VERY MATURE SCENES AHEAD, GUYS.


"Histories writ them large—

Trace of their tale formed tracks of old wounds.

That ethereal span became past, their future,

A thousand stories that drowned in the river whose name was lost.

An Old Saga, I


Bathed in almost-winter sun's rays, the whole Pentoshi harbor was astir with countless trades of ornate gemstones, saffron spice, and fake dragonbones brought by restless traders from the Free Cities and Southern Westeros. Ships bearing sigils of minor Dornish houses—Santagar, Yronwood, were docked in close to brightly-coloured belvederes housing the city's bazaar. From King's Landing was the Storm Dancer galley, bearing wine, steel, copper from the Crownlands. Merchantry is more multifarious than that of Braavos since Pentos allows trade with other Free Cities that still owned slaveships to this day—a silent contumacy to the treaty that was signed after the War over disputed waters.

Sounds of Bastard Valyrian filled the thick air that was a mismatch to the looming Winter.

Arya Stark disembarked from ship and was greeted by the stinking smell of fish and Dothraki pelt—a contrast to the high-walled bricked manses that were located in layers of small rockhills. Centuries-old spruce encircled the layers of the hillocks, with stone-strewn pathways winding upwards. Jaqen and Aegeus trotted at her front, while she walked with the eunuch. Soon enough, her eyes caught sight of a blue-haired, smooth-skinned man, bearing a Dothraki arakh on the left hip and a Myrish stiletto on the right. A Tyroshi, stylishly wrapped with leather-against-metal suit akin to that of a sellsword commander. Daario Naharis cared not if the Daenerys Targaryen would see his recalcitrant act of leaving Mereen a form of poetic obsession of one sworn sword to a queen, an impulsive act of a fawning man, or a clear and simple defiance.

Aegeus beamed at the man that was to receive them.

"Ah! Brother!" the comely one called to what may be one of the city's hosts, arms outstretched. She chanced upon Jaqen rolling his eyes at the show of affection from the other.

The one called 'brother' strode to meet them all. A warm embrace to Aegeus, a curt nod to Jaqen, which the latter returned in a manner more curt. "How was the journey?" He asked them, slipping one gloved hand onto the hilt of the arakh. A glance down the stilleto's cross guard reassured him, not that he needed reassurance. As was his habit, his thumb tapped listlessly on the sword's pommel.

"Most agreeable," replied Aegeus. "Two days. Seems that Winter has its use after all."

He nodded. "In its own way. Winter is still godsent; at least the air doesn't taste of carcass yet." A quick survey of the harbor. "And the Electi?" he inquired in Rhoynish tongue.

Jaqen's head turned to Arya, who was then exchanging courtesies with two Pentoshi high magisters. "The eunuch is with her, keep your story straight, Stormcrow."

He scoffed at Jaqen's words, then regarded Arya Stark narrowly. Disbelief. A miscalculation, perhaps. "That's the Chosen?"

"Yes."

The Stormcrow's eyes moved from the girl's face to her breasts. "I may have despised close study of the Creed, but certainly, I have more sense and knowledge with the Songs—it is prophetic crendenda after all, and the likes of it, you must shove down your throat with grateful submission. Of the verses, I am more than familiar. And that, brothers," a sigh. "Is not a child."

Aegeus chuckled. "Oh, brother. She was, believe me." A hasty glimpse at the girl. "Until Jaqen here. The Lorathi in him was most instructive. No deceptive mazes; and perchance, the Blind God saw everything—"

"Ah," the Stormcrow nodded his understanding. A battle of stares with the Lorathi ensued. "Finally, the great Jaqen H'ghar had erred! With a girl? To live to witness it. Now, Death may claim me."

Jaqen smirked. "A man wishes he could say the same for you. However, the notoriety you have earned for yourself from Yunkai to Mereen may do all the proclamation, it seems."

"The gap in years?"

"Not as much as yours and Daenerys Targaryen's."

Daario Naharis stroked his three-pronged beard thoughtfully, a derisive sneer upon the corners of his mouth—a usual expression next to those that show his impulsive temperaments. "Attracted to younger, lovely girls. Both of us. Only that mine has three dragons."

Jaqen was amused. "Oh? Dragons that mine can control?"

"Yours will soon be married to the Targaryen Prince, I'm afraid. If she has the slightest bit of sense, she'll agree to the terms," Daario replied in mock sympathy. "Ah, better to have loved and lost…"

"Should a man wishes, he could erase Aegon the Sixth eternally from the picture—can't be that hard with that pampered, princely neck of his, can it?" Jaqen answered with nonchalance, studying the rough-hew of his dagger hilt. "Tell me though, can you erase one great Dothraki Khal from the Targaryen Queen's most cherished remembrances?"

Daario appeared as if he was slapped.

Jaqen smiled at him most charmingly.

Aegeus looked at Jaqen, then at Daario, clearly deriving entertainment from the exchange.

"Greetings, comrade," the eunuch spoke directly to Daario, moving closer to the group with Arya whilst in the middle of his usual courtesies. "Pentos receives you, and well we hope. I don't believe we have met, but please, the city will oblige itself with whatever pursuits you may have, granted they are born out of good intents."

"They are," Daario replied, eyes fixated upon Arya. The girl frowned at his assessment of her. "I have been received though, no formalities necessary." He tilted his head to the wooden palanquin with ornate carvings. A small threshold covered with flowing Pentoshi drapes of rose-colour concealed the royal that it contained. "Your Prince."

Arya Stark gritted her teeth. Lived the life of a commoner? Yet he allows himself to be carried from place to place like some worthless cripple.

The small door of the palanquin opened, soft hands parted the curtains.

The Prince stepped out of the carrier, eyes scouring the harbor. With him were four Swords, and when he saw the envoy gathered by the port, he walked to them. His stance, mannerisms, countenance—all undeniably regal.

It was utter repulsion that Arya Stark tasted and swallowed like bile in the throat upon laying eyes on the royalty.

He spoke, and his eloquence embedded in words was that of a rhetorician; it was not riddled with verbosity though, for each utterance was with purpose, unstudied, and spawned out of sincerity.

"Brothers from the Secret City," the Prince began, "Mazōregon bisa oktion-es dārōñe. The seas and fields of Pentos are yours, common blood, common bourn." He held out his right in an effort to offer an armshake. To Aegeus, then to Jaqen who eyed the Prince with eyes devoid of emotion, with an expression ambiguous. The Prince turned to Arya, unsheathed his sword, and knelt with the weapon's tip touching the ground. "Lady Arya of House Stark. Lysander, Free City of Pentos."

Arya exhaled. Not the dragonriding, coercing, scheming Targaryen Prince, then.

She met his formalities with a cold tone. "Where is Aegon the Sixth?"

The Pentoshi Prince looked up and smiled disarmingly, rose. "Forthright, I see. Not many women abandon conventionalities and proceed straight to matters." He turned to the others, unoffended. "There is the palace by the spruce hill, horses await. Aegon extends his apologies for his absence as he had gathered emissaries from Tyrosh and Lys. Explications unnecessary as you are all well-acquainted of the situation."

"Shall we proceed, then?" Jaqen replied in a monotone.

"We must," the Pentoshi said. "I suppose you have made acquaintance with one from Daenerys Targaryen's court in Mereen—"

"Yes, yes," Daario dismissed further introductions with a wave of the hand.

The Pentoshi nodded with grace expected of him. "Follow me."


After several years, the manse's hall had once again opened its doors wide to functions as this one. Upon the thirteen cubit-long oaken table was the carved map of the nine Free Cities, and its hollowed etches had resembled mold fossils filled with casts of hardened dust. After four defeats from Braavos during the Wars on Slave Trade, Pentos had become silent on matters of political and economic strife, maintaining neutral ground; although this neutrality bends towards undying loyalty to Braavos more often than not.

