'Her cries of anguish left cracks upon the Moon's face
The shattering has begun.'
The Warrior and the Nissa, Jade Compendium (derived)
"Jaqen!"
Arya rushed across that withered killing ground towards where the Lorathi had disappeared. Every wave of attack directed to her she shunned aside with her Valyrian steel, wreaking havoc among the Others that had cowered asudden in her show of wrath. Through the massacre filling the chilly expanse, through the cold wintry winds and scorching flames, through the rain of weapons and the shrieks of shrill-tongued Walkers and dying men, through the deadly rune flung by the cold ones onto ranks of soldiery—through all these resounded Arya's thundering screams and steady attacks.
She had seen her beloved plunge onto the myriad of foes, giving up his own life and the life of his firebeast. Even in that surrender, he still thought of how he could inflict greatest devastation on those cold ones and their dragon. What may be a whole league of Others he took with him to his ruin, yet the enemies seemed to still stretch from end to end—materializing right before their sights in infinite numbers and immeasurable strength.
She rushed past the mercenaries and sworn soldiers, past Brynden Tully and Yohn Royce bellowing out futile commands, past the brotherhood without banners. "Arya!" she heard her name in Gendry's voice. "Arya, return to the safe side! You're heading straight to danger!" She only ignored the call…kept on running—past the cold ones and their blasts of ice.
An ivory dragon flew low beside her, and Arya felt her body being scooped up from the ground by strong, warrior arms. "Let me go, Aegon!" she shrieked, threshing against his hold.
"Arya! Stop resisting or you'll fall!" Aegon bellowed back. "We all saw Jaqen die, there's nothing you can do!"
"I need to get to him! Let go!"
"I'll bring you to safety, damn it! Enough!"
The girl unsheathed her dagger in response, gave Aegon a shallow slash on the arm to take his focus away from her. The Targaryen king cursed and hissed in pain as Viserion staggered in flight. Its claws scraped against the hard ground, so Arya took the opportunity and slid down across its wings and onto the ground. She ran to west as the dragon took off, paying Aegon's distant pleas no mind at all.
She reached the very spot where Jaqen's body had evanesced after a mad whorl of sorcery swallowed him fragment by fragment. She collapsed on the ground and ran her hands frantically on that gelid surface, hoping to see even the faintest speck of him.
None.
"Jaqen!" She shrieked, as she allowed rage to consume her. "Talk to me! You don't die! Don't die…"
Chunks of ice exploded into the air around her as a spiked flail landed on the ground where she was kneeling. She rolled over to deflect the attack, then drew her sword up to thwart another strike. The flail was too heavy, and it almost dug into her chest before fragmentizing into fine pieces. She spat out blood and felt staggering pain, her head spinning and succumbing to a state of haste as those cold ones gathered around her.
One frozen sword appeared again, flashing at Arya's face. She dodged to one side, her free hand slashing the wrist that held the weapon. The Other shrieked upon contact with her dragonsteel, shuddered before bursting and disappearing.
More blood came out of her mouth and nose. Her bones were battered and she could almost feel the fissures crawling on her skull as the Others kept on dashing onto her, prepared for the kill.
Arya shut her eyes in the midst of that hopelessness and traced a finger on the mark Jaqen had imprinted upon her arm the night she married him in the godswood. Cold fear ate her—the dragon's mark was not emitting its usual glow. "Jaqen...where are you?" Is the source of her protective brand truly dead and gone?
Summer to my Winter, Shield to my Sword, Shadow to my Being.
Bran's voice pervaded her subconscious, and that voice for her was guidance and solace, faith. Your heart and blood, the voice had told her, your soul and courage and strength—surrender these and forge that steel.
Bare your breast, Nissa Nissa.
"Arya!" Jon called to her. A ringsword flew past Rhaegal, scraping a part of its scaled wings. It tumbled belly-first on the ground, sending Jon bowling down its back before it rolled over, sweeping a whole throng.
Jon struggled to lift himself up and dashed to where Arya was, outnumbered and overpowered by the Others. He unsheathed Oathkeeper and drove it sidewards, connecting with two, three enemies. A blade lid against the line of his jaw, cold fingers snagged a handful of his hair. He wheeled around and stabbed the attacker straight in the guts. Dregs of ice spattered like rain on frozen earth.
"Stay close to me, Arya," Jon said, positioning himself at her front. "Keep your sword at the ready, charge at any sign of danger—they're all over the place."
Arya whirled and stood back to back with Jon, acting as eyes to his blindspot. She surveyed the environs and saw that despite the armies from the Vale and the Riverlands, the South, the Ironborns, and the sellswords that have arrived, the cold ones still surpassed their count, as if a thousand more White Walkers are born after each obliterated one. Her eyes flew to the heavens—Aegon and Daenerys were still in a deadly duel against winter's beast. "They're not going away, Jon," Arya said, a hint of withdrawal in her voice. "They did not wake up from their dunes of snow to be defeated by mere mortals and their firebeasts. They plan to win this time."
"And so do we!" Jon replied hotly, drawing his sword across his chest. He parried an attack from a White Walker, stabbed it straight in the eye. "I promised you a better realm, Arya. I intend to keep that promise!"
A host of White Walkers closed in around them, hovering in space…their forms dissipating…materializing…
"Sword, Arya!" Jon exclaimed.
Arya drew her steel and thwarted those series of attacks from the cold ones, struggling to hold on to dire hope in each harrowing second. The clangor of their swords against the ice weapons of their foes drowned all her senses; and at that precise moment, she was transfigured to a killing beast—No One-ness regaining its dominion upon the substance of her Self. Who am I? She asked herself in the core of all din and death. Why am I here?
It was a spit on the death god's face.
Yes, Arya Stark is No One. Once faceless, forever faceless. Sabine was right all along—Valar dohaeris is this: getting rid of all loves and hates, strengths and fears, desires and loathed things to serve.
And how does one serve? For how long must one serve?
By laying down your life for your beloved ones if need be. To your death.
For one who is No One, existence must not be, but must be derived.
The Elder had once told her that the state of being No One is in the middle—between who you are, and who you must become.
Who am I? Why am I here?
She gasped upon seeing a colossal form looming behind Jon, and it belonged to one creature next to her own heart.
"Nymeria."
