraced her from behind. He kissed her cheeks. "And I forbid you to question my decisions on these matters."
"Do you hear her voice at times, Jaqen?" Arya asked him. "The Mother Freehold?"
Jaqen sighed. "Every night."
"Yes," Her smile was pained. "She's restoring herself, and repossessing her Valyrian descendants. The diaspora must end, and it will. Renewing your bond with that firebeast is clear response to the mother's call. You are not Chosen, my love. I am; and this is not your battle."
He grabbed her by the arm and growled his admonitions. "You impertinent woman! If you think that I would let your warg into all those dragons for the sake of fulfilling the pages in that twisted prophecy, then think again."
"Hah!" She tried to break away from his grasp—a useless struggle. "When did you realize that the Songs were not crafted by the death god's hands? Who's fooling us all in this accursed temple, pray tell? Faceless Men are the greatest of all deceivers; they even hornswoggle one another because of what? Clashing faiths? Let go of me!"
Jaqen was unheeding. He pulled her, locked her in a tight embrace. "A powerful high mage from the Shadows, enslaved by the Freehold centuries ago. His fingers inked the pages of that prophecy; it was written two hundred years after the Doom here in the Isle of the Gods. Unless we discover who drafted the words on its leaves and what the true intents of these are, certain recourses must be explored."
"You will NOT reclaim that beast!" Arya was hysterical. She writhed underneath Jaqen's strong arms, thrashed against him. "They will kill you! Do you not understand any damned thing at all?! Jaqen!" Fists of her landed on his chest; pain carved its shape within souls that plead for emancipation. "Don't you dare, Jaqen!"
He shook her forcibly and willed her to understand. "If I die, I die. You will not take that hood's path, not while a man is breathing."
"You will not take that path for me! We took that vow, Jaqen. Aōha ānogar, ñuha ānogar—blood of my blood, we are both sworn to that sacred oath—"
"And a man intends to keep that oath, Arya. The verses of the Songs may be incongruent with the death god's edicts, but they are as clear as daylight to me. 'He will take the last of his breath before she takes the last of hers.' And even without the condemned prophecy and this temple, a man will choose to honor that covenant of ours." He held her once more; and if only loving embraces could crush mortal bodies, then Arya Stark could have died in his arms. "I love you…" He crushed her lips with his, and with ardent murmurs declared his emotions for her again and again. "I love you…dear gods, Arya."
"Jaqen…" she muttered. "Please…don't do it…"
She met the soft love and wild passions of his kisses—they were sweet, if not for her tears that mingled with their communing lips.
"Four days. Three, if the winds are agreeable."
"Very well. On behalf of the House, I extend the warmest felicitations to him—may he be victorious in his conquest."
"Oh, he will be. The blood of dragons is the blood of conquerors. Might I dare say though, that his approaches to conquest are not entirely Valyrian. The lad-king is a merciful one; his Westerosi half-lineage saw to that."
"Just so."
There were two of them—the Elder, the Master of Whisperers from the time of the Stag of the great rebellion, up to the time of the dead king's bastard sons' reign.
What they were discussing was one great correspondence—an alliance between what remained of the Free Cities and the Seven Kingdoms. Both men were gifted contrivers, and many had died and survived because of their noble conspiracies. All of these collusions were for a thing and one thing only—service to the realms.
The eunuch once spoke with the great Eddard Stark in the latter's murky bastille many moons ago. The imprisoned lord had asked him that question:
Varys, who do you truly serve?
I serve the realm, my lord. Someone must.
And Queen Cersei's misrule cannot be undone by one other Lannister. For the sake of the realm, the eunuch had shot Kevan with a crossbow, and to the dying man, he spoke of the rightful heir. If there is one truth he must carry with him to the pearly gates, this is it:
Sixth of his Name.
'Since you do not deserve to die on your own on a cold night as this, I will give you this hope, my lord—Aegon has been shaped for rule before he could walk. And yes, he is alive.'
The third dragonhead will complete the sigil.
The wise Lannister, the one called the Imp, had traveled once more to Dragonstone, acting as an envoy. Greyjoys are difficult to deal with—reavers and rapers, what form of civility would one expect from their lot? Ah, but the Imp possessed a gift with words, with persuasion. Victarion will drown himself with his drowned god once he hears of the Imp's astute plans laid down in his usual eloquence. He who led the defense of the Blackwater Bay will never be forgotten. The Silver Queen, the second dragonhead, had graciously accepted him into her courts once again. Suspicious though she was, she cannot dismiss a possible fact of a surviving kin.
The matter with the first.
Whoever the first head might be, he must be located at the soonest possible time. The hourglass is slowly losing grains on one side, and preservation of the realms is paramount—against Dark Valyria, against Winter.
Three dragonriders against four. Not entirely impossible.
Footsteps towards the Hall disturbed his contemplations. He turned his head to get a look at the newcomers.
Two Faceless Men—crowns of high midnight, scarlet-and-ivory. The latter gave him chills. Perfectly understandable, for assassins were created to make the teeth chatter, to force one to wish he had eyes at the back of his head, to persuade one to pray to the gods for death to be tenderhearted and pass over to the next one for the time being.
"Elder," the comely one acknowledged the older one. Scarlet-and-ivory followed suit. Both of them sat opposite the eunuch. The long-haired eyed him narrowly, and he struggled to contain the turbulence within—should be easy, he had traveled and toiled with mummers. Was he seeing death in the face? He laughed inwardly. But of course—this house is the house of Death.
"Where is she?" the Elder asked.
The Lorathi looked away from the eunuch, turned to the Elder. He tilted his head to the open threshold.
There she is, the eunuch sighed. The Black and White is truly an efficacious Order.
"Come, Arya Stark of Winterfell," the Elder beckoned.
The girl stood paralyzed in the entrance, her gaze locked upon that one familiar face. Her countenance was unreadable, yet her gray-green eyes unveiled nothing but raw hatred.