Cycles, and the Century of Blood is history winding back and progressing to the times of now. Argilac Durrandon from the Stormlands came to Pentos's aid with Aegon the Conqueror carried by his fire-beast the Black Dread, destroyed the Volantene's fleet and laid waste on the disputed lands, freeing Tyrosh and Lys.

Volantis and Valyria, and the stakes are higher this time.

The Long Night.

Hope must not be shunned; fear must be cast aside. Survival, survival—the words of the former colonies, the words of the realms.

The gods have bequeathed them with another emancipator, from the lineage of the Conqueror himself—another Aegon, Sixth of his Name.

Patiently, he awaited the arrival of the Braavosi emissaries, with two legates for the Tyroshi archon and two Lysene low magisters on either side of his head seat. Thoughts that beleaguer, they cannot be helped. The task set upon his shoulders was too great, and though he wished to fall upon his knees, he could not. Conflicts were not merely on matters of empires, kingdoms, sovereigns. The impending warfare is against one's own kin, against the dead that breathed, against conscious influences from either the gods or the mortal servants they ordained. It was all a war of flesh and dark shadows residing within men, and he doesn't know where to begin.

Two nights ago, he had summoned his three dragons. The Jade-green and White responded, mated with his call.

The Winged Shadow did not.

Daenerys's bond with Drogon is too strong. I cannot break through it.

To appear undaunted in the face of all these quandaries is but a thing of ease. To truly be undaunted is another matter though.

Kings must not be mere prisoners of history. This is no cyvasse game, kings cannot always be saved by their queens.

Lost in his abysm of thoughts once more. The manservant announced the arrival of the envoys from the Secret City.

But even kings are just men.

"Send them in, please. Many thanks, comrade."

Titles are hollow and crowns are worthless. But things must be done for the good of all. Sacrifice—the cruelest of all words ever conceived.

The one named Daario Naharis, intermediary from the Queen's courts in Mereen, entered with a black-haired comely-faced emissary. Two longswords were sheathed on both sides of his hipbelt, and immediately, Aegon detested the way the man appraised him. Crown to sole he assayed the lad Prince, and an arrogant smirk formed at the corners of his lips, then disappeared asudden. Aegon eyed him narrowly and exhaled with concealed irritation.

Another emissary entered the double doors.

Aegon the Sixth felt the wroth of fourteen flames in his Targaryen blood.

Never had he set eyes on this man before; he was gifted with names and faces and this man had no place in his immediate recollections. The scarlet-and-ivory locks of his toyed with the winter-crisp yet gentle winds that reached them through the open upper esplanade, walked as if he had claimed in his previous conquests half of the Free Cities' disputed territories. The man stopped at the center of that hall, eyes locked upon Aegon's face; and in his every breath, contempt.

Aegon smiled bitterly and shook his head.

Perfect. Trained killers as legates. Bearers of daggers, crossbows, poisons. The Secret City and its perplexing ploys—the new Sealord is mistrustful.

The Prince stood and set aside all irrational thoughts, donned the most convincing affectation. Wars must be won. The realms come first, the pride comes after. He rose and offered his right.

"Sȳrī rytsāri naejot ao. Well-being," were his words. The black-haired accepted his salutations with an armshake. The red-haired's arms were folded on his chest—a clear sign. He decided against formalities. "The winds and waters were obliging, I presume? I do hope the ship's necessities were to your satisfaction. Welcome. Aegon VI Targaryen, Westeros."

"Delightful journey, yes," the comely one replied with a soft smile. "Aegeus Ionnanou, Braavos-Tyrosh."

Aegon nodded at the introduction, then turned to the red-haired.

He replied, a voice of omen. "Jaqen H'ghar, Braavos-Lorath."

It was the Prince's purple eyes against the Assassin's bronze.

Same height, same reach. Same wants. Same dragon's blood.

They assayed each other with calm tension that inundated the hall's ambience with portents and seeds of greater discord. This, despite the ulterior motive of an alliance between the Free Cities and Westeros. The other four emissaries eyed one another in naked alarm—something was amiss and awfully wrong, they cannot tell in all their sagacity what. Curiously, the two other envoys from Braavos and Mereen seemed to be amused with the silent hostility.

There were summons from within them to contest the other, hurl words of vile, draw their weapons, slaughter each other, flay the corpse after the kill. Jaqen H'ghar was aware of the sources and causes of this bad blood with Aegon the Sixth Targaryen, the latter has not the slightest idea. Nevertheless, they both reveled at the thought of a looming fray, as if proving who holds the stronger machismo is the purpose of imperative existence.

The Lorathi assassin tilted his head, allowed his eyes to cruise through Aegon the Sixth's every feature. Silver-haired, cunning Targaryen. Ten and nine? A score? Ah, what does he know, truly? Arya will slash his gut open the moment that milk-suckling mouth of his mentions his accursed plans for the North. Occasionally, he would slowly shake his head, as if in his evaluation, he had unraveled many a thing about Aegon the Sixth that were either critically erroneous or inadequate. The Prince's brows raised at the sound of the Lorathi's tongue clicking athrice—an emphatic resonance of the latter's disapproval. Jaqen's lips tipped up as he met the Prince's narrowed eyes with a pompous stare of his own.

The Targaryen Prince struggled to keep a passive, congenial expression. There are kings that smile and kings that conquer. I must be both, I suppose. Tempted though he was, he restrained himself from appraising the Lorathi from north to south. Trust no one, the Imp had once told him, even your Griff. The assassin's overbearing countenance provoked him in levels immeasurable, and only the gods knew the forbearance he carried to not haul the smirking bastard outside and end this curious strife between them once and for all with his hand-and-a-half longsword.

Aegon the Sixth chuckled asudden, incredulous, at the Lorathi's next words:

"Oh, no. Wrong. So wrong."

"Forgive me," the Prince began, meeting the Lorathi's discourtesy with a hard expression, though he was smiling. "But we have not spoken of any battle plans yet for you to give your premature assessment." Aegon maintained civility. "Lady Arya?"

The Lorathi did not answer.

"Here."

She materialized by the threshold with angry, urgent footsteps.

"The contents of that letter were ungracious," she began. "To speak of your catastrophic plans in the North, with vassal houses as targets, and without terms set prior! This is how you dragonriding bastards negotiate?"

She had other countless things to say to him, but all words vanished upon seeing the face of Aegon the Sixth.

Her fury was replaced by abashment. Her eyelashes fluttered incessantly for a while there, her cheeks blushed. Wild breathing escaped from her lips, as Arya Stark stared at his face.

There was but a single word.

"You."

The bitterness sparked by one quiet exchange with Jaqen H'ghar was replaced with charmed rapture, as Aegon the Sixth realized: in time, what was unfinished could witness completion.

Life after life, age after age—souls do have a way of going to the path called home, and home is that one other person. Souls worn by bodies of many forms, sung in many songs, but they stay as they are—bound forever to another.

Love lost and love found cannot be undone.

Aegon smiled. "You."

They stood, enchanted gazes upon each other's features—and the face of one, the other had always known. Things that have always mattered had suddenly turned mundane.

Harrenhal, Isle of Faces, Tower of Joy.

Ice. Fire.

An ancient tale of being together, being apart, being together…

It was true that the connection between souls is more ancient and lasting than the universe the gods have created. For them, it mattered not how old the souls were, why must it? One half had found the other, one is the lover of the other's youth, her spirit, her very substance. Cause of my joy, Aegon thought. For her, he had rescinded all without care. Blood is thicker than water, the greatest of all duties is to serve; but she was life to him, and if men would not cling to life, then what would become of them?

Once, a Dragon had loved a Wolf, and thousands have died for it.

Even as the Dragon's rubies bathed the Trident upon his death, with his dying breath, he had murmured the Wolf's name.

Arya Stark knew this man from her unrelenting dreams each forlorn night, and he confused her so, to the point of madness she thought she cannot liberate herself from. Those dreams, that kiss, this exchange—reminiscences, they were sweet ones.

Beloved…

One to love, one to share your soul with. What is the difference?