But the direwolf was not quite itself. Its gentle eyes were raging yet dead, and its entire body was full of teeth-and-weapon-caused lacerations. Rich scarlet oozed from those wounds that were so deep Arya could almost see the flesh and bones beneath its skin and fur. The direwolf moved in a grotesque manner, and its actions were not its own—it's being warged into. It had become one of those winter-spawned creatures—cold, inexorable.
Undead.
Jon was oblivious to the danger behind him, as he was at the center of fray against the Others.
Nymeria has become one of them.
Arya froze on the spot as she locked gazes with her wolf. There was naught in its eyes but the thirst for blood, and it broke her heart to pieces. Arya is Nymeria—she had transcended death and realms because her naiad's body and soul were one with that wolf. They are from the North, they both call to the Moon, and even in the days of Rhoyne, they were both in the mysteries of the grand river's water.
What she saw in the wolf was dispassion, a disconnection that was irreversible. It pained her to see the mirror of herself regress that way.
The wolf howled then snarled, and Arya saw the fatal clenching of those jaws. Nymeria is going to kill Jon.
There was a split-second to act, and a single way to carry out what must be done to save Jon's life. Oathkeeper might be on her way, she couldn't let that sword thwart her plans—she must bend the damned sword to her will.
Nymeria lunged at Jon from the lad's behind. Arya drew out Dark Sister and threw herself onto Jon.
Oathkeeper pierced her breast, and her heart received the blade fully. While life still clung to her, she swung her sword with all the strength she has left and severed Nymeria's head, thus foiling the direwolf's plan of slaughtering Jon.
A warg killing her own wolf is akin to killing herself.
"Arya!" Jon roared upon seeing her body impaled on his sword. He quickly turned his head to the back and saw Nymeria's headless body. Understanding swept over Jon—Arya took the fall...for him. He screamed in utter anguish, his heart maimed and torn to shreds by her act. "Aryaaaaa! No!"
"J-Jon…" she murmured, then gasped as the last vestiges of the Moon hit her eyes brimming with pained tears. She felt her heart beat faster, and in its every pulse were blood and life and love, coalescing with the cadence of one Song—that of Ice and Fire; and the melodies of it played once more, stirring her soul, revealing to all the realms who she is.
Nothing—no realm, no time, no mortal, no god—can ever triumph over us, can ever break us…
A powerful swirl of rune burst from her heart, and with it was a mist of glittering jasper coiling around Oathkeeper, as if imbuing it with talismanic strength and sway. Arya screamed at the ecstasy and throe brought upon her entirety by that sword, and her cries were the howls of a wolf. She called to the Moon, and the Moon responded—a fraction of its face that speaks of time was shattered as the shierak qiya collided against it asudden.
For she is ice and fire, calm and rage; she is of yore and forever.
She sits not at the center of time for she is Time.
The power that enwrapped her being was immense, and she could feel it seeping through her very marrows. At that moment, she was at her most grotesque; yet beauty emerged from that brokenness—the type that has suffered through and conquered the ache of devastation and loss, the type that is willing to give all.
Time remained suspended, and mortals and Others shielded their eyes in the face of that lovely transfiguration.
It was triumph over death, an unbreakable connection between mortality and immortality, the temporal and the eternal. The act of sacrifice brought out the goddess that was within her all along.
The Moon, the Seasons, the Tides…
The turn of the Universe."
And at that point, it was as if a thousand, thousand dragons poured out from the crack on the Moon's face towards Jon's sword, suffusing it with the rune of fire and blood.
Very slowly, Nissa Nissa opened her eyes.
Azor Ahai, she spoke to Jon, and held out her hand to touch his cheek. Draw from the fire of my heart your burning sword. Let darkness flee from it.
Jon carefully pulled out his sword from Arya's chest. Beloved, he named her. Whereto?
There was nothing in her eyes but nursed rage, torment. The lair of the Great Other—to end this. To save one fallen warrior, the one sent by the gods to me.
Then, those ancient, mystical faces appeared before Jon in Arya's form, scintillating around him and beyond him. And there were shapes and shadows and figures, illusions and apparitions showing themselves in vapors indescribable, shooting all over through light shafts of gold and silver.
Then, Arya was gone.
The stairs carved out of ice continued further down. Arya descended, the shattered Moon fading away in sight. The farther she goes, the brighter it gets; yet she knew that such light is naught but deception. In the Heart of Winter, time ceases—it is always dawn and morn and night. In the Heart of Winter, what is unbent is also oblique, and nothing that one sees is as it is.
At the hundredth step, she ended at the cavern that she had seen in her dreams during the days of Valyria and Rhoyne. Protruding stalactites and stalagmites of ice acted like deadly friezes that threaten anyone seeking passage, the colors are in the many shades of the cold. The air was dry, scentless; and that cavern was in the center of a desert of ice.
With resolve, she entered the cave through its narrow tunnel and gripped her dragonsteel tight. Arya was sure that the walls were of ice and that on the surface of these walls light bounces and casts her reflection. She looked at her image on those walls and gasped at the sight—her eyes were her nose and her nose were her ears and her mouth wasn't there yet it was. She was none and all, her entirety was warped, distorted in a most horrific way. Those reflections revealed her inner demons that overpowered the most sacrosanct of all her aspects. All over her ears were poetry sung by the dead for the dead.
And when she had reached the end of that tunnel, she was brought to the Great Other's den.
There was No One in it, and its expanse was infinite yet shrunken, geometrically perfect yet full of chaotic fractals, such that when Arya roamed her eyes around the spaces of it, she could see the concave-convex walls closing in around her then expanding and evanescing. She wanted to scream in fear and confusion, yet the urge to save her beloved was stronger and so she forced her focus away from the intolerable sight and persuaded herself—this is the Great Other's trickery, nothing more.
Language was lost on her—no tongue can ever capture the deformity and malevolence, the utter vileness of such place that would stir madness even upon the greatest of gods.
Arya Stark was in deepest hell, and hell is not fire and brimstone. Hell is ice that burns.
Gently, she traced the dragon's mark upon her skin, the mark of the red god against her blood that is from the old gods' own veins. She prayed for calm if even the entire universe could offer her that. Setting foot in this place is a thousand times worse than dying.
"Jaqen," she whispered his name. "Jaqen. Show yourself to me."
