Beautiful Crime

by YourWorstKeptSecret

To defy the House of Black and White's tenets on love and inter-personal relationships is a one way ticket to the door of He of Many Faces. Jaqen and Arya know this. But it doesn't stop them. Caught in the act, it's a race against time to get themselves free of the House before they are killed. Full summary inside.

Summary: To defy the House of Black and White's Tenets, is a one-way ticket to meeting He of Many Faces. All who find shelter beneath the roof of the temple know this. It is embedded into their very minds from the beginning. No One has no desires. No One can't love. No One can't create legacies. Jaqen knows these teachings well. Understands the consequences if you ignore them and do it anyway. He'd never had issues before. But then, he hadn't had Arya before either. But when their forbidden union reaches a most dangerous climax, it is a rush against the clock to get her out of the Temple. To get him out alongside her. She must escape and he must give up his place in the House. But they are found out before Jaqen can leave and he is dragged before the whole of the Order, beaten and chained while the proof of his sin is brought before all. However, an unlikely ally saves him and sends him on his way. But why was the head of the organisation so determined to see him live life as he saw fit? This and more race through Jaqen's head as he makes his way back to Arya. His confusion does not get any less though when he finds her as a strange man visits him in his dreams and tells him that destiny isn't done with him or Arya just yet.

Song: Tamer - Beautiful Crime

-X- -X- -X-

"Each step I left behind

Each road you know is mine

Walking on a line ten stories high

Say you'll still be by my side"

Again. She'd done it again and now he couldn't protect her. Couldn't do anything to prevent what was about to happen. For if he did, it would mean both their heads. A foolish errand and one that wouldn't end well. But if he let this happen. If he stepped back and let her go, the possibility of them both surviving this was higher. Much higher.

They would send the waif. He knew it as well as he knew the beating of his own heart. The beating of hers even though it was a sound he never should have known. Because to know it would mean that he'd had his head in places it never should have rested. He couldn't save her, couldn't cover her with himself this time. No, he couldn't interfere but as the waif stepped up behind him, he braced himself. Schooled his features into an expression of calm detachment. He could do one thing though. Possibly the last thing he could ever do. Taking a steadying breath he spoke.

"And?"

"It's as I expected." The waif's low voice came to his ears and he forced back the shudder that threatened to overtake him.

No. He couldn't show any outward signs of his discomfort. Of his worry. He had to remain stoic. Detached. No One. A near impossible feat for one who had known another in some of the most intimate ways one could know someone else. A fact that needed to remain hidden. At all costs. Something that could not guide him. Not now. He had hoped, some day, he could allow his emotions for her to guide him. Openly and without judgement or secrecy. But now? Now it seemed just as likely that he would never get that chance. He could only maintain his faith and pray that He of Many Faces did not want that woman yet. A sigh broke free from him then, dragging him from his thoughts, one made to sound disappointed. Annoyed even.

"A shame. A girl had many gifts." He replied, glancing down at the face he was carefully removing and noted, with relief, how his hands weren't shaking. At least not visibly to her. But inside his heart was racing and screaming about what was to happen.

"You promised me…" She said, her tone both unsure but also steadfast. Hmm. It seemed she was still too meek to demand things of him. How irritating. Pausing in his work, he looked over at her. Then with an incline of his head, his eyes boring into hers, he found his words. An order, so softly spoken, anyone else would consider it a suggestion. But the waif would know it for what it was. A command.

"Don't let her suffer."

She kept his gaze for a moment before she smiled slightly and closing her eyes, she nodded her head in acquiesce. Before she spun on her heel and left the room, while he turned back to his work. But somewhere deep inside of him, his gut was churning. She had accepted that too easily. There had been no fight. But she had shown no indication that she would ignore his command, so he could only hope that it was his worry and concern for the one the waif was now after, that was giving him such unease.

-X-

Walking through the halls of the House, he couldn't shake the feeling of disquiet. In truth, a dark cloud had been following him around for days. The waif hadn't returned yet, nor had there been any news regarding whether her task had been successful or not. He had hoped that this was a case of 'no news, was good news', but that was not how things worked in this place. Not how this order operated. No news, could only bring bad tidings. But still he clung to that foolish hope. It was the only thing keeping him sane at the moment. The only thing that allowed him to continue functioning.

As he walked aimlessly, he soon found himself outside of a room that he knew all too well. A room that he shouldn't have known the inside of so intimately. Unable to stop himself, he reached for the handle and pushed it down, opening the door just enough to slip inside before closing it again. Standing in the middle of this room, he was hit with what felt like a thousand memories. Two years. Two years he had been in and out of this room.

At first, solely to further her training, but later the training became the disguise with which they hid their true purposes. His eyes slid over to the bed and he was immediately assaulted with the memory of the last night she had been here. A night where he had stretched himself below her and in decadent whispers, told her to take what she wanted from him. An invitation she had accepted whole heartedly and with an exuberance that only came from one who was long-since intimately familiar and entangled with another. How long had they been together in ways they shouldn't have been? A year. It had been a year, he remembered.

Their last night together had been one that had seen neither of them getting much sleep. Too enamoured with and needy for one another. More than once they had sought to end the seemingly ceaseless fever that they'd both had for each other. He hadn't remembered the last time he'd felt such hunger for a woman as he had that night. A hunger that still thrummed through him although muted now, drowned within the sea of his worry and fear for her and her wellbeing.

Tearing his eyes from the bed and the memories that lashed at him, he allowed them to sweep through the room. His gaze danced over the various trinkets and mementos, before they landed on a small, metal and wood chest that was locked. His hand ghosted up over his chest pausing when his fingers felt the key, kept on a chain and obscured from view beneath his robes. He had one and she had one. The small chest, a place where they kept their memories of one another. Walking over to it now he unlocked it and creaked open the lid.

Inside he found a dried and pressed malvales bloom. It was the flower that he had weaved into her hair during their first unmasking festival together. A weaving that had led to the hidden sharing of their first kiss. Alongside this he found a strip of parchment, a note from her to him when he had been away on a long mission. A note where she had told him she loved him for the first time and that she was worried about how long that mission had been taking. And rightly so, he mused, it had been a messy job and one that had almost gotten him killed instead. But when he had received her raven, with this message, it had reignited the fire underneath him and he'd worked extra hard and extra fast, just to get back to her so she could say the words to him properly and have him hear them. Words that he would repeat back to her and had when he had returned. That had been the first night they'd laid together.

Setting this parchment aside, the next thing he had picked up was a hair stick that he had bought for her, it's twin the one that she wore almost daily, while keeping this one inside of the box. Because etched into the sides of this, was his promise as well as his love. He had commissioned two for her. One gold in colour and the other silver. The golden one held a fox face design at the top, with two small emeralds for its eyes. Along the edges of the stick, beautiful knotwork had been etched. Alongside words that read 'Valar Dohaeris. All men must serve" on one side and on the other; 'But a man will only ever serve a woman.' The features of this beautiful hair stick was what placed it inside of the locked chest, rather than finding its home in her hair. The fox was his sigil, everyone knew that. And the words? The words were an affront to the House and their beliefs. So it must never be seen either in her hair, or sitting out as an easily looked-at trinket. So into the chest it had gone. Not that it was a waste. After all, he had commissioned the other for her to wear without suspicion, if she so wished.

The silver twin was almost the exact same as the gold. Except the foxes eyes were citrines instead and the knotwork was a little less intricate. And instead of the words etched on the gold one, this one simply read 'Valar Morghulis' on one side and 'Valar Dohaeris' on the other. Perfectly suitable as a gift for say…a birthing day from a Faceless Man to a Faceless Woman, without any undertones to suspect. Which was of course what had been told to any who had asked her about it when she wore it. A birthing day gift from a friendly companion and colleague.

Setting the stick back and snapping the lid of the chest closed, he leaned his hand against the bureau heavily. The other came up to cover his eyes, as he bit down on the inside of his lip, doing his best to fight down his emotions. She had worn the silver one on the day she had left. He'd placed it into her hair himself, before he had kissed her, told her that he loved her and sent her on her way. Pleading with her to please just do what needed to be done, this time. Because he wouldn't be able to protect her, should she fail again. She had smiled at him, nodded and then slipped from this very room. He imagined that, at the time, she had been fully prepared to follow-through as she passed through these halls and towards the doors that would take her into Braavos. But something had happened in between when she had left and when the Waif had given chase. Both had been gone much too long, now.

Releasing a shuddering breath as he blinked back the stinging in his eyes, he dropped his hand and found his eyes moving up the wall, towards the window of her room. But they froze on the parchment hanging calendar that was there. It was still on the previous moon. Running his eyes over the dates there, he noted the red ink that circled the beginning point of the moon. He knew what that was for. It was how she tracked her bleeding cycles, it also allowed him to easily know when her blood was, with just a glance. He sighed as he took it from the wall, and tore free the old moon's dates and hung the calendar back up. Why? He didn't understand. The likelihood of her returning now was slim. But if, by some miracle, she had just been delayed in taking care of her target and returned, at least her calendar would be fresh. Looking over it again, noticing its crookedness which he moved to correct, he froze once more.

Wait, he thought. Where was the marking for the new cycle? They were mid-way through this moon cycle, now. She should have marked it. She would have marked it. Would have updated her calendar herself. Because if her blood was there, it was how she knew the new month had begun if she hadn't been paying particular attention to the calendar itself or marking its days off as she went. She absolutely would have marked it. She had become religious with it, especially once they had become intimate. It was how they kept her fertile time in order.

They used preventatives of course. He made the solution that they used, himself. But still they did their best to avoid being intimate during her fertile window, just in case, for whatever reason the efficacy of the preventative wasn't quite right. He was very particular and methodical when he made it. But he also knew that even a moment's distraction while at an apothecary table could cause problems with whatever was being brewed. So they avoided that time as best they could. So why then had she not marked it!?

Feeling the swell of panic, he took a breath and quickly thought through their most recent encounters. Gauging them against the dates of both the torn off sheet and the one still on the calendar. And to his horror he realised their error. Half-way through the previous moon they had been careless. Reckless rather. Well, he had been. Shortly after her first mission failure, in his panic for her, he had come to her and they had ended up being intimate. He hadn't had time afterwards to give her the solution needed. Which meant that they'd left her…fuck. And he'd just sent the Waif after her! Dammit! He needed to do something. He needed to do it now! Everything had just changed! Quickly locking the chest and throwing the chain around his neck again, he bolted for her door, tossing the torn sheet of parchment into the small wastebasket by it.

-X-

He froze by the door to the hall of faces, the liquid he'd just caught sight of on the floor, enough to bring him to a skidding halt. His breathing was heavy from his running through the temple, so taking a moment to stare at the floor, he realised that the liquid he was looking at was blood. Feeling his world rock to the side, he staggered, catching his hand on the wall by the door. No, no, no. Had he been too late?

Unable to move, riveted to his spot, his eyes unable to tear away from the blood splatter on the floor. Splatter that led, in a trail, into the hall of faces. His heart thundered in his chest as his mind worked overtime to deny what he was seeing. What it could mean. Rebelling against the thought that he'd not only killed her but killed their– Shaking his head vigorously, he started to take himself through breathing exercises. He couldn't fall into panic, grief and fear now. He just couldn't. He had to move. He had to follow the trail. He needed to know.

