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"A hundred days and a hundred nights he labored on the third blade, and as it glowed white-hot in the sacred fires, he summoned his wife. 'Nissa Nissa,' he said to her, for that was her name, 'Bare your breast, and know that I love you best of all that is in this world.' She did this thing, why I cannot say, and Azor Ahai thrust the smoking sword through her living heart. It is said that her cry of anguish and ecstasy left a crack across the face of the moon, but her blood and her soul and her strength and her courage all went into the steel. Such is the tale of the forging of Lightbringer, the Red Sword of Heroes."
Salladhor Saan, A Song of Ice and Fire
Thirty days and thirty nights, he labored on it, and tempered it through the waters fetched from the seas of the Summer. The sword broke.
The Elder mage's rune is insufficient, the Valyrian thought.
Fifty days and fifty nights. Beneath the fighting stades is a collection of cages of alligators, bears, and ravenous hounds kept for purposes of combat entertainment, with slave-bestiarii forced to battle to the point of death against the beasts. "A large feline, I need," the firemage had told one keeper. "The strongest of your lions."
It was brought to them, though not without complications—a Qohorik slave was devoured by the beast, six others were summoned to drag it from the pit and have it brought to the dungeons. The forging of that firesword and the preconditions for its full creation and tempering must not be revealed to anyone outside the conspiratorial circle.
The one renamed Iāqaen Haegār laughed at the mage's orders. "You want me to thrust this sword into that lion's heart? Whence did you obtain these methods, Elder? I thought animals expire when they step on the soils of Asshai—you could not have learned how to use beasts in your practice of rune in the Shadows, could you?" Despite his tones of jeer, he still did as he was ordered.
The sword broke a second time.
"Forge it again, a hundred days. I will strengthen it with fire magic," the Elder urged him.
And so, he did. Now, the sword lay waiting inside the dungeons, waiting for a woman's breast to be plunged into.
Finally, the bleeding star had shown itself upon the skies after a hundred days. However, scarlet is not the only hue of Valyria's firmament. There is the golden sun in the morn, the silver moon in the eventide and at night's peak too.
Moon is goddess, wife of the Sun. It is known.
The Moon derives incandescence from the Sun, and so when the orb's Fire is not there, the Moon turns as cold as Ice. The Moon-queen sought to never be apart from her Sun-king.
The silver Moon drew too close to the golden Sun, out of love. The Sun's fire was too ferocious, and so the Moon cracked from his heat, and from her came forth a thousand, thousand dragons. And these dragons which were sources of magic, and magic in their own right and selves, will thwart the evils of a Night; for when it comes, neither Sun nor Moon would show their faces upon the realms.
It all fits perfectly—Sun as the flames of Valyria, Moon as the waters and icicles of Rhoyne. Gold, silver. Fire and Ice. And the fortuitous renaming that seemed to be heralded by the deities: Iāqaen—sent by the gods; Āria—his warrior bride, aid to the Promised.
The Elder ran his fingers through the steel, he was alone in that dungeon. He smiled placidly. If time would allow it, may I be able to ink some pages and write the Songs—their story of love.
He stood, prepared for a most quick visit to the Archon. The confluence was indeed a tricky one to orchestrate, reversed conditioning must be done in order for the Esdraelon heir to perform actions opposite to what he is being commanded to do. It's all a diversion of the mind, a subliminal redirection of it.
A few days and the secret union between Valyrian and Rhoynar will commence, and with it, a convergence of two warring gods. The ritual by the goddess pool will seal it—a marriage of souls and the flesh that carried them. For the Promised to be reborn and for the great firesword to be forged, the Nissa must die.
That which must be declared will be declared, and that which must be denied will be denied.
These shall be drowned in the deep-seated waters and burnt in the outer fire.
He shall offer up a sacrifice so vast, and like a god he will lick the flame of her altar.
She, he must stretch forth upon that altar, awake her into death, urge her into life,
And he shall appear as he should appear—in all his glory.
His Beloved shall abide with Him.
Darkness bathed the dungeons as the threshold closed upon the Mage's departure.
A few moments after, Aurion Archestrad entered the dungeons, departed with a scroll in hand.
"Slow down, Jaqen!"
"Hasten up, Arya."
He was leading her to the Eglije—Valyria's highest point.
As they approached the peak of the cliff, the air had started reeking of soot mingled with the scent of damp moss. Immediately, she broke away from his grasp and retched. Arya held her belly while Jaqen stroked her back. "I cannot bear the smell, my love," she said. "Forgiveness. And the height! Look at that canyon down there! One wrong move and the rift will swallow us; and I do not wish to elaborate on what the pointed rocks beneath could do to us both, though the waters below are too lovely."
Jaqen assisted her as she straightened herself, and when her eyes chanced upon his countenance, she saw in it what could have been a blend of worriment and repressed excitation. He spoke. "Do you know what I have noticed these days past?"
"What?"
A tempting hand of his lifted her skirt's willowy fabric. Arya inhaled sharply as she felt his fingers reaching for her already moist sex. "Jaqen! This cliff is too steep! We may fall—" He cut any more protestation by hastily pinning her against the bouldered wall of that winding, god-made ridge. Hot mouth upon her neck, hardened shaft against her inner thigh, two teasing fingers inside her—frolicking, dancing to the tune and hum of their sweet breathing that coalesced. "Oh…sweet heavens, Jaqen…" A splurge of hues, as the Valyrian thrilled her aroused nub with soft motions of his arrow-finger. She threw her head back by reflex; the steps were narrow, and both of them were literally on the edge of the rocky crag. One arm coiled itself around Jaqen's waist, her hand gripped his raiment tightly, lest he plummets beneath; and another hand grasped any stone protruding outwards.
"I want to take you right here, damn it," Jaqen murmured hoarsely.
Arya swallowed, filled her perishing lungs with dire air. "T-there are better places, my love…we need not die in the middle of pleasuring each other. Must we be on two brinks at once?"
From where they were, they could see the expanse of the Summer Sea and the whole of Valyria, from the high-reaching Archon's tower, to the Hill, to the grand obelisks and domes and the colossal stade, to the slave mines by the flames.
He chuckled against the skin of her neck, and the warm wind from his mouth intoxicated her further. Through the smallest of things, his artful self can carve within her an explosion of lustful fervor, charming perturbations. Jaqen Jaqen Jaqen Jaqen. Do her lips know any other enchanting name apart from his?
"Very well, goddess," Jaqen said, smiling. "One brink at a time." Softly, he kissed her, and caressed her belly. Within his surreal imaginings, grandest of all, were soft, mirthful sounds, tiny hands, tender and fragile skin, a coo. "Beautiful changes, Arya. From your berry lips, the words will sound darling. Tell me something true—make me the happiest man."
Arya laughed softly, leaned against the boulder. She touched his cheek. "Twelve moons of being together, my love. What do you know?"
Jaqen held her face, gazed at her with heaven-reaching fondness. He kissed her deeply. "Oh, Arya…" he moaned, licking her lips, biting them softly. He released her—a difficult feat, and he found himself stealing soft kisses and nips from the side of her mouth. Jaqen's lids covered his irises of bronze and gold, and his forehead he placed against hers. He spoke. "Each morn, you rise from the bed and head straight to the water basins to throw up. Spiced mutton, white cheese—you used to love the scent of these when cooked in low fire; yet now you despise even a mere whiff." He pulled her to him, as one hand roamed audaciously to cup her right breast. She gasped, as his hand teased her now overly sensitive nipple. "I have mastered your contours, lovely girl—every curve of you, angle, shade. Your shadow at a certain height of incandescence, your beautiful silhouette provoking my sensualities every damned time. These bosoms that I so obsess over, they grow more and taste more luscious, sweeter at each turn of night and day. And you're always wet, Arya. You're already the most beautiful thing in the whole world yet you still manage to bloom lovelier than blue roses every time the moon changes it shape."
She delighted herself in him—his every feature, the once-demonic countenance that had now transformed itself to nothing short of archangelic. His body that had been both her pleasure and her strength, his voice that had served as the soothing song to her most restless of nights. "Oh, Jaqen. Why do I love you this much, do tell?" She held both of his hands that cupped her cheeks. "Such deep, deep love, to the point that with you I was able to spawn within me another you—with your eyes, perhaps, your nose, your lips, your hair."
Silence befell upon them both. There were only the faint cry of firebeasts and the huge waves of the Summer Sea breaking themselves through the canyon's bottom.
Thereupon, rapture showed itself upon Jaqen's visage. He laughed with pure rhapsody and kissed her once more on the lips and lifted her from the ground and spinned her in a fanciful ballet like one mad and dreamy. "Truly, my love?! Truly?!"