Nissa Nissa, a cruel voice hissed in her ears instead. She turned to her right for she was most sure that the source was there, yet there was only dissipating mist. We are two females of the same cloth…
An evil cackle. This marks the end.
She turned this way and that to catch sight of the fleeting figure of silver. It appeared…waned…cackled like one horrendous phantom…and Arya felt feverish chill enveloping her as the figure possessed the depths of her mind telepathically...deceiving her till her brain gets unhinged…
And all over, beyond her were bodies, naked human bodies. Carved figures? No…
They were as real as her own flesh and skin, and they moved and moaned and writhed in place. Their eyes were wide open and their mouths were agape—screaming…soundlessly screaming in pain as their bodies were being twisted by some unseen, heinous force.
Arya staggered as a wave of confusion and trepidation rushed through her. The silver phantom loomed right in front of her in an ever-expanding symmetry. "Reveal yourself!" Arya screamed at the figure.
She squinted as a series of ghastly apparitions unveiled themselves through that phantom's form—a warrior dying by the sword…an innocent babe…a dessicated Dothraki…a defiled Westerosi girl…the pale child Bakkalon…the Stranger…the Maiden-made-of-Light…
"Shed your many faces and show me who you really are!" Arya screamed in wrath.
A mellifluous, deep-throated laughter in response. The voice of that phantom hissed through the chilly air. Very unimaginative.
And so, that silver phantom, the Great Other cast off her many faces to reveal one. Arya gasped as the figure shrunk to her size, donned that hair of chestnut, wore that skin of snow, carried a reflection of that steel handed to her by one dragon-blooded. She beheld the Great Other's face, and the face was hers—Arya Stark's, Nymeria of the Rhoyne's, the Nissa Nissa's face.
However, it was her corrupted form that she saw, her obverse, just as life is the undeniable counterpart and balancer of death. She is all-good yet all-evil, she is light yet darkness. Arya knew by heart the very words written in the tenets of the Faceless Men, that every being carries with her a mirror that casts her reflection, and it is as impossible to escape from as her own shadow.
Who are you? The Great Other asked her, taunting. Arya heard her own voice, her damned voice, and it was mating with the words and the words were rolling off the Great Other's treacherous mouth—her mouth…Arya Stark's mouth.
You don't know who you are, the god said, but what moved were Arya Stark's lips.
Well, then a kind reminder—
You are No One.
"Shut up," Arya spat, drawing her sword in a fighting stance. "Shut up, and give me back my man."
Another taunting laughter came from her lips—from Arya's…from the Great Other's…she couldn't anymore tell. Which one is the reflection and which one is real? She asked herself, and wondered too, if the god is as glassy-eyed as she is, if she is the god and the god is she, if there is even the thinnest line dividing one from the other.
Who am I? Who am I?
Who am I? the god voiced out her thoughts, imitated her very manner of asking. Who am I? They circled each other, both appearing confused and lost at such conjured illusion, yet Arya Stark knew that the Great Other could never be fooled by her own damnable ruse. If so, who is the Great Other, who is the Nissa?
"Aaaaah!" Arya staggered, before kneeling on the ground and dropping her sword. Both hands were on her head, and she looked at herself—her two selves that were sapping out her sanity.
She laughed shrilly as she beheld her own laughing face—delirious, unable to distinguish who she is and who she is not in the face of that non-existent, mystical mirror. She held out her hand to touch the god and the god held out her hand to touch her too, and their palms connected—Arya Stark's fingers entangled themselves with Arya Stark's fingers, so Arya Stark laughed and Arya Stark laughed with her.
Suddenly, the cackles of one had gone louder, more disparaging. Then, that hissing voice reverberated within the twisted walls of that place once more, and her other self was smirking with raw derision. Today it ends, the god wearing her face had said. We will both bleed each other to exhaustion.
The death god vanished.
A mad whorl of red and black haze swirled about, and Arya turned her attention to the eddy that had suddenly formed. The faint outline of a figure gradually became visible in the midst of that haze. It was a figure of a hundred thousand deaths and a hundred thousand more, and it had the face of one herald of chaos—chained then awakened. All over him were shadows that appeared in illusions of vanishing spans, the very worshippers of the sinister Cult of Starry Wisdom who mayhaps planned the god's unchaining by design. The figure was that of doomed abysm, a contradiction to all things good and alive. From being crouched on the ground, the spawn of the Heart of Darkness stood to reveal himself—a misshapen mass of blood and gore clothed in the ancient accoutrements of the god-emperor of a once tyrannical empire.
Bloodstone.
The figure was all too familiar to her—even with the confusing mirage concealing reality, Arya Stark knew what, who she was seeing. He still had that hair of scarlet-and-ivory which she loved, that beautiful face…
Their eyes locked upon each other. There was wickedness in those irises that were once bronze-gold, a corrupt force the girl never thought any creature—even the vilest—was capable of possessing. But this evil, this utter madness was what the Fallen Warrior within him had chosen to host.
No one was simply more resilient, more selfless to host a sin such as this one. No one is simply more worthy to defeat the god from within himself.
No one that is, but Iāqaen Haegār…
And then, there was her love for him…her love had simply grown deeper, stronger as their hour of separation drew close, as she beheld the sweet lover beneath that malevolent facade. In her universe there is no other name but his, no other face but his, in an ocean of other faces and names. And though it was lunacy for he is the enemy now—the greatest she would have to fight—she still held on steadfastly to that love.
Those lips were pursed tightly, as if suppressing rage. But those lips were the same ones that purred in her ears and called her 'lovely girl', the same ones that had gifted her with lover's kisses…
"Jaqen…" she called out to him, walking falteringly. She smiled at him, then gasped at the throe that clawed at her heart. "Oh, Jaqen…"
The one she had named Jaqen responded to her call by drawing his warhammer and smashing it straight onto the ground where she was standing. She rolled over to one side to avoid the attack, cold winds washing over her as chunks of ice were sheared from the ground. Arya struggled to stand, backpedaled upon seeing the glint of a greatsword's blade on Bloodstone's other hand. His hand darted up and Arya drew her sword across her chest to block the blade. The impact threw her back and blood gushed up to the side to fill her mouth. Arya reeled, leaned on the oblique wall, one hand grasping the frozen stones and the other gripping Dark Sister tightly. Her fingernails gouged tracks through the boulders.