Varys stood from his seat and walked a few steps towards the girl. A bow, then he spoke to her. "I am unworthy of the honor of meeting you again, my lady of Stark. You were presumed dead by everyone."
"What is he doing here?" was her cold reply.
"Sit down, child."
The girl did as she was told, her wary eyes never leaving the eunuch. It was not that she was affrighted by his presence in the House—no harm can be done to her now, as she is now a dealer of the greatest of all harms and gifts. Of his intentions, his ploys, and his connections to the realm West from here, she was mistrustful.
The Elder began. "This is—"
"I know who he is," she dismissed the words. Although he pleaded to the bastard king that her father's life be spared from his own ancestral greatsword, to her, he was still a Lannister's ally. And all Lannisters must die. The Imp too, if not for Sansa. For the sake of gutless survival, he had allowed things to happen before his very eyes. He never took sides in the game of thrones—he avoided it altogether for some useless will to live. A silent whisperer. What does he want now?
"Again," the eunuch said. "I am honored that your reminiscences would even include me. Your father was a great man—most noble in all of Westeros. Even more noble than Rhaegar Targaryen himself."
A scoff. "You called my father a traitor, had him decapitated. Tell me now, do you find it righteous to falsely brand noble men betrayers, and let them go through the agonies the causes of which were not their own doing?" Every word reeked of pure venom.
"My lady of Stark, your father's death was an act of injustice. It was a transgression the bastard king had already paid for." The eunuch was the obverse, he was calm in the face of her fury. "And of all these, I cleanse my hands. In the small council, I have persuaded the queen mother and the bastard king to spare Ned Stark's life and send him instead to the Wall—"
"And I suppose you came here to declare that my father was right with his decisions all along?" Arya Stark seethed. "You traveled all this way to surrender fealty to the rightful heir, the one my father had named as heirship laws would dictate, Stannis Baratheon?" She shook her head. "A little too late."
The eunuch smiled. "I shall do the first, yes. But never will I surrender fealty to Stannis. The throne is not his. Neither does it belong to the Lannisters."
Scarlet-and-ivory interjected. "You have sworn fealty to the Targaryen Queen."
"No."
"With all due respect, stop wasting our time," the comely one hissed. "Get on with it."
The Elder held up one finger to demand calm from the two masters. He turned his attention to Arya Stark, and spoke in his euphonious voice. "Starks never forsake covenants, even if all those around them do."
"You don't have to hurl my own words back at me, Elder," the girl spat. "I know of vows, I know of the gods."
"Aegon the Sixth Targaryen," the eunuch interrupted their exchange, albeit with fashion. "Only surviving child of Elia Martell and Rhaegar Targaryen. Rightful king, owner of three fire-breathing beasts hatched merely by the Targaryen who calls herself queen. A proposition for House Stark. We desire for our houses to unite during the conquest, not remain as enemies. Unless, you find it befitting for the Lannisters to stay in the seat of power, the same Lions who have claimed the life of not one, but three Wolves." The eunuch produced from his breastpocket a scrolled message. He placed it on the center of the weirwood, the seal of House Targaryen imprinted upon the rolled parchment. "Dark Valyria, the Long Night. The realms of men cannot deal with all these when divided. An offer—a marriage offer."
Jaqen H'ghar was quick.
He seized the scroll before Arya Stark could even gasp at the reveal, unscrolled it, and read through the contents. He stood, so that the now frantic girl who was reaching for the message intended for her would not lay her precious hands on it and thus be given the opportunity to the closest thing there is to a decision.
His eyes traveled east to west of the paper. The expression—prophetically ominous. The eunuch could not anymore contain his inner convulsive shudders. Who is this man?
"Give it here, Jaqen!" Arya demanded, reaching desperately for the parchment.
The Lorathi's jaw hardened. He thought of tearing the parchment to shreds but thought better. His attention flew to the Kindly Man. "Elder…" he muttered, shaking his head. It was merely a couple of syllables, but the Lorathi's rage seemed to have penetrated every stone upon which that temple was built. Even the waters in the poison pool formed ripples.
The Elder eyed him with a blank expression, shook his head back at him. No, dare you not question me on this, or Him of Many Faces.
It was a staring game between the two masters. The comely one expelled air from his mouth—he wanted to flee from the Hall and avoid what may be a sickening scenario.
The girl had finally gotten hold of the message. She skimmed through the words.
To the Lady Arya of House Stark,
Seat of Winterfell, North of the Seven Kingdoms:
I hope that this letter reaches you in the best of your health.
It is most fortuitous that our allies from the House of Black and White have located you without much difficulty. I have sent one trusted emissary to Braavos to speak with you of our proposition. For the full sake of the realm and its people, we believe strongly that an alliance between our noble houses is necessary. The seat of the North awaits the Starks, and we offer you the assurance of fully reacquiring it. To justice, we will bring the traitors that have murdered your family, and pardon shall be granted to the Stark name for its participation in the Usurper's Rebellion.
You may wish to reject this proposal, though if you do so without deliberation on your part, we will be forced to consider you, your House, and your vassal lords as enemies to the throne.
You may wish to discuss the matter with me. A ship awaits to bring you here in Pentos.
Ponder if you must, but not too long. For as the words of your House say, 'Winter is Coming'. Your words ring truth. To the wise, this is more than a mere political alliance.
To delay is to perish.
Yours,
Aegon Targaryen, Sixth of his Name
King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, the First Men
Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm
Arya Stark gritted her teeth. Leaving me with very few options, I see.
"You must be truly mad to think that I will yield to this ludicrous arrangement," the girl hissed. "Do you not know anything about me at all? I could sail to Pentos with no one the wiser, sneak in his bedchamber, and gut him, this Aegon of yours!"