"Yes!" Arya laughed, and squealed when Jaqen ran with her in his arms towards the edge of that precipice. "Contain your joy! Too much happiness can kill!"
"DEAR GODS!" He screamed exultantly, and laughed upon hearing his voice's echo within the closed walls of the canyon's bottom. "I love her, I love her, I love her!"
"Oh, Jaqen," Arya endeared him, teary-eyed, very much moved by the man's reaction. Even if I do live a thousand lives, breathe and cease to breathe and breathe again, I would never, ever be worthy of you, would I?
She wrapped her legs around his waist to steady herself, lowered her face so their temples connected. Her arms she coiled around his neck. He spoke to her, calm now yet ecstasy was still in every utterance. "Amazing, amazing you. Your body, Arya—it toils, it pleasures and delights, it tires, it fantasizes, and now it creates. Your breasts will grow more beautiful, your feminine secrets will swell for me and for our babe, your flesh will throb and your heart will beat for a life that is ours…oh, Arya…Arya…" His eyes began to well up, still he was smiling. He shook his head gently, as if witnessing the grandest of blessings in Valyria's Cimmerian days. "Amazing…"
Certainties. Dancing joy of life—babes. Pure love between enemies can create a breathing miracle after all. "You have given me all that I could ever want, Jaqen," Arya said. "Everything that had mattered to me suddenly mattered to you—the Rhoynar, the people of Ghis and the Isles of similar plight, a place to belong. I feel as if…I am taking you away from your kin, from home. Oh no, Jaqen, you're the amazing one. You're saving me every second."
Jaqen's smile was suddenly melancholic. "I wrecked your home, Arya. I am merely correcting the schemes and deeds I have caused along with others. Still, I could not quite understand whence this lovingkindness of yours came—for you to forgive me after all those, love me even." He kissed her. "Bequeath me with an heir, flesh of my flesh…oh, Arya…you're just uncontainable. How can I even…gods, how can I even love you enough?"
She slowly released herself from Jaqen's hold, settled both feet on the ground. In her voice was a hint of woe. "I used to fear for one, but now I fear for two. I have dragged you unnecessarily to my own beliefs and principles, and I have planted this seed of discord between you and your father, your very clan. Repercussions, Jaqen. Valyrians are known to deliver ten counterblows for every one offense. If only I have sufficient strength to shield you and our little one…I would die if something happens to you both…" She threw herself once more in his arms, her place of solace. "Our actions were too pronounced, only fools and blind men would claim that nothing is happening between us. They cannot know that I am with child. And perhaps you must discontinue visiting the shacks."
"Are you mad?" Jaqen chuckled. "A request to quit from seeing you, now of all days, when I have learned of the babe? It's either you move in with me to the tower or I move in with you to the huts. Plans must be long-term, of course; which means that we must marry—"
"Marry?!" Arya gasped. Soft laughter escaped from her thereafter. "Might be that you're the deranged one! Were you too inebriated with bliss a mere while ago? Bastard babes are common, blood marriage is not. Valyrian and Rhoynar? Such union will defile your dragon's blood. I am unworthy of you, Jaqen; we cannot."
Jaqen scoffed. "And who decides the worth a person might have with respect to one dragon-blooded? Valyrians as well? Please, Arya, you know that these dictates are arbitrary, they carry no real meaning. Halt right there," he raised a finger to make a point, his expression a little plagued. "You wish to deny me of my right to you and our child? I hope not."
"Oh, far from that, Jaqen," she countered. Arya led one hand of his to her cheek, and rubbed her lips against his palm. "Believe me, I wish we could have met under different circumstances—if only there was a forked path which we could traverse just so we could re-live all these and set these right, bring to life once more those turned to ashes by dragonbreath, rebuild Rhoyne, prevent the enmity between flames and the waters, if only. I would have seen you still for who you truly are, and this is you, Jaqen. You are tender and chivalrous and enchanting, far from the bloodthirsty, bestial, merciless slaver that I saw during the heights of the Second Spice. You're the worst and the best thing that has ever happened to me, my curse and my blessing both. How can I deny you of this little one we both have authored? How can I deny you of myself when every shred of me had merged itself with every one of yours? But to marry you is to ask you to scorn your blood directly, rescind all, expose yourself to threats. I have demanded much, you have yielded much. If not for this child I don't care if I die, but they will kill you."
"Marry me, Arya."
"Jaqen, please…"
He broke away from her, slightly dejected. He walked to the edge of the precipice, exhaling audibly. The skies were crystal-clear, yet the howling winds seemed to be coming from a vortex of two tempests. The gusts toyed roughly with his ivory-hued hairlocks, the whistling sounds of it an accompaniment to the strong break of waves below. He faced her once more.
"Marry me or I'll jump."
Arya's eyes widened, shrieked in response. "Jaqen!"
"I am not playing, Arya."
"Oh gods! Stop being such a child!" She rushed to him, gasped as he took a step back. Arya remained rooted on the spot. Small rocks fell from the protruding scarp as a response to his step, straight to the sharp boulders beneath the cliff. "Get back in here, Jaqen!"
He shook his head, a teasing smile playing at the corners of his lips.
With clenched teeth, she held out her hand to him. "Come now, we can talk about it. This frivolity, Jaqen! Coercing me for a quick assent to your demands? I should be allowed time to think! The decision is not on matters of what to cook for an evening's repast—this is blood magic we're talking about!"
Another smirk. Another step back. Two. Three.
Larger rocks broke away from the crag's edge and plummeted velociously onto the merciless bottom. The sound of falling metamorphics hitting larger boulders made Arya's heart escape from her chest.
"Dīnagon nyke, Āria," Jaqen whispered. "Marry me. I want to see your loveliness every waking hour of mine."
"Get back in here right this instant, Jaqen H'ghar!"
A step. Both his feet were now flat on the edge. "Toss and turn with me on the bed forever. My mouth on your breasts, my fingers against your wet innocence, my shaft inside your beautiful sex, inside and out till night's peak and first blush of day."
"We are practically sharing the marriage bed, Jaqen! For the last time, come here!"
Another step, a deadly descent was at the tips of his foot arch.
"I want a home with you. A real home."
"Makes two of us! A proper talk, Jaq—heavens, no!"
Now, the bastard was standing on tiptoe at the very brink of the precipice.
"Last chance, Arya. Don't be coy, love. Simple—say yes and marry Jaqen."
"You idiot!"
Jaqen just smiled softly.
She should not have said those words.
Before the last of her syllables could even abscond from her mouth, the man had allowed himself to be carried by the wind. He threw his head back, and his body followed the rhythm of it, as he willingly, gracefully plunged over the cliff, down to the abyssal sea that waits.
Arya screamed his name like she had never before, hot tears forming at the side of her eyes. Jaqen! Yes, please! However, her acquiescence to his plea was now nothing short of futile—he had released himself from her, and as she rushed with the smallest of hopes so she may catch his hand and pull him back up, she had realized how very steep the canyon was, and how very deep his fall could possibly be. She sank on both knees, helpless, desolate.
Arya! She heard him shout, as he continued descending to the bottom.
Jaqen! She wailed at the sound of his voice and her voice being tossed across the solid walls of the cliff, being drowned by the waves beneath. Water…water…how can I command the sea to save him?
The Summer Sea. It was a whole deluge at the bottom, and the waves were too strong.
Truly, the gods are jesting ones—the edge of that cliff where she was kneeling gave out, with huge masses of rocks collapsing to the bottom. Arya fell from the summit with a scream.
Fall with him.
Fall, fall, fall.
And if in falling you see the sun and moon and stars and everything in between them, and death claims you both, at least it's with him, in him…that you chose to fall.
Let the gods do the rest.
Arya felt her lungs exploding, collapsing, as the wholeness of her frame fought against the invisible billows of windgusts. If she was screaming or thrashing or crying, she cannot anymore tell. The rush of spans as she descended overwhelmed her incessantly, tight knots formed and twisted themselves within her, as her entirety lurched, resisted, clashed against the space that threatened to swallow every bit of fragment she had left after taking the fall.
Charge the waves, she persuaded herself. A sure, sudden surge will swallow him temporarily and spew him onto the shore. Drown him a little, save him. Silently, she commanded the waters. Gigantic waves moved in an upsurge, then died like crystals fragmentized by the strong winds.
Not enough.
Jaqen! Her heart screamed. She saw him, his necklace of scarlet pendant glowing as he plummeted…close! Close to the pointed, sea-honed sharp rocks that await…
She shut her eyes, prayed to all the gods for redemption from this, even as she felt every pore of her bleed at the impact of the strong blast of air against her skin.