Jagged arcs of lightning warred against each other from a distance, and when Arya turned to the source of the storm, her sight brought her beyond and she had realized that she was staring at the realm whence she came—the realm of dragons and armies, of wights and mortals. Her beloved ones were there—facing all forces sinister just as she was facing her own battles in the very Heart of Winter.
Both of them shielded their eyes from the blinding flash of red light in that realm.
The light was on Jon's hands, and the light was in the form of a sword.
Lightbringer.
The Bloodstone Emperor realized what it was—his doom, and right in front of him was the woman who had birthed that red sword of heroes.
He roared in fury, hurled his warhammer towards Arya from a thousand paces away. She dodged the weapon by taking a dive to the ground. It smashed against the wall where she was earlier leaning, but the wall swallowed the weapon, like a river would a pebble that fell upon its surfaces.
Seeing that Jaqen's one hand was unarmed, Arya rushed to him, only to find the warhammer emerging from the wall opposite to the one that swallowed it. It flew back to Jaqen's hand and with strength he rammed it on the ground where Arya had collapsed—on and on and on, trying with might to crush her bones and skull. "Jaqen, no!" She kept rolling over to her side, running, jerking backwards to evade the assaults.
He threw the hammer once more and a fraction of its face hit Arya's left hand. She lost her grip of Dark Sister, it clangored uselessly on the ground.
She touched Needle's grip, made sure that even a trace of Jon was still with her.
Bran had warned her—she knew that this was going to happen. Jaqen is not himself anymore, and she wanted to howl in anguish and stab herself endlessly and hate herself for the ruin his sacrifice had cost him and the both of them. He should have killed her in Rhoyne after the war, or…or in Valyria after he had had his fill of her. Yet he chose to keep me and save me, even at the cost of his own life in this realm and in all others.
And now, that choice had destroyed him fully…
From strangers to lovers to strangers…
The heartache was filling her, filling her whole world.
"Jaqen…" Arya murmured, and though he was approaching she just kept herself on the ground. She had to try. She smiled at him, searched for the slightest trace of him in Bloodstone's eyes. She tilted her head and gazed at him lovingly. "I'm here—I've followed you to hell to bring you back. Return, Jaqen," her free hand traveled to her belly, she gently stroked it as she fought against tears. "For me and…and our little one…" Arya tried to keep the blithe about her voice despite the wretchedness consuming her. "You are yet to see me giving birth to our child. You told me you want to see us both—do you recall? You…you missed it in your Valyrian days, did you not—we sailed for Dorne, and you chose to give up yourself for our sake? Please, I cannot let that happen once more. Please, Jaqen…"
He stopped cold.
Might that be a flicker of recognition, of sweet recollection in his eyes?
His expression had changed from perturbed to raging. He stood face to face with her, weapons in hand. "Jaqen is dead. I am not he."
Arya rushed to him, then wrapped her arms around his right leg. She buried her face in the leather of his boots, swallowed the painful lump in her throat. "Do remember, Jaqen. Our leaves in the Songs though those leaves brought us to this collapse. We have loved none but each other, we vowed in front of the gods…"
He was unmoving, and Arya could not bear to gaze up at him, for maybe it was loathing that he felt for her—she was the one who brought him to such plight, he had saved her once and forever and now he's paying the price of that bargain.
"Do remember, Jaqen. I'm your wife," she said in a shattered voice. She tightened her hold of his leg, she was so, so afraid to let him go. "They shall mingle their lives and he will not tear her from his dire heart," she recited those lines in the sacred confluence, the forty-fourth leaf in the Songs. Her voice was very broken and she gasped as invisible fangs fed on her heart—the pain was almost unbearable. "They shall be very nigh to death, but they shall fear with the fear of love, and through it shall they overcome." She lifted herself and threw her arms around his neck. "Your blood is shield—"
"…and you vowed to bleed before I do," Arya Stark interrupted herself.
Her other self was approaching them both and she too, was staggering and wounded in the same places, and her Valyrian sword was on the ground. She ran to him, fell then struggled up and wrapped her arms around his waist from behind. She battled against her inner maelstroms as she held her beloved—the harrowing truth, the shock of learning how quickly love can disappear. "When you left me at Harrenhal, your face…your voice haunted every inch of my soul. I suffered in silence before I decided to sail for Braavos and find you. Do remember, Jaqen—the temple, the bridge where we kissed and fell, the city where you loved me. Jaqen, please…" her fingers clutched his sleeves tighter. It hurts, and she was so tired of it—chasing the one she loves then losing him and falling apart in the end. Even then, she kept herself from weeping. "Fight with me, not against me."
"Listen only to my voice, Jaqen," Arya said as she rose, looking into his eyes. She planted a soft kiss on the side of his lips. She had poured her heart out, and now she was nothing but an empty shell which only he can fill. "You know me. I'm your Arya…you know my touch and scent, how I taste…"
"…how I speak, and act, how I love," Arya cut in. She rested her cheeks against his lean back and allowed the tears to flow freely from her face. She needs to stop running back to him—she would be caught in a loop where no escape is possible. "Your heart knows me, it knows us. Listen to it, I beg of you…" Or perchance, Arya never wanted to escape in the first place. She merely wanted to touch him even though it could burn her, and love him even though it could kill her.
Jaqen beheld them both, the one embracing him through the neck and the one whose arms were around his waist. "I lost two empires—the Great Dawn and Valyria," the Bloodstone Emperor spoke. "The death god promised me the realms to reestablish the dominion I have lost. My fealty is to her—which one of you is she? I have no need of one named Arya Stark—or two, I have no need of any of you."
"Then, kill me," Arya Stark said.
Arya Stark countered. "Jaqen, no…"
"K-kill me," she begged, collapsing onto the gelid earth. "End this…for me."
She shook her head. "Jaqen, please…don't—"
Miasmic waves of power burst forth from the Bloodstone's body as he spread out his arms. The force threw Arya aback. She crawled in haste towards where Dark Sister lay then retrieved it. She unsheathed Needle. A series of attack blasted her, but she was quick to parry every sword thrust, escape from every ram of the warhammer. She was at a disadvantage, for all of her assails she carries out only to disarm Jaqen. "Jaqen, please! I don't want to hurt, you!" she screamed at him in the midst of his sword clashing against hers. At the center of that duel between them—a reenactment of Valyria against Rhoyne—Arya prayed to the elder gods. Let me in, she implored.
