Part 115:

A/N: Okay people, I am so sorry. This part just would not go in any direction that I pushed it. Even I didn't expect how this finally pulled together. I know it's been forever! I hope I've pulled the magical elements together correctly. Again, I am so sorry this took so long. I have written like 20 versions of this, each one of this going in a different direction. I hope you enjoy what I finally chose.

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Quiet… too quiet. Darkness… The absence of light… the absences of smell… the absence of sound… the absence of pain… that was the one that caught her attention. The absence of any sensation at all. It was as if all of her senses had been cut off all at once. Arya reached out her mind searching for something… anything tangible. Slowly she became aware of the hard stone beneath her solid boots, of the fact that she was standing. She felt the weight of her sword and dagger on her belt, the familiar dragon skin of her armour. Her weapons? Her armour? Her fingers felt numb as she reached out to verify what she could not see in the dark. Was she hallucinating? She reached up to her head, the Baratheon (Durrandon?) tiara was still firmly in place. She waited for the pain to come rushing back… but it didn't.

Dark… Opening your eyes is all that is needing…

It was dark, yes, but not completely black. Arya blinked, trying to get her eyes to adjust. Dim light came down from above, transfused through the glass seven pointed star that had replaced the stone one beneath their feet. The stone star that had fallen into the old Sept below.

… the eyes see true.

Arya blinked, confused, and tried to get her bearings. Slowly her eyes came into focus, her mind however remained hazy. Septa Mordane had told her stories of the old Sept, yet none of them had done it justice – not to a girl whose only idea of a Sept was the small wooden building at Winterfell. A seven sided hut, she realised now, not a true Sept at all.

True, the Andal-build Sept was far older, far less ornate, then the marble Sept above, but it was still impressively built. Red Sandstone and pine pews, wooden statues. As Arya's eyes adjusted to the dimness of the room she realised that the wood of each statue was different; Oak for the Father, Willow for the Maid, Ironwood for the Smith, green-grey Sentinel for the Warrior… the doors matched the statues, pale Ash for the Mother, dark blue-black Ebony for the Stranger, bone white Weirwood for the Crone. Her companions were still and confused – like statues themselves.

Taste with your mouth. Smell with your nose. Feel with your skin.

The air smelt, and tasted, chokingly stale, The statures and pews, the floor, were thick with dust. Each movement raised a blinding, choking, cloud of it. Disuse and neglect. The taste of a room that had been left abandoned for a very long time.

… Hear with your ears.

Sound returned last, slow at first, then roaring louder like a river. Bare feet ran on stone stairs with heavy slapping strides. People were yelling, Theon was trying to get her attention… murmuring with hushed urgency that they needed to move. Something still looked wrong about him… something was wrong… A cry of pain caused Arya's head to whip around, her eyes seeking out Allyria in the gloom.

"I'll be the Mother." Ally proclaimed as she stepped onto the correlating point of the star.

Ally's hand was on her pregnant stomach, fear in her eyes. Darrion was at her side. Yet Darrion was no longer in his fine clothes, he was dressed in armour made for a bastard – not a Lord – simple banded metal and chainmail, a simple dirk hung at his belt.

Arya searched out her companions one by one. Ser Hugo Vance's armour was of high quality, the dents on it showing that he knew how to use it. He had a good strong sword and a small, maneuverable, buckler shield strapped to his belt. Asha had her twin axes – dragonglass and dragonsteel – and her Ironborn armour. Leather with metal plates sewn in. Shella Whent suddenly had a wooden jousting shield in her hands, a grinning Weirwood painted on it. Tyrion was in his Lannister armour, red trimmed with gold, a short sword at his hip and the short spear that Tommen had given him in his hands. The sword looked more ornate than useful, and Tyrion looked extremely confused.

"Arya, they're coming. We need to go!" Theon hissed through blue stained lips. Why were they blue? Arya took in the new scar on his cheek, the dullness of his eyes and the deep blue-black circles beneath them. He placed a dark nailed hand on her arm. The nails long and ragged. His attire had not changed. "Arya."

"Why aren't you in armour?" Arya asked. She frowned, glancing around at her companions. "Darrion, Tyrion, even your sister… all the fighters are suddenly in armour. Why aren't you , Theon?"

