Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Grey dove. My bloody blade.

Vessel of ice. The moon in the sky.

My salvation. My passion.

River of silence. Pale rose.

Queen of beauty.

Mirror of truth. Life’s longing.

Peerless sword. Fearless end.

Pillar of shadow. Fortress of snow.

Voice of the God. Silver on sea.

Breath of forests. Bride of the mist.

Bearer of lilies. Wedded to Death.

Heart’s deliverance. Dew on steel.

Fire in my veins.

Lovely one.

Chapter Text

Two figures picked their way through the broken streets of Braavos.

The day was overcast and soft, and promised that, come evening, the fog would rise from the canals and curl around the bridges and buildings to hide the secret city as it had done for centuries. A mild breeze coursed its way between the skinny houses and rippled across the surface of the nearby canal. Where so recently, the city had been choked by the cold white grip of the Night King’s winter, it had now returned to its familiar grey, gold, and red, and its waterways once again sparkled pea green as they flowed out into the lagoon.

Here in the wealthier North East of the city, the majority of the buildings had been sturdily constructed, and still stood. But many of the peaked roofs had collapsed or had suffered large jagged holes where catapults had bombarded the enemy with flaming barrels of oil. Scorched black stains around the empty windows told of the fire that had raged inside. Some doorways were still vacant and forlorn, their wooden doors torn off or burnt, but many had already been repaired and the sound of hammering echoed in the air as stonemasons and carpenters worked nearby.

A scrawny ginger cat leapt onto the cobbles from the shoulder of a blackened statue that leaned at an awkward angle across the path. It darted over to rub its body against the legs of the girl. She stopped to tickle its ears before straightening to watch it scamper across a bridge and disappear into an alley at the side of the canal.

This canal was quiet. Most of the smaller ones were. As winter had crept closer, the Sealord had ordered that Braavos’ boats be broken up to make trebuchets and barriers, and some of the lesser canals were yet blocked with rubble anyway. In contrast, the Long Canal teemed with newly-built barges busily carrying stone and timber for the rebuild effort, and fish and grain for the tradespeople and citizens. Braavos’ famous Arsenal had turned its hand to more practical vessels instead of its usual war galleys and cogs, and produced three new barges every day, which were immediately loaded and sent down the Canal of Heroes into the heart of the city.

All Gods are honoured in Braavos. Perhaps that is why They saw fit to spare the Sweetwater from the Night King’s army. Some of its stone arches had sustained minor damage but it had not been catastrophic and had been repaired as a priority, allowing Braavos’ only source of freshwater to continue to flow. While a number of the fountains were too damaged to use, there were enough working to ensure that every quarter of the city had access to good water.

The Iron Bank and Sealord’s palace were the tallest buildings in this part of the city, and they began to loom as the two walked northwards. Both buildings were untouched by war. Power and wealth had ensured that a solid army of disciplined soldiers had armoured them against the invaders and the enemy had not been interested in gold anyway. The temples had also escaped real damage - the Gods protect Their own, it seems. As for Braavos’ great Titan, he was blackened with soot and had lost his green locks, but he stood tall and unbowed. It would take more than a mere army of the dead to take down this colossus.

Other parts of Braavos had been less fortunate. Much of Silty Town had been reduced to rubble where the poorer buildings had collapsed under the weight of the living dead as they swarmed onward. The Drowned City was now entirely under water and The Gate was no more. The charred remains of the lesser barges had joined them on the bottom of the lagoon when the ice melted. The Prestayn’s had lost one of their square towers to the battle, and many of the inns and playhouses that lined Ragmans Harbour could not be saved. Some of the little bridges and tall houses along the Western canals had been destroyed and a good many of the stone Sealords that had lined the Long Canal now lay broken below the green water.

The damage had been extensive, but this particular Free City had some unique qualities, which promised that Braavos would be restored to its former glory - and speedily.

First, the presence of the Iron Bank, which had resumed operation and had poured money into the rebuilding effort. The Titan roared continuously as ship after ship passed below it, depositing food and skilled labour onto the crowded quays and departing with soldiers and refugees returning home to Westeros, Sothoryros, and other regions in Essos. Anyone with a useful trade - shipwrights, stonemasons, carpenters, architects, bellfounders, glaziers, artists, and more - flocked to the city to work by day and spend their coin in the inns, pleasure barges, and makeshift playhouses by night.

Second, the Braavosi. With a resilience that harkened back to their Valyrian slave forefathers, thousands of the Braavosi had returned to the city and had already cleared away most of the detritus of war. Braavos was scrubbed clean of its bloodstains as the citizens worked together to restore their city. Even the courtesans had joined the effort, though they were barely recognisable in their simple clothes as they worked alongside roof rats, bravos, and mummers to sweep rubble into neat piles and rub away the soot. A body of children who called themselves the Guild of Steel picked through every inch of the city to collect the blades and arrowheads that had littered the streets, whereupon they delivered them in cartloads to the Palace Of Truth. An official inspected the load before deciding whether to salvage the weapons or have them reworked into railings, gates, and signs.

Towering funeral pyres still burned in the streets, sending pungent, black pillars of smoke into the grey sky, and the custodians of the temples prayed as bodies were given to the flames. The dead were treated with full honour, even those that had arrived with the Night King. After all, were they not once living men, women, and children too? Of the White Walkers, there was no trace. They had shattered into ice shards when Arya had killed the Night King, and their demise brought an end to winter in Braavos, which melted away in a matter of days to join the water of the lagoon.

Braavos had come alive again after the long night.

The two reached the Moon Pool. Before the war, it had been noisy with colourful Bravos posturing and calling to one another in loud mocking voices. Now the pool had been filled with sweet water but the fountain was still and the area was deserted for the moment. The man turned to the girl and tucked a stray lock of hair behind one of her ears. She pushed her body against his and kissed his lips. They smiled into each other’s eyes, then sat side by side on the pool’s stone edge. The man turned to look at his companion.

“What now, lovely girl?”

Chapter Text

Arya Stark and Jaqen H’ghar had planned to sail to Westeros on the day after they left the House Of Black and White. They'd taken a room for the night in the undamaged Oyster Tavern and all sense of time had been lost to their mutual infatuation. Seven days and nights had become one long, thrilling tumble under the sheets. They’d called an end to it with great reluctance when the Innkeep had pestered them for more money, hammering on the door and announcing that rooms were now in great demand thanks to the crowds gathering at the harbours in search of passage home and the tradespeople that had flooded into the city. There were one hundred men who’d pay double the price that Jaqen and Arya had agreed, and if they didn’t want to pay that, then they could leave.

With much inward sighing, they had taken this as a sign to start their journey west. After several false starts where one had stepped into breeches and strapped on boiled leather and tucked darts and blades here and there before a kiss or a look from the other prompted them to take everything off again, they finally left the room and emerged onto the street outside, blinking in the morning light.

For the first time since the death of her father, Arya didn’t feel alone. Jaqen asked nothing of her, but to be at her side.