For a split-second, she traversed the paths and rediscovered the dimensions of his mind. To reason with him only, not to gain dominion over his person and thoughts—this is the purpose of her warging.
At the very same time, the god wearing Arya's face possessed Jaqen's body—her vile sorcery coiling around the Lorathi's limbs like snake before seeping through his every pore.
The Bloodstone Emperor and the Great Other merged into a single being, transforming themselves into one creature dwarfing even the ice dragon that was awakened beneath the Wall. The creature swelled in size, the slits of his pupil dilating, his eyes gleaming red.
His exhales gusted in heavy grunts, his flesh and bone groaned, his chest swelled, his back arched.
The skin of his spine ripped as jet-black wings snapped out, unfolding from his shoulders. Sorcery swirled all over him. His transformation was horrendous, glorious.
Arya screamed as a crackling fire of the Bloodstone's sorcery choked her being, sending her feverish fits, seeking to undo her mind. He was too dark, too twisted; and she found herself leaving his consciousness as she was slowly succumbing to madness.
The Many-faced god had taken her too.
Bran…
She was falling…
She was falling a hundred leagues per second. It was sure death in that descent, for she will most surely land on the mouth of the first of the Fourteen Flames in Valyria. Illusion, she convinced herself. This is nothing but an illusion. Magma sprayed into the air, large pillars of smoke formed at the rim. In her descent, she only breathed in fierce, hot wind.
When she opened her eyes, she saw that the winged being Jaqen had transformed into was plummeting towards her, his flaming sword trained at her chest, and his heart was the heart of fire. In Jaqen's eyes, Arya saw her form—she was wearing many faces and those faces appeared then disappeared in the midst of her fall; albeit the face that lingered was the face of the Nissa, and the Nissa must die, just as the Many-faced god must.
The red god, Arya thought as she saw how very incongruous space and matter were in that illusion. The god was summoned and he lives within…Jaqen?
They had entered a realm of lawlessness—a realm of infinite chaos.
In her call for help, Bran had conjured up an impermanent realm where it may be possible for a mere mortal such as herself to defeat a god. The mortal must act wise and call to the other gods for aid or summon them from their cosmic niches for the mere sake of it, so they can fight their own damned battles.
Bran…she still called, as she felt her skin being scorched. She was one stone's throw away from being consumed by fiery magma from R'hllor's mouth. With a scream, the red god in Jaqen's form had pierced the flaming sword deep in her heart, and those faces she wore fled from her, scattered; and she felt herself being cleansed by the act.
Arya plunged into that liquid hell and felt her entirety being burned and blown to kingdom come. A million hands pulled her towards the abyss. She kicked and scratched and thrashed against their hold till they released her. She swam to the surface and caught her breath as she reached it.
Arya gasped and scoured that infinite expanse. The Fourteen Flames were gone asudden, replaced by cool, placid waters. She had fallen on River Rhoyne.
Colossal waves built up as something began to churn in the deadly waters. The waves engulfed her and pushed her down to the water's chasms. She fought her way back to the surface and caught sight of a boat being cradled ruthlessly by the river.
She swam to it, went against the river's currents. Finally, she reached the boat. She grasped the wooden plank attached to its bow, and lifted herself up. Arya collapsed hard on the boat's deck, coughing out excess water and catching her breath. As soon as she regained her footing, a mighty eddy formed in the currents, and the tributaries of the River Rhoyne had converged to form an entire sea. From the water's abysms emerged a creature larger than Valyria's firebeasts, even more behemothic than Winter's own. The creature had a thousand polypi, and its nature was to swallow men and their ships, to scare away those who navigate the oceans. It too, had awakened from its dreamless and ancient sleep and was in the axis of war. Its body was that of a kraken, but its face was that of a man—so familiar, so…him.
The drowned god towered everything else, shadowed even the tallest structures known to mortals. And it stood there, its reckoning eyes fixated on that tiny boat as its giant arms stirred the already winnowed river-turned-sea. In the drowned god's eyes, Arya was the goddess with many faces, the goddess of death and winter, the goddess that seeks to freeze the seas and oceans which are the drowned god's very turfs, the goddess that has the Nissa's face.
No, no...one god cannot rule over all.
The drowned god raised his gigantic kraken hands and smashed the tiny boat where Arya was. Its small sail and mast collapsed and were swept underneath the tides.
Arya couldn't breathe, she was already beneath the billows—yet these billows as she had realized were the thick and strong roots of the Weirwood trees strangling her, destroying her entire body. She felt the roots constricting her arms and legs, her neck and chest, mangling the bones and crushing the organs. To scream is to die, and every breath she took was a wrestle against permanent quietus, and so she ceased gasping for dire air and allowed the heart trees to shatter her, to consume her fully. She felt every inch of her disintegrate as the roots invaded her mouth and nose and eyes, and found their dwelling within her. Her skin cracked open to let those roots pass through and have sway on her entire being.
The old gods had buried her in that eternal and complex labyrinth of seeing trees.
That tangle of Weirwood roots had allowed her to see, and indeed she saw the faces of the Seven who are One. In that end, a parallel battle must be fought even in the realm of the gods—the battle now was between the Warrior and the Stranger, even though both are aspects of a single deity. Balance was lost when the Stranger attempted to take over, and balance must be restored.
Bran…she called out to him again. Arya sought to be with her beloved only, and save him from the plague of having to host an inexorable foe, yet she was overwhelmed instead by incomparable suffering, the total weathering of the Self she had once known. The Many-faced one dwells in me, and I in her. The other gods are killing her through me. Brother, please…she wept and rich blood flowed from her eyes. Take this cup away…
She lay there quietly.
The Sweetwater River gushed beside her, flowing in serenity like time unhurried. Its gentle murmurs were akin to the wise words of Mother Rhoyne; and its calm and bliss comforted her, erased her throes for a while.
"Lovely girl."
Arya smiled. That deep purr, that endearment. Oh, that man had ascended Death over and over to be with her— surrendering his mortal coils, bearing a thousand heartbreaks and ten thousand more shocks. From her lips escaped soft laughters as she felt tiny hands on her chest and tiny feet on her belly. Those coos were gentle chimes that balmed her after suffering the whips and scorns of the gods in that realm of lawlessness.
