Hey guys! Second to the last chapter right here. One chapter left. Thanks for reading! ;D
False spring will cease
now that the great Winter is dead.
The Warrior and the Nissa, Jade Compendium (derived)
Silence cloaked the expanse beyond the Wall that once stood, transformed into a wasteland, a graveyard of the unburied. Winds of winter still blew but there was less trace of malevolence in it. Still, the aftermath was irreversible, and though the grieving men chose to speak not of death's throe, deep sadness sang its lamentation within each one of them—louder than the hisses and shrieks of the creatures of winter now dead.
The screams of slaughterers and slaughtered, the clangor of swords and spears had been hushed. Snow had gone scarlet; broken armors and weapons lay in heaps beside assemblages of dead ones. Those who have died may have uttered the last of their prayers to their gods, and may now be in the lair of their ancestors. Mothers and wives and children awaited them perchance in their dwellings south of that place.
But they are all gone now, never to return.
Very well, the bards would sing of their heroic deeds and never will they be forgotten, not in a thousand years. However, what good would a song do them now? They are dead men. Dead men don't listen to harps and fiddles.
Jon had told Arya that they had gone looking for her past the Valley of the Thenns all the way to the Land of Always Winter. Aegon and Jon followed the path of the Milkwater on horseback; the dragons were all badly injured and so they couldn't fly at all, and one was already dying. On the way, they saw the dead along Frostfangs and Hornfoot—casualties amongst the wildlings numbering to thousands. These figures, despite the alliance formed between the North and the Free Folks, despite the efforts to open the gates of the Wall to let everyone on the other side in.
Still, there were those brave men who fought in that tragic war. The dead toll stood at around twenty thousand.
It did not really feel as if they had won. Lives were spilled, and though their side emerged victorious, such victory came with an unfathomable price.
After a couple of days, they had found her lying half-dead across the border between the permanent ices and the Grey Waste. They found temporary dwelling in the caves close to the ruins of the Fist. They stayed there for a good three days because she was having mad fits…screaming and weeping…thrashing against even the slightest touch…suffering through convulsive attacks…clawing at her own face and arms…yet amidst all these she was never actually awake.
The game was scarce, all they had managed to hunt were winter hares and snakes. At least, the cold was already bearable.
Her fever was on and off, for days she had eaten naught for she was dead to the world.
In that cave by the Fist, Jon saw his brother almost lose himself for the first time. The sight of Arya possessed by her inner demons and by the utter cruelty of that war almost sent Aegon to the point of near-collapse. The regal, self-assured air about the lad-king had at that moment disappeared asudden, replaced with depthless grief of a lover in mourning, as if the beloved had gone to a realm even the gods are not allowed to enter.
Why of course, there are a thousand ways to lose a beloved.
They took turns on watch duty, but Aegon never really slept. Jon saw him lying on his side every night, head propped on an arm and observing Arya—as if counting her every breath, praying for even a flutter of her lashes to indicate that she truly is just aslumber. In every one of Arya's slightest whimpers, Aegon would sit up and gaze closely at her face, and press his lips upon hers to be assured of her warmth, to be assured that blood still flowed and life still dwelled within her body. Each night, he ran his fingers across his silver of hair and exhaled in sweet dejection before resuming his place beside her and battling against night that bids him to sleep.
Of course, there was Jon's love for Arya, too—as a sister, as…someone else. But from where Aegon was deriving that unexplainable attachment toward her, Jon could only speculate. It's as if something deeper connected Aegon with Arya now—it was something more than fondness or friendship.
It was devotedness of the most profound kind.
Surely, he could not just replace Jaqen in that role, can he? Jon thought, but forced himself to pause with his musings. Unless…
Jon felt his jaw harden.
Did Jaqen and Aegon perchance reach a compromise, something Jon was deliberately left out of?
Is it because of the Warrior prophecy? Did they think that I could bear it upon myself to kill Arya in that war?
He quickly vanquished the rage growing inside him. It was all a game of fates and chances, a gamble with time, as Bran had said. The littlest thing that had happened was fueled by their choices. This could not have been anyone's fault. Only the foes were to blame.
Jon directed his gaze to her face. It was far from peaceful, as if she was still fighting indomitable enemies within. Or had I pushed her to such fate when I gave her Needle? Did that small act lead her to desire for and fulfill greater things—winning battles and dying for all men?
It broke his heart to see Arya that way. He showed very little, yet her state was killing him as well. It was for Jon's sake after all that Arya had allowed herself to be consumed by his sword—another one of her many sacrifices. Even as a young girl, Arya thought she could save everyone she loved.
On the fourth day, she had regained consciousness. They saddled up and rode for Winterfell on her firm request.
"What happened to the others?" Arya had asked both of them upon reaching the ruins of Craster's Keep. Her tone was emotionless, so were her eyes that were fixed only on the road ahead, yet unseeing. The dead ones seemed a hundred times more alive than she is.
Aegon threw a glance at Jon and sighed. "We will fill you in once we reach Winterfell, Arya."
"What happened to the others?" She repeated the query with the same lackluster tone, howbeit with slight emphasis on each word.
"Sansa and Rickon are alive and well," Jon answered. Aegon exhaled in irritation—before the ride, both of them agreed not to disclose the war's aftermath just yet. Even if they commenced with the better news, her questions will pile up and they will be forced to answer them and recount every dispiriting detail. It would only devastate her, throw her once more over the edge.
"Bran?"
"You know what happened to Bran, Arya."
Her eyes were still dead; there was no flicker of confirmation to say that she knew about and accepted Bran's chosen fate within the Weirwood cave.
"And the other ones?"
Jon swallowed a lump that had formed in his throat. "We lost some."
"Who?"
He was gripped by shame as he heard his own voice break. "Val and…"
Aegon threw him a worried gaze. "…a good number of people," the king carried on for Jon. Lady Brienne kept her promise and protected the Stark children till her last at Nightfort, and so she had died in battle; and so did Tormund the Mead-king, the red priestess, Ser Barristan, Blackfish Tully, Ser Davos, Gendry and the brotherhood, and many, many nameless others.
Arya still kept her eyes on the road. "So, we lost in the war after all."
"In a way," Aegon replied. He looked at Arya and felt the lifelessness in her. "We also won, in a way."
"Everything is going to be fine, Arya," Jon offered. "We promise you this."
Arya didn't answer.
She was right, as Aegon the Sixth had realized. They had lost in the war after all.
Two weeks after the war against the Others, all the high lords of Westeros who took part rode south of the Wall and gathered in Winterfell at the Targaryen claimant's behest.
Defeat registered in the face of each one. The death of twenty thousand soldiers, mercenaries, and plain citizens untrained in battle was more than enough to place everyone in downtrodden, hopeless dispositions. For the longest time, they had ignored the threats Beyond-the-Wall and listened to the skeptics of the Citadel more than to their own wise instincts that were gifts from the gods. The southern forces had rushed to the North only when the lords were convinced that the snowfall was no natural thing, and they all did so because of the persuasions of Lord Petyr Baelish who had already sworn fealty to the Targaryens.
Even with the obsidian weapons and Valyrian steel, the marchers still arrived to the North unprepared.
Unprepared, yes. For if they truly were, the death toll would have been far less.
All of them lost not only soldiers—they lost fathers, sons and daughters, friends. Some houses even suffered a fate worse than that of the Boltons and the Freys, or even the Reynes of Castamere.
"…as Ser Jorah Mormont is now Lord Commander. However, the Night's Watch will be there to seal peace and alliance permanently between the Free Folks and the rest of Westeros. The Wall had fallen for a purpose—it's a border that had long since separated us from the Thenns, the ice river clans, the cave-dwellers that are all brothers to us."
Jon and the other lords were silently listening to Aegon the Sixth's post-war prelections. The great hall was a mirror of unbreakable silence—one pretentious cloak to the howls of anguished keening in the souls of each one.
"Yes, we mourn for our dead," Aegon carried on. "And may none forget this fateful day—when all the greathouses of Westeros, along with the wildling clans, have raised their banners to fight a common foe and keep what is ours." He allowed his eyes to travel across faces and linger on some. "It is done."