She turned her glassy eyes on Jaqen. One to love…this one you can choose.

Her eyes, to Aegon. One to share your soul with…

An admission from her.

This one, you cannot. It is known.

It is inescapable. Divine will, as believers would call it. To choose who to love is of no consequence, choices are immaterial when the predestined was already set long before the bodies that would host these souls were born in flesh.

Arya Stark shook her head in confoundment, "But…but…"

Aegon rushed to her, cupped her cheeks, brushed his long fingers through her hair of chestnut. "Yes, yes…I know…" He smiled, rested his forehead against hers. "Words are finite, beloved."

Jaqen's jaw dropped.

Aegeus turned to Daario, brows creased. The latter shrugged his shoulders and chuckled.

"Your grace."

It was the eunuch with two Pentoshi magisters and Jon Connington. With them were envoys from Houses Martell and Tyrell, with their respective retinues of sufficient number—noble houses Allyrion and Blackmont of Dorne, Ashford and Redwyne of the Reach.

Arya hastily pulled herself away from Aegon's grasp in embarrassment. It was her venomous stare against the Prince's eyes full of inexplicable lovesickness, and her attention darted quickly to Jaqen, who was now a mirror of one who was about to set cataclysm loose in that very hall. Arya shuddered; such rage she had never seen in him. She seeped through his consciousness—to learn of his meditations, or to assure him of her own.

Blank. Not even thoughts in Rhoynar.

I'm going to die in Jaqen H'ghar's hands tonight.

"May we proceed now that the Braavosi emissaries are present, your grace?" Connington offered.

"We may," Aegon replied, eyes still fixated upon Arya's face, entranced. Recovering, he motioned for everyone to be seated. All took their places around the oaken table. Introductions were done away with. A large cloth map of both Essos and Westeros were laid out, with small wooden effigies positioned in various territories. Developments in the conquest were discussed first.

"Harry Strickland?" Aegon asked.

"Griffin's Roost, your grace. Crow's Nest is besieged," a sellsword, Tristan Rivers.

"Rain House, as well. Your grace's acquisition of Blackhaven and Grandview was most opportune," Laswell Peake conveyed. "Cleared the path for further move from the Stormlands. Stannis Baratheon is still in the North, crushed the Boltons and traitor houses though not without losing quite a number of his own. With Dragonstone under the Daenerys Targaryen, there is no place for him to proceed but the Crownlands. The Lannisters are enraged."

"Besiege, but no casualties on the part of women and children. Strict orders—have an emissary sent to warn the marcher lords and noble houses. No innocent blood in anyone's hands," Aegon said. Truly, I do not wish to use dragonfire. He sighed at the complications of it all.

"Done, your grace."

"How is the North?" Arya queried publicly.

Peake turned his attention towards Arya, then to Aegon, as if asking for permission to divulge. The Prince nodded. It was Paxter Redwyne who answered. "Winterfell is reclaimed, my lady. Stannis Baratheon holds it as we speak. News is scant but we have been informed of…certain developments."

Arya stood upright. "What of these?"

Aegon rubbed his lips as he pondered whether or not to tell. He decided on the former. "Ravens have been reaching Hightower, Lady Arya. Stannis Baratheon had placed Robb Stark's heir as liege lord to Winterfell before he left for the Crownlands. One Lord Wyman Manderly holds the proclamation in Robb Stark's own handwriting—"

"Heir?" Arya queried. Bran has been rescued? Rickon has been found?

"A Jon Snow," Aegon the Sixth said. "Half-brother yours, I believe?"

Arya nodded. Why of course. "Jon." She gave the Prince a leveled gaze. "Legitimized by Robb as a Stark, I am assuming, when he was declared King in the North before the...his demise."

Ser Ilyn, Ser Meryn, Queen Cersei, Walder Frey. Ser Ilyn, Ser Meryn—

"This Jon Snow's being legitimized is not a matter of contention, as far as I am concerned," Aegon replied. "The laws dictate that only seated kings possess the right to legalize a bastard's claim to heirship of title, heraldry, lands—"

"Robb Stark was king, in his own right," Arya seethed. "He therefore carried the prerogative to make a Stark out of a Snow. With due respect to you, when the rebellion happened, you were all over Essos."

Without their knowledge of it, the vassal lords and hill clansmen of the North had played the game of grand conspiracies—Baratheon against the Boltons, in which the former emerged victorious though not for long, with murder ploy of Freys on the side. The winning faction takes the Crownlands, the least of the vassal lords' concerns, for they do not wish to intervene with strifes in the South. Restore Starks to power, declare another King in the North, liberation.

A grand conspiracy which Aegon the Sixth must not know.

An affectionate gaze. "Ah, but Lady Arya, I am not questioning Robb Stark's decisions on your half-brother's legitimacy. Neither will I overturn it after the conclusion of this conquest. Worry not, I beg of you." He leaned closer to Arya who was on his right. "Unless you wish that Winterfell be named after you or your eldest sister. Always, true-borns before legitimized kin, does not matter if they are female."

"Can't speak for Sansa. I do not wish to take over ladyship of Winterfell as of the moment."

"Very well, then."

"Looks like the Baratheon claimer has been doing most of the work for you, your grace," Jaqen H'ghar interjected, mock emphasis on the last word. "He had successfully purged your North of traitor houses, named a new warden, and is now on his way to the capital to begin his rampage against the Lannisters." He smirked. "Imagine what more he can do had he been a gifted with fire-beasts during birth. Ah, but what are the battle plans, truly? Recreate the Blackwater, weaken both warring sides then charge, correct? Why wait, when you claim to have three dragons?"

The Prince was calm. It was a patient smile he gave the Lorathi. "Weaken both sides, yes. Set the stag loose against the lion. The aim of conquest is to plunder, but that is not the course that will be taken by this cause of ours." Aegon's eyes were locked upon Jaqen's, as if explaining the rules of gracious invasion to one who has no notion of it. "Targaryens are Westerosi first, Valyrians last. Resorting to dragonfire to claim territories when alternatives to war are presented is resorting to unnecessary, unmerciful carnage of our own people. Westeros is not Valyria, Jaqen H'ghar. Our blood is not the blood of demon dragonriders of Old."

"Plans well-thought out, I must say," Jaqen's lip tipped up on one corner once more, a hint of venom on every word. He ran one hand through his locks, gave the Prince a nasty, nasty leer. "With a Lannister envoy to the Targaryen queen? Have you no other, that you would resort to suicide? Will he not weaken this cause's position, confuse Daenerys Targaryen, make her question where exactly you stand with respect to the ones seated in the capital, who incidentally, are Lannisters as well?"

Aegon still smiled good-naturedly. His eyes slowly cruised to Arya Stark's face, lingered there with fondness. The girl kept her expression neutral. "That Lannister is one of the few I trust. An asset, too—conquest will proceed from the Stormlands to the Westernlands from the Oak to Crakehall. Tyrion knows Casterly Rock more than anyone here and he is married to the oldest Stark daughter. Game of embittered allies." He turned back to Jaqen H'ghar, waved a hand in dismissal. "These are matters for us Westerosi. As such—"

"The agreement set with the Free Cities was clear. We will all be informed of matters concerning the planned Targaryen conquest. We need assurance with those dragons you claim are yours; proceed without saying, we need assurance that the Targaryen queen will indeed cooperate," Jaqen shot back. "In times as these, demarcations between Westerosi and Essosi must be effaced."

"Not effaced entirely," Aegon replied. "Set aside is the proper term, I believe. We will remain allies to Braavos, this should be clear. Onto matters then, Essos."

"About time," Daario Naharis said, tapping both hands on the table. "Astapor, Yunkai, Qarth, to the lords. Mereen, to Daenerys Targaryen. The lords have gained allies from the Bay, four of the nine Free Cities."

Aegeus spoke too. "Whether or not they plan to wage war against you Targaryen lot in Westeros is unknown, though likely. Plans against Braavos are most assured—it will be dragonfire stealing innocent breaths once more, just like in the sweet, old days."