When she opened her eyes, she was greeted by the only being who had heard her heart beat from the inside. They were one for nine full moons, sharing the same blood to the last drop and the same air to the last particle. "My sweet love," Arya purred as she traced her forefinger across his petal-soft cheeks, his delicate form, the stout bracelets where the fat folded at his wrists and plump legs. She could kiss him all day and for days endless and would never tire of the act. He who personifies hope for her and a new lover and better years, was finally with her again; and time, life, death, all other concernments seemed to fade as she beheld his face, the soft lips and the button nose, the innocence and tenderness.
His eyes as he stared at her were round and doe-like, misty, with gleaming irises of bronze against the gold, and it carried no prejudices, just…wild fascination. Its giggles were a lullaby. Arya brushed the thin strands of her babe's silver hair and felt tears brimming in her eyes—he was utter perfection, and now she must protect the new life she was given. Her laughter moved the ripples as she lifted the babe in the air with both hands, then nestled him once more atop her. Am I in the future, Bran? Arya asked. Because if I am, then I wish to stay here. If I am, I wish to live.
"Lovely girl."
She turned to her left and saw Jaqen lying on his belly so close to her, observing her reactions as she held their little one to her chest. He smiled, planted a soft kiss on her temple. "He's been trying to wake you up," the Lorathi murmured, then caressed the babe's cheek mildly with his knuckles and spoke to him directly. "Is Damien hungry? He's been cooing the entire while. Does he want to feed on ma's bosoms?"
Arya felt color rise up to her cheeks at those words. Ma's bosoms? "Where are we, Jaqen?" she asked him, evading his hot, famished stares.
Jaqen ran his tongue across the flesh of Arya's breast in response.
Arya gasped as a pool of lust swept over her. Heated desire brimmed in Jaqen's eyes as he studied her face. He's an assassin, a dragonrider—a being whose companions are cold deaths and hot passions. Raw sensuality pulsed from him, and at that moment, each breath of his carried hints of erotic promises.
She allowed her gaze to settle instead on their little one. This must be—she has to fight that painfully intense yearning for him. "Where are we?" she repeated her question. Surely, they cannot be as deprived of each other as to do it in front of their babe, can they be?
"I'm not sure, Arya…" he whispered, then suckled the tip of her left bosom against the fabric. Arya bit her lower lip to keep herself from moaning and opening her legs for him. "And truth be told, I don't care." He lifted his face a little and licked the side of her lips. "Feed our babe, sweetheart."
She exhaled as she felt a surge of unexplainable sensations crawling all over her. She kissed her babe's forehead and shushed it for it was on the verge of tears. "I…I will," she stammered. "But you have to turn your eyes away."
Jaqen smirked. "Why?"
"Because!" Arya exclaimed, then held the babe tighter as his whimpers grew louder. "Men shouldn't watch women while they nurse."
His heavy-lidded eyes settled on both of her bosoms. Jaqen trapped his lower lip with his teeth, and scoured her form that was visible against her very thin garment of white, as if preparing for his momentary loss of self. "I want to see all of you. And yes, that includes seeing you with our babe, witnessing every second of your motherhood, Arya."
Arya smiled. "You brought me to this state, my love."
"I did," Jaqen replied. He pulled down the sleeve of her thin gown till her breast lay bare for him to see, then rubbed her left nipple intensely. Arya gasped as the man fondled it with his thumb and forefinger. A small drop of pearl liquid came out from it, Jaqen caught the drop with his fore, brought it to his lips, took a taste. All the while, his impassioned eyes were on her, marveling at her reactions, relishing the littlest expression brought by his eroticisms. He smacked his lips as he savored the taste of that drop of her bosom's milk, letting its saccharine aftertaste roll along his wanting tongue. "Hot damn, Arya…you taste wonderful. I want to suckle you till you have none left—"
"Jaqen!"
"Just…" he shook his head but the smile of mischief and dirty man-thoughts were still all over his face. "Feed Damien, please."
Her cheeks were still burning, and as to why she couldn't tell. Jaqen had seen her naked many, many times, had claimed her in all turfs and time and depths, had possessed her in ways she couldn't have imagined. Why then, was she feeling abashed asudden by his show of interest on her bosoms? They're just breasts, Arya persuaded herself, then laughed inwardly. Why of course, Jaqen sees my breasts as instruments for his ecstatic release.
It was because the bosoms cradle the heart, and the Nissa's heart is the most beautiful in the eyes of the Warrior.
Arya shifted so her spine was towards him. She cradled Damien on one arm, stroked his head when he thrashed against her hold. The babe's face formed a gentle frown, as he cooed his clamor for his mother's milk. "Here, my love," she whispered. "Did you wait too long on me?" The babe began feeding and then everything else had gone silent, just the soft rush of the Sweetwater was there. She cupped the little one's head and it was so soft against her palm, then set her lips at the top of it. "Your father wooed me there," Arya said, gazing up at the bridge where they had both fallen to the river, where they have learned fully of each other's sentiments. She laughed softly. "He waited many, many moons before he could gather up the courage to create you with me. Can you believe how very weak-kneed he was?"
Jaqen rested his chin on Arya's shoulder and watched her sustain their child. "It's because your father was…how do you say it? Ah yes, too affrighted that he might fail the both of you. You see, all his days he had tainted his hands with murdered men's blood, he had known nothing but that life. He had brought your mother to such a life, and…and he just couldn't bear to bring you to it, too."
"But here we are now," Arya glanced at Jaqen and smiled.
"Yes," Jaqen smiled back. "Here we are now." With his fingertips only, the Lorathi gently caressed the babe's cheek. "And I figured, if you would come to us, I never want to steal away your life by teaching you to steal away others'."
Longer quietude. The stillness was the loveliest she had experience in a while.
"Let's stay here, Jaqen," Arya murmured as she cuddled their young. "Let's not leave this place."
The Lorathi exhaled and kissed her shoulder gently. "We cannot forever stay in an impermanent realm, Arya. It's hardly a place. This…a glimpse only of a future in a myriad of others? We do not belong here. No one does and no one should."
"Where do we belong, then?" Arya asked in a broken voice. "Are we dead?"
"You are not dead, Arya Stark," Jaqen replied. "Great souls like you don't just die."