Old gods, red god, all gods that aid the realms of men.
A response.
Her body landed feebly upon that firm yet gentle frame, glass chalice to a bed of petals, and even with her eyes closed, she recognized the opalescence possessed only by that creature which now carried her to heights. The sun's dancing rays were toying animatedly with its glistening built, sending patterns of hues and shades all over the expanse of that declivitous canyon.
Gold.
He's saving me every second.
In the midst of the soft mistral of wild breeze and sea sprays, Arya heard Jaqen's sweet chuckles. Tears bathed her cheeks profusely, even as her eyes were tightly shut. She wept audibly, cursed him. The sensation of falling was gone, replaced by another—a kind of liberation that defies all laws physical, transcends them.
This feeling, sublime. Like a voyage to turfs unknown.
He pulled her to him, and she buried her face against the fabric of his tunic—scent of ginger, cloves. The comfort…the shelter that is Jaqen warmed her heart, stilled her petrified spirit.
"Arya?" he whispered against her right ear, and how his soft purr calmed her unseen maelstroms. "Arya…" he murmured her name once more, kissed her hair ardently. "Look, lovely girl. We're flying."
Heraxos screeched as he hovered near the firmaments, its bronze eyes that were also the color of Jaqen's eyes scoured the immensity of Valyria, carrying within its thousand-year-old irises an infinite pool of wisdom from histories told and untold. Arya felt its scales against the bare skin of her leg—piercing-cold as icicles as if within it lay rime, yet there was a certain warmth emanating from it: blood, fire, life.
Slowly, she opened her eyes and lifted them to gaze at Jaqen. She inhaled sharply, gripped tightly his sleeves as she felt the dragon's slightly erratic yet calculated ascents and descents, its mighty wings scaling the wind's domain that was also the gods', its scales reacting magnificently with the refulgence of morn orb's light.
It was her beloved's voice commanding the imperial firebeast in High Valyrian—where to turn and when, the heights that must be reached, the speed of flight and the patterns, the cadence of it.
"Paez ilagon, Heraxos. Iksā sȳngagon aōha dāria," she heard Jaqen H'ghar say.
Slow down, Heraxos. You are giving your queen a fright.
Arya smiled softly, directed her gaze towards the beast's aurelian scales. Slowly, she ran her fingers through those—smooth, splendorous. It glimmers, Arya thought. Perhaps in the dragonpits, its bed is made of shining stones and gems wrought and unwrought. Beautiful…her eyes riveted once more to Jaqen's face. He looked down at her and smiled. Dear gods, almost as beautiful as Jaqen.
"Eyes, Arya," he told her. "Look at the realms, love."
She did.
There was Valyria, with its topless towers and shimmers and hundreds of dragons in flight. It was cloaked in shining scarlet—an effect of the liquid obsidian that flowed from the fourteen flames. The wind suddenly smelled of faint lavender in the high noon, as the horizon where the seas meet the other isles steadied itself on all sides. Far off to her left was the highest peak whence they fell, its summit glittering like gold. And if only Heraxos could take flight high enough, and her eyes could see yonder, there she will set sight on Rhoyne—home.
She feasted her eyes on the scenes, laughed as if enraptured, threw both hands up to touch every beautiful particle of wind.
"Splendid!" she screamed in excitation. "Splendid, Jaqen!"
"Indeed!" he screamed back, his voice battling against the strong sonances of the dragon's wings. "And you said 'yes' to marrying me! Splendid!"
"Schemer!" She laughed. "We could have died had Heraxos not arrived!"
He smiled. "He cannot not arrive. He is bonded to us both." He held the scarlet pendant of his Valyrian necklace, then took the whole chain off. "My Dragon Queller—yours now." In the midst of flight, her hair of chestnut was being blown off by the rapid winds. Still, he brushed the strands that clung to her nape, and clasped the Queller around her neck. "Wear this, and Heraxos will come to you. Wear this, and you can quell the beasts."
Valyrian cuneiform glowed from within the pendant: Udrāzma toliot se rune hen Uēpa.
Regency over the magic of Old.
She felt its power course through every vein of her that carried blood. At that exact point in time, an unbreakable connection existed amongst them—man, woman, dragon.
"It's lovely, Jaqen," Arya's hands closed in on the pendant. She gasped, then laughed at the phosphorescence of it that glowed and died. She looked at him, pressed her lips against his. "A wonderful gift. And to you, I must bequeath one as well. I can teach him, beloved."
Jaqen smiled, pinched her nose gently. "What, with your water enchantments, again? Dragons cannot breathe underwater my sweet."
"Not if they resist. Calm as still water—he can and he will."
"Such gift would render him unstoppable. Even Urkon…"
"Yes, and he can hide himself in space through vapor. Let me teach him, Jaqen."
A confluence. Did the Elder Mage not show him the signs? The red god through fire, the old gods through water—in all its forms.
Indeed, let them unite.
"Very well," he nodded his assent. "But first, a marriage gift."
Her brows creased. She grinned. "Another one?"
Jaqen grinned back, impelled the dragon to hasten its flight. "Your demands on those slaveships bound for Sothoryos. I remembered when you told me about the visions of the Jhogos Nhai priestesses—that place with pine-clad hills concealed by fog from the old gods?"
Braavos.
"Oh, Jaqen…"
"I found it. There, we will go; see if in that abode, they can thrive: climate, condition of the terrain, coasts, all. Dragons do not venture that far, the low clouds and mist will conceal them should they decide to settle," he explained. "I have spoken with Ulric, second mate to the Mele Lōgor sailing south. Tactics—they must take over the ship before it crosses the Isle of Cedars by the gulf. Five thousand men, women, and children will be in ten ships, should be enough to overpower the crew. Risks are there, but there is no other option."
Arya gazed at him fondly as he carried on with his plans. Sent by the gods. Oh, Valyrian slave-emancipator, breaker of chains, lover of my body, worshipper of my ancient soul…
Rebirth, a higher plane of existence.
For I have written my love on the walls of his heart, I have claimed the core of his soul, named him mine?
"Did you even hear me, goddess?" Jaqen broke through her thoughts.
"H-huh?" Arya stammered, blinked athrice. "Most unsure, my love," she smiled, licked and suckled his lips. She reached beneath his breeches and stroked his manhood that had been one with her feminine self countless of times and in countless of ways, that which had gifted her with this little darling she now carried within her. "What is it again? I lost you there—you're damn irresistible."
He trembled with pleasure, spoke against her lips, and his next words made her decide:
Yours, yours forever, Jaqen.
"Āria hen Rhoyne," he said. "I have built for you ten thousand ships."
It was at this time that Valyria was at the height of its power, stretching over most of Essos, to the fallen Empire of Ghis by the Bone Mountains. Although all the lord freeholders possess both authority and right to decide on matters of governance, twoscore rival families of great wealth, high birth, and strong sorcerous ability still contested for power in the highest seat of Archonship. The number of strongest clans could be narrowed down to four—the upper echelon.
There were lost pages of Galendro's writings, Fires of the Freehold; however, in those days when first hand accounts and eyewitnesses still existed in both print and flesh, it is known that the four most powerful can be further narrowed down to only two: House Archestrad, House Esdraelon.
Aurion Archestrad was first commanding dragonrider—a rank second to the Head Archon.
Power resides only where men believe it resides.
The first dragonrider knew that the quest for power never stops. Place a man in a position of prestige and reputation, and he will waste no time crushing those who may threaten his hold of it, question his possession of it, steal it. Time, and he will finish laying waste on those who might summon to contest that prominence of his, whether earned or sacked; however, the zenith of power will be a thing unreachable. Always, enemies will be born out of wombs. Always, higher powers will rise and overshadow that which he had already achieved.
"…damnable conspiracy between the Archon and that Elder Mage of his. I have not been a believer of any god, even of that lord of light which those hypocrites we call kin bow and kneel before." He was in the middle of his usual bitter monologue, with the third and fourth commanding dragonriders seated in front of him. The gathering was a secret, sanctioned neither by the Conclave nor the lower council. He tipped his goblet of Sarnori to his lips, spat the contents out. Now all wine presses taste sour, thanks to that slave-cunt they call queen enchantress. "However, I have taken flight to as far as Hardhome, blood brothers. There are slaves in all places where there are breathing humans, after all. Tamed slaves, wild slaves—what is the difference? There," he pressed on, eyes upon hs Valyrian birthchain that lay on the center table. "There I saw with my own eyes the dead that walk and breathe. The lore thousands of years old holds truth to it, as much as I wanted to deny the fact with much vehemence."