Bracing himself he followed the grizzly path before him and slowly entered the hall of faces, his eyes darting back and forth as he tried to see if anyone was still within. Seeing nothing, but knowing that, that didn't necessarily mean he was alone. He made his way further into the cavernous space, the trail of blood leading him to a central pillar. Sliding his eyes up, up and up some more, he felt his breath catch in both horror and relief. A new face, freshly removed, had been placed in the alcove that had been newly carved for hers. But it wasn't the face he expected to see, the source of his relief. It wasn't her, which meant…

"You told her to kill me…"

He felt himself tense almost painfully, even as his heart screamed in happiness and relief. But that tone that she'd spoken in, that wasn't a tone he'd heard from her in years. It was cold. Betrayed. And the happiness and relief that had filled his heart a moment ago, was quickly replaced with pain as his chest bloomed in guilt and regret. Feelings that were even worse, given what he now suspected to be true about her. But he couldn't ignore her, couldn't let his relief show. The walls had ears and eyes everywhere. So turning slowly, he looked at her and the expression on her face. Gods but it lacerated him, cleaving his soul in two. Hurt. Disappointment. Betrayal. Perfect. She was perfect.

"Yes…" He murmured quietly. "But here you are and there she is…" He added, his eyes running over her.

He was looking for any injuries and his eyes stuck on a spot on her lower abdomen. A spot where a dried blood stain marred the pale fabric of her shirt. No, he thought as his heart screamed again. That area pointed to two things. One, the waif had not heeded his command to not make her suffer. And two? There was no way that that could have survived such a wound.

"Finally, a girl is no one." He added, his eyes sliding from her face and off to the left. A move done purposefully for Arya to see. Someone was in the hall with them, they needed to be careful with what they said and how they said it.

He noticed that she quickly picked up on it, her head tilting just so. Listening. She was listening. Both heard the barely audible scrape of a foot on stone, even though they were both still and hadn't moved. But this was a show that needed to continue, so even though her blade was held aloft towards him? He stepped forward, drawing her attention to him instead, as he walked into the tip of her blade. He saw the momentary flash of panic in her face, but he gave her a meaningful look.

Play along with me. Now.

Where the words he was communicating without speaking. Understanding crossed her face and her expression hardened.

"A girl is Arya Stark of Winterfell. And I am going home." She said fiercely and he stared at her in amazement. A stare that soon became a look of softness as he smiled. A girl. She had referred to herself as 'A girl'. Not as 'I'. No, that part she left to say last. He nodded, then.

"Then allow a man to see a girl to her room, so that he may assist her in packing her things." He offered casually and waited as Arya searched his eyes for something.

He didn't know what it was that she was looking for, so he simply allowed her to see…all of it. And whatever it was she was searching for, she found it as she turned and began walking away from him, pausing only to look over her shoulder, then continuing on. He waited a moment more, for the benefit of the watching eyes, before he stepped down and followed her. Not wanting to appear too eager.

"If I could take your hand, oh

If you could understand

That I can barely breathe, the air is thin

I fear the fall and where we'll land"

-X-

When he reached her room, he found her standing in the middle of it, Needle blessedly sheathed once more. Her arms were crossed under her bust and fire licked behind her storm grey eyes. Bracing himself for what was to come, he closed her door and locked it behind him for good measure.

"I don't like this, Jaqen. I don't like it at all. The thought of leaving you here in this pit of vipers…it…it boils my blood." She said, her words shaking in both anger and fear for him. His lips slipped upward in a wan smile, before he strode over to her and pulled her into his arms, in a crushing embrace.

"Worry not, lovely girl. A man made a promise to you. A promise he intends to keep. He will join you soon. But for now, you must go. You did so very well, little love. A man is most proud of you. Though he is furious that the waif did not heed his order to not make you suffer." He said in return, his tone changing to one of hurt and apology as his fingers brushed over the dried blood stain on her shirt.

"You didn't honestly think that, with all of her hatred of me, that she would listen to that order? Especially if she thought she would succeed and would be the one to tell all about what happened. She would have said that I struggled more than she had anticipated." Arya scoffed, her eyes rolling in disbelief, although her hands came up to rest affectionately over his, that were on either side of her face.

"True. But still, a man had hoped." He murmured, before he leaned down and captured her lips with his.

The kiss was deep and passion-filled as he poured all of his emotion for her into it. He wanted to purr when, after only a moment, she returned it with equal measure. Gods but he had been so completely worried about her and her safety. Their plan had been dangerous. Very dangerous. But it was the only way they could feasibly get Arya out of the House without her being hunted down by the order. He had served his compulsory time. Well, almost anyway. He still had a few moons left to go, before he could say his farewells and leave the order as well. But Arya, if she'd been allowed to go on to be fully inducted into the order, would have been condemned to fifteen years of compulsory service where she would not be allowed to bow out. It was the cost of the training should an acolyte make it to induction. And even if that had been something she could have swallowed? They still wouldn't have been allowed to be together. It was forbidden for the faceless to fraternise with one another. And they knew they'd be unable to keep their entanglement hidden for that long. They would be caught. And they would be killed as punishment. So they had hatched their plan, diabolical as it was and fraught with danger. But they had succeeded and Arya was leaving. Tonight.

Pulling away from her, Jaqen kissed over her hair, her head, her cheeks and her eyes before he circled her into another embrace. His heart was breaking to let her go, regardless of how temporary, but it was necessary. She needed to stay safe. He needed to stay safe. They had made their future plans already. They would marry, have a home and fill it with children. That was their plan and they intended to stick to it. But it would only work if she left tonight. She had offered up the waif as a life payment, as he had schemed from the beginning, so she was free to leave. However, the thought of children brought him up short. Remembering the calendar then, he stepped back.

"Arya…" He breathed in concern. "Please tell me that you had your blood at the beginning of the new moon cycle and you just forgot to mark it down." He added, glancing over at the hanging calendar he had changed not too long ago.

But even before he finished speaking, Arya's crestfallen look was enough to have his heart dropping into his stomach.

"It– it never came, my love." She replied with difficulty as she shook her head. "When it was four days into the newest moon and it hadn't appeared. I knew that it…most likely wouldn't. Especially when I thought about the last few times we'd made love." She explained, wrapping her arms around her middle, almost to try and comfort herself as she spoke.

Stepping around behind her, he pulled her into him and held her tight. It was quiet reassurance, something she needed right now, even as his own world started to collapse around him. He had a feeling that she was not about to tell him anything good about the fate of their…shaking his head of the thought. He gently urged her to continue, unable to even bring himself to think of the word. Or to acknowledge how correct he had been.

"So it was obvious to me that I had been with child." She started to speak, but he cut her off, his heart breaking all over again.

"Had?" He asked, the word choked as his eyes started to sting with unshed tears.

"The waif. She stabbed me in the gut, multiple times. One was perilously close to my womb. That was the one, that when she stabbed in, she twisted her blade then wrenched it out viciously. A week later, my moon's blood came." She began to explain, her breath hitching as she pitched forward.

He could hear the pain and the despair in her voice. Hearing this and feeling as she curled over his arms, his first tears fell and they both sank to their knees on the stone floor below them. Once there, Arya ripped herself from his arms to turn and then throw herself into him, her sobs coming shortly thereafter. Heavy and strong, he imagined that she had held all of this in. Hadn't allowed herself to give into it until she was once again in his arms. In some measure of safety where she had the space to give life to her despair and to release it. Despair that he also felt slam into him as he held her as tightly as he could, his arm around her shoulders as the hand of the other cradled the back of her head against his shoulder.

Gods what had he done? This plan had ended up costing Arya so much more than he had ever anticipated. To risk her life was one thing, horrific enough on its own. But to lose the life of their…child, he forced himself to think the word. To acknowledge it finally. It was the worst and most soul wrenching of costs. A cost he would have never risked, if he'd known before this. Before they had put their plan into action. He would have found another way. Should have found another way regardless.

But he hadn't and now? Now he had a new, bitter regret that he would always carry. Regret for what this had done to Arya. As much as it hurt him to know that they had created something beautiful between them and then lost it? He knew that for Arya, this was so much worse. She'd had their child within her, no matter how short it had lasted. The fact remained that she had carried, she'd known she was carrying, had probably just come to terms with it too, maybe even looked forward to it? He didn't know for sure. But then all of a sudden she was bleeding and she'd probably known it could mean nothing good. But as her sobs lightened and she was able to speak again, he focused on her, dragging himself from his own painful thoughts.

"It was so much more painful than I had ever felt. It also came heavier, thicker and faster. Appearing as I had never seen it. Lady Crane informed me that it was how the loss of an unborn would appear and feel. As it was exactly how her own had looked and how she had felt, many years ago, when she had experienced it. So yes, my love. I had been. But no longer." She croaked, before she buried her face against his shoulder again.

All he could do then was cry with her as he held her. Whispering, again and again, how very sorry he was. How deeply he regretted everything that had transpired to cause this. Apologised for even siring on her in the first place. Spilling wishes that he could take her pain away and feel it for her instead, so she wouldn't have to go through it. They'd stayed, embracing on the cold stone, for quite some time before finally the tears stopped and eyes were dried. Then and only then, did they pack up all of Arya's belongings.

-X-

Jaqen glared up at the hooded man standing before him, a man whose throat was about two minutes away from being ripped out. That was, if he hadn't been restrained.

Glancing down at the chains and manacles that bound his wrists, he detested the fact that they were only long enough to allow for him to kneel, rather than stand. But then, that was the point wasn't it? To make the one shackled feel inferior. Small. Insignificant. It didn't work on him though. He'd built himself up too much, for such narrow-minded fools to make him feel anything but indifference at the best of times and outright fury at the worst.

"A man cannot be held here against his will. His time has been served! It is his right to leave! As it is for all!" Jaqen hissed, as he stared defiantly up at the older man before him. His own mentor? Jaqen would have laughed if it wasn't so fucking pathetic! So the old bastard was finally baring his teeth and sharpening his claws.

"And just why is a boy so desperate to alight from this place? When not two years before, he had been perfectly content to live out the rest of his life here with a man?" His mentor seethed down at him, leaning forward and grasping Jaqen's chin hard and jerking it downwards. "And lower your eyes as you speak to a superior, boy!"

Jaqen wrested his chin from the other man's grip, then raising his head in open hatred, he spat in his face. He felt a flash of vindication when the bastard stumbled back, startled. Before he quickly lifted the scrap of fabric resting against his chest and used it to wipe the bloodied spit from his cheek. The look his mentor levelled on him then, was one of abstract fury at such open disrespect in front of all the other members and council folk. Because of course the old man had chosen to make a spectacle of this. Jaqen bit back his wince at the pain that had shot through his shredded back, when he'd reared back to spit. Because of course the prick had taken a whip to it earlier and of course he'd used the head of his cane to smack across his face, knocking a tooth loose with the strength of the blow. Even now Jaqen could feel the swelling along his lower jawline towards his ear.

"A man's reasons are his own, mentor." Jaqen bit out, infusing the word 'mentor' with enough venom, so as to leave no doubt that it was said with derision and loathing. "Another right that a man has. He does not have to disclose the reasons for his leaving if he does not wish to!"