"But I felt Jon's sword in my heart," Arya replied. "How can I not be dead?"
"Bran's fault. Even I am astounded by your brother's machinations." The Lorathi rubbed his lips gently across her neck. "Jon did not ask you to bare your breast, he did not plunge his steel in you willingly. You threw yourself straight to the Warrior's sword to save him. Yes, you are Nissa Nissa, but you changed your own course. Eight thousand years ago, the Warrior killed his own wife, the wife did not necessarily die for the Warrior. She did this time. That is it, perhaps."
"It still does not explain why I died for Jon and yet I am not dead."
"Ah, that," the Lorathi continued. "Do you recall, Arya? You were veiled from death that night at the Moonsingers—it was the Elder's work, Sabine's work, my work as Guardian; and even though the death god bids the Electi 'Come,' she can refuse. Oh yes, lovely girl, the Electi is the Nissa." He chuckled because her eyes grew wide like a child's. "I've long shielded you from that fate yet it's an honorable one, how could I not have known? As I have said, great souls like you die only when it is time, not before."
Did daggers just stab her heart at the last of his words? The babe wailed softly too, he might have felt her ache. She shushed him promptly, whispered her sweet words into his ears. "What if I never wish to be one great soul? What if I merely wish to be with you, with our little one? Be your wife—that's it! Why should it matter if we forever lose the dawn? Why should I care about anyone else besides you and our child?!"
"Do you wish to stop fighting, Arya?" the Lorathi asked her. All of a sudden, there was a hint of anguish in his voice.
How was she to answer such query? If she raises her banners of white, decide for herself the easier course, what assurance has she on transcending that impermanent realm and living the rest of her days with Jaqen H'ghar? He was already god-consumed; and she is with him only because Bran had once more taken a gamble and cheated on time yet again. This realm we are in now is a mere crossroad, Arya realized. Our paths may converge or diverge—I might return and he might tarry here and then carry on. The same way when we had parted ways at Harrenhal.
"If I surrender," Arya began. "I'd be spitting on your acts of sacrifice. If I cease fighting I'd be…casting you aside, throwing away your blood and toil—these will all be for none. How can I…how can I ever do that to you?"
Jaqen only smiled, the agony in Arya's words piercing every scintilla of him.
"But if I continue fighting," Arya choked at the next words. The babe in her arms was stirred, and it cried as if feeling his mother's pains. "If I carry on, I might kill you with my own sword. Dear gods...you and Bran…you planned all these!" She sat upright and held her babe tighter. She wanted to pound on his chest but the torment was stronger than the rage. "You plotted out your own death!"
Jaqen sat up and wrapped his arms around Arya.
"I needed to protect you so I took on that role. I'd rather fully die in your hands than live the sickening life of a god-host. I was born a tyrant, I would never die like one, Arya of the Rhoyne. I implore you to release me from bondage, just as you have released from thrall your riverkin, just as you have freed me by renaming me Iāqaen. I am not he; I am not the Great Other's lover once chained. No…no." He held her chin and kissed her deeply. "Udrāzmalon—I exist only for you. No one owns me but you—not even the gods. So own me…claim my life, jorrāelagon. Wrap your Valyrian steel with my blood, tell our babe our story, never ever forget my name, Arya Stark." Their temples connected, and Jaqen closed his eyes and inhaled her scent. "Take me so I can always be with you."
"I don't want to!" Arya screamed. "You can't force me to take your life!"
The Lorathi smiled. "He will bleed before she does, and he will take the last of his breath, before she takes the last of hers," he recited the forty-fourth leaf of the Songs of the Faceless. "I still am your Faceless Master, lovely girl…and this is what I have trained you for. Enough of the stubbornness now, sweet pup." He kissed Arya's forehead, kissed their babe's cheek. He took something from his breech pocket and held it out in front of her—the Queller which she had lost in the battle against Aurion. He fixed it around Arya's neck. "I retrieved it from undersea when I fell. Do me two favors. Don't lose this ever again and teach Damien how to properly hold a sword, yes?"
"I will hate you forever if you push me to do this, Jaqen!"
"But I will still love you forever, Arya."
The realm was then aquiver, the mirrored edges of it breaking into billions of shards. Everything around her was slowly fading, but his deep purr and his scent, his face, lingered as she drifted away from him…for good.
Jaqen H'ghar was right.
Arya held the pendant of her Queller with one hand and the grip of her sword with another. The cycles must end or they will forever be thralls to it.
Her grief was more pronounced yet it was unspoken too, and it was bidding her overwrought heart to break. The loss will be deep, it might kill her even; yet Jaqen had chosen death over continuance and though he was right he had lied—indeed he wished to be freed from the god that had used his body as host, had despoiled it irrevocably; yet the greater truth speaks only of sacrifice, and the truth is this: it was her freedom that Jaqen had ransomed in his choice to fall.
If Jaqen chose to walk away from his fallen warrior's fate that was the path of his own doom, then Arya would never be liberated from the destiny of being Nissa Nissa—the wife who has to die every time Winter returns to ravage all. Every cycle, she will birth Warriors and red swords of heroes; every cycle, she will have to face the torment of being killed by one beloved to her; and every cycle, she would have to face the Great Other and her tyrant spouse chained and freed and chained once more in a harrowing, endless game with time.
Everything that Jaqen had done was for her.
In all realms, he had kept his vows as written in the leaves of their Songs, though the verses blinded them and led them to astray to its own path carved out of fixed destinies.
The pendant of her Queller lit up with power, yet the glow of it was new to Arya. The radiance of it was more intense, more…beautiful. When she gazed down upon the pendant, she noticed that what she thought was the ruby of it was actually as green as the earth, and within it were drops of his blood which he had shed for her in Valyria, blood he is shedding for her now so she may be emancipated from the fetters of the cycles.
"The blood of his wounds fell into the dark green earth and turned into stone,
And from it came that gem that is the paragon of self-sacrifice…"
She brought the bloodstone pendant to her lips—another one of the Lorathi's layer of protective rune meant for her, along with his veil from death, the imprint of his dragon's blood upon her skin.
Slowly, she stood and gazed up.
The chained god towered her, and within him is the Many-faced god weakened by the onslaught of the other gods in the realm which Bran had conjured up. I must kill the one I have loved dearly, Arya persuaded herself. I can only love him so utterly as when I lose him.