His service to the Many Faced God had been decades long and she wasn’t surprised that this new Someone had retained the majority of his Faceless qualities. He remained unerringly calm and logical, quietly curious, unafraid, accepting, and yes, still enigmatic and a little detached although he now tried his best to be open with her, which she found adorable and amusing. His serenity calmed her rasher impulses but did not stand in the way of her desire for adventure. She knew he continued to venerate his God, and when the two of them weren’t otherwise occupied, he was sometimes prayerful and meditative. One evening, she asked him if he could still change his face but he shook his head and told her that faces were a tool to serve the God, and that he had now left the Order. Jaqen was pleased to entertain her with tales of the many places he had seen but sometimes he would evade her questions. Some knowledge was only meant for No-one, or in his case, a former No-one.

But in their moments of intimacy, Arya had been thrilled to see an intoxicating and devotional side to Jaqen H’ghar. His dark, impassioned whispers enraptured her as he likened her to a grey dove, a bloody blade, a vessel of ice, the moon in the sky, his salvation, his passion, and a thousand other names in Lorathi, High Valyrian, and other tongues.

But mostly he called her Lovely, just as he always had.

Sometimes she couldn’t help but wonder why she had been the one to undo No-one. She knew she wasn’t a beauty like Sansa, and if she was completely honest, she knew she was sometimes difficult. What had he seen in her?

“Jaqen, have you ever loved anyone else?”

Jaqen had seemed surprised . “A man was in the Order from his youth. The God did not ask him to love so he did not love.”

“But you love me?”

He looked at her fondly. “Yes.”

“Did the God ask you to love me?”

Jaqen sighed and cast a mournful look at her.

“A man can only ask himself what happened. Where once he was a Faceless Master, he had only to spend a day with this terrible girl and he became a lovelorn Someone that was filled with burning thoughts. Perchance a sorcerer taught her spells and he is bewitched.”

He grinned as Arya punched his arm.

“I just don’t get it.”

He rubbed at where her fist had landed. “Who can explain love? It is a mystery to all, from the highest King to the lowest beggar.”

He watched her for a moment and his eyes softened.

“A man can only say what he loves about this violent woman. Her wildness. Her darkness. Her sense of self. That she is alive with fury, laughter, and tears. That she is courageous and beautiful.”

Arya looked doubtful. “I’m not beautiful.”

“You are.”

She raised her eyebrows at his use of You.

“Other men have loved this woman, have they not? Whatever the reason, Him of Many Faces did want this love between a man and a girl. Else it would not have happened.”

Arya was puzzled. “Why would the Many Faced God want to lose a Faceless Master to love?”

Jaqen shrugged.

“This a man does not know. Perhaps the God will show us in time.”

Chapter Text

Arya soon learnt that sailing to Westeros was not as simple as she’d expected and that nothing is unseen in Braavos, even in battle.

They had stopped to eat at one of the surviving inns that lined the Purple Harbour. As their previous host had affirmed, the harbour was crowded with soldiers vying for passage home across the Narrow Sea. Arya and Jaqen sat close together in a dark corner and worked their way through a rich seafood stew as they listened discretely to the fragments of conversation that drifted over to them from the other benches.

Most were talking wistfully about their homes, their families, how they expected to make a living now that they were not at war. They paid tribute to fallen comrades and reminisced about the battles they had shared, and then one said something that made the two in the corner stiffen and shut out all other noise as their focus honed in on that conversation.

A Northman from Westeros. “It were the Northern Star that killed him. I met a Dornishman here yesterday. He told me one of his men saw the whole thing.”

Another Westerosi, this time with a Reach accent. “What are you talking about, man?”

“The Northern Star. That’s who killed the Winter King and his generals.”

“I never heard that.”

"Foss, you've been mending that leg in the Sept the last fortnight. I doubt the septas are much given to gossip. But the taverns are full of talk."

A Dornish voice cut in. “I have heard many speak of him. He was a Westerosi common soldier. He tickled the Ice King in the guts with a silver knife and slew him. That is why the dead all fell in the same moment. The Ice King’s spells kept them walking, and when he was slain, they fell.”

The next voice was guttural and heavily accented. “A dead skero had his hand around my throat, his grip like a vice. I’d stabbed him thrice and it made not a difference. I was drawing my last breath and then he just dropped to the ground, dead again, alongside the rest of them. Thanks be to the Pale Child and thanks be to this Northman. But who is he? And is he alive or dead?”

“Nobody knows and I'm not fretting about it neither. I'm just thankful the Winter King’s dead and the war’s over. I’m going home, if I can ever get passage out of here. And when I get home, I won’t be crossing the Narrow Sea again, not for any war. Here’s to the Northern Star!”

Ten or more voices answered his toast as their tankards clinked. “The Northern Star!”

A new sing-song voice, this time heavily-accented Tyroshi. It said “I heard it was a woman.”

A laugh. “Now you’re dreaming, Daario.”

Another Tyroshi. “I heard that too. The ice men caught her and she stuck her dagger in Old Winter himself.”

Daario again. “Mayhaps she was his bride and followed him across the ice to the Free City. When she saw the kind of men that Essos has to offer, she didn’t want him any more.”

Laughter.

A droll voice quipped. “That’s women for you.”

The conversation turned to ships and weather, and Arya turned to Jaqen.

“Fuck. How?”

Jaqen nodded, frowning. He replied in a low tone. “Even in the heat of battle, some things are noticed. Someone - or many - saw something of what came to pass on the arch and they told what they saw. A girl's armour was Westerosi, and some might even have noticed it was Northern in style."

His eyes scanned the room. "It is lucky that these stories change with every telling. Useful too that most believe that battlefield heroes are certain to be men. But a girl has the grey eyes and northern look of her line. Northmen here in Braavos might see her and know her name and ponder that some say the Night’s King was slain by a fierce warrior they called the Northern Star, perhaps a woman... Then one thought accords with another and soon they believe Arya Stark and the Northern Star are the same. Whispers are hard to stop once they believe they have the right of it. And they would have the right of it, Lovely girl.”

Arya gritted her teeth. She had never wanted to be known, and the shackles of duty and expectation were anathema to her. After all these years of war and hardship, it was freedom she craved, not to become the people’s hero.

Glancing warily around her, she rose to her feet. “Let’s get out of here.”

They left coin on the table and slipped out through the crowds. Both knew every passage and alley in Braavos and they turned deftly into one that was deserted, with wet mud underfoot and raggedy weeds growing from the tall walls on either side.

Arya’s tone was urgent. “You find a ship to Westeros and I’ll keep my head down and wait for you to return. I’ll be Yanna the beggar. Or I could cut my hair and be a boy again. Either way, I can’t look like me until we leave this city.”

“Just so. The first will be easier to shed when a girl wishes to become Princess Arya of House Stark again.”

Arya scowled at him. ”I couldn’t care less about stupid princesses and you know it.”

Jaqen chuckled and removed his cloak. With his knife, he rent the fabric a little, then dragged it through a muddy puddle. Shaking it out, he inspected it with approval and handed it to Arya.

“Nice,” she said wryly. “Other ladies get posies and fine gifts from their loves.”

She flung the cloak about her shoulders, and pulled the hood over her hair. Scooping up a handful of mud, she rubbed some into her hands and then a little on her cheeks for good measure. Then, she began to limp towards the end of the alley.

“Come on,” she called back at him. “Yanna will beg for coin at the Purple Harbour. Jaqen H’ghar can find us a ship.”