"That will not happen in our watch," Aegon replied.

"Damn right, it won't," Jaqen said, and for the first time, one Prince and one Assassin had reached specific consensus on one matter.

Arya smiled tacitly. Part of the tension is gone, and perhaps she may be allowed to breathe. There were greater plans that must not be spurned by swollen egos on both sides.

She listened to every proposition and argument, assessed injunctions even in her own silence. Mostly, she observed them both, as they spoke of tactics.

Jaqen is rage and passion, Aegon is calm and refinement. Jaqen is rough, Aegon is regal. Jaqen's rhetoric commanded reverence from all those seated, by mere tone of voice or a little more than this, and the obeisance from those that listened was born out of undefinable fear of him, though they knew him not at all. Aegon's grandiloquence elicited esteem from those others, born out of their appreciation for him, from their unwavering trust and constancy.

Aegon Targaryen was gracious enough to acknowledge the Lorathi's proposals, would even nod and request that he elaborated on his proffered strategems. He would extrapolate scenarios based on the status quo, recommendations from other legates, and Jaqen's conjectures. He would make considerations, remain contemplative for long as if weighing all sides, then decide.

Jaqen H'ghar never gave heed to any proposal. And although all would admit in their own selves that the tactics he presented on the table may well be the best there are, his serious ardency bordering on compulsive daunted the other envoys. There is quite a difference between one who knew what plans are advantageous, and one who can recognize which plans are obtainable.

"This is war," Jaqen concluded. "The dead must be on both sides."

Arya could not help herself.

"Have you no other plan apart from wrecking Myr and Volantis by dragonfire? What are emissaries for but to persuade them to alter their beliefs, and their allegiance after this?" She scoffed. "We deal death for justice and for the good, not death for its own sake."

Ah, Esdraelon of Valyria. You never have tamed your bloodthirsty nature.

Jaqen regarded Arya narrowly.

And still, you question my judgments on matters of importance, Āria of the Rhoyne. Back to the Old, are we now?

Their affinity had regressed to nothing and had transcended everything all at the same time. Now that they have left Braavos where the Isle of the Gods was, the kindredship between Master and Ordained had wavered significantly. There were of course antecedents to this weakening—she is Westerosi, he is Essosi; and though both are Faceless, their motives and loyalties are bifurcated. There was the duty to the temple and the Secret City for them both, and there was the calling to the seat in the North for her. Even in their prior cycles, they belonged to clans that were archfoes of each other. There were conscious influences coming from deities that desired to either put them asunder or reunite them, based on these deities' motivations.

Only the covenant of blood held them together. And perhaps, there still existed the remnants of sacred love and bond they have shared which nullified the enmity between Rhoyne and Valyria.

However, Valyria is nigh—the crux of his person. He is slowly being drawn back to its gorge.

The many faces he wore cannot conceal that gist of himself, the same way that even the highest magic cannot provide camouflage to an imperial, dark aurelian dragon. It is his essen—substance, he cannot hide from it for long. And she…she must remember him, revive him from her own recollections which she had burned along with those ten thousand ships.

Arya Stark must accept her persona's substratum, so she can act according to limitless possibilities and infinite decisions each version of the self could offer her. Only then, could a culmination be reached; and in this culmination is triumph over the lords and their plans for the Long Night.

Aegon the Sixth smiled softly as he stared at the old map of the Known. This girl could surely silence the hot-blooded Lorathi, as she can all other men. His smile grew at Jaqen H'ghar's next words, as did his admiration of her.

"What is it that you propose, Arya Stark?"


She tipped the goblet to her lips, attempted to beckon in herself some stillness.

The tension between Jaqen H'ghar and Aegon the Sixth never subsided, unlike what Arya had assumed earlier. Neutral tempers escalated to surliness, and if this antagonism will continue, repressed ire might intensify to a most dramatic outburst from both men.

She almost laughed aloud at her own ludicrous plan—silence them both with two quick dagger hurls, make sure that the first blade narrowly escapes Aegon's fair cheek and the second blade cuts a few strands of Jaqen's pretty hair.

The emissaries had left, and seated with them were Daario, Aegeus, Varys, Illyrio. The eunuch and the magister seemed to be having some sort of conference of their own—the state of Pentos to receive migrators and exiles from the other Free Cities is certainly a matter to consider. Westeros cannot offer its shores to these escapees, unless the Targaryen conquest had already progressed significantly.

Aegeus and Daario spoke to each other about affairs concerning the Order, at times in undertones, and in Rhoynar no less.

"If there is one person in the House who can render herself deathless, it's Sabine," Daario claimed, a hint of reassurance. "I would not blindly believe in that farewell one bit, forgive me. It's all farcicality! Have you seen the madness of her collections in that workchamber? She can even create a person out of temple dust should she wish."

Aegeus heaved a sigh and nodded. "Yes, but…where in this realm could we even find that woman?"

"Wrong question. Where in this realm could she find us? It's her decision, ultimately," Daario shrugged.

"Surely, when she unravels these things…"

"What if she didn't like what she discovers? What if every damned thing in that godforsaken temple is a lie? The gods, the Songs?"

"And all this time I thought I was the radical one." Aegeus shook his head in disbelief. "Indeed, you have gone rogue."

"Not quite," Daario replied in nonchalance. "My loyalties are to the Order and Daenerys Targaryen—not necessarily to the death god. That deity may claim me now for my heresy, but my heart is steadfast. Valar Morghulis is shite. When I traversed the Bay with the dragon queen, when I saw her liberate those people, reclaimed for them lost lives and humanness itself that those slavemasters rode roughshod over, I realized that there is more to this life than serving death. To die is to gain, but to live is enough."

"I spoke with the masked woman during the Uncloaking."

"So?"

"Jaqen disapproved."

"Of course he will," Daario scoffed. "He does not wish for the girl to untangle the secrecy between Seastar and that brother-lover of hers imprisoned in the Weirwood. Can't blame him, he's sworn Shield to that girl. Defense first, all other things afterwards."

The comely one exhaled from his mouth. He had already unlocked the secrets of the Weirwood somehow, and divulged what he knew to Arya Stark.

Jaqen cannot hide those parallel realms from her. She must decide how to harness such revelation.

A silent prayer—may Arya find it in herself to accept that the three elder Wolves that were slain cannot be retrieved from realm versions West of Westeros. A clash between spaces and varying time, beings and spirits. He cursed the gods for creating such unnecessary intricacies. He never finished his discussion with Arya Stark in Sabine's workchamber—Jaqen had interrupted their exchange.

Multiple timelines in some higher dimension. Nuances and shadows. The gods are truly bored.

Blackraven is still in the weirwood, collecting dreams. Jaqen was supposed to kill him, he never got to the North. Plans have changed.

Discussions were cut by Aegon's slightly provoking words towards Jaqen.

"Please will yourself to consider that we cannot charge right away, my friend," the Prince sighed irritably, placing silverware down with usual calmness despite. "I can see that you Braavosi lot despise the idea of fire-beasts and lords that ride them. It makes perfect sense—your history is that of the tormented after all. I apologize on behalf of those that carry in them the blood of dragons, but as I have said, I am Westerosi. Unless there is a sufficient collection of battleplans, we cannot proceed to war against four imperial dragons with our three. Imperial, meaning—"

"That these dragons were the ones used for expansion and wars, correct?" Jaqen cut him, his expression that of lethargy. "Pray tell, what do you truly know about these types of dragons? What do your Valyrian lores tell about the beasts?"

Aegon scoffed with disbelief, shook his head. "Very well, I will play."

Jaqen gave him a quick nod.

"There are four. Urkon is to Aurion, Ajax to Lathos, Varathis to Daxen," the Prince paused, assaying what is hidden beneath the Lorathi's passivity. "Heraxos is to Haresh Esdraelon. Truly, I do not wish to be offensive, but I do not understand how dragonlore could possibly aid us in all these. The situation is quite simple here."