"Unless the circumstances of that leaving are suspicious at best and outright mutinous at worst!" His mentor snapped, his own detestation starting to show through now. "So again, a man demands. Why is a boy choosing to leave!? A man has his considerations to the answer. But he wishes to give a boy one more chance to confess."

"Confess!? There is nothing to confess! A man…" He growled out, stressing the word. "Simply wants to close this chapter in his life and move on to different things, whatever they may be! Again, as is his right!?" He added, his glaring seemingly trying to set his mentor on fire. A thing he would embrace quite fucking readily at this point.

He couldn't believe this was happening. It was ridiculous. Torturing someone just because they wanted to leave the fold. He needed to leave. Needed to get to Arya. He hadn't heard from her since her letter that told him that she had made it back to Winterfell safely. They had agreed to keep writing to one another, once a moon, to stay in touch. To maybe ease the pain of separation. But he hadn't heard from her since. His last raven went unanswered as all his others had. He knew something wasn't right. She would not miss sending him letters, not when she was the one that insisted they stay in communication.

No, something was very, very wrong. And he suspected that her raven's were getting intercepted and never making it to him. His ravens may even be getting intercepted too, he couldn't know for sure. But his suspicion was heavy and thick. However, unable to do anything else, he had simply bitten his lip and pushed through. Hiding the torrent of emotions that roiled beneath his surface. Outwardly he had shown no signs that anything was amiss, that he was anything other than completely put together and unbothered. But he was now beginning to think that these fuckers knew something that he didn't and it was both terrifying him and enraging him even further.

"Moving on to something else, boy? Or just someone else?" His mentor spoke, drawing Jaqen's attention back to him. He hadn't liked the tone that his mentor had just used. Dark. The words were spoken in a silky manner and filled with more than a little smugness.

"Someone else? Speak plain old man!" Jaqen spat, his teeth gritting together in his jaw, even though the movement sent a burst of pain through it. "A man knows not what…" But his mentor cut him off before he could finish. And with the most sadistic grin Jaqen had ever seen, called out an order to someone behind him.

"Bring it in. Let us all see the depths of a boy's sins. The lies he continues to tell in the presence of us all."

Jaqen felt his heart fall into his ass at this. What the hell had they found!? What were they about to show!? And as he craned his neck around his mentor's form, his heart that was previously in his ass, shot into his mouth. An acolyte was walking towards them, a woman whose petite form barely made a whisper, as she glided across the stone floor. But that wasn't what had gripped Jaqen's attention, it was instead, what she held in her arms. A swaddled infant. Newborn. He was utterly confused for a moment, before the acolyte knelt before him and with an apologetic look, tilted her arms just so, to allow him to view the face of the child.

This time? His heart stopped.

Red haired, eyes of steel grey and a mouth that was almost an exact replica of his own, only much smaller. No white streak in the hair like his, but he knew that, that wouldn't present for another year or two. But in this case, it was a blessing. He could still save this. Even though he had no comprehension of how this happened. Arya had lost their child! They'd known it to be true and she would have told him otherwise!

But then…if their letters had been being intercepted, he never would have found out anyway. But he also didn't think that Arya would have written something like this openly. If anything, she would have coded the message very, very carefully. So that only he could glean her meanings. After all, they had already agreed on a secret code that they would use in their writings to one another. One that they had created between them for the purposes of passing covert messages. This had been done, initially, as a way for them to communicate when she would be out in the field on training missions, where she would accompany another seasoned faceless man or woman. She never got that far, but still their private language had remained. So they had decided to use it during this separation.

"An adorable infant to be sure, mentor." Jaqen smirked in a deadly fashion. "But a man knows not why he is being presented with the babe?"

"Do not take a man for a fool, boy! We have the letters addressed to a boy, though we are unsure what their contents mean. So a man sent operatives to infiltrate Winterfell. This infant was found in the rooms of one Arya Stark of Winterfell. Newly born, with your head of hair and her eyes. The nursemaid was easy to put to sleep before she could call for aid. Making it easy for us to steal the child away. A boy and a girl had relations while she was here! Relations that bore this…this affront to our God!? That is why a boy is leaving! Is a man wrong!?" His mentor roared, shoving the acolyte out of his way, so that he could strike Jaqen once more.

The punch that was delivered snapped Jaqen's head to the side sharply, as pain bloomed across his cheek again and he tasted as more blood filled his mouth. But even though sunbursts exploded in his vision, Jaqen laughed bitterly, spitting out the blood in his mouth onto his mentor's boots. Before he met his eyes again, the glare was so cold and embittered that it would put the Night King to shame.

"Yes. A man is wrong. Tell another, old geezer? Were you aware that the woman known as Arya Stark has an older sister who is red of hair and blue of eye? The Queen in the North, she is referred to. Recently married too." Jaqen could tell, even before his mentor answered him, that the curmudgeon hadn't known.

Especially when he cut a deathly look towards two other assassins that weren't far from him. Green boys, just recently inducted. Two that had not yet learned to gather all facts before you levied dangerous accusations. Two that were now shifting to and fro uncomfortably. Jaqen barked out another bitter laugh as he shook his head in disbelief.

"I will take that reaction as my answer. I hope then, that they were at least aware that Arya also has an older brother. Grey-eyed like his younger sister. The King of the Six Kingdoms. His wife, incidentally, is also red of hair?" Jaqen asked boredly, careful not to get too cocky.

This could all still crash down around him. But he gave his old mentor time to think. To speak. But the anger in his eyes and the further uncomfortable shifting of the two young agents, told him everything he needed to know. Nodding his head in understanding, he shifted on his knees, so that he could get more comfortable and leaned back on his legs, his wrists coming to rest against his thighs casually.

"Hmm. I see, now. It seems your men saw this child in Arya's rooms and just assumed she was the mother. Did it not once occur to you or them, to confirm this infant's parentage, before they stole him or her away? To find out first, if it was simply because she was being an aunt to her new niece or nephew? Women, after all, often look after one another's children. Especially when they are sisters, either by law or by blood." He asked finally, just for his mentor's head to whip back around and glare at him.

"How utterly convenient for you! Is a boy simply grasping at straws, now? I know that this infant…"

"You know nothing, Vance!" Jaqen cut him off sharply, shocking the man when he'd used his name. Especially because he'd used it in front of everyone. Another slap of disrespect to the bastard. "You have made that abundantly clear. You stole an infant from their home on a feeble assumption at best!" Jaqen seethed, his fury overtaking his fear and confusion.

He wasn't ignorant enough to think the child wasn't his. On the contrary, as soon as he saw the little one, he'd just known that he was the father. He couldn't explain it. But it made it no less true in his mind. But there was enough uncertainty from everyone else, for him to completely undermine Vance in this respect. Just a few more well placed words and he would turn the tide on his old mentor.

"Then to make matters worse? You made a grand spectacle in front of everyone, without even confirming whether you were right!? You sent two green agents, ones who are too eager to please that it made them forgo all the other intricacies of a mission such as this! I would have never made this mistake. Other agents of similar experience to me would have never made this mistake." Jaqen replied with a wry shake of his head, even though it burned his back.

He held back his smirk when he heard the angered rumblings roll through the amassed members in the chamber. Some were aghast that a child would be stolen from their home without any proper proof of wrongdoing. Others were disgusted that a mentor would do something such as this to their protege. And another group, the oldest agents by far, were appalled that this is how far their order had fallen. Kidnapping. Beating. Performing the equivalent of a tar and feathering in front of everyone. All for a suspicion. A suspicion with no ironclad evidence to back it up. Just circumstantial proof at best. And Jaqen knew that Vance was hearing all of this as well and was getting angrier by the second. There was also a hint of worry and nervousness in his face now. He knew he was losing them. Knew he was starting to look like a villain driven by selfishness and a need to be right. Vance was acting as though…he was someone and not No One.

"But the letters!? Why would you still maintain contact with…" Vance spewed and Jaqen rolled his eyes. Hard. Unbelievable.

"She was to be my protege, you absolute imbecile!" He cut the other man off. Before continuing. "I've known her since she was a girl of eleven! Are we to be denied the ability of having friends, now?" Jaqen sighed out gruffly. Taking a moment to catch his breath before adding;

"But more than that, keeping in contact with her. Remaining on good terms with her. It meant I could keep an eye on her easily, and make sure she wasn't spilling all of our secrets! This way? I could better maintain her loyalty. Use your head for the love of the Gods! Did you really think I would let her go without a way to ensure she kept her mouth closed?" Jaqen finished with a well-placed glare for good measure.

"Enough of this!" A booming voice came from the other side of the room.

Both Jaqen and Vance's heads whipped around in the direction of the voice. There at the door, hobbling down the steps with his cane was the head of their order. The same acolyte that Vance had pushed aside, helping their leader navigate the steep steps. She must have slipped away after she was shoved, to go and retrieve him. Jaqen barely managed to hide his surprise at this. This man rarely, if ever, left his office or his rooms. But where was his child, he wondered. As the acolyte no longer held them. He felt his protective nature rise within him, like an awakening dragon, ready to burn all in his path. Where was his offspring!?

"A man is most disappointed in another!" The elder snapped, his cloudy eyes focusing on Vance as he slowly made his way into the middle of the chamber. "So overtaken by selfishness, a man would lay bare the flesh of one of the most loyal of us. Shred his skin most viciously, in front of everyone else. It is no wonder the boy wishes to leave! But then, a man has always had a tendency for cruelty."

When the older man got to Vance, he reached up and snatched the key to Jaqen's shackles from Vance's neck. Snapping the chain and not caring that he had cut the skin there. He then turned to Jaqen and with difficulty, knelt down and unlocked the manacles.

"I have heard all that was said here tonight. A man believes a boy has done nothing untoward. His reasoning makes logical sense to him. And he is sure, to everyone else present here this night." As the elder spoke, Jaqen stood shakily and although it hurt like hell because of his back? He bent down to help the elder to his feet, as well. Once he was steadied, Jaqen stepped back a respectful distance and bowed his head as low as he could, speaking with his eyes cast to the floor. A clear fuck you to Vance.

"A man thanks his elder for his faith and for putting an end to this farce." Jaqen said quietly, his tone one of utmost respect.

"A man hears a boy's words and acknowledges them. For now, let's get his back taken care of, before he sets out. A man asks though, that a boy first return the infant to their home before he goes off on his life adventures. His request to put an end to his service has been granted." The elder responded gently, reaching his hand under Jaqen's chin and raising his head so that they could look at each other. "And you? Will never cast your eyes downwards when speaking with me. It is unnecessary."

Jaqen was taken aback at this. If there was anyone in this order, who should not be looked at directly, it was their leader. So why was he saying this to him? Looking at the man in confusion, he searched his eyes for some sort of understanding of this curiousness. But all he found in the elders clouded, hazel eyes was a strange look of gentleness and care. Which made no sense at all and just served to further confuse him. But rather than say anything or question it, he simply inclined his head respectfully and waited for the man to pass him by, before he turned and followed him.

"We fight every night for something

When the sun sets, we're both the same

Half in the shadows

Half burned in flames

We can't look back for nothin'

Take what you need, say your goodbyes

I gave you everything

And it's a beautiful crime"

-X-

Jaqen watched the waves of the sea, as the ship he was on, tracked through the waters towards White Harbour. He was finally on his way. The head of the faceless had personally taken care of his wounds when he'd rescued Jaqen from Vance.