Jaqen was gone for almost two hours, during which time Arya gained no coin. The soldiers that filled the harbour had nothing to give her; while joyous about the war’s end, their only focus was to get home to their families and they needed all the coin in their pockets. When Jaqen returned, Arya had wrapped herself up in the ragged cloak and was huddled by a wall, half-asleep.

“There is no hope of boarding a ship to Westeros or any southron city or land.” he announced. “They are full of living and soon-to-be dead soldiers returning to their homelands. Even animals are being left at the dock; there is no room on board for them.”

Arya frowned. “We’ll try Ragmans”

Jaqen waved his hand dismissively. “A man has tried there also.”

He crouched down to her level.

“There is but one ship that will take passengers - the Merling Maid out of Pentos, which sails to Lorath with the tide today. Lorath is east from Braavos - the wrong direction for two that wish to go to Westeros. A girl and a man should wait in Braavos. The Titan heralds a new ship every hour: it will not be long before there will be room for these two on one to Gulltown or even White Harbour.”

Arya regarded him for a moment, then climbed to her feet stiffly.

“Let’s take a look at this Merling Maid.” she said.

When they reached the dock, the trading cog loomed over them, its sails rippling in the breeze as men swarmed up the rigging to prepare it to sail. A stocky man was hauling on a rope near the prow.

She turned to Jaqen. “I’ve never been to Lorath.”

Jaqen was dubious. “If a girl wants to see Lorath, then she and a man will go. But to sail to Lorath will take two days and nigh on a week if the storms come. And Lorath is grey and unexciting.”

“Don’t you want to see your home?” she asked.

Jaqen’s expression flickered for a second. “Lorath is not a man’s home.”

“But it might help you know who you are…”

“It is not necessary. A man knows all he needs to know.”

Arya made the decision. “I don’t want to wait, Jaqen. I need to get away from Braavos today. The only ship we can board is bound for Lorath so that’s where we’ll go. I’d like to feel the salt air on my face, and maybe we can sail from Lorath to White Harbour.”

Jaqen looked bored.

“A man has been to Lorath many times. It is grey and wet, and the sea crossing is rough. But if a girl wishes to smell rotten whale meat and watch old seal skins drying, then Lorath will fulfil her every desire.”

Arya shoved him forward. “Come on, Jaqen.”

She pushed back her hood and wiped her face clean on her sleeve. Calling up to the man at the prow, she shouted “Where’s the captain? We want to buy passage.”

Chapter Text

It was evening and the setting sun painted the waves a dull pink as the ship forged its way through the Shivering Sea. Arya was perched on a barrel on the deck twisting a piece of rope between her hands. Jaqen watched her silently for a while and then inquired.

“A girl practises wringing necks?”

Arya smiled sweetly. “Something along those lines.”  She shrugged. “I was thinking about my list.”

 Jaqen was surprised. “A girl still has her list? After years of war, most of the names on it have surely met their death by now.”

“Maybe they have, but I’ll keep their names on it until I know for sure.”

Jaqen couldn’t help but be impressed by Arya’s commitment. Her list had begun many years before when she had been on her way to the Wall with Yoren and a criminal in a cage. Since then, war had drenched the land with blood. Clearly, death was not something Arya was done with.

“A man is curious to know the names that remain on a girl’s list.” he remarked.

“Well a few names have been taken off it because I know they died or I had a change of heart.”  Her eyes took on a faraway look that contrasted with the grim set of her mouth. “And a few names have been added.”

“Jaqen H’ghar…?”

Arya grinned. “Not him. Yet.”

Her grin faded away into something hard. 

“The Boltons. Sansa told me they hardly lost a man in the war. Instead they sacrificed nameless levies that meant nothing to them. Roose Bolton has a special place on my list. He betrayed and slaughtered my brother and mother. He’ll die and I’ll make sure his name will too. 

The Freys. The old man is dead, but I heard Raymund Frey and others still live, Gods damn their murdering hearts. All of them are on my list. I’ll smile as I take their sorry lives and I’ll offer up their black souls to my mother and Robb.

Ser Ilyn Payne…”

She felt bile rise in her throat and swallowed.

“Ser Ilyn Payne. For my father.

The Lannisters. Joffrey is dead. Tywin too. But Cersei Lannister lives, I think. I don’t know about the others, but it will be easy to find out. 

Their vassals.

Ser Meryn Trant. For Syrio. 

The Mountain. Dunsen and the rest of the Mountain's men. They were animals, one and all.”

Jaqen looked up. “Ser Gregor Clegane is dead.”

Arya froze. “How?”

“Prince Oberyn Martell of Dorne, the Red Viper, poisoned him as vengeance for the murder of his sister and her children.”

Arya thought bleakly, as she often did, of the march to Harranhal. The Mountain had made fear her constant companion, meek compliance her only armour. When she thought of how powerless she’d been, she felt sick with rage. 

She had wanted this death for her own.

“Well, I hope he suffered.” she said at last. “I should have given you his name in Harrenhal. He was inhuman. He taught me what it was to live in terror and be a sheep and a mouse. I’ll always hate him for that.”

“A girl’s list is very long now.” Jaqen observed dryly. “A man can see why she doesn’t speak the names as she once did. It would take her all night.” 

He reflected. “And to deliver the gift to so many would take this girl a lifetime.”

A thought struck him. “Are there names in Winterfell? Is this a girl’s plan?” 

“No Jaqen. I want to go to Winterfell because I have not seen my home in peacetime for more than ten years. And I’d like to see Jon, and Sansa too. Bran is North of the Wall now so he won’t be there.”

Jaqen nodded.

Arya’s eyes hardened again. 

“But my list still stands and if I should happen across a name that’s on it… Valar morghulis.”

Jaqen inclined his head reverently.

A favourable wind blew and the Merling Maid made steady headway.  Aside from a few Ibbenese warriors who spent the short voyage chewing blubber and occasionally wrestling with each other, Arya and Jaqen were the only other passengers; most Lorathi soldiers had already left Braavos. Arya hadn’t tried too hard to befriend the notoriously suspicious Ibbenese and had exchanged only a few words with the crew: she wanted only Jaqen’s company and he wanted only hers. When they weren’t holed up in their cabin, they idled their time by throwing knives at the knots in the side of a barrel and gazing out to sea. 

On the second day, Jaqen stood at the prow and grimaced theatrically. 

“A man and a girl are fortunate that the crossing is smooth thus far. The Shivering Sea can be an unpleasant and unpredictable host at times, and occasionally claims ships for her own. And a man has seen many things here that he would not wish upon a girl. The telling of them would give her nightmares for weeks.”

He glanced at Arya and smirked. She scoffed derisively. 

“I suppose you mean Krakens.”

“And worse.” he smiled.

“Gods, what’s worse than Krakens?” She shrugged. “Well, I love the sea, it makes me feel free. I’ll chance Krakens and worse to feel the wind in my hair.”

To pay him back for his mischief, she changed the subject to one she suspected Jaqen might not like much.

“Do you have any family in Lorath?”

He raised his eyebrows at her and leant forward over the prow to watch the water part before the ship’s bow.

“The House of H’ghar, like many others, was lost over time. Now it is just a name that belongs to the past.”

”They’re all dead? Are you sure?”