The comely one spoke, in an effort to create diversion, plant a seed of doubt on the character. "This Aegon Targaryen—he is legitimate, yes? No misgivings at all about his bloodline?"
"A legitimate child of a Targaryen and a Martell, indeed," the eunuch replied. "We consume these apprehensions whenever we break our fast, believe me on this, you are not the first to raise question on his legitimacy." He held out his arms, an inviting gesture. "Which is why, I urge you to see him for your own selves and then decide."
"Must it matter if he's legitimate or not?" the Lorathi raved. "Elder, this is an outrageous proposition. Are we really this desperate, for us to resolve to heave ourselves blindly to such a compromise?"
The Elder's eyes never left the Lorathi, whose arms were folded in his chest, with the glare of a serpent threatening to strike. Mindlessness, the older man thought. His impetuosity, his rash actions had almost revealed Arya Stark's identity as a Faceless to this stranger. Serenely, he spoke to the comely one instead. "Do assist our guest to the atrium. You will be informed of the Lady Arya's decision in a while."
They stood and left the Hall.
The old man's tone was ill-boding as he addressed the Lorathi and the girl.
"Enough now, of everyone's follies and indiscretions in this sacred temple." His focus was now on Arya Stark. "All men must serve—Faceless Men most of all. The three of you will sail to Pentos and speak with the Targaryen claimant on behalf of this House. Onto the North afterwards, we have discussed extensively the plans."
The Lorathi wasted no time in voicing out his protest. "Elder, in my capacities as Guardian, I disapprove of this—mere hours ago we have thwarted the conspirators' murderous plans against her. Another hasty act will place Arya Stark's life in peril—"
"How in this universe and in another will marrying a Targaryen cause more peril than good?" the Elder replied. "And your deceiving tongue, in your 'capacities as Guardian'? Since when did you act as mere Guardian to the Chosen, son?" He stood, pointed a fore at them both. "You are servants of the temple and of this great city. It was your own globule of scarlet which you partook that night of the confluence—ten Faceless and the gods witnessed it all. You cannot abandon your sacred vows and run hand in hand in high hopes that the gods will grant you both peace." He then turned to the Lorathi. "Especially you."
Arya Stark's heart keened.
"You may choose to run from all these, Arya Stark," the Elder offered. "This House will not hold it against you, you have my word on this. However, should the Targaryen's conquest proceed, should he and his kin decide to ravage the entire realm with dragonfire, including your ancestral seat in the North with your surviving family and the vassals and their innocent children, then you are on your own. Abandon us, if you must. You are anyway gifted at escaping, at concealing yourself. Hide forever from the fate—it is yours, after all. Dark Valyria will take over, or Winter, or both. Ah, what is the use? It is easier to utter the words Valar Morghulis, than to honor a duty, or to make sacrifices," he smiled bitterly. "Decide, Arya Stark. Pray that your decisions are for the good rather than for the self."
A life devoid of choices—this was what she had elected for herself.
She felt her fist close, and travel to her heart.
Sabine, how did you do it? Sacrifice?
It was a grueling struggle to keep herself from weeping—for her wretched life, for the Waif, who she realized was nothing but a true friend, a truest sister even. For Braavos, she had named the traitorous Sealord with her own life as payment, chose the brutality of the poisoned blade over the gentleness of the poison pool so Arya Stark's life may be spared. The Waif had kissed her head before she succumbed to nothingness, as a final goodbye. 'Don't let me suffer,' her request before one last.
And from Aegeus, she had recently learned that the three others the Waif had named were the three on her list.
Ser Ilyn, Ser Meryn, Walder Frey.
The girl remembered her first few nights in the temple. The Waif had coaxed her gently, "Do tell about this interesting list of yours, the names you utter every night like a prayer." They were mixing potions. She had shared with her everything—Jaqen was in the Citadel, and there was no one at all with whom she could unburden herself. "You know what we say about Death," the woman had told her after that depressing narration. "It is certain, though time is not. In a way or another, these men who have slaughtered every person you once held dear will all die."
Sabine. Teach me now how to be you. I need to be you right now.
The threats were clearer than newly-formed icicles: 'Reject…and we will be forced to deal with you, your House, and your vassal lords as enemies to the throne.'
It was the Lorathi's enraged voice against the Elder's calm. 'To use her as pawn!', 'It was a roundtable vote—the other masters have decided.', 'Without me? Without us?', 'Your verdicts are inconsequential in this context. You are Guardian.', 'And what of my position as Master? What of my right to elect?','Eight against two masters? I hope you are not this dim. She must decide, for a second time. Don't rob her of this.'
The betrayer to the Order had been slain, and her Kindly Man was stupefied at the turn of the name. The Stern-faced had been in service to the temple of the death god for almost as long as the Elder was. Time will never put a right to the twisted, it seemed. For him, perfect dystopia was the way—a mockery to the higher thoughts of the gods. Decades in the House, yet his astuteness in the faith had consumed him whole rather than made him a better servant.
They had burned his face.
And the Sealord.
Arya had told the Elder that in order to save herself, she had to kill him before she could elicit answers from him. "I learned nothing from the traitor, Elder," the girl had lied.
Prior to his last breath though, the Sealord had unwillingly allowed Arya Stark to permeate through his perceptions. All she saw was the Littlefinger and his atrocious schemes which were beyond words.
However, her dear mother's voice was there—comforting her even in her undead state.
She spoke to one lady knight, and upon the latter's hand was Ice reforged. The lady knight still donned the bruises and slight lacerations from when she was almost sentenced to die by hanging, until she uttered 'Sword,' and swore allegiance to the lady's heart of stone. There were five names that came out of the corpse-white lips of the un-Cat: "Get me the Valonqar. Find me my sweet Maiden and my Stranger who was lost. I will deal with the Lord of the Crossings myself. Don't touch the Mockingbird—he's mine to slay."
Stranger.
Her dear mother had called her a Stranger.