But during the cleaning and dressing of his back, the elder had spoken and it was then that Jaqen found out that he had confirmed the parentage of the child that was currently in his arms. Looking down at the face of his child, a daughter, he was still amazed at how she had survived. But then Arya's letters, which the elder had claimed back from Vance and given to him, had explained things. The maester at Winterfell had suspected that Arya had probably been carrying twins originally. But when she had been stabbed, she had lost one of them, the other surviving somehow. Most likely due to her positioning in Arya's womb at the time. Luck. The little one had been lucky.

She'd also told him in her letters that she knew something wasn't right. When his ravens were clearly showing that he wasn't replying properly to the ones she'd sent out. But she didn't know if she should try and come to Braavos, or if that would cause more problems. This confirmed, for him, that her ravens had indeed been being intercepted. But his to her were not, for whatever reason. Not that it mattered now. Gods but Arya was going to be so fucking worried about their child. He was sure by now that she was about ready to create a sea of blood. He only hoped that he would arrive in time to prevent it.

Running his finger down his daughter's small nose, he smiled down at her. Such a pretty little thing. He knew she would have him wrapped around her finger for life. Not to mention, when she inevitably grew into a beautiful woman, he would be chasing suitors away left and right. Catelyn Elena was her name. An homage to Arya's mother and Jaqen's little sister, who he had lost to illness when he was fifteen years old. His little sister had been his world, so losing her had almost destroyed him. But, Arya, giving his daughter his sister's name, healed something in him that had been raw and bleeding for years.

He was still unsure why the head of the Order had let him go. He knew Catelyn was Jaqen's daughter. Had, had it confirmed. So why then had he lied in front of everyone? Why had he punished Vance so severely for what he'd done? He didn't know and he hadn't wanted to question the elder, lest he shatter any good feeling or kindness. What the elder had promised however, when he placed Catelyn into his arms at the massive doors of the temple the next day, was that none would follow him. He would see to it and make sure that no one would interfere in Jaqen's new life. Even if the beginning of that life had been an affront to the House, according to the dusty old tomes in the library. But then, the elder had said, all things eventually had to bow to modernity. Even a faith and belief as old as theirs. Love, after all, came for all men eventually. Even those that were faceless.

It was a curious thing for him to say, given it had held tones of the man having experienced said emotion himself. But surely not? He was the head of the order for a reason. The embodiment of No One. But whatever the case, he was thankful for the Elder's mercy and consideration. Very thankful indeed. Getting to his feet, he walked, with his daughter, over to the bassinet of warm water, now cooled enough for her sensitive skin. She needed a bath. As did he. But he would see to her first. She would come first in all things now. Especially where he was concerned.

Once he had undressed her small form, he lowered her gently into the bassinet, keeping her cradled in one arm as he did so. Then carefully and methodically, he began to wash her clean. He didn't notice as he began to hum a Lorathi lullaby, that he was smiling serenely and warmly down at her. But he did notice when his heart constricted in pure love for the little lass. Gods, what a blessing she was. Here too soon and well before either he or Arya were ready. But he didn't think he could be annoyed at himself and Arya for being so reckless. Not when his heart felt the way it did when he looked down into her almond shaped eyes, the perfect twins to her mothers. Or when she babbled up at him so sweetly or reached for his fingers, face or hair to learn who he was.

"Your existence, little foxling, warms and heals this man's heart. He is proud to be your father." He murmured down at Catelyn, as he poured water from his hand over her chest gently, chuckling in amusement when she babbled happily and kicked her little feet excitedly, splashing the rolled up sleeve of his tunic.

"Ah…" He crooned. "A man sees a girl shall follow in her mothers footsteps and be a most frustrating trouble-maker." He added chuckling again, before leaning down and rubbing his nose against her much smaller one. Her little hands came up then, one touching his face and the other gripping his hair before she tugged and he winced slightly. That had, surprisingly, hurt.

"A man also notes that a girl will, again much like her mother, make a man her personal plaything. Although in a much different sense. But the principle remains. Whatever will he do with such troublesome girls?" He added, his expression deadpanning, as he carefully extricated his hair from Catelyn's fingers. Hmm, he thought, he should probably start tying it back. Because he refused to cut it.

Falling silent then, he finished bathing his daughter before he dried her off, redressed her and then swaddled her. Once she was settled in his arms again, beginning to doze off, he called for more warm water, so that he could bathe himself. Gods but he couldn't wait until he could sink into an actual bath. But for now he could wash himself from top to toe, using the basin that was in his room. But his first order of business, once he got to Winterfell and returned Catelyn to Arya's arms, was to find the bathhouse and then do his best to drown himself. Well. Minus the death part of that. Obviously.

-X-

Jaqen felt himself sway a little as his exhaustion pressed down on him. He and Catelyn had travelled for a week after they disembarked at White Harbour and she'd had a few bad nights of sleep the past three days of that week. Which, of course, meant he'd not slept either. And although he had obviously expected this, with her still being so young, he hadn't quite been prepared for how exhausted it would make him. But it had certainly helped him find a completely different and all too new and healthy respect for Arya. Who had probably been doing this since their daughter was born.

So when he had finally seen the gates of Winterfell, he'd almost collapsed with relief. That was, until he got stopped by the guards. Expected. That was their job after all. They had recognised Catelyn and immediately tried to snatch her from his arms. He had…reacted quite poorly in light of that. Because now both had been hauled off to the maester to get bones reset. But he didn't feel bad for them. They had attempted to remove his daughter from him before even trying to find out who he was, or what he was doing in Winterfell. So one received a broken hand and the other a broken wrist. He'd noted then how another two guards approached him. Both, understandably, cautious of him and his eagle eyes plus his iron grip on Catelyn.

"A man is Jaqen H'ghar of Braavos. I'm looking for Arya Stark. If you are smart, you will lead me where I need to be and not attempt, again, to remove this child from my arms. Lest you meet the same fate as your fellow guards." He warned them, his tone deadly and dark.

He watched as both men, young ones he noted, glanced at each other, trying to decide whether they wanted to try him again. Or to listen to him. He would rather the latter instead of the former. But he was also not a bit shy about breaking more bones if needed, he would just prefer not to. It seemed that the guards, as they took on a defensive stance and moved their hands to their swords, decided on violence today. Jaqen sighed, most perturbed at this turn of events, and shifted in preparation for what was to come. But it seemed it wouldn't need to be a showdown as a voice called from inside of the gate.

"Wait! Ser, did you say you were Jaqen H'ghar!?"

Jaqen glanced around the guards then and met the eyes of a pretty dark haired woman, who was in the process of hurrying past the gates with an armful of parchment. She was staring at him like she couldn't believe he was in front of her before her eyes slid down to his fur-swaddled daughter. Tipping his arm forward just enough, he allowed her to see Catelyn's face. Before he returned her back against his chest.

"A woman heard correctly. A man is Jaqen H'ghar." He replied with a polite nod of his head.

"Arya's betrothed!?" She gasped and although surprised at the title, he nodded again anyway. Technically they weren't engaged yet. But they did plan to marry. So 'betrothed' was close enough he supposed.

"I'm Gilly. I'm married to Samwell Tarly, the Grand Maester." She replied, dipping her hips in a polite curtsey, something that threw him off completely. He was unused to such formalities being visited upon him. But choosing not to let it distract him, he inclined his head towards her respectfully.

"Well met, Gilly. Would you please take me to my betrothed? I'm sure she is ready to drown all of Westeros in an ocean of blood because of the abduction of our daughter. I would like to return her to her mothers arms forthwith." Jaqen requested and Gilly grinned with a nod and waved him inside. But the guards stepped forward again. Before Jaqen could say anything, Gilly snapped.

"Enough, you big louts! Let him through! He has as much right to be here as I do. Moreso even, given his station and relationship to Lady Arya."

The guards turned to her then and glared.

"Woman, we do not know for certain that he is who he says he is!" They seethed and Gilly squared her shoulders and stared both down without any fear.

"If you are going to refer to me outside of my actual name, then you will call me Mrs. Tarly!" She bit out, her eyes blazing and Jaqen thought he would grow to quite like this feisty little thing. He admired strong women. Had even fallen in love with one. And, he noted, the guards were shifting uncomfortably under her angered gaze. But she continued to speak anyway.

"And you are wrong. You do not know for certain. But that doesn't matter because I do. Lady Arya has told me all about her betrothed down to the most intimate of details. The man before us now is Jaqen H'ghar. And if you know what's good for you, you will let him pass. Or I will come out, take little Cat so his hands are free, and allow him to do what he will with you both. You won't come out of it as lightly injured as the last two, I assure you. For I also know just what this Lord-to-be is capable of." She bit out, never once dropping her gaze from the guards faces.

The guards backed down then and begrudgingly parted so that Jaqen could pass. Shooting a deadly glare at them both, he brushed past them and walked through the gate. Stopping once in front of Gilly and took her hand in his and placed a chaste and respectful kiss to the back of it.

"A man thanks a woman for her assistance. His preference was not to spill blood. But that didn't mean he wouldn't." He said, with a final, withering look over his shoulder at the guards who noticeably startled.

"You're welcome, Ser. And I know. Arya told me all about you as I've already mentioned." Gilly replied with a faint blush staining her cheeks, utterly charmed by him, but she grinned nonetheless.

"And uh…how detailed did she become?" Jaqen asked, dropping Gilly's hand and straightening once more.

"Let's just say I know exactly how little Catelyn was made. Down to the very position. Or should I say…positions" Gilly teased, giving him a wicked grin of complete amusement.

Jaqen swallowed hard at this, closing his eyes in exasperation for a moment, before he opened them with a sigh. "Do remind a man to have words with his betrothed regarding what is appropriate to share and what isn't." He said, walking behind Gilly as she waved for him to follow her. She snorted at this and shook her head.

"I can remind you. You can have words. But only Arya decides whether she listens to them or not. Her and I are quite close, so we do tell one another everything." Gilly sighed, humoured as she shrugged her slight shoulders. She really was a dainty little thing. A bit taller and broader than Arya, but not by much.

They lapsed into a somewhat comfortable silence then, as Gilly led him through the keep. As they passed through the courtyard and headed towards the West Wing, Jaqen let his eyes rove here, there and everywhere. Taking note of all guard postings, exits, entrances and any other landmark that would not only help him navigate this place but to have an idea of all key areas that he may need to be aware of. Such as the barracks, the family wings, the bathhouse and the Maesters quarters which most likely also held the infirmary. He also took note of what appeared to be a War Room. He and Arya would probably be staying here for a while at first, so he would need to make himself useful and pull his weight. It would only be right.

He refused to laze around and be a 'Lord'. The very idea of even possibly holding a title such as that was laughable to him. But it was naturally assumed that he would be, given his 'betrothal' status to one of the Lady's of the Keep. However, if they expected him to languish because of that? Then he had some unfortunate news for them all. But he came out of his thoughts, when Gilly opened a heavy wooden door into what appeared to be a library. Judging by the wall-to-wall and floor to ceiling shelves filled with various books, scrolls and parchments. Scattered around the walls as well, were large fireplaces, all of which were lit.