"This is the great cabal? A prophetic fulfillment of the one they call the Promised—kosh hen mele Jaes?" Lathos Hadervaren replied, leaning against the cushioned chair's splat. "Haresh? Oh, come now. He knows nothing but fly and fuck. Isn't that right, Ophistor?"
Daxen eyed him viciously, though a sarcastic smile had formed on her lips. "True. However, if you do not wish for me to cut your diminutive cock and feed it to you with Moraqi spice, I suggest you keep that hole you call a mouth tightly shut." The man only smirked at the remark, clearly amused. "Everyone knows there are forces out there, Aurion. I may believe in the existence of gods, but my loyalty is to none of them. Yin Tar, Azor Ahai, Neferion, these are all spawns of apocalypse-obsessed minds. Winter is as true as Darkness, yes—I have been to the Shadows to 'invite' some of the mages here, seen for myself the gates which they call Stygai. Sinister. But one Promised from the blood of dragons? Only fools would put their beliefs in such."
"Valyria is the Promised," Aurion replied. "The Mother Freehold, its descendants. Fire against Ice—foils, antitheses, law of opposites. The realms need nothing but dragons and dragonglass. Those filthy Rhoynar and Ghiscari should be kissing the dung on our feet for having been hauled in here. They would not last a night should their rivers and deserts start freezing. As for the Andals," he chuckled, shook his head. "Total muttonheads for resisting capture and invading Westeros where the seat of Winter is."
Lathos stood, paced the chamber. "Scorning the Freehold, this Haresh. Pity, he's a gifted dragonrider. Most excellent with aerial tactics, never lost a battle in the stade. Might be that his dragon is stronger than yours, Archestrad." He waved a hand, as if to dismiss the last of his pronouncements. The gesture was made quickly, in order not to anger the commanding rider. "What are the plans?"
Nock one arrow, hit two marks.
Aurion smiled malevolently. "Kleitos had erred much because of that accursed son of his, and perchance his eruditions concerning running the Freehold had abandoned his sappy brains for good." He stood and walked to a wall-attached Valyrian escritoire, opened one of the casings and retrieved from it a thin scroll which he had stolen from the dungeons of the Elder Mage. He handed the scroll to Lathos Hadervaren, and the latter skimmed through it. "The plans are simple—eliminate the Esdraelons, but not before they eliminate Arya of the Rhoyne."
"Mazverdagon se Nissa. This scroll—the Creation of the Nissa?" Lathos said, handing the same rolled parchment to the woman who hastily perused through the contents. "Kleitos and the Mage want the enchantress dead, in Haresh's own hands?"
"That damned Archon thinks he can save his Valyrian rank and the realms by naming his slave-cunt-licking son Promised, and arranging the preconditions for the prophecy," Daxen concluded with much bitterness. "I say let them proceed with their ploys first, carve the heart out of that Rhoynish tart. Then, we charge and get rid of Kleitos—dragonfire should do it, leaves not a trace. The pits are almost always empty during the third hour past the peak of night."
"None of those plans, they present complications," Aurion's tone was firm. "Let them fight amongst themselves. The heir knows naught about these scrolls, and he must not learn of these prematurely. The only soul who must know of this is the subject—Nymeria of the Rhoyne, their Nissa incarnate. Expect a deluge of conflicts; the Rhoynish are known to take loyalty seriously. Triangulations: Kleitos against Nymeria, Nymeria against Haresh, Haresh against Kleitos, all without us soiling our hands. We await the finale. Whichever way, we eradicate those traitors, throw in their kin up to the third degree of consanguinity—all with forenames and middle names Esdraelon."
The woman was taken aback. She shook her head, a little panic-stricken, though command over her flood of emotions was still present. "Surely, you do not mean including Haresh, Aurion. He's the Archon-heir! Who is to rule the Freehold after we dispose of his useless patriarch?"
Aurion regarded the woman with repulsion. From crown to sole he scoured her with his eyes, spat the bile that had formed in his throat—he had been spitting too much these days past, as if the air he was breathing had started reeking of night soil. "Thirty-nine families, Ophistor. That number, even after House Esdraelon's extinction. A witless query—or has that traitor sucked your brains out of your cunt as well?"
"Not at all," replied the woman. "A confluence? Practically a marriage! Beseeching two warring gods to become allies to their direct descendants. It is known that rune heightens during gods-union—they might become too unconquerable after this transpires."
"I thought you to be the greatest scoffer of all faiths."
"I am, but Haresh…he might be more useful to us alive than dead. A warning to traitors—"
"Useful?" Lathos Hadervaren's reply. "I'll tell you what Haresh's use is as far as this Freehold is concerned—a subject of diversion in the fighting pits, a farcical aerosaltant serving as entertainment for the slaves. Distraction is good at times, takes the minds of those filthy thrallsfolks away from wreaking catastrophe, gives them hope that things are going to get better. Plans for revolt may be postponed for a moon or two, or a little more than that. Other than all these, he's as useless as cock sap spewed on the bedlinen."
The woman thought better than responding at the man's tirade.
"That slave-drunk dragonrider knows nothing," Aurion concluded before dismissing them. "Seven days, plans of both causes must advance. Theirs is the blind side. The shierak qiya is nigh, falling stars will bathe the realms once more. A cruciation unheard of—this is what we will deal him, and that whore of his."
It was the moon of the water goddess, and so all the Rhoynar were gathered in the shore of the Summer Sea by the Gulf of Ghiscar, east of Oros.
Rhoynish women sang their canticles from the lost cities of Ny Sar and Chroyane, in harmony with percussions and strings played by the men, while children danced by the seaside, their small feet etching transient marks upon the golden sand. Laughter was carried by every particle of air, swaying all those present to join in the euphoria. Verses thought lost were sung once more in beauteous voices, for Rhoyne had always been a land alive with serenades.
"Within the waters there live yet an echo of melodies
The secrets of the oceans are in a single drop of it.
The children of the Rhoyne hearken still their Mother's voice,
That the river is everywhere at the same time."
The chants were not only to please the elder gods, but to express indebtedness as well, for it was said that by the isle of Velos very close to the gulf, ships numbering ten thousand will find their way to the shores of Valyria within three nights. "Despite the Conclave's protests, the Archon-heir pursued the queen's demands still," were the words of one of the men, and he had to raise his voice so his companions may hear him in that sea of celebratory moods. "We have dreamed of liberation, here it is now." They were then occupied with the beats of their chalice-shaped tribal drums. The deep bass tones of those percussions sent some of the Rhoynish maidens dancing around their choices of lads, blue ribbons of satin in hand. With grace, they frolicked with the ribbons in flicks and circles, snakes and spirals and throws, imitating the crests and troughs of the waters through those movements. "Let us beseech the gods for aid," the man continued. "The Valyrian lords will never let us leave this place without a fight. There's Iāqaen, though—which means we might actually stand a chance…"
Arya had ended her rhetorics in front of the Rhoynar earlier that night, and with it, an acceptance to the clan of one who was once foe to them. "And henceforth you shall be Jaqen H'ghar—sent by the gods. From them, to us…" She was now sitting beside Jaqen, and both of them beheld the sight of the clan in the midst of that blissful festivity. There was no need to light the smallest fire; the Moon seemed to have defied the laws of orbits and coursed closer to all of them, as if it desired to be part of the celebration as well. "Well done, Ada! Well done, Usenni!" Arya clapped as two girls of around eight years performed balletic twirls in consonance with the sounds of the strings, chortling the whole time. Jaqen's gaze traveled to Arya's face that was then filled with so much mirth, and he smiled softly. He was convinced now more than ever, that there was absolutely nothing he would not do for her.
The matter with those ten thousand ships may send a clear message—that he planned to wage war against his Valyrian kin. Let them think whatever they wish to think, he thought to himself. Arya is all that matters now. Our little one. Gently, he smelled her hair and kissed it, unmindful of the giggles from the Rhoynish maidens observing them both with fanciful stares.
Small, plump hands covered his eyes from behind. Jaqen laughed as his fingers traced those hands, spoke in a playful tone. "Oh! Now, who could this be?" He heard Arya's conspiratorial laugh. "Aha! Maiike?"
Charming giggles escaped from the lips of the owner. "No…"
"Iesha?"
More giggles. "No, Iāqaen! Think, think!" the voice was that of a girl, dragged to the Freehold when she was then five of age. That night she had turned six; but even with a year added, her very young mind still could not comprehend the cruel aftermath of the Second Spice. Her father was one of the Rhoynish commanders, lost during the war. Her mother had died resisting capture, burned to soot by Aurion's firebeast.