He released her arm, taking a step backwards. Sadness, anger and grief fighting for dominance on his face. "Because I'm not a fighter any more. Euron made sure of that, wed me to the black trees. The dead black trees. What is dead may never die." The sound of feet slapping stone got closer. "Arya, we need to move." Theon repeated, his voice was almost gentle now, he began leading her towards the door of the Stranger.

… listen with your ears …

The footsteps and yelling were coming from the direction of the door of the Warrior, only the door of the Maiden stood between that and the door of the Stranger. "Wrong way!" Arya snapped, pulling her arm free of Theon's grasp. Her gaze moved between the Weirwood door of the Crone and the Ironwood door of the Smith. The Weirwood called to her… but logic said it wasn't the way out. "The Smith." She whispered. "The door of the Smith is the way out above, it should be the same here."

"No!" Theon stated firmly. "We need to take the black door… I promised… the black door is the way."

"Kraken take me!" Asha snarled. "Just chose a door and let's go!"

Before the argument could continue the door of the Warrior burst open and Sparrows started spilling out, weapons in hand. There were too many of them to fight, Arya and her eight companions started running towards the other doors. Hugo reached the door of the Smith first, but the Ironwood stayed still as if locked in a vice. Wylla Manderly had run to the door of the Crone, but the Weirwood door seemed rooted to its spot. Theon was at the door of the Stranger, but the strange blue-black wood was equally unyielding. Darrion drew his dirk and Shella raised her shield as the Sparrows advanced. Allyria gripped the dagger that Oberyn had given her tightly and Hugo pulled his longsword with his right hand, gripping his small iron buckler shield in his left hand. Tyrion cowered and held his spear defensively.

There was no escape, they were all backed up against the walls, at doors that would not budge, as the Sparrows crossed the middle of the room and advanced. "I wonder if they'll sing songs about this?" Tyrion muttered mournfully. "Hopefully the singers will give me a valiant death."

Suddenly a dragon's roar echoed from the great Sept above and molten glass showered down over the advancing Sparrows. Dragon fire came next, focused on the center of the room. Men, pews, and statues alike catching fire. Dragonsteel descended, Derren and Galen dismounting and entering the fray before the dragon even reached the floor. Dagrau'r Rhosyn came next, Raymont and Ser Lyra Mormont looked less steady as they sprang from dragonback, but quickly recovered themselves.

Arya smirked, drawing her weapon. "Not today, Tyrion." She assured. "You don't die today." Her smile burst into a grin as she joined the fight, each time Sparrow blood hit the sandstone floor she felt stronger, more confidant. She could feel the soft thud of the enemies pulses, hear their blood rushing through their veins. With each strike power grew within her, around her, whispering like the wind in the trees of the Godswood… a voice whispered on it, a warning, but she did not heed it, her grin growing manic.

Somehow she knew that her pack had gained access to the city, that Jon had somehow made it happen. The Sparrows beyond the Sept screamed as fanged mouths ripped out their throats and claws slid into their bellies. Arya could smell it, taste it, feel it. Every drop of blood on white marble helped break the spells of Baelon, every drop of blood on Sandstone helped break the spells of the Andals… but she was missing something, something important!

Blood magic always has a price… Make one choice…

… Then comes the thinking, afterward, and in that way knowing the truth.

A scream of agony escaped from Allyria's mouth, and suddenly Arya knew with a sickening truth what it was that was needed. It was a terrible choice, but one that would let her tap into the power of bile and blood. Unlike the Bolton's, the Andal warlords had known what they were doing, there was no excess overflow of power here, brute force would not break the spells that enslaved the minds of so many and gave power to the Seven. Smith, Maid, Warrior, Crone, Stranger, Father, Mother … Arya's companions did not embody these… they embodied the perversion of these. Allyria screamed again and suddenly Arya knew both the truth and the lie that were needed, the sacrifice that was required. The child in Ally's womb was Andal, First man, and Valyrian all, it was not a price Arya wished to pay… There had to be another way.

Tyrion was a poorly wrought thing, a living perversion of the Smith… his presence was enough, it had to be enough. Arya's mind moved to Wylla as she thought, how do you pervert the maid? Did she want to pervert the maid? Weirwood forgive her, what bargain had she struck?!