Close to these were various sitting areas, either with arm chairs and side tables beside them. Or long desks, piled high with more books and scrolls, with chairs ringing the tables. And at the largest of the fireplaces, sitting in front of the fire, looking less than her best was Arya. She looked thinner than he expected and her closed eyes were under shadowed with dark half-circles, testament to how little she had slept. But then, Catelyn had been gone for almost two weeks. Of course she would be despondent.

"Gilly if you aren't here to tell me that Sansa has given me permission to cut a swathe across the continent until I find my daughter. Then I am not interested in having company." She said, her tone broken and making it clear that her heart was bleeding. Jaqen felt his own twist painfully in his chest. Fucking Vance.

"Is a woman sure about that?" He teased lightly. "Does she not want the company of her betrothed and said daughter?" He added and Arya's eyes snapped open immediately, taking him in and the swaddled form of their child in his arms.

"Jaqen…" She gasped in a choked whisper, her eyes filling with tears before she shot to her feet and barrelled towards him.

As soon as she reached him, she pulled Catelyn from his arms and pressed the infant to her breast as she embraced their daughter. Her haggard face lit up as her tears of relief and happiness began to fall, while running her fingers over Catelyn's sleeping face gently. Checking her over for any injuries or bruises.

Jaqen watched her and felt his heart break for the hell that she had to have been in for the past couple of weeks. And his rage lit within him and built to an inferno once more. Vance. The bastard. He would pay. Jaqen would wipe him from the face of this earth. Only death would pay for this egregious act. Turning to Gilly, he spoke.

"You may return to what you were doing beforehand, Miss Gilly. A man will see to his betrothed and daughter personally. He thanks you most profusely for your assistance at the gate and then leading him here." He said gently, bowing low to her and causing her to blush again before she gave another curtsey, then with a nod, turned and left the library.

As soon as the door closed, Jaqen moved and wrapped Arya into his arms in a long-sought after embrace, being mindful of Catelyn who was now in between them both. His heart leapt in his chest, as Arya's free arm circled his waist in return and squeezed so tightly, he was worried that she would cut off his lungs. He heard as she breathed him in deeply, the tenseness in her body releasing as his scent filled her nose. He was now very thankful that he had taken time to properly and thoroughly bathe himself before he left the inn that he'd spent the night in. So now all that Arya would smell was his trademark spicy scent, mixed with the leather of his armour.

"Jaqen!? How the hell did you end up with Catelyn!? How did you even know that she was yours!? I knew you weren't getting my ravens, so you couldn't have known about her. Or that she'd been taken." Arya finally asked him after about fifteen minutes where they'd stood and simply embraced one another.

Jaqen nodded at this, before he led Arya back over to the armchair that she'd been sitting in. Once she had gotten comfortable and adjusted Catelyn, so she was cradled safely against her, Jaqen took the chair beside her.

"It is a long story, lovely girl. But to give you an overview. She was taken by the Faceless, on direct but secretive orders of my old mentor, Vance. Not liking that I was planning on leaving the order, he began to intercept ravens that were bound for me. He found yours. But when he couldn't decode them, he sent two agents to infiltrate Winterfell." He said with a bone-weary sigh. Then running his hand through his hair, he explained what had happened in the last two weeks.

"Each breath I left behind

Each breath you take is mine

Walking on a line ten stories high

Fear a fall, you're asking why"

-X-

As he sunk into the bath that Arya had brought into their room, Jaqen released a blissful but tired sigh. He'd been in Winterfell for over a month now. And in that time, Arya and he had spent it together with their daughter. Both of them, learning how to be a family and making up for all the lost time. They hadn't laid together since he arrived. Both, simply too tired from looking after their daughter in the night and performing their Keep duties during the day. But tonight? Catelyn was spending it in her aunt Sansa's room. So the hope was that they could catch up on some much needed rest. And Gods knew they both definitely needed sleep.

After meeting Arya's family members and them approving of him and he them. He had been given the duty of Master of Whispers as well as a seat on the War Council. His position there was Master of Shadows. Both positions that he was perfectly suited to and more than happy to take up. After all, he held a very specific set of skills. Skills that some would pay a disgusting sum of money for simply a consultation with him. Why waste them when he could put them to good use and give indispensable assistance and experience to Arya's family? But he supposed, they were his family now as well. So why shouldn't he do all he could, to help them in whatever way they needed?

Sinking below the surface to soak his hair, he came back up again, just to jump out of his skin when he found Arya at his head, leaning over the edge of the tub. Not expecting to see her there, he'd breathed in some water when he'd gasped and went into a coughing fit, glaring at her half-heartedly. She tried to hold back her laughter, she really did. But she failed. Terribly. Frowning at her, he flicked water into her face, making her gasp in affront, before she laughed again.

"Lovely girl?" He sighed in exasperation. "Do try and announce yourself when a man cannot hear your footfalls properly and he has the potential to drown. Do you wish to be a widow before you are even a wife?" He added, giving her a deadpan look. Which just renewed her chuckles.

"Ah. But a man taught a woman that 'clever girls go barefoot, if they don't wish to be detected'. She was simply following his instructions." She quipped, tapping his nose playfully with her finger, her eyes dancing with teasing and mirth. He narrowed his gaze on her then, before he glanced over the side of the tub and sure enough. She was barefoot on the cool stone. Cocking his brow then, he tilted his head to the side in thoughtfulness.

"Oh? So a man's lessons were in fact absorbed by a woman? A miracle to be sure. So tell him, was she simply unable to contain herself from causing him so much trouble as and when she could?" He asked in faux contemplation, causing her to gasp in offence once again. Before she splashed a handful of the bath water at him.

"Yes. A man was simply too fun to get a rise out of. Impossible for a woman to resist, really. Especially when he made it so easy for her to get under his skin." She replied sassily with a shrug of her shoulders, flicking her long hair over the left one.

"Obstinate woman!" He growled playfully before he shot his arm out and caught her shoulder, unbalancing her and tipping her forward to fall into the bath. She hauled her head out from under the water, her body splayed over his, coughing and spluttering. Her glare of annoyance filled him with a victorious warmth and he couldn't help but smirk at her, the expression a little smug he would admit.

"Dammit! You're such a shit, Jaqen H'ghar! This was the only night dress I had left! The rest are being laundered! Now what will I sleep in!?" She cursed him, looking down at her now drenched night gown. The thin, cream fabric quickly became transparent as it absorbed water.

"That is an easy answer, lovely girl. A woman can sleep in nothing but what the Gods blessed her with. A man will take little to no issue with it, he assures her." He teased, his eyes hooded as he ran them over her form. The sopping wet fabric of her night gown clinging to every dip and curve most becomingly.

He realised then just how beautiful she was. He had known she would grow to become a very attractive woman. Even when she had arrived at the House, still a girl of barely seventeen. Then, she had still been in the in-between phase. Where she hadn't quite shed all of her girlish features, but was also rapidly growing into what would become her womanly form. By the time her eighteenth summer had come around, she had shed every single piece of her girlishness and was half-way settled into her fully-grown body. It was shortly after that, that they had begun to take notice of one another as a man and a woman would.

At first he had been torn and his head a mess. Because to feel those adult urges for her had made him feel wrong. Immoral. After all, he had known her since she was eleven. And had been her guardian and mentor for a full year before the change in him had occurred. But as time passed by and they grew closer. He began to realise that those feelings and wants had only come to him, once she had been classed as a fully-grown adult. They hadn't been harboured at all before then. This realisation had gone quite a way to help him come to terms with the change.

Then when they had finally laid together and he had seen her at her most bare, it had cemented his reassurance in the fact that she was, indeed, a woman. So any vestiges of awkward thoughts surrounding their history had fallen away. He was still older than her, with his thirty years against her nineteen, so he suspected there would always be a little oddness there. But not enough to stop him from being hers. Besides that, with everything that she had lived through up until now, it had developed her mind far beyond her years. So mentally, they were both much closer in age than their physical years would indicate. Which also helped them along in many ways.

But as his eyes roved over her once more, he realised that motherhood had just made her even more glorious to him. Before he could stop himself, he was reaching out and peeling her soaked night gown from her body and tossing it over the side of the bath. Then he pulled her head forward and stole her lips in a hungry kiss. Her small mewl of pleasure as she melted into his kiss, sent embers of need to begin swirling through him. He was exhausted but Gods be damned, he would find the energy for this.

Slipping his arm around her waist, he pulled her hips against his, settling her over him. His other arm came up to slip his hand to the back of her neck, tilting her head so that he could deepen the kiss. She hummed against him, her hands sinking into his hair as her hips rolled against his lightly. Slowly but with firm pressure. His gasp was almost inaudible and he shuddered a little at the sensations her movement elicited from him. One of her hands slid from his hair, so that her arm could wrap around his shoulders, the leverage it provided allowing her to press into him more closely. Both hips and chests now flush to one another. Tipping her head back then, he kissed a trail down her chin towards her neck, where he lavished the sensitive spot at the base of her throat with nips and licks. Before he glided his lips across her skin towards her shoulder, where he attacked the soft curve between it and the column of her throat.

Her pleasured gasps and sighs were music to his ears as she rolled and ground her hips against his, sending bolts of deep sensation through them both. Their bodies, aided by the warm water, gliding and slipping against one another sinfully, increasing the arousal and want between them. He was fully hard now and he could feel her core already slickened for him. His nips were now becoming bites and his licks became sucks. The skin of her neck would be marked come morning but he found he didn't care much. Let everyone see and know what happened in this room tonight.

"Jaqen…" She gasped in need. "Please…no more torture. It's been too long since…" She pleaded with him, her words cutting off as a deep moan pulled from her chest. When she had rolled as she spoke, it had shifted him against her, the head of his masculinity applying decadent pressure to her bundle of nerves.

"As my lovely girl wishes…" He murmured before he claimed her lips again in a fiery kiss, his hand reaching between them and with practised ease, aligned himself with her. A beat of a moment passed between them then, both bracing themselves, and then he drove upwards.

The kiss broke as joint gasps fell from their mouths. His entry was smooth and firm but the feeling of joining together again had taken their breaths. Both shuddered against the other, goosebumps erupting across their skins. Jaqen recovered first though and drew back, before driving upwards once more. Arya choked out a breathy moan, before she found her body again and began to move with him. They both settled on a slow but firm pace, clinging to one another as their bodies rocked together, they kept their arms locked around the other, not allowing any space between them, beyond what was needed to maintain their movements.

Water lapped against the sides of the tub gently, a soothing soundtrack to the decadence of what they were now engaging in. The crackling of the blazing fire in the hearth, dancing between the laps of the water. Arya's name fell from his lips as he gave himself over completely to what they were doing. When was the last time he'd been able to fully sink into this with her and allow the rest of the world beyond their bedroom door to fall away? Never, he realised. When they were at the House, he had to still keep his ear tuned to the hallways beyond their doors, while trying to manage his lovely girl's sounds of pleasure as well as his own, as he claimed her in secret. But now? Now, he realised, he no longer had to. He could give into this with heart, body and soul. There was no one waiting in the shadows to drive a blade through their chests for the sin of simply falling in love and giving life to it through their bodies.