“Truly. As an acolyte, a man learnt much about the noble Houses of the free cities, of which H’ghar is one. They are gone.” 

Arya walked to his side and craned forward to peer into his face. That he was completely detached from the idea of family was obvious, but from the curve of his lip, she divined that he was quietly pleased that there was no chance he’d encounter a long lost relative in Lorath.

She sighed to herself. To Arya, family had been everything. Her father, her mother, her brothers, even Sansa - they had been her pack, her connection with her roots, and an identity that even the House of Black and White had not been able to erase. But for Jaqen, it had been very different. The House had been his family though it had eroded his identity rather than reinforced it. And now that he had left the Order with her, Arya knew that she was his pack just as he was hers and that he needed her help to re-enter the world.

Chapter Text

Arya was a little disappointed as Lorath began to loom before them. Despite Jaqen’s description and perhaps because she associated Lorath with Jaqen, she had expected it to be exotic and mysterious. Instead, Lorath looked grey and featureless. A wall of austere buildings lined its coastline. They were hewn from the living rock and stood like tombstones separated by narrow passageways that disappeared away into the interior of the city. The only thing that broke up the grey was the moss that grew in patches on every surface and the seabirds that soared above the city.

As the harbour came into view, she saw it was surprisingly empty, with only a couple of Pentoshi cogs, a few fishing boats, and a full-bellied Ibbenese whaler bobbing by the quay. Arya asked one of the crew why this was and was very taken aback to learn that Jaqen hadn’t been joking about Krakens in the Shivering Sea and that only recently, one had pulled down a whaler within sight of Widow’s Watch. She made a mental note to ask him what exactly was worse than Krakens. As a result of the attack, most ships had departed Lorath and sailed South. Of the few that remained, none were expected to cross the sea to Westeros. Her plan to buy passage from Lorath to White Harbour would likely come to naught.

When the Merling Maid docked, Arya and Jaqen descended the gangplank and stood in the harbour. Crab baskets were stacked everywhere and some men were mending a net with quick, sure stitches. Jaqen twirled his hands with a flourish.

“Well, Lovely girl. This is Lorath. Is it as a girl expected?”

Arya tried not to wrinkle her nose. There was a horrible smell, which she thought must be the walrus skins.

“Where are the mazes?” she deflected.

“There is one on Lorassyon, but none left here on the main island.”

“Oh” Arya’s face fell. “What is here then?”

“Fish. Sealskins. Walrus tusks.” Jaqen grinned. “The usual taverns, markets, manses, humble homes, and hovels. The Princes have palaces.”

“We could see where your family lived. Do you know where it was?”

Jaqen blinked. No-one had been sent to Lorath many times but this was the first time Jaqen H’ghar had set foot on the islands since boyhood. His memories had been surrendered to the Many Faced God along with the rest of that person, and he was not particularly keen to reclaim them.

“A man does not know.” he replied in an unencouraging tone.

Arya frowned. “Come on, Jaqen. You don’t remember anything at all? A landmark? A name?”

He was about to evade again but then when he saw Arya’s accusing expression, he checked that instinct. This was important to Arya and if he was honest with himself, he did need to put some work into being Someone. He thought hard for some minutes, turning old thoughts and memories over in his mind and trying to decide which belonged to the faces he’d worn and which were older and deeper. Eventually he replied, albeit with some reluctance.

“Perchance a man recalls a tall tower. But this memory may be a lie. His life in Lorath was long ago and he has been many people since then.”

Arya was pleased. “It’s a start. A tower shouldn’t be too hard to find. There don’t seem to be many here.”

She scanned the skyline and pointed. “That one?”

Jaqen glanced in the direction she pointed to and shook his head. “No.”

Arya gave him a look and he sighed.

“Lovely girl, it is hard to remember things.”

He was silent for a moment. Then he said resignedly, “He believes the tower was decorated with a carved maze.”

“Let’s go.” she replied.

As Arya had anticipated, the tower had not been hard to find. They had barely ventured from the harbour when she spotted it, and they made their way through the angular streets until it stood slim and tall before them. A small courtyard enclosed it, which was now lined with heavy barrels of fish leaking salt that crunched underfoot as they stood looking up at the tower. It had once been quite grand. A grey stone frieze half way up all four sides depicted the same complex labyrinth with some carved creature in a different coloured stone crouching at its centre. The stonemasons had sacrificed resilience to artistry and the softer stone that formed the creature had been worn away by wind and rain to a featureless sand-coloured shape that might have once been anything from a cat to a cow. A doorway at the foot of the tower no longer had a door, and Arya could see straw on the floor and tools leant up against its walls. Standing behind the tower was a crumbling grey manse in the austere Lorathi style. Gulls nested in its empty windows and lichen dappled its walls.

Arya looked over at Jaqen. He was inspecting the tower but Arya could not divine any recognition or emotion; at best, he appeared mildly interested. She began to wonder if this memory belonged to a face Jaqen had worn instead of something he remembered from before he entered the House Of Black and White.

A man in a leather apron entered the courtyard from the street and looked enquiringly at them. Arya called out to him in Lorathi.

“Is this your place?”

The man approached. “No, lady. It was once owned by a grand House but has lain empty for many years. This man only keeps his barrels here in the yard since it’s handy for the port.“

“Who lived here?”

He gazed up at the manse. “A noble family of the name H’ghar.”

Arya threw Jaqen a triumphant look.

“What happened to them?”

“Some were lost in battle, some in childbirth, some lost to sickness or age, some to betrayal or ill-judgement. It is always the same story.”

Arya squinted up at some ferns growing from the high wall.

“Why is their manse still empty?”

He sighed, just as Jaqen often did.

“Some Houses are unlucky and the Lorathi do not look for bad fortune. They say the family was cursed by the King.”

Well, they got their retribution, thought Arya, as she recalled that Jaqen had been brought to the House of Black and White as payment for the Mad King’s death.

Arya pointed to the doorway of the manse, which retained a wooden door that had once been imposing but that now looked rotten and fragile.

“Can we go inside?”

The man shrugged eloquently. “As the lady pleases. But they must have care. One day the manse will fall down altogether, although perhaps not the tower. That was made to last and is one of the oldest in the city.”

Arya beckoned to Jaqen, who slowly followed her to the doorway. She gave the old door a push but it held, so she booted it hard below the lock and the wood crunched once before sagging on its rusted hinges. She nudged it open and they stepped inside into a large hallway with rubble on the floor and much evidence that the birds of Lorath had long occupied this place. Dust motes danced in the light that filtered through the empty window frames, and the walls played host to moss that gave the hall a ragged look. A staircase had once risen to the next level, but much of it had disintegrated. High above the remains of the staircase, they could see daylight through large gaps in the lofty stone roof.

Arya and Jaqen picked their way through the ground floor of the manse. All rooms were empty and decayed, and only the birds had left their mark.

“When do you think they last lived here?” she asked him.

“A man was brought to the House Of Black and White as a young boy of fewer than 5 years. Perhaps they had already left Lorath by then. Or perhaps they returned here later. Who can know? An empty manse will soon play host to water and wind, and Lorath has many storms.”

“Isn’t anything familiar?”

Jaqen shook his head. “The tower. Nothing else.”

“Does it mean anything to you? Being here, I mean?”