"What now?" came Theon Greyjoy's unexpected query. It was vague, yet the answer it required held the certainties the realms needed at the moment. "What of the Seven Kingdoms?"
Unlike the others, Aegon expected such questions to arise. Will the kingdoms be allowed their respective independence?
He gave Tyrion Lannister a quick glance, the Imp only nodded. Aegon sighed, weariness apparent in his face. He sank to his chair and allowed air to escape from his mouth. Surely, the nobles could forgive him for his lack of regard for court proprieties. The lad-king had fought in three straight battles all for the sake of Westeros whether the lords would admit to such truth or not, and he was drained. "I leave the decision to the lords. Whatever the consensus is, House Targaryen will have to concur."
What he expected was an inundation of demands—let the Targaryens lay claim on the Crownlands, let the Prince of Dorne rule his own turf and the North declare a king. Leave the Vale and the Riverlands to their rightful lords, as what must be done as well to the Rock and the Reach, the Stormlands and the Iron Islands.
Seven calls for self-government—these are within logic.
Instead, he was met by total silence.
There were occasional clearing of throats, gentle taps of fingers against the wood, gentle huffs with expectant stares. But not a single word. Aegon the Sixth regarded each one, and most of them were looking fixedly at Jon Stark, a Targaryen-blooded as they have recently learned, the one whom they have witnessed was carrying the legendary red sword of heroes during that impossible war. The Warrior. The Prince that was Promised. Azor Ahai. The great doubters had become the most profound believers. In one night, they all had altered their convictions as they were impelled by something that had saved their very lives.
Myths are as real as men and gods. The fabled Azor Ahai indeed fought with them in that great war.
Jon Stark Targaryen stood and spoke to the lords. "I say we are each other's business." After everything they all had suffered, he had no intentions of tiring them with the rhetorics of the North. He let the words endure for a few good seconds before carrying on. "Pray, what have we accomplished divided?"
Tyrion Lannister responded. "None."
Jon directed his attention to the man, nodded. "And what have we accomplished altogether?"
"All," Ser Jorah replied.
"It's settled then," Jon said, unsheathing Oathkeeper and bending on one knee with the sword's tip on the ground. "The North will declare for Aegon Targaryen, Sixth of his Name."
Aegon smiled. Jon smiled back. The bent knee meant more than the deference of a subject to his king, but a deeper understanding between brothers who both had been through so much—solemn promises must be made to make sure that the then undivided realms would not sink into chaos.
One but many.
No further persuasions were necessary. One by one, the high lords unsheathed their swords and knelt, accepted Aegon the Sixth as their king. If the fabled Warrior who had saved the realms from that great war had bent the knee and placed his full trust to this king, then there is no reason for anyone to do otherwise.
The sacred thread of unbroken unity must remain, now more than ever.
What does West of Westeros truly hold?
"You will rule this land which Aegon I had conquered," were her instructions to her nephew. "Lead, for our House and for all houses. I have my land waiting for me in the far east. Find a queen to rule with you, have her birth you some heirs. Carry on with the lineage, Aegon the Sixth. I…am barren and will not be able to do it."
Daenerys Targaryen surveyed what remained of her beloved Meereen.
She had promised them all a new life but she had failed to deliver. Indeed, the Silver Queen had won more battles and lost in less, all her life she had been set on conquering Westeros—in Vaes Dothrak and the Slaver's Bay, she had thought of and dreamed of and planned for nothing but this; and all be damned but she would prevail over her foes.
Indeed, she had.
Yet, Daenerys realized how so consumed she was by power that she had lost her eyes and failed to see things that truly mattered—her city, her people, her home though that place of many faces and tongues would forever be foreign to her. If one's eyes are set on vengeance, one would truly lose sight of everything else.
When the rivers run dry…
Those dragonlords, the harsh winter had both overrun the city's once great walls, slaughtering almost every living soul within these. It was as if the hands of one malevolent god had closed in to gather all the city's pyramids, crushing them all while burying them beneath their own dregs.
There were survivors, of course—a good number, much to her surprise. And they still called to her. 'Mhysa,' their lips would say; and it made the mother in her weep. How could hope still glisten in their faces after they had fallen, after she had abandoned them all?
When the womb quickens…
She cannot fall into despair. She owed it to her people not to.
And so, the moment Drogon had landed on the soils of Meereen, Daenerys had begun her extensive and ambitious rebuilding, to honor the city that once stood where she was standing. The Unsullied, the Dothraki that remained loyal to her now aided her in her plans of restoration.
Footfalls and a familiar, deep voice disturbed her contemplations.
"Shall we begin with the gates? The tonnes of red bricks have arrived," Daario Naharis informed her.
She sighed, taking in the sights of her pursuits. "Start with the deep wells near Skahazadhan. Our people need water."
The Stormcrow nodded and turned to leave.
"Daario," she called to him.
He circled back. "Yes?"
She faced him, uncertainty in her eyes. What is this? She had never needed anyone but herself. Why now?
"Tell me," Daenerys said in an unsteady voice, searching for something in his eyes. "In the years you've been with me, have I done anything…good?"
The Stormcrow smiled. His eyes were too kind, and the queen's heart screamed as she felt once more those familiar emotions when she had lost her beloved khal and their child. This is more than the primal want for a man's body to warm her bed, more than having someone to satisfy her lusts and dispel the thoughts of these from her addled mind after one fleeting gratification.
She was powerful, and the realms east to west witnessed that.
Yet she was so very lonely.
The dead would not anymore live, even if the sun rises in the west and sets in the east.
"I've known good only through you, my queen," Daario replied.
Daenerys inhaled sharply, reached for his hand and brought it to her cheek.
What is this?
"Stay with me," she whispered, and her eyes were plagued like those of an unsure child. "Please?"
Daario stroked her cheek gently, spoke.
"I would never wish to be anywhere else."
It doesn't do a man any good to dwell in the past. Cersei was a fool; and Jaime, an even bigger fool for falling for her and thus, falling into her trap. Were they not exhausted yet of Tywin Lannister that they had to desperately follow him to the grave?
He had sent Jaime a missive a moon before he rode to the North with Aegon the Sixth. He waited, but the letter was unanswered.
Of course, they had cut ties with him for good.
It is strange—feeling a sense of hollowness for losing the last of your kin, though those kin want absolutely nothing to do with you.
Casterly Rock is a magnificent fortress, Tyrion had told Sansa. Stone—hard and unmovable. He knew she doesn't have one whit of interest about the gold. She merely needed a place where she can look into matters and rule, question, gain understanding, wield power.
There's the Stone Garden too, the godswood with twisted heart trees a tenth the size of Raventree Hall's. She could offer her prayers there. Does she want handmaidens from the North? Some gold, perhaps—and no, he's not bribing her at all just to gain her acquiescence—to repair northern castles ravaged by the harsh winter?
"…and I can assure you that you will be comfortable there. I have spoken with Aegon the Sixth and he agreed to such arrangement—I would be allowed to visit you twice a moon, and you are free to sojourn in King's Landing anytime you like. Or you can stay in King's Landing, for good. It's a good place to raise children—"
"No."
Tyrion's jaw clenched. "No?"
Sansa looked up from a scroll containing the most recent of Winterfell's expenses, then smiled sadly at the Imp. "No."
He cleared his throat. "May I ask why?"
"I wish to stay here in Winterfell," she replied. "If we are to keep this marriage, then you will remain here with me."
The Imp chuckled, then silenced himself when Sansa did not share his amusement.
Of course, Sansa was burdened.
Bran had decided to stay beyond the Wall. And ever since the Lady Arya returned from some distant land close to the Grey Waste, she was never the same. Alive yet dead—Tyrion had heard this from the servants themselves during one of his aimless ventures in the scullery, doesn't eat, doesn't sleep; all the lady does is stare at the godswood for hours from her bedroom window.
She's shutting everyone out, and perhaps what the servants had said over preparations for repast was true—that Lady Arya had died with Jaqen H'ghar, and the one that sits in the Lady Arya's bedchamber, mulling over a thousand different pains, whispering 'let me undo it…' over and over, gazing at nothingness with lifeless eyes, was in fact an Other in disguise.
Tyrion wanted to laugh at the inanity of their presumptions. All the Others are gone; Lady Arya is in the deepest state of mourning only. The Imp understood such perfectly, for in a most tragic way he had also killed two beloveds to him—a whore, a lord father.