"Of their one thousand and sixty-seven glistening scales, five hundred thirty-four are virtue, five hundred and thirty-three are vile," Jaqen replied. Daario choked on his wine, Aegeus laughed softly, Arya rolled her eyes in silent vexation at her Lorathi's too adolescent display. The eunuch and the magister were confounded.

Aegon narrowed his eyes and sat upright. He spoke.

"Urkon is strong-willed, combative, ruthless. He is said to be strongest of the four, but I contend the dragonlore on this—fiery and unbending are more accurate descriptions, these do not necessarily mean strength. Lord Aurion had to use mage-forged blazing chains to temper that beast, to show him who is lord," Aegon's smile carried a hint of dare towards the Lorathi. "For seven days he chained Urkon, with nothing but the sound of his voice as the beast's companion. Eighth day showed itself, and he surrendered to the lord-emperor's call. Urkon can take flight against the strongest of tempests, can even break through storm's eye."

Jaqen met Aegon's challenging smile with his own. "Of course, the lores would claim that the first dragonrider's beast is the strongest. Literary and archival consistencies—war riders would never heed orders from a commanding rider if his beast's stalwartness is questionable. Therefore, the canons would say that Urkon is the empire-builder, Ajax is the extroverted and antagonistic, mirroring its rider. Varathis is wise, more reflective, diplomatic, a contrast to the Valyrian woman who rides her if you asked me."

It was clear engrossment on the faces of those around them, all were immersed with the exchange. The intoxicating wonders of liqueur were then forgotten. There were the civet of hare, a quarter of a stag a whole night in salt and spices, minced loin of veal covered in saffron and cloves, sugarplums, white cheese—trifling, for the starving, intrigued minds of them have decided that dragon meat is more palatable than all that are laid in any kingly banquet.

Aegon's forehead creased heavily. "Where did you say you were from again? Braavos-Lorath?"

"Yes."

"Ah," Aegon nodded, rested his back against the splat of his cushioned seat. "You Braavosi lot know your dragonlore."

"We must," Jaqen shrugged, a sly smile. "You Valyrian lot made sure we never forgot the threat of beasts."

The Prince ignored the shades of his insinuation that they argue. "Heraxos."

The Assassin raised his brows, amused. "What of him?" He turned his attention towards Arya Stark, who remained passive. His eyes sparkled at the sight of her face. She merely ignored his intimations.

"Fearless, yet logical," Aegon contemplated. "Skilled at concealing his domination, deceitful, such that the other dragons see him not as a threat. He's effective at hiding his motivations, even the lores say that the beast is…too complex to even describe, much less to fully comprehend."

"Truly?" the Lorathi queried, gaze still locked upon Arya's face. "Unlike some women I know, Heraxos is not at all difficult to spell out. He can just at will, hide himself from perceptible space, breathe fire underwater, lie dormant for centuries and emerge stronger." The Lorathi smirked. "Nothing special about that dragon, really."

Aegon chuckled at Jaqen's expositions.

"That aurelian beast returned with the lords from West of Westeros. Shame, the dragonrider that commanded him was scorched a thousand years ago for those traitorous acts of his," the Prince shook his head. "For a noble cause he died, and I daresay I agree. Ah, but I would surrender half of the seven kingdoms to see Haresh Esdraelon and forge conjunction with him, offer him terms to a treaty, beg on my knees that he rides with us on that imperial, enchanted fire-beast of his. Not for conquest or any other self-centered intents, but for plain survival."

Jaqen caught Arya's eye and winked at her. She responded to his arrogance and flirtations with four words.

"Haresh Esdraelon is dead."

That pronouncement wiped the smirk off the Lorathi's face.

"Indeed, he is," Aegon replied good-humoredly. "That point had been made clear earlier, Lady Arya."

The Winter Maiden took over for she must. The Lorathi must be pulled back to the realm of the real.

She tucked some loose hair behind her ear, much to Aegeus and Jaqen's surprise. Her eyes were on Aegon, even as she felt the Lorathi's scorching stare brought by her shameless innuendos intended for the Prince. The girl's smile was an allusion of things greater and deeper-seated, at the very least; and her small acts of tracing her forefinger across the rim of her goblet, of closing her lids as if to blink a little too slowly, and tilting her head the other way as if to study him, was met by Aegon with a thoroughly amused stare.

"I have been listening to you, Aegon the Sixth," Arya said, her voice silky. "Why of course, you have mentioned about that dragonrider's demise. But do you think he has forgotten that he's dead already?"

Jaqen H'ghar clenched his teeth. No person on that table had heard the eunuch and the magister pay their concluding respects and depart.

Aegon rubbed his lips, spoke in an undertone. "Interesting. Are you saying that death is mere trickery?"

The girl's giggles were entrancing. The two Tyroshi fought against grinning as the Lorathi sighed and cursed in Rhoynar. Those damnable giggles used to escape from her lips only when I squeeze her behind and lick her bosoms wet, Jaqen thought. What diversion is she even playing?

"Perhaps it is an illusion," the girl replied, coy. "However, memories are limitless, as they say. Minds of fools think memories and uncaptured dreams are realities in themselves. They are not, though I used to think of them as realms in their own. They are figments and traces of what is past or what is hoped for, nothing more. Dead is dead."

Daario chimed in. "What if they are indeed realities? No one had really penetrated the memories and dreams of another, correct?"

"It is possible," Aegeus replied. "We define memories as the antecedents and dreams as the forthcoming. Arrogance of men, I call it. We define time as continuous, unswerving. If minds of men contain experiences either past or hoped for, then it wouldn't matter if time is scattered. Memories may be the future of one man and dreams may be the past of another."

Arya exhaled irritatedly. Just like that, the Lorathi had gathered for himself a couple of mouthpieces.

Aegon leaned forward, hands clasped atop the table. They were engaging him, the girl thought. And for what? An impossible accord with a mythical second dragonrider? He spoke. "Where have you been all this time, Braavosi comrades? For many moons, my suppers consisted of tasteless consumables and empty discussions, these all except if the Lannister is here."

"I am afraid your supper still consists of such kind, Aegon," Arya replied, admonishing eyes on Aegeus. "These are all senseless riddles meant to amuse."

"Time anomalies?" Daario said in defense. "Not meant to amuse, I beg to disagree. Free men and slaves alike saw Haresh killed but no one saw him die."

"He was scorched by dragonfire," Arya seethed. "Must the lore spell all things out for the likes of you?"

"Much speculation on this," Aegon countered. "Might be that he indeed got burnt, might also be that he is invulnerable to fire. After all, they say that dragonrider is a descendant of the red god."

The red god takes what is his, lovely girl.

The subject of it all was seated at Aegon the Sixth's left, donning that face of haughty lassitude, as if enervated of being placed over and over again at some damnable plinth that does not even materially exist. Jaqen H'ghar knew how to play, but this was all a game of treacheries and uncertainties. Arya Stark is aware of the layers of the self as written in their holy texts, but the version of self he may recoil to should necessity demand it is too close to the foe's turf.

And there was the matter with the death god. She had pried through the musings of Aegeus and she saw them—the four Burners of the ethereal bridge they called the 'Pass'. Err in decision and she will lose her Lorathi in all realms and realities. Acceptance is this: that she cannot have him fully, but she cannot let him fall into that chasm of old self.

But which self counts truly, the past, the present, the future? All?

Plans must advance.

"Tomorrow, we must talk, Aegon."

The Prince stopped mid-sentence with his current discourse with Jaqen. He turned to her, his smile was not forced upon him.

Arya spoke again. "Your proposal."

She felt the flesh of her skin burn at the drastic change in the ambience that was earlier congenial. There was sour acrimony once more, between the Westerosi and the Lorathi. Three-way stares might at any moment explode into a riotous exchange of baleful words and raging acts.

Aegon nodded, appeased. "Of course."