Jaqen spoke gently. “No, sweet girl. Too many years have passed and a boy shed his memories and allegiances when he joined the Order.”

A truth.

Arya felt sad for him. She hadn’t known what effect coming to his childhood home would have had on Jaqen but she had thought he’d have felt something. She sighed. Maybe it was for the best. How could his family have given him up like that? He’d been so young. Arya, more than anyone, understood the need for vengeance. But to give a boy’s whole life to the Faceless Men as payment for a King’s blood. It was brutal.

“Has a girl seen enough?” He gestured to the decayed walls and smiled apologetically. “The manse of H’ghar will fall just as its House has. Perhaps soon. It would be wise not to tarry here.”

Arya nodded in resignation. “Well, it was worth a visit. Let’s go before the roof falls on our heads.”

“The Merling Maid is at harbour for two days and is then bound for Pentos via Braavos. A man and girl should book passage and then find lodgings until it sails. Perhaps they will find a ship in Pentos that is bound for Westeros and has space for two passengers. In the meantime, if a girl wishes to see a maze, these two can row to Lorassyon.”

They carefully made their way back to the hall and Arya had almost reached the door when she realised Jaqen had stopped.

He was looking down at the floor by his feet and seemed frozen in time.

“Jaqen?”

He didn’t answer her but slowly pushed some of the debris aside with his boot. Arya stepped towards him and saw that the small area he had cleared was tiled with small squares of stone that were grey with dust.

“What is it?”

He said nothing and continued to frown at his feet. Perplexed, she dropped to her haunches in front of him and used her hands to clear a bigger space. Then she pulled her sleeve down over her fist and rubbed at the floor. She could see now that, underneath the layer of dust that clung to the surface, the tiles were coloured. She spat and rubbed a little more to reveal part of a sinewy image in red and white.

“What is this, Jaqen?” she asked as she pushed more of the debris away.

He finally spoke.

“A lost memory returned by the God, Lovely girl.”

He bent to crouch beside her and together they cleared the remaining rubble and debris away. Arya rubbed at the tiles for a minute and then they both stood, gazing down at the picture in the patterned floor.

It was an elaborate circular maze and at its centre, a red and silver dragon snarled back at them.

Chapter Text

They stood staring at the dragon for a long time, before the wind picked up outside and a skittering of stone shards rained down around them. A cloud of dust descended slowly from the roof. Jaqen didn’t argue when Arya ventured that they should probably leave.

As they walked towards the port, both were silent, consumed by their own thoughts.

For Jaqen, the dragon mosaic had unlocked something in him. Until that moment, he’d had no real memories of his life before the House Of Black and White, aside from a vague recollection of the tower, which he had dredged up with great effort at Arya’s urging. Now, his thoughts were dappled with fleeting memories that formed and then faded before he could chase them.

The feel of the cool tiles under his bare feet as he ran across the dragon tiles with small, quick steps, a woman’s musical laughter sounding in his ears when he skipped away from its fearsome mouth…but then it was gone and he was left reaching for it in his mind.

Peering out between heavy velvet curtains as the Hall was filled with a melancholy song. He had wanted a glimpse of the grand personage at the High Table, but had been pulled away and scolded in the Common Tongue before he’d been able…. he frowned as it quickly faded.

Tucked under a blue coverlet as dusk fell outside and a gentle hand stroked his hair. His mother? And then it was gone and he could barely recall why he felt sadness.

As they made their way through Lorath’s streets, Arya chewed her lip. Something was bothering her but she couldn’t put her finger on it. She wondered uneasily why House H’ghar had had a tiled dragon set into the floor of their manse. H’ghar was not a Valyrian name. Was the dragon supposed to be Jaqen’s father, King Aerys? It seemed unlikely - the H’ghars had paid the Faceless Men to kill him after all. If they hated him that much, surely they’d have ripped up the floor after he burnt the lady of the House.

There had been another dragon in House H’ghar, of course. One that was raised for a time in its manse. A dragon with hair that had been coloured red for the death of his mother but with a streak of silver to remember his father, and then sent to the House Of Black and White to lose himself to No-one as payment for royal blood spilt. Was the silver and red dragon supposed to be Jaqen H’ghar?

She shivered and glanced at Jaqen but his expression told her nothing.

It was market day and soon the streets thronged with people shouting their wares and arguing over prices. Arya and Jaqen turned down a side alley to escape the crowd. Despite her preoccupation, Arya couldn’t help but be a little enchanted to be among so many people with the same turn of phrase as Jaqen. It wasn’t unheard of for the occasional Lorathi to appear in Westeros, but here in Lorath, she was surrounded by people referring to themselves as “a man” or “a boy” or “a girl” in their richly accented variety of Low Valyrian. The Lorathi were a mixed bunch and provided the only real colour in this grey, featureless city. Some had a regal bearing with dark skin and long ropes of hair, others were pale as a frog with colourless locks and pale lips, some were flaxen with skin tinted pink, some were sallow with soulful deepset eyes. But only Jaqen had red and white hair.

“You and you!” a voice called from the ground.

What Arya had first taken to be a pile of rags rose up on two spindly legs and tottered forward, A thin hand emerged and grasped Jaqen’s arm as two bright eyes gleamed in a dirty, wrinkled face.

“You and you!”

Jaqen frowned slightly. It was unusual and not a little jarring to be addressed as You instead of the courteous avoidance of person that Lorathi etiquette demanded.

The old woman leered, revealing a mouth full of blackened teeth and a wet pink tongue.

“You’re back. A dragon come back from the dead.” The old woman laughed as Jaqen stiffened. “And you bring your killer with you. You love Death and always will.”

Jaqen searched the old woman’s face. “Lady, “ he began. “Forgive this man, but does he know…”

The old lady snorted and pointed a bony finger at Arya.

“I’m no lady. Not like this lady of blood and snow.” She sniffed loudly and addressed Arya. “You’re not the first wolf to love a dragon. Ice tempers fire, and fire warms ice. Your lord father said you’d wed a King and you may yet!”

Jaqen’s eyes hardened and Arya stared incredulously.

“Who are you?” she demanded.

“Oh I know you,” acknowledged the old woman, and she nodded to Jaqen “and I know you. You and you. I’ve seen the silver King in my dreams, raining blood and fire. And I’ve seen the wolf feast as the Gods watch. Little brother and little sister, one a servant and the other a ghost. Marked by blood. United by blood. Put asunder by blood.”

She reached up suddenly to touch Jaqen’s hair but Jaqen stepped back out of her reach.

An alarmed voice cautioned from behind her. “Mother.”

A young man stepped out of a doorway. He was ragged too.

“Forgive this old one. She does not know what she says.” He faltered as his eyes met Jaqen’s.

“Who is she?” Jaqen asked coldly.

“Just an old woman. Harmless. Poor. Living only in her memories and dreams now.”

Jaqen looked down at him and Arya was reminded of how severe he could be.

“Memories and dreams?”

“Memories of her youth. She served in the King’s Court in Westeros.”

Jaqen paused for a second, then asked. “How came this woman to Lorath?”

“She came to serve a local family.”

“I know you!” interrupted the old woman. “You and you!”

Jaqen said stonily. “A man and a girl do not know this woman.”