And now, he had lost a sister and a brother.
He exhaled deeply and spoke. "You do know that I have duties to the king. As Hand, I must remain with him in the capital and reestablish lost dominion in the westerlands. I still am a Lannister, however rotten-sounding the name is. Casterly Rock is my home."
"As Winterfell is mine."
"I'm your husband, Sansa."
"And I, your wife."
Tyrion exhaled sharply. Thorns twisted in his heart as he beheld Sansa's face. Of course, he should have known that she can never be persuaded.
"You have your sworn duties to your king, Tyrion. I too, have my duties here, how ever unbelievable that may sound to you," Sansa explained. "Please do not make me choose between Winterfell and Casterly Rock, or King's Landing—between home and you. It's going to break me only, and I have been through that as you may well know."
"Those words," Tyrion answered. "Yet, you're making me choose between you and my obligations."
"I am not."
"Then why won't you come with me?"
"Why must I be the one to make compromises?"
Tyrion shut his eyes in irritation. "Winterfell is an eternity away from the Crownlands, Sansa."
"Do you love me, Tyrion?"
He opened his mouth to answer, thought better of it and pursed his lips instead.
Sansa turned her eyes back to the scrolls, and her soft smile was with a hint of sorrow. She started to walk away.
"Sansa," he called to her.
Slowly, she turned and faced him—expectant, close to heartbreak.
Tyrion merely stared at her and wondered how many words were unsaid, and how many times he had died inside because he was too affrighted to say them.
He shook his head, unsure. But this…she had eyes and she chose me.
Finally, he answered.
"Yes."
Sansa crossed the distance between them, then knelt in front of Tyrion. She kissed him on the cheek. "As I do."
"Yet," Tyrion exhaled. "I still have to go."
"Then go," she said. "Go and fulfill your duties to the king and the realms. We will send ravens to each other, in the godswood there and the godswood here, we will say our prayers and renew our vows every fortnight. If you tell me you'll ride to the North in the next moon, or the moon after that, or many moons further…" she rested her temple against his. "I will wait."
"How is she?" Aegeus asked.
"Grieving," Sabine answered. "Bewailing her loss silently—most painful of the lot."
"I know that, but…have you spoken with her?"
"No. She's not speaking with anyone, remember?"
She packed her potions and he packed his weapons. None of them spoke for a while. The clinking of her glass decanters and the soft clanging sound of his daggers and longswords filled the chamber, replacing the awkward silence.
For days, they had mourned with Arya. All of their attempts to engage her in even the simplest of conversations—a query on how she was faring, a remark on how lovely the days are getting now that spring is about to arrive—all of these had been useless; and so, they chose to keep her company and in the silence lament over the losses they have suffered. Braavos, the temple and the Elder, Jaqen. How many deaths must one witness and endure before the gods whisper, 'enough'?
Enduring the loss was too fatal for words, but they cannot just die for the sake of themselves. The dead had reached a toll close to that of Daeron Targaryen when he fought for Dorne's submission—war is never a game; this much they have learned.
Every morn, they wake and realize that all things that had happened had been real.
"Do you think he's coming back?" Sabine asked out of the blue. "It is fated death, I know. Still…"
Aegeus sighed. The most difficult for all of them is to let go, to imagine alternate courses at the end of the road. Is he coming back? It's quite simple—human life ends in death. Is Jaqen dead?
Yes.
"Don't cling on that hope too much, Sabine. He acted based on choice."
"The only choice left to him, you mean."
"Yes. Had it not been for that choice, we would all have died. No questions."
"It's not fair, Aegeus."
The comely one felt his heart cave in.
He so desired to weep for his dead Lorathi brother, but Sabine needed him…strong and knowing and calm. Hence, he chose to swallow the hurts and act as if he was the most unstirred of them all, the most resilient, as if he knew that what had happened was bound to happen, that it was all for—in the Elder's mighty yet hollow words—greater good.
"Nothing is ever fair, Sabine."
Oh gods, his voice was that of broken glass. So very…weak. Damn it, he cursed. My serene cover in front of this woman—gone.
The Handsome Man felt the Waif's arms coiling around his waist, embracing him from behind. She rested her cheek against his lean, decadently firm back. "You can weep, Aegeus," she whispered. "I promise, I won't look."
The tears had fallen even before she had reminded him that it was utterly fine to cry.
And he felt her too, her soft shudders, her sharp gasps akin to one pleading for wind, the wetness of her tears that seeped through the fabric of his tunic onto the skin of his back. He despised it—knowing that she was so pained yet not being able to do a damned thing about it.
Aegeus turned to face Sabine asudden, pulled her and crushed her dainty, female built in his arms.
If she dies in that embrace, then so be it. He's not letting her go.
"Come with me, Sabine."
She looked up, her eyes still glistening and misty. He wiped those tears still unfallen and kissed her temple.
"Where?" she asked. "Where do you plan to go now that it's over? The temple is in ashes—our home. Gone, Aegeus. They burned it, killed the Elder and our brothers…our only home for years…"
He lifted her chin and devoured her lips, transferring all rage and desolation onto the passions of his kisses. Perhaps, the Handsome Man thought. She could make the pain vanish. Perhaps, she has within her some potion that could bring back bliss to a grieving, shattered man.
When he released her, he spoke. "We will build another home—together."
She shook her head, and her eyes revealed all her unexplainable aches, the sufferings, the uncertainties. "I don't know, brother. I know no other life but this assassin's life. I've cooked potions but not food, worn countless of raiments but washed not a single one. How would we live?"
Aegeus kissed her again, cupped her cheeks. "We just do, Sabine. I don't care—I could fish or farm or trade. I could buy us a ship and enter the business, sell your bottles of amortentia and those fancy trinkets you find only in Lys, dye Pentoshi rags or offer my services as a mercenary. Anything! I'd do anything…"
She buried her face in his chest. "You really have thought this through, have you not?"
He chuckled and raked her hair with his fingers. "Yes. Over and over."
Sabine stood on her toes, kissed him deeply. "Chroyane."
"What?" Aegeus raised a brow.
"I want to live there, Aegeus—Chroyane. I wish to be in that city where your Palace of Love used to stand. I wish to remain with you in your land from a thousand years."
Aegeus smiled.
Anything lost comes back in another form.
He nodded.
"Chroyane."
The war was not over. Never will it be.
It would always take her the greatest of efforts to not drag herself to the pit whenever those hellish dream-spectres would wake her in the middle of the night. Black, red, shadows, shrieks, fire, ice—the shades and the masks that befogged her mind were as sharp as the burning pain on her chest and guts. At times, she would find her face inside the clay basin, retching her innards out though she had eaten almost naught for many days. She wanted to starve herself so she may die, and in the midst of her wretchedness she cursed all the gods, cursed her fate in that book she had once regarded as hallowed, cursed him—for choosing to save all and abandon her.
Of all the faces she had worn in her life, the face of the Nissa is the most loathsome, the most damned.
Was she mistaken when she had told Jon that a warg is as much human as he is an animal?
A man can befriend a wolf, but not truly tame it—Bran's words, yet isn't the warg's soul married to the wolf's? And if wolves are wargs and wargs are wolves, then are humans essentially animals? If so, how can a human person such as herself become so disconnected with everything else as to lose the basic instinct—animal's instinct—the instinct to survive and simply… breathe her next?
Losing him was akin to a white raven losing a pair of wings.
No.
It was so much worse, so much more unfathomable. It was crippling, maiming, flaying her alive. A fortnight ago, the gods defeated the Many-faced one through her. It was complete cosmic pain which she had suffered, and recalled such quite well. Yet…and yet she was able to bear it.
Not this.
Never this.
Arya wanted to be obliterated to the last shred of her soul.
For nights, she had gazed upon the night sky, trying to make sense of the cluster of stars the Lorathi had once showed her when they rode his firebeast to Harrenhal. Fifty-five known stars form my most favored. In Valyria, we call it Buzdari Dārilaros—the chained princess." With much pain, she recalled the Lorathi's recount.
She was a water naiad chained in a rock by one goddess who saw her as a threat.
No prince came to save her.
But one dragon did.