This thought hit him like an iron shield to the face as he realised just how fucked up life at the House of Black and White had been. Love wasn't a sin. Love didn't give a damn about whether someone was No One. It only cared about how the heart felt and no true God would condemn their subjects to a life without love in it. Everyone, regardless of whether they claimed an identity or not, was deserving of loving and being loved in return. There was only one reason an emotion such as that would be condemned in such a way. Control. Pure and simple. Specifically control of a congregation. And only a monstrous dictator would threaten death and carry it out, because two people dared to love each other and do what people in love are won't to do. How had he failed to see this before now? How had he not questioned the supposed edicts of the Faceless?

This particular rule had been claimed to be listed in the old tomes of the order. But had he ever actually checked them!? He'd had access to the full library at the House. Even the restricted areas that held the oldest of their books and scrolls. Why had he never confirmed this for himself? But even as he thought this, he knew why. He was a good little soldier. His raising being completed there had meant that he had been moulded when he was at his most easily manipulated. Then by the time he'd become a grown man? The conversion had been so very complete, that he had never even thought to question what he'd been force-fed for years. That is…until Arya.

Arya had picked up his, supposedly ironclad, beliefs and thrown them to the ground. Shattering the most fundamental one of all. So he'd started to question. He'd started to wonder. Then practically tortured himself with grief because he was questioning. A holy war had raged within him and had set his mind alight with twisted and tangled thoughts. But still, she had won out. She'd won because he'd wanted her to. Had subconsciously decided that he was going to defy the demand that love not be allowed to bud and then bloom within the House of Black and White. He had wanted her as much as she'd wanted him and he'd chosen not to deny them what they wanted. From there his beliefs had unravelled in short order. And in the cold light of day, standing amongst the wreckage of his shattered understandings, he had stepped over the debris without a thought and right into her arms. And she had accepted him readily, her arms twining around him and holding him close.

Arya hadn't cared about the House. Not personally. She'd only cared about him and him alone. She'd looked at their edicts, decided they were cruel and nonsensical, then showed him why she thought that. Her question of which of the Gods, old and new, didn't have some requirement that people love, bed and wed each other? Why did they get called upon to bless and protect the union of two who wed, if they, as people, weren't supposed to join together in whatever way they saw fit. And the answer had been simply none. So she asked him then, why He of Many Faces, would be the only one who would have such a rule. Hells, even he was called upon in marriage ceremonies to bless unions. Given he was also known as 'The Stranger'. He was right there. In the vows. 'Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger…', so why then would He refuse to allow love to bloom in his own temple? Also, if they were to serve him unquestionably, why would he be so against, say, children being born between his servants? After all, to have children raised with the beliefs of the Faceless, was a guaranteed way to always ensure one had a steady stream of servants. Guided and led by masters of the faith.

Her takes were considered controversial and most would also consider them blasphemous. But they'd made sense to him and caused him to question even more. And as he'd thought about this particular line of view, he'd realised that Arya was right. All marital rites, the world over, had some variation of He of Many Faces being called upon to also throw His protective cloak over the shoulders of the ones being wed. The Stranger, The Red God, The Drowned God etcetera. All different faces of Him that were known intimately by the Faceless Men. During the births of children, He was also called upon with beseeching to not take either mother or child into his arms for the rest of eternity. To please allow them to stay. Sometimes it worked, other times it didn't. And other times He allowed one to remain but not the other. But for those times where it did work. What did it show? Nothing other than He was merciful and had granted the requests to those making them.

But as his body was consumed with bliss, he was dragged from his mind, his chest filling with a most fatal love for the woman in his arms. A thought, not of his own voice, came to him.

"What do we say to the God of Death?" A pause that felt somewhat amused and then; "Not today."

The whisper across his mind was a masculine voice. Soft. Gentle. The tone, ethereal and honeyed. Reassuring and comforting with an accent he had never heard in any of the realms. He didn't understand it but as quickly as it came, it again went and his stream of thought returned along with his own mental voice. What had that been? Where had that come from? It hadn't been of his own making. The voice in his head had felt…foreign not of his subconscious. Was he finally going mad? He wondered idly but his musings were cut off as he felt Arya tense above him, her nails dragging across his shoulders.

Opening his eyes he met her gaze and in that he could see that she was close. Too close to crashing and she didn't want to. Not yet. He smirked at her seductively, before he shifted them and pressed her up against the other side of the tub, effectively putting her below him. Urging her to wrap her legs around his waist, he began to move within her deeply, the different position lengthening his strokes just enough to keep her hovering around the edge but not tip her over it. He had learned, long ago, how to manipulate her body in this way. A studious lover he was and he took a rather great deal of pride in this fact about himself.

He remembered Arya's surprise the first time they'd ever done this. She had still been virginal, something that had almost had him running for the hills. Because to take that from her? It was a ruination of her, something that would deeply hurt any prospects of marriage she would have had, if she returned to her old life. To claim the virtue of a High Lady or Princess when you weren't her husband? It was something not to be done lightly and in some realms an offence punishable by death. But he had done it anyway because Arya had wanted it to be with him and that she'd had no plans to marry some prick of a Lord, anyway. Besides, at that time, she hadn't planned to leave the House. So there was no point in following 'tradition' in this sense.

So he had taken her and he had done it carefully, methodically and by the time he was slipping within her, he'd readied her more than enough, that she'd felt no pain. Only pleasure. She'd been dazed with this fact for a few days afterward, something that had been greatly entertaining to him. He understood the surprise and confusion of course, it was well known that most men did not in fact, prepare their virginal partners enough before they took them. A bit like bulls in china shops, they would stampede on and cause so much unnecessary pain and or damage. Giving rise to the common belief that it would always hurt the first time for a woman or girl. But the truth was that it really shouldn't and wouldn't if men simply did their proper due diligence beforehand. The first would always be a touch uncomfortable, just by the nature of muscles that hadn't ever been used in a certain way before. But anything more than a little, temporary discomfort, and it meant the man had not done his job properly at all.

So when he had taken Arya, he had not been disillusioned nor had he acted like a green boy with his first woman. He'd taken great measures to ensure she was as ready as he could possibly make her. Then and only then had he moved on. The result had been an experience for her that had left her panting, dazed and utterly pleasure drunk. A vision of her that was greatly favoured by him, he did so love to see her in such a manner. And the next morning, aside from some mild tenderness in her muscles, she'd been completely fine even though freshly deflowered. He'd chuckled when she questioned him about it and he had explained it to her, apparently totally mystifying her. But at any rate she'd been in remarkably good spirits as had he afterwards.

Pulling back again, he surged forward once more, adding a roll as their hips connected. A roll that provided delicious friction against that sweetly decadent outer spot that had Arya calling out his name, as she pressed herself against him and circled her hips. The motion pulled a dark groan of desire from him and he knew he would not last long. A damn shame because he could usually draw this out until Arya was half-crazed with a need to release. But, he supposed, it had been months now since they'd last laid together. They were both frustrated to a degree neither had experienced as yet, given they'd done this fairly regularly up until she'd left the House.

Angling himself differently, he gripped the edges of the tub on either side of her head for leverage, then began to drive into her harder and faster. She was close. He was close. It wouldn't take much at all before they would both tumble over the edge and by the Gods he wanted to see her face as she shattered for him. Too long. It had been too long since his eyes had been graced with such beauty. He craved it. Needed it like he needed air to breathe. For him? There was nothing better than seeing her break apart because of the all consuming bliss that he flooded her body with when they did this. It was his pride in satisfying her, in seeing her pleasure, that he adored. It let him know that he'd done his Gods damned job and he'd done it properly. Her pleasure was his and he refused to fall before her. After her or with her, those were fine. But before? He'd rather take death instead.

It happened once. Just once. When they were still new to one another and getting used to sharing their bodies like this. She'd deliberately tightened her walls around him, because she'd discovered during that it felt divine, she'd informed him afterwards. But what she hadn't counted on, still so new to the pleasures of the flesh, was that it would feel particularly good to him as well. And the feeling of it, especially when she'd twirled her hips and engaged her core in a most evilly blissful way, had taken him out completely and he'd spilled himself before she'd released. He'd been furious with himself, especially when his release had been so strong and deep, it had left him softening quite quickly. Which was unlike him, as he'd usually had much more resilience and stamina than that. So he'd pulled free from her and then practically threw himself to the bottom of the bed where he'd buried his face between her legs and ravished her bundle with his lips and tongue, his fingers sinking inside of her to twist, curl and play. He'd not let her out from under him that night, until she'd come multiple times, although he'd lost count after her third.

His thoughts were broken though, when he felt Arya tense below him, her legs around his waist, trembling with the strain of the pleasure she was trying to hold back. For his sake, he knew, but she didn't need to worry about that because he'd felt the warning pulse between his legs and knew that with just a couple more thrusts, he was going to fall. So he did just that. Once, twice, thrice and on the fourth he ground himself against that outer pleasure centre and with a guttural cry of his name, Arya shattered below him, dragging him right under with her. He swore vulgarly with a ragged breath, locking their hips together as he spilled within her again and again. He refused to allow even one drop of him to escape from her.

Curses, he thought. He would need to make the preventative in the morning, so he hoped that the maester here at Winterfell had all the necessary ingredients that he would need. Otherwise Arya would need to drink the tea and he didn't want her to have too. They'd tried that when they'd first begun to lie together and her body reacted incredibly poorly to it. She'd been ill for days afterwards and he didn't wish to see her have to go through that again. It's why he'd found and used the alternative. It was effective and she reacted quite well to it. It agreed with her much better than the tea did.

But for now? They would clean up, dry off and finally find some rest. Kissing her deeply and, pouring all of his love for her into it, he pulled back. Then with a smile at her dazed look that he enjoyed so much, he picked up a washcloth and soap, before beginning to wash her from head to toe.

"Leaving the things we lost, oh

Leaving the ones we've crossed

I have to make an end so we begin

To save my soul at any cost"

-X-

Jaqen woke to the ghost of a touch on his brow. A touch that was cool to his skin but comforting to his mind. Opening his eyes, he was met with a soft, fragrant breeze across his body. The scent on that wind, one he'd never smelled before. Spicy floral with hints of an earthen musk that was heavenly to his senses.

But where was he!? He'd fallen asleep in Winterfell with Arya in his arms. Now he was in a strange portcullis, that sat off from a great, open-air courtyard, where he could see through an arched opening a sprawl of strange black and purple flowers. They looked similar to roses but weren't and he wondered if they were the source of the lovely scent that had just filled his nose and continued to. Sitting up, he looked around him at the beautifully carved walls that reminded him somewhat of the whimsical but sophisticated designs prevalent among the carpenters of Asshai. Whirls and vine-like openings were carved in the dark wood, allowing further views of the courtyard beyond and the moon shining down into it. The room itself was lit intimately with metal braziers, where burning coals allowed for the firelight to dance magically in their holders. Kept a fair distance from the wood of the portcullis walls. Other, strange vine-like flowers, weaved in between openings of the walls, climbing up towards the swooping, arched roof above his head. The flowers of pink and blue, creating a canopy of sorts to shelter him.

Allowing his eyes to move downwards again, he was met with a mysterious, masked man, seated at a table in front of a chess board. The pieces laid out were unusual though, in comparison to any variant he had seen across the realms. The chess board itself was created from ivory and obsidian. The surface shining prettily in the firelight. The pieces were made of the same materials. Obsidian on one side and ivory on the other, in front of the mystery man who was with him. And he wondered if he'd been the one that had touched him and roused him from his sleep.