Tears filled the woman’s bloodshot eyes. “I knew a silver boy. You were young to be lost to vengeance, but death has its price, as you know so well. I keened as I painted you and the dark shadows whirled about us. Oh, I did as they asked but it was not what she would have wanted. She feared what we saw in the flames and would have spared you. Blood and fire. Oh oh oh! There’ll be a war in you. Mother’s blood. Father’s blood. The blood due to your God. And who will be the victor?”

Both Jaqen and Arya stared at her.

The man took the old woman’s thin arm.

“She’s not what she was. Her mind is confused. Come, Mother.”

Jaqen stepped close to the man, who shrank back a little.

“Wait.”, he said quietly.

He turned his gaze on the woman for a moment, before turning back to the man.

“Did this mother serve House H’ghar?”

The man nodded warily.

“And does this mother see things in her dreams that give her knowledge?”

The old woman laughed but her son paled. He opened his mouth but no words came.

Jaqen stepped close and put his mouth to his ear.

“And would this mother be a bloodmage?”

The man stared up at Jaqen, who continued relentlessly.

“A man would hear the truth.”

It was a moment before the son replied.

“Not a bloodmage. But as a young girl, she was sold to a maegi in Qohor and learnt some of the dark arts in her service. She studied further with a maester in the Shadow, who then brought her to Kings Landing where she attended a lady of the court. She served the lady of House H’ghar in Kings Landing, and then here when they returned to Lorath. When death took each one, she mourned. She mourned deeply.”

He added softly “The years have not been kind to her.”

Jaqen did not speak for a moment. Only Arya could see that he had lost his cold look. He gazed down into the woman’s wrinkled face.

“What is this mother’s name?”

“She was born Naezdhi Ai Dinzhad, but most in Lorath call her..”

“Nashi.” Jaqen said.

The son nodded slowly.

Jaqen looked into the old woman’s eyes for a long moment, before bowing low. He raised the old woman’s hand to his lips.

“Lady.”

Loosing her hand, he straightened and nodded to the man. The old woman laughed and held her hand out to her son. In it was a rough leather money pouch, so heavy with coin that she struggled to hold it up.

Jaqen spoke. “There is enough gold for food and rooms. Spend it wisely and it will last her lifetime, and mayhaps much of her son’s.”

He bowed again to the old woman.

“Nashi. A man thanks this lady for her service to House H’ghar.”

Then he turned to Arya and steered her away from the pair, who stood watching as they disappeared into the flow of people beyond the alley.

Without a word, Jaqen had walked Arya back to the port and she stood by in silence as he sought passage for them on a ship to anywhere. He did not want to wait for the Merling Maid.

One of the Pentoshi cogs was loaded with barrels of whale oil for trade in southern Essos. She was The Moonshadow bound for Tyrosh via Braavos and Pentos, and its wily-looking Captain agreed to take them to Pentos, where they might have more luck gaining passage to Westeros. When they arrived back at Ragman’s Harbour two days later, Jaqen resisted the urge to make straight for his former cell in the House of Black and White and pretend to be No-one again.

Since Lorath, he had been quiet but beneath the calm exterior, he’d grappled with raw emotion for which he was ill-prepared. Of their sojourn to Lorath, he had expected sealskins, mild boredom, and some quiet amusement at the Free City falling well short of Arya’s expectation. Instead he had been met with uncomfortable memories, possible prophecy, and a full frontal assault of Self.

The dragon floor in the manse. The old servant and her dreams. Hints of blood magic from the past. A history, which he had thought long erased. He sought solace in Facelessness to escape the thoughts that screamed his past and perhaps his future, but he could not bury his Self at night. He was disturbed by dreams, the like of which he had not had since he’d been a boy.

On their first night on board the Moonshadow, he had sat up suddenly, still half lost in the dream world. Arya had held his face in her hands and his blue eyes had stared at her, vacant and uncomprehending until she called his name. As he’d sank back down onto the pillow, visions replayed in front of his eyes like aftershocks. Bloody skies with plumes of black smoke, and the screams of people below. The second night, he slept fitfully and when the morning came, he could remember only black lips slowly splitting wide like a fruit too long in the sun as an inhuman shriek filled his ears.

In his youth, when he was working to extricate No-one from Someone, his sleep had been disturbed by such visions. He had sought guidance from his Faceless Masters, and they had told him simply that his was the blood of the dragon, that destiny would find him if it wished, and that dreams were sand, easy to blow away. For a period of time, they gave him a sleeping draught at night and his dragon dreams had subsided. Then he was able to devote himself to the God, body and soul. But now he was on a different journey towards becoming Someone not No-one, and there was no Kindly Master with a milky drink that took the dreams away,

Arya was much distressed. She wished she had not insisted on sailing to Lorath and had said as much in an anguished confession, but by then Jaqen had regained control and remembered the acceptance that once was part of him.

“No, Lovely girl. All that has happened is the God’s will.”

Chapter Text

Jaqen and Arya stood on deck and watched Braavos recede into the mist as the Moonshadow sailed out of Ragmans and passed under the Titan. While Jaqen seemed content to get as wet as a fish, the drizzle soon drove Arya to their cabin, where it was at least warm and dry although the smell of whale oil now permeated every inch of this ship.

The Moonshadow had spent two days in the lagoon. The inspection at Chequy Port had taken some time, then the crew had loaded fresh water, and finally they had taken on passengers, a rowdy group of sellswords from Tyrosh, Pentos, Lys, and the Summer Isles. Arya, not wishing to engage in any further rumours about the Northern Star, had ruled out the idea of going ashore, and Jaqen had remained on board also.

Their new companions were battle-hardened men who had physically fought their way to the front of the queue on the quay, and Jaqen had regarded them grimly as they celebrated their triumphant boarding of the Merling Maid with a barrel of ale that one of them had won in a wager on an eel fight. Sure enough, it was not long before two had drawn knives, circling each other on desk. The fight had ended when both had been stabbed, one fatally. As the captain ordered the corpse thrown overboard and then threatened to throw the wounded man after it, Jaqen realised he had not seen Arya for the entire afternoon and returned to the cabin to find her lying on their bed staring at the shadows that swayed on the ceiling as the ship rolled through the waves. Her face was white and set.

The encounter with Nashi had filled Arya’s head with thoughts of her father. Whenever she closed her eyes, she saw him pushed to his knees as the sword was raised high above his neck. She recalled his words from so long ago. You will marry a king and rule his castle. She’d told him she would never be that lady and he’d listened and had given her Syrio. But Nashi had also said she might wed a king. Arya felt strangely disturbed by this.

Thoughts of her father naturally led to thoughts about her mother. That was even worse. Her heart hurt when she thought of Catelyn. In the House of Black and White, her wolf dreams had shown her what her mother had become and Thoros had told her that few vestiges of her mother had remained after Nymeria had dragged her from the Trident and Beric Dondarrion had resurrected her against the wishes of his priest.

She did not know where her mother was; no Stark had been able to find her although they'd heard rumours from time to time of a Lady Stoneheart. Only one thing was certain: she was dead. But was she at peace? She felt sick just thinking about it.

She looked up at Jaqen as he pushed the door closed and stood before her.

“What happens after death, Jaqen? Do you know?”

Jaqen looked at her thoughtfully and stretched out beside her on the bed.