"I see no dragon in that star formation," Arya whispered to herself, but her lusterless eyes she kept locked upon heaven's ebony. There was a gap now, on the very place where the dragon constellation used to be. "That dragon is nothing but myth."
And how she despised those who were around her, unfettered by her agonies! How dare they tell her that they understood, how dare they offer their unsolicited words that she must pull herself up. Arya so desired to slit their throats whilst they slept, push a pillow against their faces to drown their pleas out, poison them all and watch as the white of their eyes grow purple veins, regard them all with fascination as she chokes the life out of each of them.
She wanted to make them all suffer, the way Jaqen had suffered for all of them.
Could they not die for their pathetic, useless selves? Were they such helpless, worthless mortals to have need for someone who would save them?
And did that cursed savior have to be Jaqen?
Damn you, Bran.
Go hide, and hide well, Arya clenched her teeth as she nurtured the rage. If I see you, gods know what I'm going to do to you.
A knock on the door. She didn't bother turning her attention from the window. Arya heard it open then close.
"I brought you supper."
It was Jon.
"I'm not hungry," she monotonously replied, her back still to him. "Leave."
Jon sighed, set the plate on the bedside table. "You wouldn't know that you're hungry until this chamber spins about you and you collapse on your face again." He sauntered towards her, and though the servants and Sansa herself had warned him about Arya's unbelievable temperaments as of late—and Sansa rarely visits Arya now, after that incident when the latter threatened her—he carried on with his admonitions. "Twice a fortnight you had fallen ill. We have all recovered from our injuries, you have not. The healing implements would hardly work if you would fail to sustain yourself—"
"What part of the word 'leave' do you not understand?" Arya turned to him abruptly, hands forming tight fists. Her tone was hostile, and she was never hostile to Jon. "Had that war robbed you of your wits?"
Jon's expression was hard, unyielding. A broken mirror, he thought. Yet not grotesque, there's beauty still in those shards. How does one make the anguish of one's beloved disappear? "Do you really intend to kill yourself by not eating?" He scoffed. "What a stupid way to die."
"Go away," Arya said in between clenched teeth. "I'm tired of you—of all of you, so just go."
"You want me to shove spoonfuls in your mouth?" Jon replied, shedding off the role of one lover and assuming that of the elder kin. "You need me to shackle your wrists on either side of your bedpost to make sure that you will eat? Speak and I'll do so."
"Damn you," Arya shot back. "What are you now, embracing the call of your slaver's blood?!"
Jon's eyes widened for a second at those words, hurt registered in them. Still, Arya's face betrayed no remorse of any kind for the insult that had rolled off a mere while ago from her mouth; etched upon her face was deep hatred, for what or whom, Jon could not tell.
"Oh, I get it," was Jon's reply to her rancor. "You're blaming us for Jaqen's death, as if we murdered him in cold blood, as if there was no grand war half a moon ago." He shook his head, bitterness gorging his heart slowly. He willed himself to kill the antipathy right away. "We do mourn for Jaqen, Arya. We mourn for the twenty thousand others who have died. All of us have lost beloved ones to us. Bran is as good as dead now, and before the battle could even begin, I had lost Val—"
"What gave me away?!" Arya spat, walking towards Jon. The latter stood his ground. "What gave me away for you to assume that I need to hear any damned thing from any of you?!"
"She was with child, Arya."
She paused with her steps and her lips quivered as she shook her head in disbelief. "No…"
"Two moons old," Jon whispered weakly. He sat on the bed's edge. "I…didn't know. Sam told me about it when he was tending her at Shieldhall. He had died in her belly before…Sam could save her."
A boy. Jon and Val could have had a son.
"She didn't tell you."
He exhaled dejectedly. "Perhaps, she didn't want me to worry and stop her from taking part in the war. She had to be there to show a face to the high lords. She had demanded Oakenshield from them, after all. She is…very much like you. Stubborn, abandons all sense to…fight for the ones she loves."
Jon's voice was broken.
We've all lost something along the way. Sansa was right.
Still, she couldn't bear think about the heartaches of others when hers was consuming her—ripping skin from her flesh. She thought about her foolishness. Had she not loved Jaqen so strongly, she would not be suffering right now to the point of a thousandth death.
What they had was gone in the blink of an eye. He threw all the good things they have toiled and bled for, good things they have built. Promises of forever—gone.
Perhaps, she indeed had died in that cavern at the heart of winter. She was shattered during the days of Valyria and Rhoyne, but now…she was so, so broken that even the god of gods could not bring her back.
Arya looked at Jon, her face hardening with icy rage.
He dragged himself into her chamber for this—to speak of one beloved to him who had died, to burden her even more even after she had saved his arse from her own direwolf at the height of the war. Was this a ploy to brand her with guilt at the way she's making her choices—die instead of live?
Must she thank the gods for her breath, though each intake of air pierced her with anguish, knowing that she would never see him again?
"Why are you telling me this?" She bared her teeth.
Jon's eyes flickered with pain, understanding of loss. "To let you know that you do not have to go through this alone."
"Get out."
"Arya—"
"Get the hell OUT!"
Jon opened his mouth to argue, thought better and closed it again. He shook his head and exhaled heavily before storming out of the chamber, slamming the door behind him.
Arya rushed to the closed door and banged the wood with her fists, kicked it, as if in so doing she could rid herself of the misery and relentless madness tearing her into ugly ribbons. She screamed and screamed and screamed, as loud as she can—and may the sounds reach Ny Sar by the river so Mother Rhoyne could comfort her, cradle her in her state of anguish. Then, she collapsed slowly on the floor, choking in her own sobs, damaged…damaged to the point of irreparable pieces.
Four moons. Eight.
Ninth moon came.
She was gasping for breath, large beads of sweat bathed her face. Sharp exhales, an agonized groan. A scream, as she felt her guts being torn from skin to flesh. The maester's voice wasn't helping, neither were Sansa's whispers that were meant to soothe. Arya's strength came in bits and pieces, winnowing before materializing. She would never be able to endure this—not without the man who had brought her into such state.
The bedlinen had turned dark scarlet.
She hated the shade. Rich red is the shade of battle, the shade of Valyrian and Rhoynish and Stark lifeblood all, the shade of the Lorathi's hair…
"We're almost there, Lady Arya," she heard Maester Samwell say.
It was a tug of war, and she felt herself being pulled apart as she pushed and squeezed and twisted.
With one long scream, she emptied all that she is out into the world that waits.
Then, came the sound of an infant's cry—beautifully raw, melodic.
Nissa—child, woman, wife, mother.
Except that it did not at all sound like that to Arya Stark.
She kept her eyes shut as she fought for breath, her entire body tense and weak. She shuddered at the pain the child had brought upon her. How could a mere babe sap out all of her strength like this? She had witnessed battles upon battles, fought, endured the most torturous of throes, why then—it's as if nothing has yet compared to this great pain?
"It's over now, Arya," Sansa whispered in her ear, consoling. She felt her sister's fingers brushing gently her damp hair. "You did well. It's over, and he's out."
Bane, Arya's mind shrieked. Another bane of me.
Then, she felt the gods scourging her for her blasphemy. Mentally, she cried her lungs out. She was given a life, and she was being ungrateful.
Arya didn't care if the gods banished her for all eternity. She kept her eyes shut, her exhales still erratic. What was there to see, truly? Nothing. No One. This would all just end in another fatal loss that would rip her apart, another rhythm of her many sufferings.
She had loved the Lorathi, and she had lost him.
Rid yourself of anything, anyone that would only shatter you in the end, she thought. Better not to love, than to love then lose in the end.
The babe was wrapped in linen and clean bearskin. "Shush…shush, my sweet…" Sansa calmed the babe. "Aren't you a lovely little thing? Oh…sweet boy…" She hummed a few tunes—Catelyn's, the ones that spoke of spring. The babe's wails were replaced by stilled sobs.
"Lady Sansa," Samwell beckoned her. "On the Lady Arya's chest, if you please."
"Oh! Of course," Sansa laughed softly, reluctant still to let go of the child. "I mustn't be too carried away, not while Tyrion isn't here." She sat on the edge of the bed and began settling the babe on Arya's bosoms.