Jaqen bit his lip and cursed himself over and over for the fate that child had to suffer because of him and his kin. Despite the brutality she had been dealt with, the child still felt a curious sense of fondness for the Valyrian, no doubt influenced by the slave-queen, without the latter's conscious intentions.
"I give up!" Jaqen said, holding both hands up in a gesture of surrender. "I wonder who this girl might be…I have no idea at all—"
"It's Febe!" the girl screamed excitedly, removing her hands from the Valyrian's eyes. The girl coiled both arms around Jaqen's shoulders. "How come you couldn't tell? I always do that to you, and you're never able to guess!"
"It's because Febe is very good at hiding herself from Jaqen," was Arya's sweet reply. The girl laughed. "She could follow Jaqen all day and he wouldn't even know!"
"He's terrible with games!" the child said. She combed Jaqen's silver strands with her plump fingers. "Your hair is very pretty, Iāqaen."
Jaqen chuckled richly. "You like it?"
"Oh, yes. Very much," was the child's delighted response. "When Āria bears for you a babe—" Her last words were cut off by her sister lifting her from the ground. "Pardon, my queen, my lord," the older girl apologized to them both, abashed. "Febe's mouth, gods. I might gag her tonight, she's been disturbing everyone since the beginning of the festivities."
Jaqen smiled. "Worry not. It's quite all right." The child was then carried away, thrashing against her sister's grasp. The Valyrian's chest grew heavy with aching for both of them. He felt Arya's fingers entwining themselves with his. She kissed him on the lips, whispered. "Rid yourself of the guilt, Jaqen. It won't be long, those plans for which you have toiled will change everything for that Rhoynish child."
At this, he nodded, and stared at her lovely face with so much love. Arya. My voice of ceaseless Becoming. My voice of being. For others, water may be an accomplice to the restlessness men feel. For him, water is Arya and Arya is calm and life.
Slowly and because of her, he is learning how to forgive himself. He allowed himself to drift into the beautiful verses of that Rhoynish chant:
The rivers dance and sing, slake thirst.
The ocean beckons, seduces, consumes.
Two nights had passed. Jaqen H'ghar traversed the bridge of gneiss and limestone that connected the Hill to the shacks. A Rhoynish ritual? High midnight, firebeasts and lords were no doubt in their usual slumber in their murky pits and roofless towers. "Charge of the deities, the maiden and the lover—a matter of importance," Arya had told him earlier that day. "To delay is to perish."
His footsteps were quick and impatient as they led him to the rivers by the eastern side of Tyria, and for a while there he had regretted not riding on his imperial. The improvement on the bridge's once dilapidated condition did nothing to stifle his restiveness, as he half-walked, half-ran across the paths of filmy, translucent fog.
The moonsinger priestesses of the Jogos Nhai enthralled him; their visions of pine-clad hills northwest of the land of the east carried truth in them, so were the promises of a safe abode, and an isle where the gods would convene. The entire peninsula was generously cloaked by mist from the old gods, and the obscuration of it would conceal any settlement from dragons flying to as far as Hardhome and Ibben.
The clan did not wish to return to the Bone Mountains for fear of what their visions have forewarned regarding the collapse of an eastern Wall they call the Five Forts.
Arya could hardly contain her bliss at having located the place. Such great mirth it was that she felt, that she wasted no time pulling him to her as soon as Heraxos descended to the peninsula. Jaqen chuckled as flashes of that encounter played asudden in his recollections.
Never had he seen her in such state of wantonness before. Hastily, she had removed his raiments and hers too, and he could still feel her hot, wet mouth sliding north and south of his hardened sex. Wolf's pearly whites, he thought. She must learn how to control her urges. It was both thrill and ache he felt as Arya teased and suckled and gripped his shaft with her teeth; and he was groaning helplessly the whole time, with simultaneous pleas and urges for her to either pause awhile for she was already hurting him, or carry on with her pleasuring for it felt damn heavenly.
Oh yes, his sex had throbbed the whole time inside her sweet mouth—delightful punishment, he called it. And after tasting every last bit of him, consuming every drop of his manly essence, she had sheathed him inside her lovely self, in and out and in—thoroughly and completely.
Intensely.
He remembered her moving on top of him, tightening her inner walls on purpose so his delights could reach impossible heights, her eyes not leaving his for one moment. Hot wind was coming out of her mouth, as she romanced him with the lewdest of utterances in both Essoan and High Valyrian.
Heraxos did not move an inch—his breathing seemed to have steadied in very calm rhythms, as his shimmers bathed the whole encounter. The firebeast was fully aware of what the dragonrider and his queen enchantress were doing to each other right on top of him.
Ah, my turn tonight, the sex-god in Jaqen spoke. Arya's lustful howls will crack the face of the Moon, and from it will pour a thousand dragons.
Finally, the River Krylst south of Valyria.
Its turquoise-blue rivulets were as clear as ever even during the peak of night. He surveyed the skies. Full blood moon, the hour of the goddess, the man thought, as he reveled at the way the watercourse wound its sensual paths towards the Summer Sea. Rocks carpeted the banks and whisked about in the undercurrents, creating an illusion of prismatics—red jasper, green quartz, sodalite, snowflake obsidian. The water seemed fragile, with its soft ripples and currents that played with the night's orb like a million diamonds of icy-fire. Rivers were the lifeblood of Rhoyne, and perchance in this part of the peninsula, the rune of water enchanters are strongest.
A whole star-cluster of evening dragonflies hovered around the river that was aglow, before plummeting to the shadowy depths of the water. The calm ebb and flow were humming faintly.
Voices.
Jaqen walked closer to the source, brushed aside the dangling leaves of the weeping willow that obscured his vision. He felt the wet upon his toes—he was at the edge.
They were partly concealed by tall rocks that stood at the bank, so he strode closer. Arya might already be there. He caught sight of the small crowd of around seven. Their delighted laughters in the midst of the storytelling of one meshed with the river's soft sounds.
Rhoynish women with sunspears.
All stark naked.
Their perfect forms blanketed by skin of bronze-and-silver glistened in the borrowed refulgence of old moon, acting as translucent gems that shattered light into a spectrum of variegated hues.
He inhaled sharply at the sight, exhaled very, very slowly, lest they hear him.
Not wanting to be seen, Jaqen turned around and quietly walked to where he came. His steps were light and sure. Those women will never notice his intrusive presence.
Crack.
Qogralbar, he cursed, clenching his jaw and shutting his eyes tight. He had stepped on a fallen branch.
Gasps and soft laughters came forth from the lips of the seven.
He was caught peeking, though that was not in the slightest, his intention. Propriety—he must rectify actions done. He faced the Rhoynish women, held up both hands in sincere apology, and his eyes were everywhere but on those naked bodies. "F-forgiveness, my ladies," he stammered. "Uhm, Arya…s-she… I was told…this is…"
"Iāqaen!" one of the women called to him. The one called Shivalhen rose from the smooth stone boulder where she sat, and Jaqen exhaled at the way the water drops fiddled with her ivory-and-olive skin, with her nude wholeness. Rhoynish women were indeed beautiful, their queen enchantress, most especially. "Indeed, Āria had asked us to receive you. Come here, Valyrian renamed." She glanced quickly at the six others who were marveling at the slaver's seemingly boyish diffidence. "Don't be shy."
Gleeful chortles, straight from the lips of those nymphs.
Masculinity is indeed deceptive and elusive. Always, a woman already is, but a man must become.
The one named Iāqaen knew that his whole face was flushed, no doubt defeating the shades of river pebbles that glistened a whole lot like scarlet diamonds. A trap? Arya will drown me if she discovers me here. The man acted according to best judgment, spoke. "Your generous pardon, once more. I am as good as a married man—"
A raised forefinger silenced him. The one called Shivalhen nodded at those six others. They all stood, and like wingless river sylphs walked in motions fleeting, and headed towards the Valyrian. "The river awaits, lover. So does the river's naiad—maiden goddess, now childbearer."
Protestations had turned futile.
Quicker than the most hasty of reactions, the nymphs have pulled him towards the currents. Upon their lips was his name, over and over—the name which the very quintessence of thrall's blood and toil had bequeathed him, a name divine: grace of the gods, the sent, liberator.
This is a most surreal Rhoynish ritual, Jaqen thought. A little creepy too.
The rush was now upon his feet and it seemed to carry him away, but their grip of him was stronger. The nymphs were the versifiers of that sprightly night, as they sang of chapters and ballads that for them were sacred salvation: worship offerings to a queen, a mortal goddess of many guises and one divinity.