“After death, Him of Many Faces clasps us to his bosom and calls us beloved. Then peace.”

“I didn’t ask for religious claptrap.”

“It is so, Lovely girl. The God has spoken to a man many times in the past.”

Arya looked skeptical. “What does He sound like then?”

Jaqen raised his eyebrows and smiled up at the ceiling. “To this man, He sounds like Jaqen H’ghar. But to a Lovely girl, She might sound like a Northern noblewoman.”

Arya frowned painfully. Her throat had a lump in it. “Jaqen… if someone returned to life after they died…. if that happened, would the Many Faced God be angry with them?”

The smile left Jaqen’s eyes. “To steal from the God of Death is to invite His wrath. Perhaps those most precious to Him could ask a boon but it would be blasphemous. Valar Morghulis, all men must die, Lovely girl.”

“Well, what about my mother? She came back. What about Beric Dondarrion? And Jon - what about Jon? What about the Faceless Men? The Kindly Man told me they were dead and living.”

Jaqen rolled onto his side to face her. He looked concerned and reached for her hand. His fingers were warm.

“A dead man made an unholy bargain with the Red God to give his life to a girl’s mother. Yes, that was blasphemy. But a girl’s mother did not ask for it. Does a girl fear the God would visit punishment on her mother? Fear not, Lovely one. The God would not see fit to punish her: her life was stolen by another.”

Arya stared back at him as he continued.

“A girl’s brother was returned to life by the red woman, who also invoked the Red God. Again, it was not his doing and he will not answer for it.”

He gazed at her for a moment.

“And the Faceless are a different thing entirely. They are priests of the God, and pledge their lives and their deaths to Him, to do with as He ordains.”

His words weren’t comfort enough for Arya. For the remainder of the day, she stayed in the cabin and couldn't force down the fish parcels Jaqen brought for her to eat. A cold dread crept over her as night approached. She didn’t want to close her eyes to sleep or dream and once again hear the sword cut into her Father’s neck nor see her Mother’s ravaged face.

Jaqen said nothing, but when night fell, he drew her to him and whispered in her ear “A girl must give this man her sorrow. This new Someone has only a few memories of his own and much room in his heart for a girl’s pain. Weep. Then sleep. He will keep it with him.”

She cried then with great choking sobs and afterwards, fell into a dreamless sleep as Jaqen held her. The next day, she felt lighter. Her pain had become grim resolve. She’d find her mother and if she had to, she’d give her peace.

West of Westeros could wait a little longer.

Chapter Text

Jaqen knew better than to ask Arya to stay in their cabin but he knew her appearance would cause a stir amongst the sellswords that lounged on the deck. Sure enough, when she emerged from the interior of the ship the next morning, they sat up and eyed her lewdly.  When Jaqen stepped out on deck a moment later, they looked him over before returning their gaze to Arya.

“What have we here?” enquired one of the Pentoshis, casting a slow look over her breeches and leather. “A lady warrior?”

Arya returned his long look. “Yes, that’s right. You’re the clever one in the group, I see.”

He grinned, showing a few missing teeth. “That I am. And what’s your name, beauty?”

“I’m Nymeria and this is Leto.”  She gestured to Jaqen, who gave the sellswords a bland look. 

The Pentoshi raised an eyebrow. “Husband?” 

Arya nodded and smiled sweetly.

“You sure? I don’t see a ring.”

One of the Summer Islanders spoke up in a resonant voice. 

“Even if you are wed, it matters not. In my country, a woman can have many husbands. I cannot vouch for these Essos men - all know they are savages - but men of the South are skilled in the art of love. Give me a try, warrior lady, and I’ll have you screaming for joy.”

The Summer Islanders laughed uproariously but one of the Tyroshis waved his hand dismissively. He looked around forty years old and wore a scarlet jacket over his armour. He grinned and twirled his pink beard.

“Xalthar talks shit as usual. It is known that Southron men have only an oyster knife under their skirts. We Tyroshi have a longsword between our legs. My longsword is growing now, Nymeria.”

Jaqen’s expression had not changed but the bawdy japing and the way they were undressing Arya with their eyes was beginning to irritate him. His gaze slid over the group. 

Four Summer Islanders, all with short stabbing spears and two with goldenheart bows and quivers of long arrows slung over their shoulders. Another has a sling hanging from his belt.

Two Tyroshi. The insolent pink beard wears armour and has three long daggers on his belt. The other is older but looks capable. A short sword is strapped to his thigh.

Two Pentoshi. One was the victor in the knife fight on day one of the voyage and his shoulder is bandaged. He sits with his back against a barrel. No knife visible but assume he still has one. The other is the "clever one". A scrappy-looking older man wearing leather pauldrons, who is using a helmet as a pillow.  The sword in his belt looks costly.

Two Lyseni, both young, one in a wine-coloured tunic over a mail vest with a rapier at his hip, and the other with daggers peeping out from his tall boots and another on his belt.

Ten men, all armed.

He ran through a few enjoyable scenarios in his head. In all of them, the two that had propositioned Arya died first. His fingers stroked the darts in his sleeve and he sighed wistfully.

It would be sweet indeed to deliver the gift to these men.

Arya glanced at him and stopped smiling abruptly. 

“I’m on it,” she murmured and stepped forward smartly. “Alright, that’s enough, lads. I’ll wager that none of you big men can best me in knife throwing.”

She strode into the group and herded them away from a wooden barrel in their midst. 

The pink-bearded Tyroshi looked at her with interest. “Now you’re talking, my lady of swords. What is the wager?”

“One silver mark. Just for fun. The person whose knife is nearest to the knot in the barrel wins. And my name is Nymeria.”

He grinned. “I will bet with you, Nymeria,” He bowed theatrically. “And I’ll even throw first.”

All of them wanted to join in and much cheering and jeering accompanied each throw of the knife. Before long, it was the turn of the bandaged Pentoshi, who stood with his eyes fixed on the knot in the wood as he sized up the throw. The four men that had thrown already had done well and the points of all four knives had been driven into the wood close to the knot. As the Pentoshi readied his knife, one of the knives in the barrel sagged for a moment and then the wood released its point and it fell to the deck with a clatter.

“That is yours, Torreo.” Xalthar observed. 

Torreo was the Lyseni in the tall boots. He was sitting with his back against a coil of rope and began to clamber to his feet.

“I’ll get it.” said Arya and turned to the Pentoshi, “Hold off throwing.”

He bristled a little at her commanding tone, but then smiled slyly. 

“I do like a strident woman.” he announced to the others, and as Arya passed him, he shot out his hand and squeezed her ass, to general laughter.

A moment later, he was pinioned against the barrel with Arya’s left hand clamped around his throat and in her right hand, Torreo’s blade, which she had swept up and now held to his eye, the point touching his iris.

She spoke, her tone quiet and hard, but audible to the others who were gazing at them in silence.

“Don’t fuck with me. I’ll take the eye of any man that pisses me off: either that or kill him stone dead.” 

She looked up into the rigid face of the Pentoshi and smiled. 

“Alright friend, I won’t take your eye… today. But here’s something to remind you to behave better in future. Hold still now.” she told him. 

The man remained rooted to the spot as she moved the point of the dagger from his eye and slowly scored a shallow horizontal line in the skin of his right cheek. The blade was sharp and she knew the man could not feel the cut, but he did feel the warm blood seep from it and soak into his beard. 