Silver hair, with eyes partly open, irises of bronze against the gold.
Arya stared at the babe, a mad eddy of emotions swirling about her.
He was so soft against her breast, so fragile. Small mouth, nose, hands, feet. Small everything. Yet this…little thing almost killed her a mere while ago. There is innocence in his face and form, yet Arya knew better—this child will be another realm-curse, another assassin, another dragonriding slaver, another chained god-host.
Another scourging memory of Jaqen.
She ran her fingers across the little one's skin and saw what others couldn't—dragon scales and direwolf fur. She gasped.
"Get him away from me."
Sansa gasped. "Arya!"
"And leave me alone. I don't want anyone in this chamber right now."
"What is wrong with you?!"
Arya looked at Sansa, that face unaware of the inner demons she had to wage war against. With deep hatred and fear, she just stared at her before shifting her eyes to Samwell. She didn't dare look at the babe again.
Then, her mouth on the gaunt face spoke. "Everything."
"Lady Arya," Samwell began with a voice of plea. "The babe needs to be fed in about…half an hour."
"Get someone else to nurse this babe," she replied, then directed her attention to the candle by her bedside.
Sansa clenched her teeth as she lifted the babe from Arya's bosoms. "You have indeed died beyond the Wall. What a terrible shame."
Without another word, Sansa walked out of the room, Maester Samwell trailing behind her.
The king now stood waiting at the Dragonpit, a ruin blackened by fire atop the Rhaenys Hill.
They would bring him there, the grand orchestrator behind rebellions and wars among kings, stirrer of chaos in the Seven kingdoms. Despite himself, Aegon the Sixth had to admit that there was true wit in the man for his treachery to reach as far as Essos.
Even the greatest orchestrators die, as all men must.
Through Sansa Stark, through Varys of the Whispers and Tyrion Lannister, the king had learned of every atrocious plot Petyr Baelish had conjured up and performed, beginning with the Rebellion, continuing to the War of Five Kings. He conspired with the lords against the Free Cities, cheated the lords of the Vale and the Riverlands through his loan schemes with the Iron Bank as leverage. He juggled loyalties in the midst of it all, then bent the knee after setting up the murder of the Lannisters, after the Targaryens have reconquered the capital.
The king kept his calm as six from the City Watch dragged the Littlefinger to him.
He did not honor the man's request to be executed through dragonfire in front of the capital's smallfolks and nobles, lords who had defected. Littlefinger wanted it grand, needed his death to be the talk of castles and brothels both. Even in the face of his sure ruin, he still desired a whole scene—staged and with spectators, akin to the mummer's rigmarole he had run from the time of Baratheon and bastard kings.
No, Aegon thought as he beheld the face of the master mummer. He would die a simple death, and no one will know about it. His name will be forgotten. No scroll will ever be written about him, no one will ever know who he is. This is the fate he deserves.
Littlefinger's head was pushed against the beheading block. No resistance, not that resisting would change the course for him.
Still, he couldn't keep his damned mouth shut. The bastard had prepared a damned script. "Forget you not how I aided you in the great war, your grace—"
"Gag him," the king cut in.
No, Aegon would not honor him with the ritualistic last words due him prior to execution.
The soldiers did as they were told.
Aegon the Sixth lifted Blackfyre and with one smooth motion, swung it.
Littlefinger's head toppled on his feet.
"Bury the body," he said. "With the head."
And no, Aegon would not even give him the honor of a spike.
"…as far as the plans for restoring the Citadel is concerned. The Scribe's Hearth and the Sensechal's Court were both partially damaged, the Weeping Dock, fully damaged. The cost per structure is around a million gold dragons, and with Braavos being restored, we could not acquire such amount so easily—not while the magisters of the Free Cities are at present, rebuilding their own. As it appears, the Sealord had transferred all gold depositories to Lorath prior to the attack by the Valyrian slavers…"
Varys's words fleeted only past Aegon the Sixth's ears. He was seated in the head of the small council's table, though in truth he was somewhere else.
North. His whole damned self was in the North.
He was once more lost in his own thoughts. His blank eyes were on the missives at the center. There was a message from Daenerys about the now stable conditions in the Dragon's Bay and the Vaes—no more rape and pillage, thank the Seven, from Illyrio Mopatis and the triarchies with reports from across the Narrow, and a few others containing request for aid from Dorne, the Reach, the Riverlands.
He suddenly could not care less about any of those. Curious—a few moons ago, this was everything he had ever wanted, needed.
Apparently, becoming king only meant sitting on one's arse during gatherings, listening to endless talks and pleas in the throne room that seemed considerably larger with the seat of jagged iron torn down, riding south and across seas to check on the strength of the crown's forces. If only Connington were still alive, the old man would have probably given him a slap about the head—More than kingship being your right, it is your duty! he would have said. You owe it to this people to rule and rule well!
During lazy nights, he would invite Tyrion over to Maegor's Holdfast for some Pentoshi amber. "Duty, not desire," the Imp had told him one evening. "Most of the time, it's never easy."
"Perhaps he still lives," had been his reply to the half-man. "Everyone thought Aurion dead until he emerged from the pocks of West of Westeros."
Oh, yes. Tyrion had laughed himself hoarse when Aegon voiced out his plans that were ridiculous at best—send scholars to Essos to study the layout of the Grey Waste, Stygai, the lands within and beyond Yin.
"Are you out of your damned mind, Aegon?" Tyrion had asked, incredulous. "Why in hell would you even do such a thing? Don't tell me that you too, have fallen in love with Jaqen H'ghar and wished to find him so you can spend the rest of your life together like in some Essosi faerie tale of dragons loving dragons?"
Aegon wasn't amused.
"Ah, but of course," Tyrion carried on, as if recently realizing what was already known. "You wish to pursue such an impossible feat for the sake of the Lady Arya."
The king's eyes widened as it would in near-death. For the sake of the Lady Arya—how could the half-man have realized the motivation? The lids of the lad's eyes grew heavy as he cast his gaze downwards, sighed at the pain. If only he could give the Lorathi a fraction of his breath should he be found, then Aegon would do such thing, no damned questions. Yes, he thought dejectedly. That, for the sake of the Lady Arya.
"I've lost her—we all have. Since after…that war."
"You lovesick fool, you," Tyrion replied, shaking his head. "We all have lost a part of ourselves after that war. There's no other way but to heal. Give her time."
Your grace?
Your grace…
He blinked.
All eyes of the small council were on him.
"Er…" he stammered, pulling himself back to the present. "Please…do proceed."
A sigh escaped from the Head of the Kingsguard, and the Master of Ships and Coin were slightly shaking their heads.
This is now the king; and the king's head is in the clouds.
"We will all be informed of their grace's decision soon," Tyrion answered on his behalf. "As of now, I believe that a recess is in order."
The members of the small council departed from the room. Tyrion stayed with the lad, eyeing him with concern.
Aegon the Sixth clicked his tongue. "What?"
"You know what."
Aegon rubbed his face with both hands. "I'm just a little…" he stared at the Imp, melancholic, the way Rhaegar himself was. "Uninspired."
"Forgive me, your grace," Tyrion's lip curled up in sarcastic retort. "But we cannot summon your royal artists in every small council meeting to have them paint the Lady Arya naked for you whilst you lend the men your ears. You have to find inspiration somewhere else."
"You really are an arse sometimes, do you know that?"
"And you will think me more of an arse with what I'm about to say," Tyrion answered. "If you fail to perform as king, you will lose the seat—throne or no. You kill yourself over such concern for her, yet she doesn't give a horse's shit about you."
Aegon the Sixth winced, as if a million lances struck his heart.
The messenger came. Good, the king thought. Great timing. He couldn't show his Hand how utterly wretched he's becoming.
"Missive from the North, your grace."
Aegon had snatched the scroll from the messenger before the man could even finish his anncouncement. "It's from Sansa," he exhaled, unscrolling the message.
"What?" Tyrion exclaimed, grabbing it from the lad's hands. "Why would she even write to you?"
They both read the missive silently.
Aegon,
I hope you are in the best of health.
Arya has given birth. She is not well. I was hoping that you and Tyrion could come and visit.
Sansa.
Too straightforward. Written in urgency.