Theon Stark, the Hungry Wolf, stood at the godswood near the Wolfden, the man beside him had green hair – not dyed, naturally green. His eyebrows showed the blonde that his hair might have been if he had not been a man of such power, a shapeshifter, a child of sea and land. Another man, Argos Sevenstar – a defeated Andal warlord, lay bound and bleeding at the foot of the Weirwood. Theon wanted to kill him, but if they were to do this they would need him alive.

"Manderly…" The Stark King's voice was quiet, respectful. "I can not ask this, to bind you to the North, not when Merling blood runs in your veins."

"Do not ask it, then, let it be given." The broad shouldered merman replied, his land form almost as intimidating as his water form. "You have already lined the shores with dead Andal Kings, you and Bolton know blood magic, but I know water, we will need both. The fleet is ready. By blood and pearl we can do this, attack the Andal's on their own ground, blunt the axe." He held a large black pearl in his hand, the fingers almost claw like – he was not quite in his human form, the sharp teeth in his mouth giving an animalistic quality to his words. "Let them fear us, let them forever fear us! You have offered us a home when all our land kin turned on us, it is only right we fight for it. When you, or your kin, call for tooth and claw it will come, we will always come. Blood and pearl, we will always come."

Manderly ran a clawed nail along the bruised skin of the prisoner, drawing a fresh spring of blood. He drenched the pearl in the red blood, then with his other clawed hand dug a small hole at the foot of the Weirwood. He buried the sacrifice at the Weirwood's feet, then Stark and Manderly hauled the terrified man up, dragging him towards the ship he would eventually be strapped to."

The memory was not Arya's yet she remembered it all the same. Blood and pearl, tooth and claw… She ripped a chain of pearls from her hair, wincing at the pain as she fought her way closer to Wylla. Wild eyes grew wilder at Arya's approach, Wylla swung the stolen crudgel wildly at another sparrow, blood drenched ribbons of fabric flowing where the arms of her dress had been, she had taken a few nasty blows. A blast of dragon flame took out the next wave of opponents that approached, but more were coming.

Arya took the reprieve to reach Wylla's side, she realised absently that the chain of pearls she had pulled was white, then began wrapping it around Wylla's bleeding arm. "Blood and pearl, I need tooth and claw." She whispered. "Tooth and claw, Wylla, please." She tied the pearls in place, but did not wait for a response.

The next question was harder: How do you pervert the Warrior? Arya did not know, she turned her attention to old Shella Whent instead. The shield.. something about the shield… if the Crone was not wise was that enough? Arya's thoughts and gaze moved to Asha Greyjoy as the next wave attacked, Asha was her stranger, how do you twist that?

A sickening cracking of bones and a man's scream brought Arya's attention back to Ser Hugo Vance, her mother's new husband, a crudgel to the leg had crippled him. Power surged through her as his blood hit the stone floor… almost as if she had willed it. No! Wylla's crudgel slipped from her hands as she leapt onto the Sparrow that had taken Hugo down, the sound that left her throat was not human as her teeth found the man's neck, her claws ripping into his shoulders. Hugo screamed at the sight of it, this time in terror, not pain.

"Asha!" Arya yelled. "Get Hugo to Gendry, get him out!"

"I…" Asha paused, twin axes in hand, then turned on another opponent. "No." She snarled as she struck down one man, then another.

Arya felt a rush of rage run through her, the Stranger had to save, it was the only way. More blood hit the stone and Arya drew on the strength, let her voice fill with power and ice. "That was an order, not a request, you will save my mother's husband."

"Let Theon do it, he's being useless anyway." Asha snarled.

Arya sent a small lash of power at the older woman, drawing blood from her temple. "Do you not understand?" She snarled. "The Warrior must cower, the Stranger must save, the maid must be a monster, it is the only way to break the bindings!"

Asha turned, seeing the beast that had once been Wylla for the first time. Large milky eyes looked back at the Ironborn for just a moment before leaping on her next victim and devouring his throat. "Did…? Did you do… do that?" Asha suddenly whispered.

Arya nodded. "In part, House Manderly have always had Merling blood, I simply woke it up." Another scream escaped Allyria's lips and she fell to her knees, the dagger lost, her hands around her spasming stomach as another contraction hit, the pool of fluid around her knees proving that her water had broken. Ayra gritted her teeth then returned her attention to Asha. "If I can get the other pieces to fit together maybe I'll have enough power to save the child, the Stranger must preserve life, please."