Who am I? came her unwelcome contemplations.
Fourth leaf: Temperance, Serenity, Faithfulness, Honor, Duty, Selflessness. Braavos—a second home.
Faceless.
Bear Island, Dreadfort, Hornwood, Torrhen's Square, The Last Hearth, the Wall.
Winterfell—silence of the godswood, the beauteous glass garden with its hot springs and sustenance from the soil for the longest of winters, the secrets in the keeps and under the crypts, the snow that melts when it touches the cheeks, the lashes. The snow—it does not chill. Rather, it warms not just the skin, but the heart and the heart of Winterfell is the godswood calling her back. Calling her home.
Visions of Sansa blessed her—at the Eyrie, she was rebuilding their ancestral castle using nothing but her gifted hands and the snow. 'Don't break it,' she had warned the Littlefinger when he asked her if he may enter the fortress. 'Don't you dare.'
'Winterfell belongs to the old gods,' Jon had whispered in Arya's dreams. 'Starks have their blood, but I am not a Stark, I cannot save it.' Bran spoke—a response to him. 'The stone is strong, the roots of the trees go deep. The great kings sit on their thrones beneath the crypts. Winterfell is not dead—it is only broken.'
And Eddard.
'You are Arya Stark of Winterfell, daughter of the North. You have the wolf blood in you.'
I am alone, Father.
'When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.'
Yes, I am Arya, daughter of the North's liege lord, Eddard and her wife, Catelyn.
My duty is to the Order; my duty is to the North.
To the pack. A lone wolf must return to the pack. All other choices are immaterial. I can't let even the surviving wolves be slain.
My duty is to Jaqen H'ghar.
I cannot let him wage war against the lords of Old for my sake.
She clutched her hurting chest, looked at Jaqen. He was very still, shaking his head gently. For the first time—he was willing her to choose for herself or perhaps for a history lost, forget every other damned thing in so doing. So, so unlike him—oh, how she had changed him!
Was it not he who taught her bliss, and fervor, and purpose, and…love?
With all that she has left, she wanted to cry out to him.
I love you.
Fear cuts deeper than swords.
But fear is lost in all you that you are.
Arya Stark prayed to any god for redemption from this, a thing she knew was impossible to even touch with her fingertips. Right now, all she needed was Jaqen H'ghar—the name, the face, the person. To run back in time is contrary to reason, but here she was with her useless pleas for the distant reminiscences of one dispiriting cage with him in it, for ghost-riddled Harrenhal and its concealed magic, for the saving grace of the coin after he had bathed her with scarlet and thews from his own sword. Anywhere, anywhere but here, her heart keened. Anything but this suffering, this soft kiss in the wind that sang of 'farewell'.
Forgiveness, forgiveness. In another realm, perhaps this story may happen once more.
For now, the Songs. For now, Winterfell.
For now, you, Jaqen. To keep you safe.
She still gazed at his beautiful, beautiful face even as she spoke. "We will sail to Pentos, then. I will hear what Aegon VI Targaryen has to say."
Cheese pie, lobster, roasted mutton, ale for the night. Fruits from the Free Cities were the cherries on top of the meal. The lower deck of Illyrio Mopatis's ship was plush with its ornate candelabra that hung listlessly yet grandiosely on the ceiling, toying with the gentle waves of the then still-than-usual Narrow Sea. No sarcasms tonight—the captain and the crew will hear no sea muses singing their ominous songs, will not have their lungs burned by the salty waters should the upsurge tease them 'a little'. The ship merely glided through the waters, as if blessed by ones higher and above it, higher and above the men who steered it from Braavos to south where Pentos awaits. The oaken tables were polished to perfection, with the cushioned seats and the silverware too prodigal, as the glass windows of the dining quarters displayed the distant moon hiding behind a shadow.
Arya Stark hid the hollowness she felt deep within her.
She would leave home again—Braavos. And though it was to her a mere second abode, the Bastard Daughter had cradled her when she was herself a lost child, restored her to heights even she could not believe reaching at all, allowed her to see her fate, choose it, use it even for good.
Braavos. The sketches and the panoramas, the constant silent strife between summer and winter against her skin, the sounds of the harbors and the canals, the riot of colors, the peninsula.
She will return in time, after the task in Westeros. Her return will not be marked with gladness, though. Battles must be fought and won. May the Titan not fall, may the Isle of the Gods shield the free men. Westerosi by birth and heart, Braavosi in spirit.
Many places, a myriad of things. Countless people.
She will long for all these, for all of them.
In her mind was the House of Black and White where she trained; and the Temple of the Moonsingers where her higher senses were unlocked, where the handwriting on the wall of her life was revealed. Ragman's, the Purple Harbor, the Gate, where she begged and toiled. The Bridge of Lights by the Sweetwater, and here, her Lorathi had kissed her with passion she never knew could even exist in this world, gave her the Queller, spoke of the lore in Essoan. She recalled the Canal of Heroes where he uncloaked himself to her—the secrets behind his name, his ancestry, a forbidden confluence of souls and hearts between the warrior queen Nymeria of Ny Sar and the dragonrider Haresh of Old Valyria.
The names, too. Brusco, Brea, Talea. Izembaro, Lady Storke, Daena, Bobono. The Priestess. Bellegere. The Waif whose true name was Sabine. She was soft clay in their able hands, and with their own sweat and tears they have formed her. Now, she will venture to darker uncharted corners and spaces, and carry them with her. Their words and memories will act as her weapon to greater threats that lay ahead.
In the midst of anguish, she still managed to heave an irritated sigh.
The damnable Lorathi sure is loquacious tonight.
They were seated altogether on the table closest to the Great Cabin—a place of honor, not that formalities were required at sea. It is unwrit, nevertheless, it is practiced that high envoys from the Free Cities be shown the best of Pentoshi hospitality. The eunuch sat with the captain and a fourth magister in a nearby table, eyes darting towards them unobtrusively.