"I agree to nothing as of yet," Arya clarified. "Your terms, my terms. Considerations for both Westeros and Essos, with the plans for the North as priority. Thereon, we will see to certain points of agreement, how to carry these out with least complications."

Jaqen's expression was hellish. Winter has come in the North, and now apocalypse is sitting right in front of her, embodied perfectly by him.

"I pray that you sleep well tonight, Lady Arya," Aegon the Sixth concluded. "On the morrow, may your decisions on all matters come from wisdom only."

She dared not look at Jaqen a second time.

They all departed for the night.


For three straight days, she had eluded Aegon the Sixth. The agreement during their first night in Pentos regarding a highly-wrought dialogue on the Targaryen's proposal had been placed at the nethermost of all her concernments. The Prince was gracious enough to leave her to herself, to allow her all the time she could possibly need. During luncehons and suppers, he would raise not a word about the planned conquest in order to not burden her, left such matters in the manse's function hall where all gatherings are held. He would speak of blithesome tales about his travels in Essos, his instruction from the half-maester, his purviews on subjects of gods and faiths. Arya would find herself smiling at the lad's accounts and at the way he was engaging both Aegeus and Daario. "Too modest, this Aegon the Sixth," the Stormcrow had one night told the comely one. "The Order should have endorsed Daenerys Targaryen as claimant—she may have had serious lapses in her rule in Mereen, but she has the experience, no contest on that. A soft-spoken, unostentatious, probably even merciful king? Never heard of it." The comely chuckled at the commentary. "Might be that he was god-sent? Ah! Forgetfulness, pardon me. The gods are cruel." She would then quickly glance at the Lorathi, and find him in an overly-pensive state, a total regression from his usual acts of provoking the Targaryen Prince and tossing him his usual undertones of mockery.

That third night, she had noticed how horrible Jaqen appeared—as if drained of strength these days past, with his eyes devoid of any expression saved for melancholy, hair unkempt, with rough stubbles along his cheeks and jawline. In the midst of mirthful exchanges, he only stared softly at whoever led the colloquy, forced his attention back to his food and toyed with it, exhaled sharply, as if despairing.

Another one of his many faces, the girl convinced herself. Another one of his games.

"…and Aristide Antaryon would keep the practice of burning Valyrian galleys to mark the Uncloaking, I suppose?" Aegon the Sixth asked Jaqen.

The comely one had to elbow the Lorathi who was then lost with his musings.

"Yes, as was the tradition from the time of a hundred and eleven years," the Lorathi answered in a monotone after a few seconds of languor. He sighed. "Forgive me, comrades, but I must retire for the night." He stood, and without providing any more explications, left the supper table.

Arya Stark sat at the edge of her bed, attention directed on the open double threshold made of glass, leading to one of the manse's linear terraces. The straightforward message of that letter containing Aegon the Sixth's proposal created confusion within her. Those words written—threatening, sinister—seemed to be incongruous with the Targaryen Prince's amiable persona.

I wonder who wrote that letter for him.

Too quick to conclude. As they say, kings must be butchers or meat. He may have inked that letter with his own hands; it was apparent that he's one gifted with machinations and with silently terrorizing men into submission. He need not raise his voice or convey much, bore listeners with usual kingly declarations. All envoys, Westerosi or Essosi, knew who he is, and what he can possibly do. His choice of allies was most curious though—of course there was Dorne and the Reach, strongest in the South. But why take in his courts a Lannister exile and a highborn lady of a broken greathouse in the North? Not to mention intermediaries from a land essentially unconcerned with his conquest if not for the threats of Old Valyria?

Indeed, the Targaryen Prince knows all, knows what he is doing. He knows that men cannot emancipate themselves from kings as much as they cannot free themselves from their gods.

Those four days aboard the ship bound for Pentos had been surprisingly long for her, and despite the shattering heartbreak she had endured, caused by that damnable Lorathi as was the usual, she had shaped in her mind the perfect scheme on how to secure Aegon the Sixth for Braavos and retake their ancestral seat in the North. The Umbers and the Karstarks were dealt with by the Baratheon claimer, and Jon was declared liege lord.

Starks as kings—no fealty at all to the ones seated in the Crownlands. But to obtain this with two Targaryens seeking to sustain all seven realms in one kingdom is bordering on the absurd.

The latch that secured her door clicked open.

Intruder, her instinct warned her.

Before she could unsheath one of her daggers, Jaqen H'ghar had already invited himself in.

"What is it with you Faceless Men and knocking?" she stood and spat with clear irritation. It was a defensive wall to safeguard herself too; the Lorathi will no doubt abrade her again with his classic words of contempt. In the cruelest tones she could gather, she proceeded with her tirade. "We are not in Braavos anymore, for you to behave in a manner uncultivated and enter chambers uninvited, Jaqen H'ghar. Ah! But what is new? You are known to be coarse anyway. Had you knocked, I would have been quick to conclude that you were nothing but a face—the true Jaqen H'ghar would always remain boorish in demeanor."

Gently, he closed the door and turned to her, with an expression more downcast than when Sabine had left all of them for good.

His eyes, oh, those beauteous bronze irises were morose, as if a wellspring of tears had just revealed itself in the deserts of these, wiped by the back of calloused, blood-dried, unmerciful assassin hands. Might be that he's drunk again; explains the misty eyes. The sight staggered her—he was biting his lower lip hard, running one hand in his hairlocks, staring at her like one woebegone whelp. The baleful, taunting, disparaging lion of a Lorathi these days past, and in all other days at that, now stood in front of her—a lost, grief-stricken cub.

Rather quick shift—this man is too erratic!

This time though, he was far from drunk; he was merely godforsaken.

"Arya…"

"Get back to your chamber, Jaqen."

"Arya Stark…"

She turned her back to him, began spreading the bedlinen. "If you would not be persuaded to leave, then do remain here and sleep. I will find another chamber."

With quick strides, he crossed the distance between them, embraced her tightly from behind.

The girl cursed.

He's smashing her resolve to pieces and wounding her with the shards as if the act was not enough! He would take her apart fragment by fragment, and form her back again and again—his expertise. Jaqen was not the one gifted by the old gods with the capacity to read minds, she was. How could he have read her deepest yearning of just having him by her side, with his strength that had been her own, with just a little of who he is that had become all of her? How dare he undo her days' worth of crystallizing herself so she may not desire him anymore in impossible ways!

However, when he held her, she did not anymore resist—possessed neither the will nor the want to. What is the use? No escape—this is the way of assassins. They take no pride in fighting the fair game.

Silently, she laughed at those immortal gods—should they have themselves, and their hearts crushed like this, could they pray for their own death so they may cease to feel?

Jaqen's arms tightened around her. "Arya…"

Probably not.

Is it acceptable to leave? To stop fighting for all these?

Probably not.

Jaqen H'ghar should not have done those things, should not have wanted her too much. The moment he declared to her that ceaseless want of his was the precise moment she had started wanting herself as well, appreciating herself; as if it was only his concurrence that mattered, his approval, his regard of her.

It is never fair.

"Say what you need Jaqen, and be done with it."

She felt him kissing her hair, inhaling the snow-scent that had clung to it—crisp and bright and cold for some, salvation and healing for him. He whispered, with false calm. "Truths. Lies."

"Folly. When do we stop playing, Jaqen H'ghar?"

He ignored her, and spoke.

"That iron coin led you to Braavos. That coin did not draft a possible future for you, you built a future around it. Choices, and even entire universes cannot hinder your right to a free will—a fundamental law."

She clenched her teeth. Very well, then. After this, he might immediately leave.

"Truth."

He rested his chin on her head. Pained respiration escaped from his mouth. And when he spoke, Arya gasped at the sound of his breaking voice. "In the godswood, do you remember? You were then a small child, a man even had to bend on one knee so you could reach and whisper to him the name of the last you wanted killed. A girl gave a man his own name, declared her power over him—'Die,' she had told him. 'Your life is not yours, but mine…' and from that point, a man's soul had clung to her, his entirety began needing her, like some useless mortal in need of the saving grace of a god—"

"Lie," she murmured. Too much! The girl tried to break free, but he still held her, as if she was his last, most precious thing. "Let go, Jaqen. You've had more than enough of your diversions! I'm sleepy!"