Āria hen Rhoyne, riña, ābra, ābrazȳrys, muña…
Arya of the Rhoyne, child, woman, wife, mother…
The confluence was not a thing solely from the inceptions of the Elder Mage. There was the convergence of the maiden goddess and her lover god, the charge, which according to Rhoynish lore will disenthrall descendants of the river from the bondage of fire. The unshackling however will not bring forth bloodshed, but will be carved instead in peace out of the blood of the partakers—scions of water in all its forms, therefore Ice and its binary opposite and complement, Fire.
In this secret marriage of opposing essentialities, there are two—the Man, the Woman, and all the archetypes that come with them: Sun and Moon, vessel and seed, the chalice and the dagger. That night when heavenly spheres were all drawn, both of them will be the fleshly incarnations of the old gods and the red god, in a coming together that is all-good, all-powerful.
"You must walk, Valyrian renamed," one called Veri'el teased, as she continued leading him to the river's center. "We are seven, but you are a man. Surely, you do not desire for us to carry you to the embankments?" More chortles.
The provocation did nothing to assuage his abashment. In fact, it had heightened it. Hands towed his arms, pushed him towards the ritual's venue. Here he was, a dragonriding slaver drawn helplessly to the same waters that had caused the demise of his blood brothers. And now, he will leave it all without as much as a second glance, for one woman.
Blood of my blood. Within her is a flesh of my own.
Finally, they have reached the middle. It was all a mellow of harmony, the currents and the strange fragrance of willows and wet stones, as the placid waters moved to commune with the sea south of Valyria. The cool of it kissed his skin through the thin fabric of his breeches. White crescents of light bathed the waters, an illumination from the moon. His bronze-gold eyes caressed the dapples that had emerged from their movements.
"A few moments, and Āria will be here," one called Niamh announced. "Needless to say, we must prepare you for her arrival. 'For even as you are bathed with the scarlet blood of those that have died in your hands, you shall be as immaculate as the clear rain.' A cleansing, Iāqaen, before the communing of your flesh and spirits. The rivulets will do it."
Without warning, four pairs of hands began unlacing his tunic and breeches.
"Woah! A moment, please," Jaqen half-pleaded. Nymph fingers were enchanted as they say, quick and with movements indiscernible. Faster than he could utter another one of his remonstrance, his shift had been removed from his upper body, his breeches pulled down to his ankles. It was a blessing that he was actually wearing undergarments, though. "Please, ladies! This is utterly inappropriate!" The women ignored him, as they carried on with their undressing. Both eyes of the one called Shivalhen assayed him from crown to sole, sunspear in hand with its base dipped in the waters, as if deciding his worth; and her countenance reflected nothing but seriousness.
"Silence, Iāqaen," the woman admonished him. "Once the ritual commences, you will be standing on sacred ground. Decide if you wish to pursue this, there is no going back once you have agreed. We do not desire for blood to flow in here, and for you to smite our altar with your Valyrian scourge. A marriage, Iāqaen Haegār, with an enemy."
A choice, after they have stripped me off of my garments?
Space is always interwoven with time in a single continuum, inseparable. And in a universe as complex as that where both Valyria and Rhoyne existed and continued to exist, there are a thousand possibilities bifurcating from a single choice. He must choose wise and consider all—the lore, the gods, her.
Still, the Elder Mage's concept of a sacred confluence confounded him. Why truly must one commune with another that may well be his nemesis? For a union against adversaries more vile than the Empire's rampage? If the Heart of Winter is the womb and the Heart of Darkness is the seed, and what both of them spawned are dead men that breathe, does it mean that only a living seed could cause these foes' downfall?
A child, a woman, a wife, a mother. Nissa, as they call her. One beloved to the Promised.
Iāqaen Haegār had no knowledge of those inner ploys.
"Not an enemy," Jaqen declared. "Blood of my blood, a wife even before both Valyria and Rhoyne were birthed by the gods, bearer of my seed, my core—without her, Iāqaen Haegār will not exist. She who had named him had created and breathed life within him. This is the sorcery of naming." He smirked, pleased with his own eloquence.
A soft smile danced around the woman's face. "Well said. We shall perform the ceremonies thereon. 'Thy beloved will abide with thee, and thou with her. Thou shalt not reveal the universe interior of these rituals to any soul, for you to not be declared an averse to us.' Man, do you concur?"
Jaqen nodded, regaining confidence and machismo that were lost. "I concur."
With this response, the one called Shivalhen raised her sunspear and tore with its keen-edged blade what remained of the Valyrian's clothing.
Qrugh, he cursed once more, as he felt the last of his garments fall softly upon the rivers and carried away by the currents.
They were now in equal stances and situations—wearing nothing but the fibers of their being. Except that the women seemed completely unabashed by their nakedness, while he wanted to summon Heraxos to salvage him from this humiliating plight. And he was literally at the center of it all, with seven around him like garrisons, seven pairs of eyes scouring him from flesh to marrows.
Truly, Arya? To delay is to perish?
The woman drew forth fresh blood from his forearm, caught a tiny globule through the spear's tip. The one called Thilhalaeth held out a goblet of gold and rimestones, received from Shivalhen's blade that drop of Valyrian blood. It combined with the essences of Rhoynish liquefied spirits; finally, here it was. A sacred confluence of breathing scarlet. "Go deep," Shivalhen ordered. Jaqen shrugged his shoulders in an effort at nonchalance, and swam towards the pool's center, then ran his fingers across his flaxen hair to still himself upon reaching it. The woman motioned for him to sit on one of the boulders, half concealed by the currents. He obeyed.
A silhouette emerged from the enthralling darkness on the other side of the embankment. A Water Wolf. The untamed outlines of her form were illuminated by moon's incandescence, as the shadow of her face showed itself to souls who will bear witness.
Slowly, the Wolf's form ebbed away as it came into view, replaced by that of a Woman.
The mortal goddess who will charge—Āria hen Rhoyne.
Voices of them seemed to float languidly within the enchanted confines of that river. Arya drew closer, materializing from the darkness of the wildwoods in all her resplendence. A gossamer fabric covered her nakedness, and the faint light of the moon partly revealed her contours and all her other secrets. She walked on effortlessly, as if her very feet had goddess wings. The enchantress was far from beautiful in the classical way, for her beauty was fierceness and strength and passion, a stare is a command. The gods are real, Jaqen thought as he took her in his eyes. This woman is their craft, or perchance it is her beauty that shaped the existence of the gods.
Shivalhen's voice continued to mate with the night.
Ten thousandfold a human, one divine. Man is seed, Woman is vessel—empty the chalice of gold and intimacies, so the genitor and his genetrix, creators of life and preservers of it, may experience the other one.
And he will slay her innocence upon the altar of waters, and cover it with fragrance as of blue roses.
In this death of her sinlessness is a life born.
By the wrath of the deities it must be so.
By the grace of the deities it must be so.
His mad eyes were upon her devious yet immaculate visage, drinking every feature of her in. The Man in him shuddered at the sight of her—a perfect hourglass, a being of calm that had brought upon him chaos which he regretted not, the stirrer of his infinite lusts and love. Fear not, the Rhoynish recited the words. Thou shalt renew scarlet from your veins with this goblet from the heavens. When Arya had reached the embankment, she paused, dipped her dainty foot in the water. Their eyes never broke contact; the ambiguous intensity of their irises stripping the other of all resolves was too invasive, making them both vulnerable to the other.
Words suddenly became unnecessary.
The one called Shivalhen acted as priestess to the ritual. Atop one smooth river rock that served as plinth, she stayed, while two others proceeded to the riverside towards the Woman. Slowly, they removed the translucent garment that separated Him from Her. The silken robe fell on the wet ground, its soundless descent coupling with Jaqen's heavy respirations. Why so? Hundreds of nights he had seen her naked body, claimed it, allowed it to possess him too; but why is it that whenever she does undrape herself, he seems to be seeing her always and in every way for the first time?
All perfect—the snowskin that fought with against the olive, the soft strands that fell below her shoulders, touching and tickling the nipples of her perfect breasts, her feminine gems. She is flowing silk over glass, flawless. However, nothing compared to the almost visible roundness of her belly—it was still quite small, and untrained eyes would miss it; but for those obsessed with the fantasy that is her it meant only one thing: budding life, angel's breath.
She submerged into the waters, ripples had become one with her. She allowed her body to be carried by the torrents, and in the blur of the waters that trapped her beneath, the Wolf's form revealed itself—a gray storm, a great madness swirling about. The Wolf swam in elegant circles, like one spirit moving across turfs. Her secrets were unlocked—and Jaqen realized as his eyes worshipped her that all men had once belonged to her in truth, had once belonged to the water in her womb.