Arya Stark tried to swallow a mouthful of mutton. She has been ignoring the Lorathi's utterances of resentment the whole time during dinner. He was speaking with the comely one, and to them she was a spectre, a mist.
"…all women, no exceptions," Jaqen said. He drank from his goblet and settled it on the table in a manner a little too forceful than was necessary. "They may know how to wield swords, and yes, they may delude you into thinking that they do not belong to the characterless archetypes of these sweet, fragile ladies in long satin dresses, with the fancy hairlocks and irksome giggles. In truth," he scoffed. "They desire nothing but to marry princes and bear sons for them."
"Burn," the comely one agreed, shaking his head.
"Burn?" the Lorathi smirked. "Scorched is the better word. Absurdity. Yet many, if not all women fall into the trap! Or perhaps, they wanted to be trapped in the first place—decided for themselves a foredestined life, fooling all others with their feigned desires to be seen as men's equals by learning about weapons and combat. They are impressive at first—with their acts that challenge conventions, but in reality, their hopes are no different from all other dames whose purpose in life is to prepare their lord spouses' bread on the table."
The comely one said nothing, merely clicked his tongue in what may have been disappointment. He plucked out a grapefruit and ate it.
Arya kept on chewing silently. She reached for her own goblet and drank from it, struggling against the painful lump in her throat at every swallow.
"The worst thing is," the Lorathi seethed. "They play fire with you to amuse themselves before the perpetual bondage in their lord husbands' featherbed!" Aegeus laughed softly at the statement. Jaqen continued. "You know what a man thinks this is?"
"A mere fancy?"
"No." the Lorathi's next words reeked of pure sarcasm. "A rehearsal. For the real thing."
A thousand spears plunged themselves in Arya's heart.
The comely one let out a thoroughly amused chuckle. "And you were saying this…girl used you as a what? A plaything? A rehearsal puppet? Oh, come now, brother. Surely, this girl could have not been that wicked!"
Arya calmly replaced her drink on the table, focused once more on her plated food. She heaved a sigh, calmed herself. Don't take me away tonight, she prayed.
"Well, nowadays, you cannot trust people for their intents anymore," Jaqen replied bitterly. "And you think just because you're Faceless, no one can play games with you and win. Ah, so wrong."
"Maybe you were not skilled enough, brother."
Another scoff from the Lorathi. "Not skilled enough? With her lustful screams in the bath and the barge that may have awakened the whole of Braavos? Those screams of hers kept on reminding a man what his name is—"
A knife found its way between Jaqen's fore and middle fingers, the tip of its blade buried on their oaken table covered by azure table linen. The Lorathi did not even flinch the slightest. Rather, he eyed the knife that had almost drawn blood from his skin, smirked. Slowly, his eyes wandered to the left, landed on the face of the impetuous girl that had expertly commanded the blade. Their gazes locked upon each other—rage and rage.
"Yes?" the Lorathi asked sardonically.
She was holding back the sound of wailing. Here he was, her Lorathi, speaking about her with contempt as if she desired for all these to happen. There was no decision yet to be made, she had not spoken to the Targaryen Prince, had not weighed the soundness of his propositions, or offered a compromise. Hells, she had not even laid eyes on the man yet! And here he was, her Lorathi, with his words that pierced through her like merciless poisoned daggers, as if she had already shared the marriage bed with Aegon the Sixth.
"A word," Arya replied. She stood from the table, and threw one disdained look at the comely one, who seemed to revel in their altercation. Warn Aegeus about the Shadowbinder. This was Sabine's last request, and she must fulfill it for her sake, not for his. Warn him about himself, Arya thought, I see nothing but bound shadows lurking behind him whenever he walks—hood's breath. Jaqen seemed to have found quite a suitable role for him, though—a confidante, an ally in matters of insulting her decisions of heeding the Elder's advice. The comely one is duplicitous, and the proof of this was the courtesan task which he had orchestrated, and the fact that she saw him speaking with an Asshaii priestess during the Uncloaking.
She waited for him in an isolated corner of the upper deck, and so tight was her grip on the wooden railing that her knuckles had turned white and her palms had lost all sensation. The calm sea was a mockery of all that she felt—how dare it succumb to stillness when she was in her tempest!—the old gods were to blame for this. The gentleness of the wind that pushed the hulls to Pentos, the cloudless skies, these were all harbingers of them who are higher. Carry on, they seemed to say.
"What do you want, Arya?" the Lorathi broke through her musings. She turned to face him and noticed asudden that his face was all flushed, though not merely with anger, but also with too much wine. It was only then that she had understood it—she was too preoccupied wallowing in self-pity to actually realize it.
He is drunk.
"Are you done with your amusing exchanges with Aegeus, with myself as topic?" Arya demanded.
Jaqen strode towards her calmly yet impetuously, and stopped when the distance between them was no more. Arya exhaled from her open mouth, Jaqen tilted his head to better look at her face. Slowly, he lifted his hand and let his forefinger trace the roundness of her right breast.
"My lovely girl," he whispered, then chuckled.
"Stop it."
He continued tracing her contours, so lightly with his fingertips, biting his lip whilst he observed her reactions. She struggled to show him nothing but passivity. "I said stop it, Jaqen."
"Oh," he said, sarcastic. "Now, the little princess had become untouchable. Wonderful turn of events." His thumb began rubbing her tip, she gasped, he laughed softly. His lips cruised to her neck.
And his other hand moved to touch her lightly between the legs.
"J-Jaqen, stop," the girl demanded, though all she wanted to do was to undress for him and take him there and then. Beyond the wooden railing was the Narrow Sea, and the waves and depths of it are more unforgiving than the Sweetwater. She cannot fall a second time, she's done with falling for the time being. Romance is silliness, Essoan is a tongue of falsehoods. Lores of love are for babes.