Jaqen pressed his lips against her ear. His whispers were desolate.

"A man is so weak, but he cannot appear vulnerable in front of you, can he? He must be a warrior, weapon…a…a rampart, in order for you not to fall. As all Faceless would say—wear your many faces served in platters of concealment, draw the curtains for the first act and the second, the third. Arya Stark, I…I'm tripping and stumbling, but I cannot succumb to pieces, so to appear fragile is…just unwelcome. This whole arrangement is just tearing me apart to damnable shreds! At times the shadows of fate are too cruel and they suffocate me so, and I wanted to just fall on my knees and tug at my hair and scream and cry, but…but…"

"All lies."

Arya Stark knew that she had killed herself with her own words.

Jaqen's confession frightened her—never had she seen him this frail and powerless.

Weakness is a right of all men, as is fear. Can a man still be strong if he is already wavering? Can a man still be brave if he's afraid? 'Yes,' Ned Stark would have told her. 'These are the only times when a man can be strong and brave.' But no, no—Jaqen can't be weak and vulnerable, he can't stagger, he can't fail! She needed him strong, he must be strong for her!

No, Jaqen. You are not weak. You can't be, I forbid you to have the right to it.

She faced him, pulled the collar of his tunic roughly, until she felt his temple pressed against hers, his seemingly dying exhales mingling with her own fluctuant ones. Her gray-and-green locked upon his bronze that turned gold in a certain moonlight's angle. Arya shook her head vehemently, panic-stricken at Jaqen's strengthless state.

"All lies!" she shouted. "All lies! You are Jaqen H'ghar and Jaqen H'ghar smirks at fear and commands it to move aside, laughs at weakness with disdain! Jaqen H'ghar mocks fallen swords and useless scums claimed rashly by the god of death—'Those who cannot defend their own lives possess not the right to breathe the air with the rest of us,' he would say. Jaqen!" She yanked him harder upon seeing his eyes well up. "Jaqen! Don't you dare do this in front of me! Here!—" she grabbed both of his hands and placed them on her heart. She gasped, desperation enveloping her mercilessly. "Here! Take all that I have left—there must be some damnable enchantment you Faceless Masters can perform to steal away the strength of another. I don't need mine, take it! I just need you to be strong…strong—damn it, I can't do this alone! Jaqen!" She flailed about violently as he pulled her to him and buried his eyes upon her right shoulder. "Mount your high horse now and ride around with your usual cavalier—I don't need this right now!"

She thrashed against him, even as the Lorathi pulled her on the floor with him, seated her astride on his lap. He rested his face once more in between her bosoms, caressed the small of her back to calm her. "What have you done to me, Arya Stark, what have you done?" he whispered weakly. "You have robbed me of myself, and I thought I had none, Arya…what did you even do to a man?" His arms coiled around her waist, his hands gripped the side fabric of her tunic, as if allowing the tiniest of spaces between them meant the very demise of him. "You're killing me every damned second, and breathing life back into my frame—do you know the kind of excruciation that brings me? Oh, Arya…"

She heard it from his lips—her name, being uttered over and over as if it was his lifeline, his only rescue. Had it been a thousand times? She had not counted, so she would never know. The same way that she would never know the sound of a heart when it breaks.

Let me be Shield to him now.

"Jaqen!" the girl ran her fingers through his hair, planted small kisses on it. "Let us draw it from each other, yes? Those pages in the temple—Two is not Two but One. We are each other's strength and weakness. We are each other. In the coming together that is all-powerful, nothing can conquer us both if we will not cave in helplessly to all these without a proper fight. There are wars to win, Jaqen—you have Braavos, I have Winterfell. We will then see, after all these, if there is…a life for us both. I promise. I promise."

"I love you," Jaqen whispered against her chest. His heart bleeds. She felt the soft fabric of her shift moistened by salty rain from his eyes. He weeps. And since Faceless Men rarely weep, they suffer more than all others. It cannot be helped; only in weeping can souls truly speak.

Arya felt her own eyes burn, and swallowed hard to hinder the tears. May the gods shatter the roofs of this manse and let rain through, so no one would see the waters of our mourning.

Neither was surrendering his or her hold of the other one. A few seconds of his heart and her heart speaking in the stillness of that wistful night might heal them both. But if wounds hide themselves, what is there to even heal?

I love you too.

Truth.


How many eyes does the Bloodraven have?

A thousand and one.

Aegeus locked the door to his assigned bedchamber, exhaled enervatedly. His room was adjacent to Jaqen's on the left and Daario's on the other side. Arya Stark's chamber was located in the manse's other wing—curious, though not curious, that she would be at close quarters with Aegon the Sixth. The Prince is honorable, of this the comely one was most assured, more honorable than Jaqen if he would be truthful. Lock the Stark girl up in the same chamber with Aegon the Sixth and she'll emerge more blameless than when she had entered the threshold.

Aegeus chuckled.

Lock her up with Jaqen—hah! Magic, if she gets out with all her clothes still in one piece. That Lorathi makes his own breeches appear thin at the sight of that girl's shadow.

It was not the proximity between the Stark girl and the Targaryen Prince that brought upon him worry though, but Jaqen's temperamental state and probable discernments about it all. A whole night is long enough, emotions can drown sound judgment. Facelessness, if not, the Lorathi might eviscerate Aegon the sixth with nothing but his slaughter-itching fingers.

Much to be considered.

Circle-top windows feature the Narrow Sea in between traceries of its stained glasses. Nights have grown darker, colder. There were times like this, when he wondered where he went wrong, why the Sorrows had to happen. Aegeus had heard the Prince and the one who he named the Griff speaking of their travels aboard the Shy Maid, with the Lannister Imp many moons back. They had traversed the path of the Sorrows, and had mentioned that stone men still inhabited it beneath the fog. A smirk formed in his lips when they spoke in hushed tones of the Shrouded Lord.

The smile faded.

Jon Connington is infected with grayscale.

The Griff is key to the plans, he is Aegon the Sixth's hand. Losing him is like losing a whole squadron of able archers. The comely one clicked his tongue. He saw how widespread the infection was already. Scalding hot baths and mustard poultices will not work; neither would an array of sacrifice by the incense, as maesters and septons would claim. If only Sabine were here...

The nightshirt he wore was of thin fabric, but he was from the river. Cold can do him little harm. He laid himself, brushed his comely face with both hands, did not even bother to pray as sleep stole his consciousness after a few minutes of gazing at the posterbed's drapes of morracon and delaine.

He was dead to his dreams, completely unaware of the lock being opened from the outside, through some form of enchantment.

The oaken door opened and closed without the faintest creak.

Those footsteps were light, as if the owner could glissade into transparent vapor. A pair of deprived eyes stared at the sleeping figure. Closer now…closer. She paused, surveyed the chamber, sensed signs of other presences. None.

Feet settled on the softness of that featherbed. Still, he was unfeeling of that company unwished-for that was now above him. That guest that had invited herself in his bedchamber, though the welcoming was not an entitlement of hers, lowered her face a little, and it was now close to his own. She tilted her head to hold him under scrutiny with much diligence.

Still comely, she thought. But of course. It's only been a week or so.

She settled herself on his lap. Soft golden curls tickled his cheek. His eyes slowly opened—a spectre, his subconscious whispered. Sleep, she is gone. Chose downfall over continuance. In a whole other realm…in a reality different from what is here, yet congruent…identical…and…

Parallel…?

Once more, his heavy lids hid his eyes as he carried on with his dream state.

Her able hands stroked him between the legs—gentle at first, fervent as she progressed. His eyes flew open, and he saw that one lovely face he had wanted to gaze at for days and nights gone cruel and disparaging. Aegeus sat upright asudden, ran his fingers through her pretty locks of gold, untangling the strands and ends.