Asha nodded grimly, fear clearly scribed upon her face. "The Stranger must save." She agreed. Her axes quickly found her belt and her hands found Hugo's shoulders, dragging the man towards the dragons. Galan moved to help her but Arya shook her head. Galan nodded once, then moved back to Tyrion's side, father and son fighting together. Surely there was power in that also?

"Arya?!" Gendry yelled over the fighting.

"Get Asha and Ser Hugo to safety." Arya responded, barely sending him a glace, her mind busy trying to calculate her next move, to negotiate what she had unintentionally put into play and how to fix her idiotic mistake.

"Arya!" Gendry yelled again, his voice desperate. "I'm not leaving without you!"

"You have to!" Arya responded. "I have to finish this, get Asha and Hugo out, then come back for the next two. I have to be the last to leave." She turned her attention to Shella Whent as Asha and Gendry hauled Hugo onto Dragonsteel's back. "Shella, how are you unwise?"

Shella lifted the now splintered shield to block another strike. "This shield," she gasped as she dodged back behind Lyra Mormont. "I'm the one that gave it, and a horse, to your Aunt Lyanna. To the Knight of the Laughing Tree. Mercy knows where she stole the armour from."

Arya's eyes widened in surprise, she had so many questions, but now was not the time. "Galan!" She yelled. "Get Lady Whent and Tyrion to Jon, get them out of here, they have served their purpose."

"Arya!" Jon yelled, his expression echoing Gendry's.

"Jon, I need you to trust me! I need Gendry and you to understand. I have to be the last to leave. Do you believe in me, Jon?"

Jon looked conflicted, but nodded slowly. Once the dragons had their passengers they reluctantly left. Five of Arya's nine and four other fighters remained. Arya started to fight her way to where Darrion was standing protectively over Allyria, the rest forming up around her. There had to be an answer… she knew the answer… Allyria was on her hands and knees, the contractions coming close together now. The baby was too early… she was six moons pregnant at most, there was no way the child would survive. But babies died every day, that was part of being a parent. That wasn't a perversion… "How?" Arya whispered aloud.

Unexpectedly Theon answered her. "Do you remember the stories of dead Targaryen babes? Twisted things with bat wings and teeth?" Arya nodded. "What if they really are blood of the dragon?" Theon asked. "What if there really is direwolf blood in your veins and sea monster blood in mine?"

"No," Arya whispered. "We are not descended from direwolves, least not that I know of, but our line was spawned by two of the Greenhand's children."

Her thoughts began spinning in a million directions at once. She did not try to latch on to any one of them, instead sailing the sea of ideas until her mind's eye settled on the memory of Dragonsteel the day that he was born. She remembered how small and fragile he had looked, how beautiful, how delicate his wings had been. Arya closed her eyes and thought of Opal, how pale and translucent her skin had been. Arya then thought of her own babies, so small and pink, curled in on themselves the same way that the dragons had… she pulled the images together in her mind until they were a single image and pulled on the power all around her.

The fight continued on all around her, but Arya took no heed, trusting in her companions to protect her. She knelt beside Allyria as the woman shock with another contraction and placed her hand upon the woman's womb. "Your child will live." She promised. "But not as you expect, we need to deliver it quickly."

Arya had never helped a child into the world, yet instinct guided her. The child, if that were the word, was small enough to hold in one hand. It's skin was pale, almost translucent, and scaled. Instead of arms it had wings. Bat wings, dragon wings. It's head was shaped more like a lizard that a person, with a long snout, and it had a tail. It was not human, but not a dragon either, instead caught somewhere in-between.

Darrion gasped in horror at the sight of it and Allyria started to scream, but Arya remained calm. She stood slowly and carried the babe towards the center of the room, the centre of the seven pointed star. Even the Sparrows that they were fighting stopped and steered. Arya ignored them all. Theon followed her. Arya pulled her Valyrian blade and tried to adjust it in her left hand as she held the babe in her right hand, but she couldn't do what she wanted. She knew what the room expected, what the spell expected, but that wasn't the price she was willing to pay.

"Theon." She whispered. "Hold the child."