Acts betrayed her utterances; for even as her lips were telling him to let go, her hands were tightly gripping both sleeves of his tunic. He continued to lightly stroke her in between, avoiding her innocent slit. His deep Lorathi purr unhinged her already rampageous mind:
"A man wonders what the Targaryen Prince would say, should he find out about an assassin touching his lustful lady wife-to-be in this manner," he spoke in an undertone. "Or perhaps, a man could offer him a few pieces of advice, yes? A man can very well show him, and he can get an eyeful of it all—how his princess is gifted at many things."
A solid slap landed on his face.
The Lorathi's jaw hardened.
Attachment is nothing but bane, he thought. And to think that you have almost given up on the god. Antecedents cannot happen in the 'now', no matter how hard one may wish for them to. One cannot recreate what was in the past, one cannot restore the lost. In the turn of events, as willed by those higher, those who won in times forgotten will still win in times unfolding.
I will lose her once more, and to a damnable Martell, no less. Again and again. Serendipity.
"No decision has been made yet, you bastard," Arya whispered. "Dare you not make it appear as if I wanted this to happen. I didn't have a choice."
Jaqen shook his head. Still, she had learned naught. The iron coin, the confluence, acceptance of the fate—how can she even utter such lie? "You did. I did. And here we are."
"Yes, and you chose her over me, didn't you? Your god." Arya laughed bitterly. "If the choice was made by Jaqen H'ghar, then no one must find fault in it. It is all-noble. I am not questioning it, what is my right?" She turned her back from him, hid her face. The waves have grown. Sight of land in the stretches of the Narrow is lost, and the water was fathomless, downreaching; and how she wished to be one with the imperial seas. "But Jaqen H'ghar, do you have the slightest notion at all of what you have done to me? Yes, I have become No One. You have mercilessly allowed me to… lose myself in all that you are."
"Deceiver," Jaqen hissed. "Bellegere Otherys had trained you well. Sabine too, with your games of faces and truths and untruths. The Elder, most especially. You brilliant mummer. You're one greater Faceless than all ten surviving masters combined. Lies—your gift."
A caterwaul of outrage ate her heart, she fought against it. No, I cannot lose him more than I already have, she reminded herself. I cannot lose the pack, too. Great ravens flung themselves into her, and the wingspan of these ravens was even greater than those which she had seen when Ned Stark died. Her grip tightened upon the wooden railing.
"Yes, Jaqen," Arya Stark said, facing him once more. "Lies are my gift. You trained me well."
"A man will honor the sacred confluence—we swore by blood, this cannot be undone," Jaqen said. "Your Shield, your Shadow, nothing more. Let us both give up on this lunacy."
Arya bit her lip and tasted blood. There was no pain in the act.
Pain had become her, demarcation was simply lost.
She whispered her assent.
"Stop with the lunacy. Sword, Being. Nothing more."
He began to turn his back from her.
"You're in love with a memory, Jaqen."
The Lorathi paused. Then, he walked away, his steps fading into the cruel night.
Winds howled, and once more, Winter was in her heart.
Braavos to Pentos in two days. The winds were acquiescent, despite Arya Stark's selfish entreaties for seastorms and krakens, or the Old Men of the River Rhoyne. She shook her head at the madness which was her own doing—she had almost wished for the Long Night to come to pass so the waters of the Narrow Sea would turn solid.
Sinking. May the gods consent to this.
Anything at all, to delay her meeting with Aegon the Sixth.
She would pass the Lorathi by the deck, and he would sally forth, without rewarding her the closest thing there is to a glance. From the breaking of fast, to midday, to supper, he would speak with the comely one about various matters—the House, the gods, plans, lords, diversions, women; and he would pay her no mind. For four days it had been like this for Arya Stark—she was, to him, a mere vapor.
Except for that one night.
She was blessed by another dream, and in that dream she was being claimed by one silver-haired who spoke to her in Essoan. Verses of his odes coupled with her groans, as petals of blue winter roses bathed the fields where they both lay. He was golden-eyed.
Skies carried them, and she could hear the sound of wings that connected wholly with the being's songs and shrills. Those wings carried them farther east—past North Valyria and Old Ghis, past to what is now called the Empire of Yi Ti.
The masked one's voice: To go west, you must travel east.
But way past the Shadowlands and the Five Forts, underneath this 'heart', was one beautiful woman's call in the darkness. The death god's voice:
Spirit spouse. Let us wake Stygai. Surrender your substance, you have lost her anyway.
And beyond the Grey Waste, that freezing desert south of the Limit of Permanent Ices, was the Weirwood by the gods' pool where Lord Eddard used to hone his greatsword.
It had rained relentlessly that night, the girl could recall. Still, she arose and stormed out of her cabin, leaving the traces of her dreams there. Wet winds lashed out on her face, and she wiped the outpour away so she may see. Her treacherous feet had led her in front of the Lorathi's door. Even then, the rains whispered that she must accept this painful cessation with grace. The advice was strong and sensible—she must leave at least a shred of herself to herself.
For what may have been an endless moment she merely stood there, allowed herself to be drenched in the downpour. Hot tears meshed perfectly with the torrents—there she was, lost and forsaken. And then, as if by some form of divine intercession, the door to Jaqen's chamber opened.
He saw her, thoroughly soused, head bowed in utter wretchedness.
She uttered only two words in Braavosi.
"Xicarius mea…"
My assassin…
And for that night, it was enough.
Arya Stark reminisced how Jaqen H'ghar had pulled her out of the rain and into his cabin. As soon as he shut the door, he began undressing her with haste and reckless abandon. It was a punishing night, she was a yielding blade of grass in the dusty autumn wind, as she allowed him to do whatever it is that he so desired, despite their agreement that to one, the other must be 'nothing more'. Why must this be, when the truth is he is the cause…he is the cause of her soul?