He was first to draw his sword, raising it overhead. She lifted both of her swords and blocked his attack, then pushed his weapon away. The emperor-god's eyes widened in surprise as he staggered backwards, before screaming in raw rage. Blow after blow he went, she parried. She wounded his right leg deeply as she rolled over to avoid a sequence of thrusts. Dark blood oozed from him.
I will retrace the labyrinths of your person as I once did in the mazes of Lorath…
And she carried on…thwarting his charges, delivering attacks herself. With warrior's skill, she stabbed and ripped him in the right places, weakened his limbs and assails. Dark sorcery burst forth from him and enwrapped his steel. His face was taut with fury but within him, Arya knew, was the deep, elemental beauty of one she had known the way she knew her own heart. He bolted towards her, his sword emitting waves of energy.
She braced herself.
I will keep with me the memories of the city where we ran and laughed and tasted our own blood...
Arya felt her blood pulsating, with Jaqen's dragon imprint on her arm glowing and its force flowing through her veins. The power of the mark suffused her steel fully. The rune was warm to the skin, and it swelled like a mighty torrent from her. Its surging mass of smoke and traces formed a figure: a dragon—imperial, aurelian. Even in the verge of his own ruin, her beloved still fought beside her.
The dragon's form was of vapor only, yet it was an amassment of magic coiling around the the god's form, shackling his entirety. He struggled against the rune's hold on him but the strength of it was his own strength—the very strength he had given his Nissa.
Arya's heart broke as she witnessed how the dragon mist choked the life out of him. Great sorrow crippled her and for a second, she couldn't raise her sword to finish him…
Jaqen's words rang clearly in her ears, transcending the immensity of time—'Own me, take my life so I can always be with you.'
I will take a thousand trips to the realm where you are…to a place that overlaps with where I am now.
And perhaps…
Perhaps, I will be with you again.
With an anguished scream, she thrust a sword into his heart.
His eyes were tragedy…and Arya sobbed as she murmured words of reparation, love. Could he understand any of these? Perhaps not, but what does it matter? She would say those words because she loves him, because they are true.
And because she had lived with him as her purpose, because she had wrapped her identity fully in all that he is, this loss would be the saddest, the greatest…
Let go…
The Many-faced god absconded from the emperor's host, her faces and persons clawing their way out of the host's pores. The god let out a thundering scream and unleashed the last of her sorcery to fortify her cold ones in the permanent ices.
The once chained god collapsed on his knees and bled; and Arya witnessed the emperor's many souls wriggling out of Jaqen's body only to be obliterated by the force emanating from her sword.
She knew it in her bones—she had done it. She felt herself die too as she saw him surrendering his immortality to mortality.
The other half of my heart…
Gone.
From a distance, Jon witnessed the glare beyond the cold waste, exploding then waning. A god's scream burst from the ridges along its horizon.
Somehow, he knew that Arya was in the very heart of winter, facing the source of all malevolence that brought them to this. All over him were corpses either bloodied or frozen, and the bodies of some had been reduced to pitiful shards of broken ice. The dragons were at their weakest and already, Drogon lay flat on the ground, unmoving. Daenerys was nowhere in sight and Jon was fearing the worst. Aegon was the last one riding against the behemothic creature of solid ice, and frost was slowly crawling across Rhaegal's body starting with the left wing—he can neither fly nor spew fire.
How can mortals ever win against magic?
The Warrior of Light is the dragon, the greatest believer. Fate whispered: and 'faith', it said.
He raised his red sword and it flared with blinding light in response. It both shone and radiated heat, the Nissa's heart was still along the blade of it, her soul still enwrapped its steel.
The mad hisses of the cold ones ceased as the brilliance of that sword burned bright. Night vanished in sight for moments, replaced by the dazzle of the Lightbringer, forged from the sword whose name spoke of oaths kept—indeed, the Warrior of Light will once more draw his sword and scatter darkness.
The Others rushed to Azor Ahai, with their scheme to attack him and seize the red sword before it could cause their ultimate ruin. Those Others left the frozen dead, the breathing men and their dragonglass and steel, and converged around the Warrior with their weapons of ice.
Azor Ahai felt the cold seeping through his marrows, felt eight thousand years all over again. Yet this time, he had decided, he will not chase away darkness with his red sword.
He will end it.
With a thundering war cry, he thrust the sword on the frozen ground. The Lightbringer's power burst like spheres of flame all around him, its seething power obliterating those cold ones bold enough to challenge its authority. The Warrior was wreathed with the crackling flame of the red god's undisputable power, annihilating all enemy forces.
Bran took the opportunity and dashed towards winter's dragon. He climbed up through its spiked tail, traversed its spines and scales of ice as frost crawled across his body. He had reached the dragon's head before the creature had taken a sharp dive. Bran felt himself losing his footing and falling once more, yet this time, the fall was his own choice.
He hurled his sword straight onto the dragon's right eye, then surrendered to his collapse. The sword pierced the eye and the ice dragon thrashed its head from side to side, agony consuming every inch of its serpent's body.
Aegon the Sixth flew in front of the dragon and blasted its face with orbs of flame. A mighty explosion devoured the dragon's body still lashing out waves of power. Finally, it shattered into fine fragments of ice, sending a jolt through the air and the ground. Those fragments fell from the skies like snow.
The Many-faced god at the Heart of Winter paused from her duel with the Nissa as she beheld the might of the Warrior's sword. She hissed and shuddered in fright.
Arya began to launch savage swings of her dragonsteel. The Many-faced held her ground and delivered fierce ripostes through her sword of ice. But the Nissa was relentless, and she pressed on with her attacks.
The god staggered beneath the blows, then with a scream, launched herself at Arya.
A streak of dark scarlet burst from the death god's back, light bleeding from the Nissa's sword that had impaled her. She shrieked in both horror and pain, as the aurelian dragon in mist's form spread in swift coils from Arya's sword, engulfing the god whole.
The smoke twisted then disappeared, as the Nissa's sword screamed in earnest.
Arya collapsed on the ground.
She had died, fought, loved. She took the hard path and became the tale the good gods had wanted her to be.
Ceri-hafe.
Done.
In the midst of her tragic glory was her broken heart screaming out Jaqen's name.