The pieces on the board were a mix of dragons, wraiths, wyvern, lions and humans. Wraiths for the Pawns. Wyvern for the Rooks. Dragons for the King and Queen. Lions for the Knights. Then finally the human looking pieces appeared to take the place of Bishops. The man, whose mask was silver on one side and black on the other, looked over at him. His bi-coloured eyes, following the same coloration as his mask. however his silver eye looked out from the black side of the mask and the black from the silver. The man, if he even was one, although Jaqen was inclined to believe he wasn't given the ethereal air that he had, held his arm out toward the decorative black metal chair that was facing him.

"Do you play?" The man asked and Jaqen startled when he heard the stranger's voice. Startled because it was the exact same voice he'd heard in his head when he and Arya had been in the midst of their pleasure.

Getting to his feet slowly, Jaqen made his way over to the chair and took his seat carefully. Once settled he responded. "A man has tried many times to play. But he always failed. It seems he can never quite grasp the rules fully in order to play properly." He said carefully, picking up one of the small obsidian wraiths to examine it closer. It was carved beautifully, clearly the work of an extremely talented artist. Setting it back down in its space, he glanced at the man across from him and watched as he nodded lightly.

"A surprise, I confess. Given who you are, I imagined that this game would be quite perfect. Particularly for a man of your mental fortitude, intelligence and skill." He said and Jaqen felt his brow slip into his hairline. He'd never met a man like this before so how then did he know him?

"A man is also confused." Jaqen replied, tilting his head in curiosity, making sure to keep his tone respectful. He couldn't explain it, but he just knew this man wasn't to be trifled with. That he had power or abilities far beyond his imaginings although what those may be, he couldn't even begin to guess. "He knows he has never met a man. So he is intrigued as to why a man speaks as though they know one another."

The masked stranger gave him a long look, his own head tilting to the side, causing the long, black fabric, embroidered with a trim of white, of his head covering to slip over his left shoulder. Because of the full-faced mask, Jaqen could see nothing but the man's unusual eyes, so couldn't begin to identify whether he was making any facial expressions beneath it. But as he spoke, Jaqen did detect what sounded like a smile.

"It is true, young one. That you have never seen me. Not truly. But you do know me, just as I know you. We are— old friends you and I. Very old." The stranger said and actually chuckled this time. "And your lovely lady, the mother of your child? I know her as well, just as she knows me. Though she and I have only recently become— acquainted with one another. She holds so much potential. Just as you do. I would be foolish not to take closer note of both of you."

"A man wishes to remain respectful to another. As is only right. But I must caution you on speaking of my lady and child. Especially when the words are coming across sinister." Jaqen warned carefully, his eyes never once straying from his companions. "And if a man and another have been such old friends, then how have they not yet met?"

"I ask for your patience then. It was not my intent to sound threatening when speaking of your betrothed and daughter. It has been quite some time since I last spoke to man. So my word choice and tone may be a little off." The stranger replied sotto-voce, with a slight incline of his head in apology. Before he reached out and moved a pawn forward one space on the board before them. "On the contrary, I hold respect for your lady love and yourself. So please understand that I mean no ill-will."

Jaqen stared at his companion for a moment more before he nodded, then looked down at the board and choosing a pawn on his far left, slid it forward one space. He wasn't sure why he was even trying to play this cursed game. But it seemed impolite if he didn't even try. The stranger, although an odd sort of fellow, was still hosting him at the moment. So he had some obligation to humour him while he was here. He had long since figured out that he was probably in the dream world. It was the only thing that made sense when his surroundings were clearly so very far from Winterfell where he had laid his head and taken rest. But the vividness of this dream let him know that it wasn't just a simple, albeit unusual, dream. It was this being, whoever he was, reaching across the astral plains and pulling him in to meet with him.

They continued to play in silence, each moving their pieces to and fro on the board and it was evident that Jaqen was outmatched. Given the stranger had five pieces to his three. But it didn't matter, he wasn't really taking this seriously and he didn't think his companion was either. It was simply something unthreatening to do with one another, as they considered each other across the small, iron bistro table with a black and silver top, and legs to match. As he looked over his companion, as the man considered his next move, Jaqen finally took note of how he was dressed.

He was covered from head to toe in a rich black robe, with silver embroidered ravens at the neckline, hem and cuffs. The mask he'd already taken note of, but now studied a little more closely. On the silver side, there were black root-like etchings on it. A design that was mirrored on the black side, only in silver instead. The design, reminiscent of the hidden root system of a tree. And emblazoned on the centre of his robes a gnarled but bountiful tree, with faces in each leaf. How odd. And, Jaqen found, utterly unsettling. Just who was this man, being or whatever he was!?

"Forgive a man…" Jaqen began carefully and waited for the stranger to look up at him again. "But he realises that another has not yet answered a man's last question. If we are supposed to know one another so well. How come we have never met until now? Why is a man still so lost as to another's identity?"

"You are so full of questions aren't you, young one? But then, that is the reason for my closer notice of you, after all. So what was I to expect, really?" The stranger replied cryptically. But before Jaqen could query this, the man continued. "You may think you do not know who I am, Jaqen H'ghar. But you are wrong. You do know. Even now you can feel the scratching at the doors of your mind. The depths of your soul. You already have the answer. You simply need to open the door and face it."

Jaqen felt a slither of coldness skitter down his spine at these words. This stranger was so sure they knew one another. So sure that he knew who he was already. But Jaqen was lost. Truly and utterly. But as he contemplated the man once more, he again took note of his apparel, the night-black robes, his mask, his head covering and then focused on the symbolism that was scattered over all of those things. The gnarled tree with the leaves of faces. The ravens, the birds of the afterlife, embroidered along the cuffs, neck and hem of his robes in silver. The root design on the bi-colored mask that framed the equally bi-coloured eyes. The chess pieces and the board of obsidian and ivory. The very game itself. What was that old saying? 'Life is like a game of chess.'

A good analogy, because each move you make in chess, can affect the outcome of the game, and many of those moves were irreversible. Much like life. Much like– like— death. It was then that, that door the stranger had mentioned, flung open in Jaqen's mind and he was faced with an impossible truth. This man? He was no man at all. He was— he was a God. But not just any God, no. He was his God. He was sitting in front of and playing chess with He of Many Faces. Gods above, it all made so much sense now. The comments about knowing one another for years. About Arya only recently making his acquaintance. It was because it was all— true. It all pointed to Him of Many Faces. The Faceless' patron God.

"I see, from the look in your eyes now, young one. That you have finally come to the answer you were so sure you did not have." The man replied, his tone laced with wry amusement as he spoke. "Now you can stop referring to me as a 'man' for I am not one. Male, yes. But man? No. Also do not refer to me as He or Him of Many Faces, it is cumbersome on the tongue in conversation. But if you must give me a name, then you may use Bakkalon. It is not my name, in truth, I am so aged now that I no longer remember my true one, just that that is not it. But it will do for now." He added further, his shoulder shrugging casually as he leaned back in his chair. Then after a moment, moved one of his pieces, a knight, across the board to claim another of Jaqen's. A rook this time.

"Forgive me, but I—"

"Forgiveness is not needed in this case. You are mortal. To be faced with any God, never mind the one you dedicated your life to, is something so impossible to comprehend that your mind will try to revolt. I am sorry though, but I have to push through. We have little time and I brought you here for a reason, my child." Bakkalon said, cutting Jaqen off before he swiped his hand over the board.

Jaqen watched as all the pieces reset before the board disappeared completely and was replaced with a book. A thick tome that appeared to be made of a strange kind of leather. The cover split down the middle so that one side was black and the other silver. In the centre, was the symbol that Jaqen was most familiar with that was connected with He of Many Faces.

"My children. In Braavos." Bakkalon began, his tone becoming hard, irritation leaking through his words. "Have long since strayed from my path. Though they believe they have not. But they have. In this book before you now, are my correct teachings. Unedited by centuries of man's propensity for selfishness and greed. This was the book that I passed a copy of, to a human woman who had been my— companion." He explained, his voice hitching almost imperceptibly as he spoke of this unknown woman of his.

A hitch that Jaqen recognised for what it was. Though he had put a polite spin on it, Bakkalon had meant that his companion had been his lover. He knew this because it was how his voice had hitched, when people used to ask him what Arya was to him and it hurt him to have to lie. But choosing not to ask whether his suspicion was correct, Jaqen instead reached out and gently pulled the book towards him. Opening it, he began to read, as Bakkalon continued his explanations.

"She became the very first of my priestesses, many, many centuries ago. The true founder of The Faceless. Which was always supposed to be called the Order of The Faceless. Never was it supposed to be overtaken by men. It was a faith that was to include both men and women. A place of true equality, because after all, Death, dear boy, makes no difference between male and female. I come for all. Eventually. Those teachings outline what the Order of The Faceless is. Or rather what it was supposed to be." Bakkalon said his voice became a light growl towards the end and Jaqen noticed, but didn't comment on, the tightening grip he gave to the edge of the table. Pausing in his reading, already horrified at the differences he could see with only a couple of pages, he glanced upwards.

"What happened to us?" He asked, his voice barely above a whisper, allowing Bakkalon to see his disgust. Something, it seemed, greatly pleased the God.

"Men happened, my child." He replied with a weary sigh. Looking out into the courtyard for a moment, deciding how best to explain all of this. Where to begin. But eventually he met Jaqen's gaze again.

"At first, there was peace and the order prospered. They followed my original teachings perfectly. But eventually, men started to be admitted who were less than open-minded but were good at hiding these flaws." He advised, his hand waving over the table again. And in the centre of it, there now sat a black and silver tea set.

The tea pot held the tree pattern that was on Bakkalon's robes. Meanwhile the cups held the root and raven motifs. Jaqen reached forward then, planning to pour for Bakkalon. Because after all, no God should be made to pour for a mortal man. But Bakkalon reached out and lightly swatted his hand, before picking up the pot himself. Jaqen watched, now embarrassed, as he poured a cup for him, then served himself. Jaqen bowed his head low at this, a sign of deep respect, before he thanked Bakkalon for the kindness and honour. The God simply tilted his head to peruse him before nodding. They both sipped in silence for a few minutes, Jaqen waiting until Bakkalon had taken the first drink, before he took his own.

"These men, they disliked women having any sort of power in my temples. Hated having to take orders from them. So they worked tirelessly to either remove them completely. Or relegate them to positions more befitting a bed maiden or a servant. A grave insult. These were my priestesses. No mortal man should decide who I allow to follow me. Or in what capacity." Bakkalon snarled, when he recounted the priestesses. And Jaqen was reminded then, that one such Priestess has been their God's lover.

"Forgive me, Bakkalon." Jaqen began, savouring the sweet flavour of the tea on his tongue, as it slipped down his throat. "But if this so aggrieved you? Why not pull those men out, root and stem?"

"I had considered it, my boy. Believe me." Bakkalon replied, pushing the fabric of his head covering over his shoulder. "But even Gods have restrictions on how much they can interfere in mortal lives. Free will is paramount. And unfortunately, a line that none of us can cross. We can try to guide you mortals. To send omens to you as warnings. But ultimately? The mortal decides whether they listen or not." He explained, both falling silent then as they considered what had been said between them so far. But eventually Jaqen broke the silence.