Her wet clothing fell soundlessly on the cabin floor, and he carried her to his bed.
She couldn't read him, for his very thoughts were in Ancient Rhoynar.
Yu-ri ami enyalie—en yaavieree, en narqelion, en lasselanta... Ami Iluuvatarie, ami Raana Varati, Melisse un ami Tavash…
He lavished and ravished her nakedness, and how she had struggled to contain her whimpers and moans—languishing, intensifying. Detach, she had told herself. Harden your heart…only quenchless passion to the infinite. This is beyond life and love, and the latter is untrue, and the latter you must never know. The merciless aching she felt within her chest was healed ephemerally by the ardent kisses of his lips, the generous touches of his tongue. In her, he had created vacillations that were out of her comprehensions. Simply tragic, compellingly beautiful.
There was the sound of his thoughts.
Mie sa yaara undume, ami Aini miire—pella iluuve y quentalah, a-wit am lana ti raamaloke laurea en luuz.
Two fingers of him touched her innocent slit…
A knower. How can he even—
His caresses intensified. The girl was being pulled into that glorious ravine once more. She pulled him by the hair and led his mouth to cover hers—she had to contain the sound of desperate gasping. Leave a thing to the self at least, this was her persuasion. Nay, he cannot know how irrecoverably lost you are in him. Too much, and if only the hurting heart could smash its owner's body to smithereens, then Arya Stark's person perhaps would be reduced to mere cinders…
He continued to stroke her core. They moaned against each other's mouth. Her woebegone heart just mourned.
Jaqen Jaqen Jaqen Jaqen Jaqen…
To scream his name to the ones who raised the heavens, to cry out how much she loved him with all that she has left, to not be able to do any of these—it was tribulation.
His thoughts were empty after the last of his proclamations.
Y mie sa antuulien, a herenya ami hyanda, verie, losse—a yu varyas….
How many lives must she live before she learns? Her deepest spirit wailed in both torment and relish—a swan song, as he squandered her completely, consumed her fully. He let his fingers linger upon the softness and wetness of her, he was merciful enough to allow her to savor his art. He pleased her bosoms with his tongue, suckled them until they hurt, as he carried on…carried on with his fingers north and south of her—encompassing, ensphering. Her breaths had turned spasmodic, and she was dying… Finally, there was the zenith of it—shaped by his erotic touches, and she had tasted it. It was bittersweet.
Jaqen Jaqen Jaqen Jaqen Jaqen…!
Soft shudders…
Ceri-hafe, he thought in Rhoynish tongue.
Done.
No further utterances—thought and said. He stood from the bed and silently pulled out a nightshirt from his temporary wardrobe. Wordlessly, he handed it to her. The girl took it from him, brought it to her nose, inhaled the scent of it—the scent she favored, she worshipped.
Ginger. Cloves.
She let the fabric touch her eyes. Rain cannot fall from those gray-green eyes as well; it must not.
For a few seconds, he merely stared at her. Then, as if the mellifluous lover-sounds of that distant trance never happened, he left her in his cabin.
Whether or not he came back, and slept with his arms wrapped around her, and whispered her name, or plainly thought about her name after that amorous encounter, she cannot anymore tell. Her slumber had been deep and she thought that from it, she would never wake up.
Yet, she did. She did wake up—on an empty bed. Indeed, the gods are cruel.
Jaqen, love. She would embed the message through his subconscious, speak not anymore to him with reason, but with intuition. Let us talk, please. The girl knew that the Lorathi had received her many intimations of love and hate, but there was no reciprocity in the dynamics she sought to rebuild with him.
He was casting out her messages of reconciliation.
Arya Stark slowly rose from the breakfast table when the comely one began speaking to the Lorathi about some beautiful Pentoshi courtesans aboard ship. "Not maidens, but we are beggars aboard ship, dear brother." She heard Jaqen's rich laughter at the comely's jests even as she walked away. Air escaped from her lips, as she ran her fingers across her hair, tugged at it a little too hard, so she could summon at least some hidden sanity.
The eunuch stood in front her, blocking her path. "Walk with me, Lady Arya," he invited her. There was nothing else to do—she cannot commit suicide by listening further to the Tyroshi and the Lorathi's plans of possibly inviting women to soil their bedlinens tonight. The thought of Jaqen H'ghar bedding another woman will be the collapse of her. The thought of him running his fingers and lips and tongue across someone else's body, the idea of him groaning as he is pleasured by another will just tear her to shreds. The thought of him possessing someone else…
She must therefore, cease to think. The girl nodded and they headed to the upper deck.
The eunuch glanced at the sea's vista. Distant shouts of the ship's captain. "Steer your rudders! Steady as she goes, Pentos in one full turn!"
"You seem restive, Lady Arya."
"Must I be?"
"Cannot pinpoint a reason why."
Her jaws hardened. "I have agreed to meet with your Aegon the Sixth. Nothing further. I am a Stark, and Starks act with reason. However, if I do not find his terms acceptable, I shall sail back to the North and rebuild our ancestral seat with the remnants despite his threats."
The eunuch's expression was somber. A mummer's face, he called it, and was he good with manipulations. All for the realm, he would convince himself. "Desperate times, desperate measures. Do understand that the Prince desires only to preserve the kingdoms, the North included. Your honorable father, bless his soul, would no doubt do the same had he not been betrayed by the Lannisters."
"You seem to know my father well, ser?" Arya asked sardonically.
He only smiled. "Well enough to know that House Stark is the only one that could act with reason in the midst of these tumultuous times—your own words."
"Lord Eddard pledged his life and honor for Stannis Baratheon—the only rightful. Targaryens have lost their claim after the rebellion happened," Arya answered, facing him. "It's a perfectly legitimate way to take the throne."