"She wrote straight to me, so she can be assured that you would cease acting like the stubborn spouse that you are and indeed ride for the North." Aegon stood and walked in haste towards the holdfast. "Do prepare, we leave tonight."
"The retinue, your grace. The horses and the men—I need time to gather them all. Supplies, provisions," Tyrion said, trailing behind him. "It's nearly impossible to ride within three days, much less within the night."
Aegon paused and turned to Tyrion, his smile with a hint of tease.
The half-man sighed in irritation. "You do know that I hate flying."
The king merely patted him on the shoulder. "The sooner we get to Winterfell, the better," then, strode off.
A few hours and it will be dawn. She hasn't slept—couldn't. She was dead, and dead ones never slumber. She was slumped over on the cold floor, begging the Lorathi to chase away shadows and demons hovering over her. Jaqen…her lips have whispered, and felt the wetness dripping from her mouth. There he was at the corner of the dimly-lit crypts of the castle…head tilted…smirking…or perhaps it was mist only, conjured by the twisted workings of her warg's mind.
Statues of Stark kings that lay dead in that undercroft had no eyes, yet they all saw her.
Arya held tightly the hilt of her dagger, pressed the blade against her wrist. A quick slash—that was all, and her pains would cease.
She giggled. It tickles. The blade felt like dandelion seeds kissing her skin, those delicate ones in the far grasslands where Valyria and Rhoyne converged. Let us play in the fields my goddess. A cackle escaped from her drooling mouth, so loud that she had to tip her head back. Her eyes chanced upon a small opening across the crypt's stone ceiling, showing clearly the ebony sky with scattered stars and thought of the shierak qiya that had brought the Lorathi to her and taken him away, too. She hissed with contempt at the cosmic herald.
Lovely girl…
Udrāzmalon.
If she hurled her dagger to the heavens, would it reach the heart of that damned bleeding star and shatter it to fragments?
Arya held her hand out as if to touch the distant comet…she shook her head, eyes wide, lips quivering. "Haaa…" she laughed softly, then stopped to clutch her chest…gasped…for she felt invisible knives stabbing her guts, her spine. If the star shatters and rains down its fragments, would the fragments fall on my face like Jaqen's storm of petals?
There is that second which would forever define eternity. There is that second when Arya had realized that utter devastation is as real as the blood that now trickles from her wounded wrist.
He's not coming back.
Arya smiled. She longed for the scarlet, blood—that which she used to steal from others, that which had become the purpose of her heinous assassin's life, that which the Lorathi had so willingly given up.
Jaqen—liar.
Traitor.
Oathbreaker.
He broke his vows to Catelyn at the Hollow Hill that he would take Arya under his protective wing, broke his promise in that sacred confluence in the Hall of Faces, his oath in the godswood of Winterfell.
She knew she had to bleed.
If she wouldn't, how in hell would she know that she's still breathing?
"Damn you, Jaqen," she whispered, the wet of her mouth mingling with the blood.
You've ruined me…forever.
She shut her eyes and savored the pain, deepened the cut, slid the blade slowly across the flesh.
The sound of urgent, commanding footsteps startled her.
"Get up."
She whirled back and hurled the bloodied dagger to the source of the voice. He blocked the throw with his sword and hissed with rage as the dagger clangored uselessly on the floor. He sheathed his Valyrian steel then rushed to where she was slumped, baring his teeth.
"Is this your clever plan?" Aegon the Sixth asked. He knelt and surveyed Arya's dismal body of skin and bones, the hollowed eyes. He pulled out a kerchief from his breastpocket and wrapped it roughly around Arya's bloody wrist. "Kill yourself, and kill others who plan to stop you from killing yourself?!"
Her cold stare met him, raving mad beneath the mask of calm. "Unhand me."
Aegon stared back, containing himself that was then being pushed to the warpath. He growled but carried on tying the cloth to ease her bleeding. "You haven't been taking care of yourself! You have not fed the child and left him entirely to the care of a wet nurse—"
"What is it to you?" Arya spat, wrenching her hand free from Aegon's grasp. "Did you fly all the way from the Crownlands merely to enlighten me about how very flawed I am as a childbearer?!"
"Arya—"
"Summon your dragons and leave this place," she seethed before limping away.
Aegon stood and looked over his shoulder. "I will take Damien to King's Landing, have him as my ward—raise him as my own, train him."
She froze on the spot, then turned slowly to face Aegon. The latter faced her as well, his eyes and stance both uncompromising.
"Don't you dare take my child away," Arya said in between clenched teeth.
Aegon the Sixth shook his head. "I have spoken with Jon and Sansa. Rickon was devastated but he voiced out his assent in the end. You are, as of the moment, unfit to have the child around you. A whole week had passed since you have given birth and not once did you visit the babe to see how he is faring, if he's still alive. Many times, you have hurt yourself—pray, who would dare speak that you would not redirect such rage to your own son? Please, Arya," the lad scoffed with feigned derision, and felt his heart break in so doing. He couldn't just…rush to her and crush her now delicate form in his arms—the body he so worshipped, and kiss the hurts away. Not now…maybe not ever. Aegon shook his head. "Do not, for even a second, pretend that you actually care about that child."
"How dare you," Arya shuddered with grief, with fright and fury. She dashed towards Aegon and pummeled his chest with her fists. "How dare you! You presume you can act on anything just because you're now the blazing king of this godforsaken place?! Damn you!"
She screamed in wrath as if betrayal rolled in the aisles in front of her, and clawed at him, cursed, used her might to hurt him—blow after blow after blow…yet he stood his ground, gazed only at the woman he loved with all that he is to the point that he had risked losing everything else, as she carried on scratching and striking him here and there. He felt the blood on the side of his mouth, the scarlet oozing from his cheeks that she had scraped with her nails, felt his heart collapsing in on itself with her every gust of attack.
And she was sobbing and snarling with rage and sorrow.
Weep, Arya…his heart whispered inwardly as he endured every pain. Just weep…feel again.
Until she collapsed on her knees on the floor, weakened by her own acts.
She tightly gripped the fabric of Aegon's riding breeches, shuddered...
Tears fell and carried on falling.
"I killed him…"
Aegon felt his eyes burn. He shut them, inhaled deeply.
"I've been blaming everybody for…for a fault that was mine…"
He knelt in front of her, held her chin to lift her face.
This is sin, his soul roared in earnest, yet he held no sway over his being at that moment…and she was so broken and he merely desired to…heal her, be with her, just as he had promised the Lorathi many moons ago. No…his head was at war with his heart yet the stronger between his two faculties swallowed the other, and so he found himself kissing every tear away…
Gently, he took her in his arms. He exhaled in relief and uttered silent worship to the gods when she did not pull away.
For moments long, he just held her.
There was no sound in the crypts but their gentle exhales. Even the sobs had vanished.
And he only allowed her to heal. It would take a lifetime, yes, but to begin is to aid the self.
Stillness, permanence.
Find your way back, Arya Stark.
Finally, she broke the silence between them.
"Tell me, Aegon," Arya whispered. She was now sitting with her back against his chest, his arms around her. Arya's bleary, empty eyes were on Eddard's statue. "You and Jaqen…the godswood beyond the Wall…"
He smiled.
"I'll have you know—he knocked the hell out of me to force me into swearing that vow with him. I rode to Valyria heavily injured."
"You…" Arya's voice broke. "You regretted your decision."
"No," he said with a sigh. "Not one bit."
"You were fools both," she said. "Jaqen, especially. I'm not some shatterable object that he can hand over to others for caretaking."
"You're not."
Arya turned to face him, indignant. "That's all you have to say about that stupid vow?"
Aegon roamed his eyes across her face, traced every feature with that purple gaze of his. "Vows are words only, Arya. But to make them—the reason and motivation, the pain it takes and it will, the act itself, these are…what make the vows better than the wind, I guess."
She didn't speak, not for a full minute, as if weighing the truth and worth of those words.
"And what's the reason, what's the motivation behind the pain?" Arya asked quietly, her anguished eyes still trained on him. "Why did Jaqen make that vow? Why did you?"
Aegon held her gaze as he let his fingers interlace with hers. "We swore…because we love you."
She bit her lip. "Why?"
The lad shook his head. "I…I don't know, Arya. That's like asking me why I bother breathing my next when I know I'm going to die anyway."