Mysteries of her depth. Peace, permanence. Beautiful, beautiful stillness.
She rose up to the surface, now a water nymph transformed—dangerous and addicting.
All over her were fractals of glistening drops of water, fleeting, angling, bursting, descending upon her beauteous face like rain.
Jaqen began breathing once more through his open mouth. "Arya…" he groaned, pleading for dire sanity, for fruitions and peaks only sweet synthesis with her could provide. Dear gods, your water rune is making me so hard. Must this damnable ritual be a prerequisite? Let me love you now…
Arya just gazed at him with desirous eyes, and the Man marveled at how she kept herself in control—everything, in fact. Even the rivers obeyed her calm ministrations, for the ripples have softened and the strong currents have ceased. All that were left were the shimmers of river pebbles beneath. She smiled softly at the way the Valyrian's eyes worshipped every inch of her form, "Be not with fright, Man," Arya spoke, smiling lips a tease. "It's just me."
A sharp exhalation escaped from him.
For there are two glories in manifold. Both will be a secret, a fear to forces unknown that lay yonder.
She sat on one of the boulders on the river's other side, and now they were face to face with all desires suspended yet heightened. Passion is quenchless and infinite, and this was proven true by the goddess pool. The river's ebb and flow communed with her skin, and the wetness in every part of her which he so wanted to taste and lick and sip intensified his frustrations. He tugged at his flaxen hair—Qogralbar, a curse had been the honey of his mouth, as he shook his head at the way she was tempting him though not with her conscious intents. The rituals must be treated with veneration, and so he could not leap onto the other side and snatch her and sheath himself into every beautiful hole of her.
"Bathe yourself," Arya ordered him. "No one will do it for you here."
He nodded, obedient. A palmful of water moistened his locks of silver, his face, neck.
They shall be very nigh to death, but they shall fear with the fear of love, and through it shall they overcome.
A moment between a glance and a kiss, between a kiss and the sex. Jaqen wanted to erase those moments perhaps etched on stone with nothing but his bare hands and proceed to the summit of it all. One who was called Ianthine sat beside Arya, brushed away the wet strands that had clung to her neck. She whispered something to the queen's ears—delicious provocations, and Ianthine's lips seemed to caress Arya's lobe; while Arya's mouth was partly open, as if silently infusing herself with wind. Their eyes never left Jaqen's face, and their enticing smiles whilst they exchanged those amorous parlances which no doubt was about him bewitched the Valyrian so. Ianthine's forefinger moved to trace Arya's naked shoulder, cruised through the sea of droplets, descending…descending to trace the roundness of her left bosom. The queen's breast tips had now grown crystal-hard. They did these things, all the while observing the Man's responses.
Jaqen clenched his teeth with thrill at the utter beauty of that display, though his heart was being gorged too by silent resentment of not being allowed yet to touch her, much less take her.
They will destroy each other in their own lust.
Very gently, the one called Ianthine made a small incision upon Arya's forearm, enough for a drop of scarlet to escape from the veins. The blood mingled with his in the same goblet, with sounds of effervescence, as if inspired by the holiest of all incantations.
The Woman tipped the goblet to her lips, drank the combined blood of them.
One called Wen'ra took the goblet from her, swam to the other end and handed it over to the Man. He partook.
They shall mingle their lives. He will not tear her from his dire heart.
One called Niamh and another called Pherenice swam towards the queen like two sirens of the seas. Soft hands of them poured palmfuls of water unto Arya's skin, and with still reverence they cleansed her, stroked her. Fingers lightly touched her inner thighs, the arcs of her waist, and the soft curves of her belly that carried Jaqen's child. Ianthine's hands moved languidly from Arya's back to the flesh of her full breasts, imbathing them. The woman brushed her fingers gently upon Arya's nipples. Too much! "Āria …" Jaqen begged once more, biting his own knuckles hard. "Kostilus, rūs. Ivestragī nyke gūrogon ao…"
Arya…please baby, let me take you now…
The women only laughed richly at his words as they carried on with bathing her. "Poor soul," Pherenice had said. "My queen, perhaps we can allow him with us? Look at him, he's about to shatter into smithereens."
"Shush," Niamh allowed waterdrops to cascade from her fingertips to Arya's nipples. She stroked them gently. "This here is sacred. Banishment, purification, immersion."
"Indeed," Arya answered, gray eyes fixated on the man. "Let him feast on the sight."
Arya's smile was devilish, tormenting. Jaqen hissed with utter grievance—the battles in the fighting stade should have inflicted upon him worse torture so he could have grown immune to all forms of it, such as this agony. Traded all for you, and still you delight in seeing me suffer, beloved. Pherenice's hands sailed towards the queen's sex, rubbed it gently. Arya's mouth formed a soundless 'Oh' at the deed, and only the living gods knew how Jaqen tried to summon the restraint of the greatest of men in order to not rush to her and push himself inside her while he pulled her chestnut hairlocks.
Soft laughter. "You can touch yourself, Jaqen," Arya said, panting a little. "Come now, love. Don't deprive yourself of pleasuring yourself."
And there shall be no sonance heard but the cry of dragons, the wolf's howl that will crack the moon.
Jaqen watched as the women performed their ritualistic cleansing, as they touched and stroked and kissed his beloved all over in their worship, brushed their lips upon her ears and laughed with their enticing provocations. Arya's head was tilted to the side, observing him, tormenting his already tormented soul and sensibilities.
Slowly, he reached for his hardened sex, frolicked with it, as he immersed himself in that ambrosial display. He ignored their mocking giggles and focused instead on delighting himself through his Arya-fantasies. In his mind, he replaced the characters—Shivalhen is Jaqen, Ve'riel is Jaqen, so is Ianthine, and Pherenice, and Niamh, and Wen'ra and Thilhalaeth.
He closed his eyes.
All Jaqen…Jaqen…Jaqen…
When he opened them, the reverie had turned real.
Now, there were seven Jaqens all over one Arya.
And since reality and the absolute limit the mind, he constructed a whole dreamscape, a whole sweet, delusional realm where his seven selves could blandish her with his amaranthine sexual prowess.
Every single act of romance was transpiring simultaneously with all others.
A vision from the gods—seven forking paths to seven various realities. Seven facets of the Self.
And so, it was his hot mouth that was now nipping on the dew-blessed skin of her leg—drinking from it, his fiery tongue against the crystal-hardness of her right nipple, his playful finger toying with the left. Another mouth of his suckled her dainty toes, and still another whispered lustful phrases and sentiments, and chuckled quietly at her moans and groans and beautiful exhales. Another one of his mouths nourished itself with the soft flesh between her now frothy sex, and she was seated atop his own hardness; and anytime he wished, he could thrust himself inside her feminine cavern, and her rear too—alternate pushes, in sync and concurrent.
He does want to do it.
He saw one Jaqen lifting himself up with serpent's grace and lithe, meeting her face. He quenched his athirst self with her lips as he toyed with her sex using his own, teasing, testing her restraints. Carillon to his ears—her primal gasps with his name as subject…endless and endless, mating with the soft currents of the Krylst. The other Jaqen, the one on whose legs Arya sat and nestled herself, began sipping droplets of water from the flesh of her neck, whilst pleasuring her bosoms with both hands. He was about to explode…and he cannot yet. He must only burst with love and passion inside her soul, while he is one with it—spaceless, mingling with the sounds and moments of actions and stillness.
Enough of the fondling. Bodies were made to dance.
"Āria," he heard himself say in that erotic trance. He stroked his sex against hers and allowed the natural rhythm of it to send her body into unthinkable paroxysm. She was already shuddering a little, breathing heavily. "Ivestragī nyke jorrāelagon ao trūmirī…"
Let me love you deeply.
She nodded, kissed him and sucked his lower lip.
He began thrusting himself inside her sex, while his other shaft, he pushed inside the lair of her behind.
Jaqen began loving her, claiming her in a manner so reckless. Both of them were utterly drunk with love and lechery, 'Jaqen…' was escaping from her raspy breaths, and 'Arya' from his…as he kept on shoving himself in—plunging himself the deepest to her so no one can take her away. His thrusts mirrored oscillating movements, both holes of her he filled, and he gratified her, consumed her fully, did not allow any split-second of dissatisfaction or torturous pause as he moved in and out of her in steady measures and accents, staccatos...