"It was, indeed, for the Baratheons and their loyalists have successfully conquered the kingdoms from the ruling dragons," the eunuch assented. "Taking the throne back through another rebellion, therefore, another conquest, is perfectly legitimate as well, don't you think?"
She scoffed, then laughed bitterly. Such plans.
"How do you live with yourselves?" She spat.
"Day to day," the eunuch replied. There was only the sound of rushing waters and the captain's stern commands. The ship is close to land. "Pray tell, though Stannis is indeed the rightful, how can he hope to deliver the realm from the Long Night? Forgive me, Lady Arya, but I do not recall the Baratheons ever commanding magical stag-beasts whose antlers could reduce the dead to embers and grimes. Of all the Stark children, I have always found you the most astute, most reasonable. You were young then, however I am not blind. But perhaps," he sighed, shaking his head. "I am mistaken. Humans—they are susceptible to this."
"Must be convenient, being a Prince," she finally spoke after lingering silence. "And a dragonriding Targaryen at that. Power, loyalties, resources—he's hoarding them all, and the Silver Queen too. Slaves and swords at their command. They speak and the world must follow, or it's the wroth of their firebeasts against even the mightiest strongholds of those who will refuse. They evoke but a single thing—blind faith. Test a man's character by giving him power, they say. Ask me, and I will say this: no man should possess power over another man."
The eunuch smiled. Without knowledge of him, yet here comes her judgment. "Very Braavosi. However, I cannot blame the Westerosi insinuation that shows itself in those words of yours. It seems to me, that you were shaped in the North to think that power is not a means to an end, but an end itself."
She smirked as she regarded him. "And you're telling me that the Targaryens do not desire to make it an end? Folly. I would believe that if they would give up on their dragons and Westeros both."
"Know this, my lady, that power does not corrupt—but the irrational fear of it," the eunuch replied. "I have said this before, and will say it again. Prince Aegon had lived with the common men—fisherfolks. He mended nets with his own hands, washed his own clothes and linen. He can spearfish, cook, treat wounds. He knew it all—hunger, threat, adversity. He had led the life of a drifter, a wanderer. From place to place he had traveled and but never settled, as his entire family was slaughtered during the rebellion. Joffrey, Tommen—both of them were taught that kingship is their right. To Aegon, kingship is a duty. He possessed no power before those dragons were hatched, yet his men respected him, loved him. To himself, he is not ruler in essence, only in title. The truth he holds is that he is one with the men, an equal to them. This, Lady Arya, is true power."
No response.
"Lower your anchors! And, dock! Pull down the hulls!"
Pentos.
The peninsula with its walled manses and dome-shaped gables greeted the ship's arrival. Trader ships have landed on the waterfront as well, and so an assortment of colored fabric, exotic fruits and wine, and chests of jewelry had found their way from the barges to the ports. The bustle of trade had dwindled significantly after Pentos had pledged allegiance to Braavos and Tyrosh against the lords of Old. Spice traders have ceased traveling to this area, although food was still plentiful, for the city was by-the-sea, and has expansive fields for crops.
Not enough, when Winter comes for all.
Arya Stark left the eunuch without another word and headed straight to her cabin to retrieve her belongings. Not much is there. She smirked at the thought of meeting Aegon the Sixth wearing nothing but her stained tunic, rough Braavosi breeches, and combat boots. Smirk turned to laughter as she envisioned the horrified reactions of him should she challenge him for a sword or dagger duel. She never had any manners on the table, either; and to her, all Princes are royal brats.
Might be, that he would tear his offer letter right in front of my face.
But is it true that he had lived a life nothing short of ordinary?
An interesting character. That message of his commanded surrender, yet the way the eunuch spoke about his modesty and his noble dealings with others, his honorable pursuits even, made her think of her very own bastard brother.
Jon.
And if any person at all, even through mere stories concerning him, reminded her of Jon Snow whether in visage, or in the manner of conducting the self, or the naivete in speech and the childlike guilelessness in beliefs, and the boldness that comes with all of these, the principled acts as well, then perchance this person might be worthy of her considerations.
The eunuch's words rang softly in her ears.
Your father was an honorable man.
From Eddard is Jon. From Rhaegar is Aegon.
The Usurper's Rebellion gave birth to two upright young men, then?
Too early to say.
She reached her cabin and stopped at the threshold.
There on her featherbed, was Jaqen's nightshirt.
Jaqen's Rhoynish pronouncements (derived from Sindarin/Quenya languages, Credits: LOTR, JRR Tolkien; I do not own anything.)
Yu-ri ami enyalie—en yaavieree, en narqelion, en lasselanta... Ami Iluuvatarie, ami Raana Varati, Melisse un ami Tavash…
(You are my memory—in the autumn's equinox, in the autumn's fading sun, in the autumn late. My Goddess, my Warrior Queen, Lover of my Ancient Spirit.)
Mie sa yaara undume, ami Aini miire—pella iluuve y quentalah, a-wit am lana ti raamaloke laurea en luuz.
Mie sa ma Ankalu, y yu-ri ami Isilme… Yumi miruvoore—y es alashee…
(Old abysm. There I was, my precious Bride—beyond the borders of this universe and the histories of men, with my aurelian dragon in the skies. I was your Sunlight, and you were my Moonlight. We drank with the gods—and it was bliss.)
Y mie sa antuulien, a herenya ami hyanda, verie, losse—a yu varyas. Ami tavali y ami ooren heru yu-re paluure y hwesta…y mie sa otorno pa laisi y faire, pa sonos ami nandelle, mie san voron-gandele en urwa y helke. Yu-ri ami marquiyah, vene a ami yaavan-dolcis. Ami melisse…
(And I have returned, in the sacrifice of my blade, my bond, my blood—to defend you. My soul and heart revere your heart and your every breath…and I have vowed by life and death, by the songs of my harp, I will live another cycle through fire and ice. You are my fate, the vessel of my sweet harvest. My Lover…)