"So if there was once— sex allowed in the temple." He began awkwardly. For some reason discussing such a topic with Bakkalon felt odd. Almost vulgar, given who and what he was. It seemed so— so mortal. But he forced the words out anyway, continuing to ask his question. "Why then do we now have the rules we do? Because it is certainly not allowed, now. Punishable by death, even."

"Mmm. That is because the bedding part eventually became outlawed. Too many of those men sired too many bastards on those women who were forced into positions barely resembling concubines. An affront to those men and their 'legacies' and 'reputations'. That outlawing, over time, slowly became warped into the 'law' you now have in the temple. 'No fraternising between agents.' No One is allowed to have desires. No One is allowed to have an identity. No One is allowed to have aspirations or goals. No One is only to serve in my name and nothing more." Bakkalon answered, swirling his tea cup in his hand as he considered what needed to be said next. Jaqen remained silent, unsure of what to say himself.

This was all so unbelievable to him. Completely surreal. In fact, he was still semi-certain that it was all a fever dream. That he had come down with some illness or other, without knowing it. It just seemed so utterly impossible for him to be sitting in front of a God. Never mind the one he followed. But he couldn't deny the tangibility of everything around him. The scents, the sounds of strange animals that scampered here, there and everywhere in the courtyard. He'd touched the chess pieces, felt them as he felt his blade when he took it into his hand. The taste of the tea they were drinking was still dancing on his tongue, the warmth of the cup in his hand. All of it just further proof that although in the dream world, everything now was very much real. But his thoughts were interrupted when Bakkalon began to speak again.

"All horse shit, young one. You have a personal saying, don't you. 'Only death can pay for life.' And that is true, you are very, very close to one of my actual guidelines. But you are still a bit off on that. Only death can pay for life, that is true. But all things must exist in balance. In order to continue death dealing, there needs to be life brought forth continuously, to replace the lives that will be taken. It is a cycle. One that cannot be broken." He explained and Jaqen looked up from his cup, surprised. That had sounded so similar to what Arya had always said. Where her thoughts strayed when this particular topic came up between them. And it seemed Bakkalon read his surprise correctly, for he chuckled and nodded.

"Yes, my boy. This was something your lady love understood from the very beginning. Without ever knowing my true teachings. Only the bastardised version that the temple now follows. It was a theology that her own father had taught her. Life and death will always coexist. There cannot be one without the other. I was quite mournful when Eddard Stark appeared in my foyer, to pass through my gates to the afterlife. He stayed with me for a while before he moved on, saddened and worried for his family and what would become of them without him." Bakkalon shared, giving him a wry smile, before continuing, sensing Jaqen's interest.

"He only passed through when his Lady wife and eldest son arrived. Catelyn Stark was…a delight to get to know. She was so very like her youngest daughter. Strong. Reproachful. Stubborn. A true mother wolf. She wouldn't leave until I promised her that her children that were set to survive, were destined for great things and that I had no plans of claiming them anytime soon." Bakkalon mused fondly and in amusement, glancing up at the flowers that sprawled as a canopy above their heads. Before he looked back at Jaqen again.

"But the point that Eddard was trying to make to his children was this; In order for death to come, there must be life there to claim. You may ask how that relates to my faceless children? The answer is this; If you are not allowed to create it but are still tasked with taking it, then how will you ensure that it is always there to take? Eventually all lives will be claimed, if we do not continue to create them and if that were to happen? There would be no more death to deal. So how are you supposed to continue to serve?" He asked and Jaqen felt his brow slide into his hairline, for what felt like the thosandth time since he woke up here. But with a relaxed shrug, he responded anyway.

"There are more than enough children being born to others so…" He began but Bakkalon's chuckle and shake of his head caused the rest of Jaqen's words to die on his tongue.

"I suspected that you might try to answer that way. You aren't the first. Some of your old, long-gone priests, had been asked this question centuries before. Their answers had been that there was enough breeding happening outside the temple walls to keep the checks in balance. So it was not needed inside the temple. And where that is true I had never intended for it to be the case. I had always intended for it to be a choice. A right of my devotees." He explained, draining the rest of his tea, just to refill his cup and sip. He savoured the liquid for a few moments, before he continued.

"Love is something that the world needs. Something that even myself fell prey to. Even the Gods, Jaqen H'ghar, are powerless when Love comes to call. Even death can and does love. So, as the embodiment and ruler of it, why would I have ever outlawed such a thing between my acolytes and devotees?" He questioned and Jaqen realised that he couldn't answer that question. Because how could you answer a question, when it was being asked on the basis of something that made no sense, and have that answer be logical? But it seemed Bakkalon was not looking for an answer, he had simply paused to think, before he spoke again.

"Why would I ever deny you, your Arya for example? Your daughter? I don't and I never would." He murmured as he shook his head lightly. "And I would certainly never visit death upon you as a consequence for loving your woman and creating your child. If I did? It would make me a hypocrite of the highest order. After all I have loved and I have brought forth blood children from that love. Ironic, don't you think? Death himself, bringing forth life. The very thing that puts an end to it. But it is just further proof of how everything exists in balance." He explained and Jaqen had a hard time hiding his disbelief.

But he supposed, as surprising as this admission was, he couldn't really expect anything less. God or no, Bakkalon was still living. Still breathing. Still bled. Still had a heart that beat. So it made sense that he would be capable of loving and of having children that he had helped create with another. Most likely his priestess lover had been the one to give him those children. Also, what stories of any of the Gods, didn't contain at least one tale of them having a child with a human? Demi-gods were an enduring myth after all, the spawns between those mortals and Gods. So why would Bakkalon be any different in this respect? Is that not what connected all beings, regardless of who or what they were? The drive to share hearts, bodies and children? It was there even if some chose not to have children and others decided they wanted them. But one thing was absolutely enduring, the need to love and be loved in return. Either platonically, romantically or familially. Love and the pursuit of it in all its forms, was ever present in everyone's life.

"A man feels that his God has not suddenly taken notice of the depravity now rampant in his temple, just because he disapproves of their approach to love and life giving. So he must ponder what else we have done to displease him." Jaqen queried, finishing his now tepid tea, and setting the cup back onto the tray neatly. He watched as Bakkalon did the same thing, before with another wave of his hand, the set disappeared. Just like the chess board before it.

"These rules against love and children are not the main reasons why I am most displeased with my Braavosi children. You are correct. They are simply the catalyst." He responded with a grave nod, as he adjusted himself in his seat and leaned his arms on the table-top, bringing himself closer to Jaqen and giving him a look of sympathy.

"I saw what happened to you with your mentor, when he found out about your daughter. How he reacted. What he did. The fact that he tried to imprison you within the order. Also against my teachings, you will see, when you finish reading that book." He added, tapping his finger against the leather cover of the book between them. "I was— enraged. But, I also saw how the head of the order stepped in to protect you. As I had expected him to."

"What do you mean you expected him to? The head of the order is the best of us. The true embodiment of what we should all be. He was never supposed to let a man go so easily. Never supposed to lie for him." Jaqen asked, allowing Bakkalon to see his confusion that had followed him ever since he'd passed through the doors of the House and into the streets of Braavos as a free man.

"This is true. So, tell me, Jaqen, didn't you wonder why he did what he did when he so obviously knew that you had committed a 'grievous sin'? As for why I expected him to do what he did? That is not my answer to give. For it is not my place to tell that story." He answered cryptically and Jaqen couldn't hold back the look of annoyance and frustration on his face at this. But it seemed that Bakkalon noticed it and understood it for what it was. So he offered a little more.

"When you see him next, and you will. Ask him. Ask him about your mother and see what happens. Watch him closely. Then ask him why he protected and saved you and your daughter. You will find that the answer, although it will be difficult for him to speak, will be most surprising to you. But it will also answer all those questions you've had spinning in your head since you were a boy."

Jaqen felt more annoyance fill him with this explanation. More cryptic answers. More riddles! By the Gods he was so sick of riddles! His whole damned life and been a fucking riddle. He was tired. He was done. He just wanted straight answers and not more mystery and darkness. But he knew that he daren't demand Bakkalon to give him more than he freely offered him. Even Gods had limits to their patience. Regardless of how fond they seemed to be of their chosen ones. And for some reason, Jaqen was feeling very much like a chosen one at the moment. And the very idea nauseated him. He did not want any further drama in his life. He simply wanted to settle down with Arya, get married, have more children and actually start living for once in his cursed life. But not letting any of this show, although he was sure Bakkalon knew his thoughts, he simply sighed and nodded.

"I see. When you say I will see the Head of the order again, why are you so sure? Should I be worried?" Jaqen asked and Bakkalon tilted his head and sighed.

"That brings me to the true purpose of calling you here. I have a task for you and your lady. But time is too short now, you will need to wake soon. When you do, you will find a copy of that book at your bedside. Read it. Then have Arya read it also. Tell her about what was discussed here." He explained, before he waved his hand out to the side in a sweeping motion. Jaqen felt his world tilt in on itself and before he knew it, he and Bakkalon were standing at an archway that was filled with a swirling void of darkness and starlight. He then reached over and gripped Jaqen's shoulder gently. Almost affectionately.

"When you have both read my proper teachings, I will bring you both back here. Then and only then, will you hear the task I have for you. I do suggest, however, that you practise your chess playing before then." He explained with what sounded like a teasing smile, before he turned Jaqen so that his back was to the portal. Then with a strong but careful push on his shoulder, he was falling back into the swirling void and only blackness claimed his vision.

Jaqen surged up in bed with gasping breaths and drenched in sweat. But his sudden movements stirred Arya at his side, who rolled over on to her arm and sat up slightly, looking at him blearily.

"My love?" She asked groggily, reaching out to touch him on the shoulder that Bakkalon had pushed against to send him back. "Is everything ok?"

"No, my lovely girl. No, everything is most certainly not alright." He breathed in disbelief before he whipped his head towards his bedside table. His breath stuck in his chest as he looked at the black and silver leather bound tome sitting there innocently. Reaching over with shaky hands, he brought it into his lap and stared at it like it was some sort of cursed object. It had been real. The dream. It had all been real. Bakkalon. The book. The temple. All of it.

"Jaqen—" Arya began warily. "What is that book? Where did you get it? How did you get it? It wasn't there yesterday or last night when we went to sleep. And our windows and door were locked." She asked, her voice taking on a sudden higher pitch that belaid her now deepening concern.

"No. It wasn't here before. But that's because it was delivered to us by way of a message from the Gods. Or— rather a message from a God. Our God." He replied, his voice barely a whisper.

He looked over at the beautiful but confused and worried face of Arya and simply took her in for a moment. He didn't want to tell her about this. Didn't want to add any unnecessary worry or fear in her heart. But he had been told that she needed to be made aware. And he knew that defying the personal request of a God, an actual fucking God, was a fools parade. And he was no fool. So taking a breath to steady himself, he began to tell her— everything.

"We fight every night for something

When the sun sets, we're both the same

Half in the shadows

Half burned in flames

We can't look back for nothin'

Take what you need, say your goodbyes

I gave you everything"

-X-