This isn't a dream at all.

He gasped. "How did you—"

Ardent kisses overwhelmed all other utterances. Shameless, starved. And she made her sensual sentiments apparent as she devoured the wholeness of his mouth, as she drank from him. She pushed her tongue inside, let it waltz with his—their watery lips blessed each other with lust unthinkable, as their teeth played their own erotic melee.

"Hah…sweet heavens…" he moaned in between breaths and breathlessness.

How fast is one second? A fraction? How far apart are two hemispheres? Nay, she was not even willing at the slightest to release him and have him recover from his fits and starts! His hands found her buttocks and kneaded her most sensually there, as she continued to touch him.

Questions. Answers. Questions.

"S-sabine…" he managed to murmur in the midst of kisses that kill. Done she was with his lips for the time being, and so her fiery feathery kisses moved to his neck, as her fingers began unlacing his breeches. "H-how did you…gods!" he felt her bare hands against the bare skin of his hardened manliness. Her hands gripped him tight, rollicking north and south, luxuriating in the flexible flesh and the taut muscles of him. She ran her tongue across the skin of his shoulder. "How did…how did you get in?

She fondled him some more, her caresses had gone faster. "Stupid question, Aegeus."

Hasty, athirst, he began unbuttoning her blouse. Though days were not years in length, this fact did nothing to quell his voracity. Come on, come on… Unfastening her in the conventional manner was too time-consuming, and so he threw all acts of bedchamber 'proprieties' in that metaphorical chasm that waited. Buttons flew here, there, as he pulled both sides of the garment apart.

Impatient groans absconded from his throat upon seeing Sabine's chemise still covering her nakedness.

"How did you know we're in Pentos?"

He tore the undergarment with one quick maneuver.

"Stupid question," she replied, then gasped as his mouth closed in on her bosoms and he fed himself from their generous bounty. The woman ran her fingers though his locks of high midnight, reveled in his intoxicating scent of evening primroses. She inhaled deeply as she heard him suckle. Brother…her silent gasps. Aegeus…

One bosom after the other—the Tyroshi made sure that both were given equal consideration. Her tips had gone hard-rock, a response to his moist tongue that bathed them thoroughly. Waterfalls descended to rivers and rivers to bays.

Thrill, bizarre yet pleasurable hysteria in between her legs.

Aegeus had so brazenly reached for her core, rubbed her there intensely, his primal moans and incomprehensible murmurs filling every corner of that chamber, pervading every single iota of amorous air. His words were sibylline of things to come—not things dissentient to their shared carnalities, but things that heighten these.

Sabine spoke in between his romantic touches and loving suckles. "H-how long have you…ah! Have you been here?"

Aegeus replied. "Stupid question." He felt her shudder, and so instead of pausing with his strokes, he pushed two fingers inside her. There, he toyed with her inner walls in motions rising, falling, undulating, resembling an undaunted seafarer desirous of learnedness in waters still uncharted. Silent, delighted chuckles. "You're so damp, Sabine…oh, yes…"

It was as if air was scarce when she took it in.

"Undress for me, brother…"

As he was bid, he unclothed himself, pulled his tunic off his head and violently threw it on the carpeted floor as Sabine undid his breeches. Their lips never broke contact.

"I will give you so much happiness tonight, I promise you this…" Aegeus muttered against her lips. Sabine breathed into his mouth, giggled, as her fingers curled the sparse hair of his chest playfully; and so aroused he was with those soft sounds from her that he forcefully drew her nigh and began suckling her breasts once more like one babe clamoring for dire sustenance, for life itself.

"Aegeus! Oh, dear one…"

He pulled her smallclothes down and away from her long legs. Naked, the comely one thought. Almost.

"I want you!" Sabine screamed. "I want you inside of me!"

"Damn it!" his impatient response.

He pulled and she pushed. Restraint, they both said in the bedlam of their consciousness; but they were drowning…drowning in undercurrents of hates, lust, love. Onto the bed, he shoved her so she lay flat on her back. He lifted her skirt and parted her legs and buried his face in between them, devoured her with gentle passion—cloudbursts and downpours.

Ambrosia…sweet, sweet wine. Saccharine nectar from the sex-wanton gods.

He teased and licked. He sipped luscious liquid from her. Damn it, woman, you're too perfect…

Her legs wrapped around his shoulders, her toes curled with delights she cannot anymore repress. Sabine's erratic breathing, brought by every contact of his tongue and lips against the heart of her enkindled the man's fervor in incessant levels. His romancing escalated and consumed her pore after pore.

She broke away from Aegeus, knelt on the bed and pushed him back. Velvety pillows and dainty feathers welcomed his body. Sabine straddled him, hungry eyes fixated on his. Three words from her:

"You're mine, brother."

The comely one nodded, mouth agape, short-winded.

In slow progression, she lowered herself against him, allowed him to penetrate her. Three words from him:

"Oh! Sabine, baby…"

Pointy ends and fluids. Swords and Potions—two masters. One guided the other as the other taught. Both of them were, in simultaneous and orchestrated states, amateurs and pedagogues, as they unlocked each other's skillfulness or lack thereof. His hands grasped her hips, directed them in vertical motions…waters by the Palace of Love, his silent ministrations seemed to say.

She moved faster and listened not.

"Again…" Aegeus whispered, as she lifted herself, lowered herself. "Again…" Two thrusts per second—effects supertemporal. Too fast, he thought. "Slow down, damn it! I want to relish this…stay with me!"

Upon her immaculate visage was sweet, childlike agony. She wrapped her arms around him, buried her face against his neck. "It's painful! Burning…inside..."

Aegeus sat upright, kissed her deeply. She planted more kisses on the side of his lips as she softly, repeatedly uttered his name. "Aegeus, brother mine…oh, how you hurt me so…"

He consoled her. "Serene motions, Sabine…" He held her down and began instructing and demonstrating, moving underneath to meet her. "This is not hurting you, this is loving you, my sweet…" The woman winced. "Be still, my love…" he ordered. She nodded, eyes misty. He buried himself deep, spoke comforting lyrics, lascivious flatteries in Ancient Rhoynar, cursed—cannot be helped. It was a divine rendezvous of their wanting bodies and so please let this not end!

"Aegeus…"

"Sabine…"

"Aegeus!"

From northern pillar to southern post, he moved with her and in her. "Shush, shush…my sweet duchess…" were his words that calmed her whimpers in the midst of her pained writhes. His worshipful kisses rendered pain subservient. Their motions complemented, and pure harmony was hence born out of such union—a symbiosis.

Rúth I deitui, im wot ú- dab cin glenn—

Damn the gods, I will not let you go…

Intoxicating, metallic scent of sinless sangria. Aegeus looked down upon himself and her that coupled then uncoupled and saw her bleeding. Then, came his silent, delighted laughter. First claim—his.

Last claim—his.

Their movements grew more urgent, forceful. Quakes shatter but intensity as this is unparalleled. Words in all goddess pools in the whole world—quenchless passion to the infinite, love and all its truths are gifts from those who are higher. He thrust himself the deepest for what may have been a hundred times, cared not anymore if she was hurting—mindful only of his own pleasure.

He filled her.

"Hah…"

In all spaces were the sounds of their intermittent breaths.

He closed his eyes and prayed for total suspension of this moment, leaned his head back against the bed's headframe. "Sabine…"

Slowly, she pulled herself from him, with her own scarlet and his froth dripping from her legs. On her right hand—a poisoned dagger. She pressed the blade against the pulse of his neck.

His eyes, he kept closed. A soft smile formed in his lips, even as that blade's miasma bathed his nose, even when the tip of the blade could render him lifeless within seconds.

She truly has returned.

"Garin of Chroyane," the Waif seethed. "You deceiving, shameless bastards." She pressed the blade closer to his skin and a tiny gash had formed upon it. "Where is that damnable dragonrider?!"