She nodded once, as if to accept his persuasions, then stared at Eddard's statue once more.
"I see him. In that child."
He kept his silence.
"Jaqen's lips, nose, gods…his eyes. The babe looked at me and I just saw…" she gasped, then exhaled heavily, woe gorging her again. "How can I bear go anywhere near my son, look at him at the very least? I wish to hold him, but I also wish for the pain to go away. That child…that child is Jaqen's ghost."
"The pain will go, eventually," Aegon replied. "But for now, you must hold on to it."
"Why would I when it's killing me?"
"Yes, it's killing you. It's bruising your soul right now and making it bleed. Let it do so, Arya. Let it scar. It's the pain that keeps everything real. It's the pain that keeps you from forgetting that Lorathi."
"I love him."
"I know, Arya."
"I love our child."
The lad smiled and planted a gentle kiss on her hair.
"Yes. I know that, too."
"Don't take him away from me, Aegon. He's the only one I have left," she whispered her plea.
Aegon dipped his head to gaze at Arya's eyes. "Only if you take good care of him."
"I will."
He nodded.
"Will you help me, Aegon? Be…with me?"
Friendship. Even if he desired more, this…this should be fine for now. It may be a sundering of his hopes that she could be his in the distant days, yet he didn't care.
Be with her—not because I promised Jaqen—but because…because I love her.
Aegon smiled.
Be with her.
"Always, Arya Stark," he kissed her brow. "Always."
It hadn't been easy, but day to day she licked her own wounds, allowed herself to heal.
Aegon was there, Jon and Sansa and Rickon, too. And how she at first managed to push them all away during her darkest hours, during those times when death had almost won her over, was just beyond her. Jon's words made sense—she didn't have to go through the loss alone.
Sabine and Aegeus had left Winterfell for Essos three moons ago. She had kissed the woman farewell and the man, she embraced tightly. Masters, friends. "Thank you," were Arya's words, and those were enough.
Aegeus had given her his scrolled map of the Known. "There are places I never finished mapping," he had told Arya. "The realms are endless."
And Damien…
He was exactly as Arya had remembered him during her cycle as one Rhoynar a thousand years past. Three moons old, and he already wished to be freed from the cradle and crawl or walk, and he laughed as if the wind carried mirth, and always he would attempt to open his tiny lips as if to speak or argue, then wail when he could not convey himself.
I always looked at him in slumbers and laughters, Arya recalled her own words by the Zefarisse. I witnessed him walk his first steps on the shipdecks cradled here and there, and he would never fall. It's almost as if...almost as if he can fly.
The loveliest thing of all is that he has so much love about him, in the gentlest gaze and smallest smile he exuded it, and benevolence, and warmth. There was Eddard in the child's face at one angle, and…Jaqen in another.
Arya loved the babe, loved him so. Loved him more than anything.
"His cries are a warrior's cry," Jon had told her one time as he watched her tend to the little one. "Strong, powerful."
Arya ran her forefinger across Damien's sleek, silver strands of hair, still marveling at the life that came out of her. "He's a dragon. Of course, he's strong."
"And a wolf," Jon added. "He's Jaqen's and yours."
"Dragon-wolf-bred," Arya smiled sadly, then looked up to Jon. "Just like you."
Sansa ran day-to-day matters in Winterfell whenever Jon was away to survey the wildling settlements in the Gift and across the fallen wall. He always returned with playthings carved out of ashwood and sentinels—tiny direwolves, swords and spears, horses—made by the spearwives for Damien. The shattered Moon's son, the free folks had named him, the dragon that came out when the Long Night caused the Sun to crack the Moon's face. Arya only smiled at Jon's recount; the wildlings were raising them both to some divine status merely because of what they have witnessed during the great war. Over the ale even, the wildling men would do their occasional huddle merely to speak about the Lady Arya's child—a shapeshifter they say, like Robb Stark himself, only that Damien can transform himself into a direwolf and a dragon both, with fur of silver and scales of gold.
Arya had laughed spiritedly at the last of Jon's accounts. "And you did not even utter a single word to deny their unfounded lore about my son?"
"Why would I?" Jon laughed back, then took the babe from Arya's arms. He playfully threw Damien in the air and caught him. The babe squealed and giggled, his stout legs and feet wriggling in delight. "Why would Uncle Jon? Let them think that Damien is a firebeast and a winterbeast and a headstrong, naughty little thing…" he carried on with the infant-talk, tickling the babe's sides.
Arya only smiled softly as she gazed at them both. "He's not a shapeshifter, Jon."
Jon paused, then gazed back at her. "We don't know that yet. And just let them talk," he turned his attention back to the babe. "They know what Jaqen did for them, they know what you did; and so, your child had become their most favored subject during their evening huddles."
Damien's first nameday came. He was nowhere to be found.
They scoured the whole castle, Sansa more hysterical than Arya was. After half an hour, they found the babe in the maester's tower west of the keep with Rickon.
Damien was firmly seated on the table, wide-eyed and very still and with a mood so unlike his usual child-temperaments.
The young lord's fingers were combing the babe's locks gently—Rickon had just finished dyeing the babe's silver strands scarlet.
"Rickon!" Sansa shrieked. "Why in the world did you bring Damien here?!"
The young lord didn't answer as he lifted the child from the table and carried him to both of them.
Arya gasped in shock, then grabbed the nearest chair in order to keep herself upright.
"Dear gods…"
She had not cut Damien's hair since birth, and so it grew past his ears. Soft waves had formed at the tips, and the silver…the silver strands shone against the blood hue. The babe cooed, reached out both arms to Arya, his plump fingers opening then closing.
Jaqen—just…a smaller, stouter version of him.
And as she took the child from Rickon, she couldn't hold sway over herself as she placed gentle kisses on the babe's rosy face. Her eyes shuttered, her flesh trembled with inexplicable emotions, conflicting, drowning her, overpowering her—Arya was grieving and nostalgic, broken but whole, blissful yet…undone.
"You should not have done this, Rickon," Arya said weakly as she tightened her hold of Damien.
"I beg to differ," the young lord replied with a determined tone. "I do not like hearing the servants and the lords spitting out their senseless grapevines. The silver hair—they are convinced that Damien is Aegon the Sixth's bastard. I…" he shook his head. "Aegon is an honorable man and perchance the lords read his fondness for the child differently, but Damien is Jaqen's son."
"We know that, Rickon," Sansa chided him gently. "You need not concern yourself over the opinions of worthless others."
"I need to," Rickon replied, his voice rising a little. "You should have heard them talk—Targaryen mongrel, another Snow. After the great war, you'd think they've no strength left for absurd prattles. Some were even speaking of outright falsehoods, that you whored yourself in front of Aegon the Sixth in Pentos so he would ride with us to battle, and that Jon persuaded you to do it. They have to know that the man who saved all of our arses is this child's father, not the king."
Arya ached for her babe. It was painful to witness her innocent child becoming an object of either worship or scorn, yet the more painful part is not about the lords never learning that Jaqen is Damien's father, but the fact that Damien himself will never learn who his father was. There would be stories—hers and others—but no lore, no myth could ever capture who the Lorath truly was, what he had done.
She stroked the babe's hair of scarlet and ivory.
"I've stopped concerning myself about what others think, Rickon," Arya replied calmly. "We'll dye Damien's hair every fortnight, and we're not going to do it just to prove a point to the Northern lords."
Rickon nodded.
Time will come, Arya was convinced as she pressed her lips against Damien's temple, pledging a promise. And all will be well.
The shierak qiya was not supposed to appear in the heavens for many, many moons.
One spring day a year after, it did.
"Don't stray away that far, my love," Arya had told Damien who was collecting smooth moonstones by the heart tree. They were in the godswood. It was almost sunset. Arya was whetting her blades after training some of their northern young on the bow and the arrow. Ten and three to ten and four, the females have outnumbered the males who wished to train, two to one, and Arya was able to hide her surprise but not her delight. "Girls should learn how to defend their own damned selves," voiced out one, throwing the boys a glance daring them to say otherwise. One of the lads smirked at the words of the bold lady, who was then donning oversized training breeches, then whispered a remark about how ladies nowadays are discontented with men's swords between their legs, that they would rather seek to train with swords of steel.