She tugged at his flaxen hair, led his face to her bosoms, as he carried on with his starved thrusts. Voraciously, he wolfed her down—one breast after the other, and prayed to the gods so nectary liquid meant for babes would bless him in his plundering. "Jaqen, my love!" were Arya's throaty moans, and despite her now spasmodic breathing, he never stopped. Slowly, she reached for her nub and began rubbing it, accentuating the forceful yet loving pushes and pulls. Oh, how suffused she was of all things Jaqen, the Valyrian thought—there he was in front of her, behind her, all over her. She turned her head to the back and met his hot mouth, while enrapturing herself with his many other deeds of love throughout the entirety of her body.
"Hah…" he breathed upon his release, trembled slightly.
Chortles. The Rhoynish women were amused by the aftermath of his wanton acts, by his total weakness in the face of their slave-queen. It was he who was in true shackles, matters not if these are fetters unseen. It was he who was bound, enslaved by her.
The spell had vanished, and still he desired her so much, as if that climactic overture did not at all happen.
"Arya…" he still begged, even as his manly froth was being waltzed away by the river's currents. "Commingling of our blood is not enough for a union, love."
The one called Thilhalaeth spoke, concerned. "My queen, you should not have allowed him to pleasure himself. He had wasted his seed, we are in need of consummation, are we not?"
Arya only smiled and rose from the boulder-plinth. With suppleness, she leaped onto the waters and began swimming towards Jaqen. Upon reaching the center of that watercourse, she turned to the women. "Seed never runs dry." She waded once more to him, ravenous gray irises upon his whole form. "All acts of love and pleasure are our rituals, Jaqen, beloved."
Jaqen swallowed audibly, fought against his reflexive tremors. "Oh, Arya…" he breathed in delight, he began descending from the boulder to the waters to meet her. She was quick. In a flash, she was already in front of him, gripping his still very aroused sex. "Stay here, Man, you will not move unless I tell you to," Arya whispered, as her hand fondled his shaft in movements north and south. "Or it's the sunspear against your throat." She suckled his nipples, ran her tongue through the muscles of his chest and belly, his sinewy arms and firm legs. He tasted sweet—the river's flavor had meshed itself perfectly with the spices of his manliness. "You taste wonderful…" she spoke in between suckles and nips. "Jaqen H'ghar, you magnificent animal…"
"Let me fuck you now, Arya…"
"Not yet, Jaqen."
"Please, damn it…I want to ram myself against you, in you."
"Not yet."
"Let me push my sex deep, I want it to reach your womb, love."
"Not yet."
Her mouth closed in on his firm member. The melodies of his thrilled groans, curses, lustful words entangled themselves with the whistle of the pristine waters, and he cared not anymore if there were seven witnesses to their shared life and love that night. Earlier, he had touched upon sexual meridian through mere fantasies of her, and never had he thought it possible to taste it once more that quick. But Arya was good—very good. "Ah, so good…so very good…ah…" Jaqen gasped; he pulled her hair and guided her as she devoured his wet sex. Jaqen was wincing in both relish and torment, and he was bursting…bursting into fine grains of dust akin to those along the banks of the River Krylst.
She tightened her mouth around him, her tongue toyed with his tip. Shock waves enveloped him; he must…he must take her now, or for sure he will perish in the slightest touch of her fingertips and gentlest kiss of her berry lips.
Jaqen lifted Arya, seated her astride him and squandered her naughty mouth, unrestrained, as he savored his own salty wetness from her tongue. He pushed two fingers inside her, flirted with her taut walls and he felt them opening, welcoming him, pleading for summits that only he can bequeath her.
Man, surrender yourself to her silver vessel of fornications.
The Valyrian renamed was famished beyond all comprehensions. He shifted, and pinned her down upon the boulder-plinth, kissed her life-laden belly, buried his face against her core. His whole tongue was all over its lips, its slit, its soft flesh, its moist orifice. He held both of his beloved's legs down, splayed them, suckled and nipped—pleasing and punishing, as he reveled in her murmurs and shudders. In passionate response, she moved her hips to and fro against his face and allowed his mouth to taste her fully. Arya, my goddess...
"Jaqen, inside me…Jaqen…" she begged.
He need not be told twice.
With dragon's elegance, he hoisted himself and met her face to face. Her throaty breaths intensified his voracity, and so he wasted not a single moment and entered her.
Jaqen's respirations were resonant of one man drowning in the strong surges of rivulets. In every thrust, he uttered her name: Arya…Arya…and cupped her buttocks so he may plunge himself into the most abstract depths of her. Space is a waste of continuum, time must be in a state of absolute suspension. In matters of existence, there must only be them—him and her, and their bodies colliding outside the confines of material and immaterial laws.
He rocked against her mildly, then emphatically—statics and currents. She felt the skin of her back scraping against the boulder, and the roughness of it hurt her a little. But then there was Jaqen and his loving strokes and kisses and heaves, and she realized how very whelmed she was by the overflow that came from the rivers of him.
His pushes and pulls have hastened. "Aryaaa…" he moaned helplessly. "Damn, damn, damn it!" he pressed on with his ascents and descents, allowed Arya to lift herself a little so she could meet him and embellish their union. Their bodies performed their own prances and promenades.
"Jaqen!" Arya tightened her legs around his waist. She had climaxed, her groans had gone otherwordly. "Jaqen! Sweet Jaqen…spouse…"
Flare-up. His eroticisms, his passions escalated upon hearing her defenseless murmurs. Her body had eased a little upon reaching that glorious capsheaf, but Jaqen too, had to scale those heights with her. Faster…faster thrusts…more forceful…completions and surrenders.
He gripped her hair tight, as her name came forth from his mouth in a gratified whisper. He filled her generously with his warm seed, and even after that, he did not stop moving inside of her. He kept on plunging himself within, as if he could not get any closer to her.
"I love you, Arya…I love you."
Measureless epiphanies. To love is one thing, to make love is another. But to be in both states at once and do both acts ensemble, with the balancing of bliss and melancholies, battles and surrenders, compromises and dissensions—to love, be loved: the the truest, purest of all human experiences.
Arya Arya Arya Arya Arya…
I love you.
Thereupon, he sensed against his neck the sharpness of Shivalhen's sunspear.
The edge of it was now pressed more insistently against his skin. That all-consuming fervor and manic obsession for their queen enchantress still enslaved him in sweet brutality, and he knew not what response they were now expecting from him. Warily, he turned his eyes at the bearer of the weapon, rose to seat himself. Six more sunspears found their edges against his arms, legs, spine.
He smiled at the theatrics, gazed at Arya with his usual fascination. "A ritualistic segment, I suppose?"
Wrong.
The one called Niamh tossed Arya a silver dagger. The queen caught it, pressed the tip gently against the soft of his throat. "You may want to think a hundred times before summoning your firebeast, Jaqen. Forget you not that he listens also to me, what with that fancy Queller of yours."
Contempt was in her eyes.
It broke him, not merely because of the sudden vicissitudes of their sublime exchange, or their whimsical game of maiden goddess and lover god, or the charge—a whole act of worship. It broke him for he knew not the source of that loathing that slashed at the core of who he is now, as he was renamed. From her he had derived his animation, the substance of him; and he never knew who he was until Arya, his causal being.
And how he loved her so.
Yet here she is now, regarding him as if he was the same demonic Valyrian slaver she had laid eyes on during the Second Spice, as if she had never shared nights with him, or carried the blood of his blood within her.
"Arya…"
She struggled against her fragile voice that threatened to break at any moment. Arya shook her head, and though she felt forsaken and fragmentized by his betrayal, she carried on with her planned hell. "Valyrian orchestrators. Haresh Esdraelon, you devil-made-flesh. You're using me to prepare Neferion's way, Azor Ahai, your damnable Warrior of Light. You used me to prepare your path to this age."
"Arya, what are you even—"
The one called Wen'ra handed Arya the thick scroll, one that was found lying upon the bed in her shack. Arya lifted it for Jaqen to see, then scrunched it, hurled it forcefully to his face.
The man unscrolled it, read the scrawlings.
Mazverdagon se Nissa—creation of the Nissa.
Arya saw it on her bedside table early that morn, obviously placed in there by someone who wanted her life spared.
She pushed the silver skean deeper into his throat, wounding a fraction of it. Sanguine fluid from his Valyrian veins began trickling liberally.
The red god and old gods have responded to the call of their covenant.
Lightning struck through the mating of clouds in all its brilliance, forking a thousandfold onto the ground, tracing fire through the riverfront. A thunderclap voiced out its warning a second after, accentuating the fiery lightning's undying flashes of radiance.
Rain poured in chaotic drops, the gusting winds from the Summer Sea carrying them in wild vortices.
Ceri-hafe.
It is done.
Shivalhen's final pronouncements concluded the ritualistic charge, the marriage.
And in the aeons, you will be forgotten—dust lost in dust.