Theon nodded solemnly, the sympathetic look in his eyes saying that he expected her to sacrifice the babe. But that was not the intention, had never been the intention. Arya held the blade against the palm of her right hand and drew a shallow cut along the old scar, the scar from where she'd cut herself at the Dreadfort. She wiped the blade on her pant leg then put it away. She took the babe back from Theon with her left hand and held the wound to its lips. A forked tongue escaped its mouth and licked along her cut. As the babe drank her blood it changed, until a pure white dragon was sitting in her hands. Finally the dragon opened its eyes. Oh, it was beautiful! The eyes were bright purple, like amethysts, and seemed to glow with an internal fire. As the dragon's gaze met Arya's it was like a lock clicked into place. The ground beneath her feet began to rumble as all of the magics of the old Sept and the Great Sept fell apart.

A number of things happened all at once; All of the doors sprang open, the sparrow's dropped their weapons in fear and ran, Allyria passed the child's placenta, and Gendry and Jon returned. Arya looked up at Gendry and Dragonsteel and smiled. She clutched the small dragon carefully to her chest and walked back towards Allyria and Darrion, placing the tiny dragon into the trembling woman's arms.

"I…" Allyria stammered.

"What is her name?" Arya asked.

"Nurgul." The Dornish woman replied. "It's an old Rhoynish name which means 'Flower of Light'." She turned a hesitant gaze to Darrion. "I…" the ground rumbled again.

"Shh…" He whispered. "Nurgul is a good name."

The ground trembled again and suddenly part of the floor gave way. They all started making their way towards the dragons, but there was no way they would all fit. Arya pushed Allyria, Darrion, and their baby dragon towards a startled looking Gendry. She pushed Lady Whent and Galan towards an even more startled looking Jon. "Go!" She commanded!

"No!" Gendry yelled back. "I'm not leaving you behind, I'm not leaving any of you behind!"

"The dragons can't carry everybody." Arya argued. Suddenly a flash of Opal wing caught her eye. Shireen and her dragon descending through the shattered Sept's dome. Shireen was in light armour, leather and chain, with Needle at her hip. The ground shook again as Opal landed.

"How can I help?" Shireen asked.

Arya sent Derren, Raymont, and Lyra Mormont to Shireen and Opal, Shireen was light, which would hopefully make up for the heavy armour of the other three. She sent Wylla, now looking fully human again, to Jon, then swept the room for Theon. Much to her surprise she saw him disappearing through the black door. The door of the Stranger.

"Arya! Hurry up!" Gendry yelled as another part of the floor fell away. Darrion helped her scramble up Dragonsteel's side. She clutched onto the dragon with one hand and Allyria with the other. Nurgul nestled between them.

The dragon's struggled to make the air, their loads too heavy, but as the ground gave way beneath them they maintained their altitude. Arya could still feel power pulsing through her veins, she used everything that she could to push a gust of wind beneath the dragons wings. Suddenly they were going up, up. The dragons got them to Tobho Mott's old workshop, now run by one of his former apprentices before being forced to land. As Arya turned back to look at where the Sept had been green flames shot up into the air – wildfire.

"Theon…" Arya whispered as she watched the flames lick up into the air.

"Little chance he survived that." Lyra Mormont said softly before averting her eyes, then turning to look at the baby dragon in Allyria's arms. "How did you do that?"

"I didn't." Arya replied. "I just twisted the magic that was already there. Baelon tried to stop dragons from ever being born again, so I perverted the Father, and the Mother, by reversing what Baelon had worked into the stones."

"Reversing?" Lyra frowned.

"Bile and blood flow opposite ways around the body." Arya replied. "Baelon's spells were bound with bile taken from the dead, I set the dead free."

"You scare me, Stark." Lyra whispered.

Arya nodded, but she didn't really hear, she was thinking of Pyat Pree and the other Warlocks standing outside of the Alchemists' Guild. Of Theon's blue lips and strange words. 'I'm missing something.' She thought. 'What am I missing?'

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A/N2: Damn Theon, hun? He is what made this so hard. Well him and Allyria's baby. I wrote versions where the baby died, versions where it lived, versions where it died and was dragonlike – complete with grave worms like Daenerys' baby – versions where it became a light monster – opposite to a shadow baby. I never planned to make it a real dragon. But after three complete re-reads of the story and reading up on Baelon again it was the only thing that made sense.

Nurgul is a Turkish name from Arabic. It means radiant rose.