Arya had whacked the lad's behind with the flat of her long blade, and the latter ran off, limping and howling.
Another year.
She paused with her whetting and watched Damien, those stout legs walking and skipping, his footing sure yet unsure, as he murmured unintelligible words to himself. Arya smiled softly as the child placed some of the moonstones he has gathered inside a small sackcloth he had no doubt retrieved from the scullery, as his soft curls of red and white were being blown listlessly by the wind. The smile had turned to laughter when she saw how Damien would study the patterns of the stones first before deciding whether to keep them.
The child had saved her from herself—salvaged her sanity.
It would take her forever perchance, to truly say that she has healed. But she is healing, and it certainly helped that Aegon rides for Winterfell every two moons to see how she was coping, and Damien loved it whenever he arrives, loved it whenever Aegon carried him to Rhaegal and let him touch the jade scales, loved it too, whenever Aegon would bring those utterly unnecessary novelties meant for children, and other fancy playthings from the capital.
Aegon's arrival would always stir the whole North awake, and with this came the gossip, the whispers from serfs and lords. 'Dragon's misbegotten, the king had come once more for his bastard,' and 'Time to bed the Lady of Winterfell again. What has it been, two moons? Ah, 'nough time. King's itching all over.' All these, despite the heaven-reaching resemblance between the Lorathi and the child.
Arya had swallowed some and spat out some. Let them think her a whore. Aegon never touched her and she knew the truth, but at times she loses herself. The altercation with Lord Mors was the most recent.
But who could blame them? Who could blame them when during Aegon's most recent visit, he had kissed her on the lips and she didn't pull away?
Or perhaps, it was because all she could see beneath the silver hair and the purple eyes is the Lorathi-Valyrian who had loved her.
Midnights were the most ruthless of times. Always, she awoke with a gasp, with large beads of sweat on her face despite the cold. Always, she clutched at her heart because it was squeezing painfully, collapsing in on itself, and her eyes burned but she dared not shed tears…she dared not, in order not to shatter the chrysalis she had formed around herself—a protective fortress so she may cast the Lorathi out from her memories, so the fibers of her saneness would not break. Always, she retched, and did so silently in order not to wake Damien from slumber.
And always…
Always, her fingertips would gently run back and forth over the linen and the fur of her bed—their bed, silently begging for the slightest feel of the Lorathi. Always, she would sense his strong legs brushing against her own, his lips light upon her cheeks, his lashes fluttering against her bare shoulders, his sensual touch…ghosting all over her.
Always, she would catch a faint scent of ginger and cloves against the fabric, a deep purr that could be no more than a whisper…
Arya missed Jaqen like hell.
The shierak qiya just hovered over them in the godswood, brighter than she had last seen it.
She shut her eyes and uttered a prayer to the old gods. Catelyn's prayer.
Show him to me.
Even as a shadow, even as a dream.
She sighed and collected her blades from the ground. Some blood-red leaves had fallen from the heart tree. "Come, Damien, love," she called to the child. "Let's head back now."
"Mum."
Damien's call—it was different. It wasn't fear which she had heard from her child's lips even though the bleeding star blazed high above them, sending flashes of red all over the firmaments. Hooting sounds pervaded the castle's courtyard from a distance.
A split-second. The comet's tail sparked brighter than the sun. Cheers erupted from as far as the keep.
A mere split-second.
Arya gazed up and marveled at the blazing herald. That comet appears chaotic yet unbroken. Nothing…no one could ever predict what mysteries move with it.
Just like that, her recollections traveled back to Harrenhal.
"Mum."
There was fascination about the voice, a wild recognition of something long lost.
And when Arya turned her gaze over to her son, she saw a man kneeling in front of him.
Impossible.
She gasped in shock and despair and love and everything else…and it took all the strength that she had to not collapse on the damp earth and crawl her way towards both of them.
"Jaq…" she opened her mouth but no words came out. Deep exhales…breathe Arya…don't die…tears…sorrow and bliss lancing through her flesh…and she tugged at her hair and bit her lip so hard and asked herself if she has gone mad…
But the man reached out his hand to the child, and their palms connected.
The child gasped, as if the tether that linked him to the man had just materialized asudden and with it, a surge of power rushing like one bequeathment from father to child. Damien's hand and fingers were so tiny that they didn't cover even half of the man's palm, and they looked so, so alike that Arya couldn't tell where the child ends and the man begins.
But those connected palms, they were not quite…touching.
She knew what was happening. It had happened before—with the same shierak qiya as the harbinger of curse and blessing both, and when it had come, a dead Eddard and a breathing Catelyn had met face to face for a speck in eternity.
The realms are colliding…
And that was when she had abandoned all reason and rushed towards them.
"Jaqen! Damien!"
In her desperate haste, she tripped and fell, then forced herself to stand. She ran to them and they both seemed so far away from where she was that she almost prayed to the gods for wings.
Arya…
Jaqen opened his mouth and her name rolled out from his lips, but his sweet utterance was soundless.
And she reached him…
And she spread out her arms to throw herself onto him, so they may touch and kiss and sob with mirth together.
And she was thrown back with such force just when she was a fraction of a distance away from him.
Something hard, something…impenetrable. She had hit an invisible wall of glass, one that can never be shattered, one that would never allow her to fully be with him.
Arya rose again, ran to him. Her body hit that wall again. He was in a different realm with different laws, and…she couldn't cross it.
With desperation, she ran her palms across the imperceptible barrier, looking for a rift, any gap at all that would help her break it. Jaqen held out his hand and lay his palm flat on that wall as if to touch her face, but they both knew, it was akin only to touching someone at the other side of a transparent mirror.
"Jaqen," she pleaded as she carried on running her hands across the barrier frantically, her eyes never once leaving his face. "Jaqen, come…come to us…"
He only shook his head.
It cannot happen, Arya, he said, soundlessly.
"Bran…Bran…" in her desperation she had begged the Weirwood, even offered a bargain. "Brother…make the realms meet…please…please…"
Could the last greenseer hear her? Could he possibly, on their behalf, ask the gods to grant the Warrior and the Nissa one last cycle, together?
Damien was watching them both, his very young eyes and mindwork already comprehending what was happening.
This is their story.
Jaqen knelt and wrote something on the ground with his forefinger; then he stood, his eyes riveted on Damien's face, his gaze that of anguish…longing…
And Arya had realized as she uselessly reached for him that the dead lives on…and they still hurt and feel.
With her fists and knees, she pounded on the unseen wall, every strike sapping out her strength. She unsheathed her Valyrian steel and with all might, hammered the wall with it, thrust it in futile hopes of breaching it.
The steel shattered.
She didn't even have the time to be stunned. Arya knelt on the ground and clawed out the dirt like mad, even as her hands and nails bled. That wall had to end somewhere beneath the earth, and if she had to dig a whole tunnel to get to the Lorathi, then damn it, she will.
Her eyes flew up to the heavens. The bleeding star…fading.
"Bran…Bran…please…" she implored as she rose and with a quivering hand reached out for the Lorathi. Her eyes darted up to the shierak qiya...then back to her beloved, the existence of one dependent on the other, and they both waned in sight.
Time, Arya's soul screamed her plea. Give me time.
Jaqen smiled softly.
Arya's now healing heart broke. Old wounds resurfaced, pain was roused. One damned smile…and she had to start all over again.
His lips opened. She couldn't hear his words, but she knew every word.
Nothing—no realm, no time, no mortal, no god—can ever triumph over us, can ever break us…
Then, he faded away as that fleeting collision of realms ended. Second after second after second, his lovely face vanished in front of her.
It wouldn't happen again—this meeting of mated souls. Not for a very, very long time.
Gone.
"Jaqen…"
She merely stared at the void for what must have been hours before her knees gave out.
Her tears bathed the spring ground.
Then, she felt tiny hands and tiny fingers caressing her hair—Damien's hands…healing her again.
Gently, she pulled him to her and held him tight.
Five years.
The shierak qiya appears every five years. Realms collide every five years. A damned blink in eternity with him…every five years.
There is a reason for leaving, and that reason is simply to…return.
"All will be…well," she said, more to herself than to her son.
Five years.