“There.” she announced with satisfaction, wiping the tip of the blade on the front of his breeches. “That will heal into a pretty scar.”

She stepped back and the man raised his hand to his face. He gazed at his fingers as they came away bloody.

“Everyone get the message?” she looked around enquiringly. The watching men nodded and a couple even laughed appreciatively. 

One of the Summer Islanders grinned. “Yes, warrior lady. You speak our language.”

Arya glanced over at Jaqen who was leant casually against the bulwark. As their eyes met, they smiled at each other and he bowed.

Handled.

Chapter Text

It took more than a week’s sailing before the high walls of Pentos came into view. Arya felt anticipation build as they drew closer to the city but her excitement turned to dismay when she saw the quays were overflowing with people that clamoured noisily when they saw the ship approach. A surge in the crowd saw several figures squeezed off the edge of the quayside, whereupon they entered the water with a splash accompanied by loud laughter. The captain frowned and ordered that the ship drop anchor in the bay until the customs men came aboard and he could learn why it seemed that the entire city wished to board ships and escape Pentos.

It was not long before a small row boat brought three customs officials from the quay. As they climbed on board the Merling Maid, they were greeted by the captain who immediately gestured at the crowded quays and demanded to know what was happening.

One of the customs men stroked his forked beard in a distracted manner. 

“The port is overcrowded. Dangerously so. Most are Westerosi soldiers that rode overland from Braavos as soon as the war ended. They seek passage to Kings Landing and southron Westeros and have grown impatient, having waited now for half a moon. There are no ships to Westeros from Pentos. All ships now sail for Braavos since the Iron Bank promised a fortune in gold to any captain that brings cargo and skilled tradespeople there - and no Westerosi wishes to return there. They demand direct passage from here to Westeros. Where are you bound? They have no coin but the city of Pentos is prepared to pay a handsome price for their passage if you will take some across the Narrow Sea.”

The captain appeared to consider this, which caused mixed feelings among the passengers. Arya gazed at him imploringly but the Tyroshi, Lyseni, and Summer Islanders grew angry and soon the captain and customs men were surrounded by a threatening mob.

The captain capitulated quickly. 

He turned to one of the crew who stood nearby, awaiting his orders. "Those that have bought passage to Pentos will go ashore in the small boat when night falls. Yorro, do not dock at the quay. Row instead to that strand over yonder. The passengers will have to wade ashore. All others must remain on board while we take on supplies. We sail onward to Tyrosh with the tide tomorrow.”

He nodded to the customs men. “If you know of any that will buy passage to Tyrosh, I can take five. But you must bring them to the Moonshadow. No boat of mine will go near that quay.”

Jaqen turned to Arya and spoke quickly. 

“A man and a girl must remain on this ship and sail with it to Tyrosh. If they go ashore now, these two will be stranded in Pentos or must return to Braavos.”

Arya gritted her teeth. She knew he was right but oh, for a moment, Westeros had seemed so close.

“Seven hells. Fine.”

She hailed the captain. “We want to stay on board until Tyrosh. How much?”

The captain tilted his head and gave her a shrewd look. “Well, now. It seems that there are a lot of people wanting to come aboard.”

Arya looked hard at him. Here it comes, she thought. 

“How much.” she repeated.

“Well.” he mused. “You paid silver for a cabin from Lorath to Pentos. I gave you a good price  because no others wanted passage from Lorath. The men that came on board at Braavos paid more than you did but I’m an honourable man and I’ve stuck to what we agreed. And we agreed you’d go ashore at Pentos.”

He smiled equably at Arya. “Now, demand is higher and so is the price. Passage to Tyrosh? Three gold each.”

Arya was furious. “That’s outrageous. You’re robbing us.”

“That’s the price, lady. Take it or leave it.”

“We’ll give up our cabin. Then it should be cheaper.”

“You’re the only woman on board a ship full of sellswords. Stay in a cabin or go ashore. I want no trouble.”

Arya boiled up at him. “You’re a thief.”

Jaqen stepped forward. 

“Three dragons each and these two get a cabin to Tyrosh.”

Arya turned away in disgust. 

“Done. A pleasure doing business with you.” proclaimed the captain with a broad grin.

Jaqen took his outstretched hand and then pulled him close with a jerk. The captain stumbled forward and Jaqen pushed his face close.

“Do not think to cheat these two further. The price is agreed. Should this captain consider taking new passengers and then think to turn these two out from the cabin or even put them off the ship, a man will know beforehand and then in the night, the captain will feel a cold blade press through his throat here - “ he tapped the side of the captain’s neck  ” - and a man will watch as a captain drowns in his own blood.”

The captain stared back for a moment before setting his jaw. 

“We’ve agreed the price and I’ll stick to our agreement. I’m a man of honour.” he growled.

Arya scowled at him and stalked off to the cabin.

When Jaqen entered a couple of minutes later, she was loudly cursing the captain, his children, his parents, and his crew. He patiently waited for her to calm down and then spoke.

“Lovely girl, this man left all his coin in Lorath. He hopes that there are six dragons in a girl’s purse.”

She glared. “Gods, I wish the answer was no. It will kill me to hand over that much coin to that thief. But yes, we have six dragons, a handful of silver marks, and some coppers. Once we pay him, we won’t have enough to pay for passage from Tyrosh to Westeros, even at honest prices. We'll need more money.”

She thought for a moment. Sellswords were still hired by the wealthy and by those squabbling over whatever the Others had left them, and Tyrosh was known to have a thriving market for such skills. It seemed an obvious solution to their problem, but when she proposed it to Jaqen, she learnt that this was no simple matter to a former Faceless Man.

“Lovely girl, a man will not deliver the gift to those that are not marked for death by Him of Many Faces.”

“But how will you know if they are or aren’t?”

“A man will not know.”

Arya was dismayed. “You mean you won’t kill anyone again? Ever?”

She thought You did it for me.

Jaqen seemed to read her thoughts. He looked at her for a long moment. 

“A man did once give the gift to men that were marked for death by a certain young girl and not the Many Faced God. This was something he had not done before nor since. He made her equal with the God and did her bidding. Yes, it was to help her on her path but he has often pondered. Was it right? Was it blasphemous? Were there consequences? He does not know. But he believes it was the God’s will. He prays it was. And now, a man does not want to give the gift to unmarked men. A girl must think of some new profession for these two.”

Chapter Text

As the Moonshadow forged its way past the Bleeding Tower and into Tyrosh harbour, Arya was elated to see that the port was busy but there were no sign of the quayside crowds that had cost them most of their coin at Pentos.

“Thank the Gods,” she announced to Corlio, the pink-bearded Tyroshi, who leant on the prow next to her, “We can go ashore.”

He grinned. “Tyrosh is the finest of the Free Cities, beautiful Nymeria. Spend a couple of days here and your heart will never leave.”

“I just want to go home to Westeros, Corlio. I’ve been at war too long. I just hope we’ll find a west-bound ship that hasn’t been bought by the Iron Bank of Braavos.”

The harbour was full of trading cogs, galleys, and warships, and one of the other Tyroshis told her with some pride that the Free City had one of the biggest fleets in Essos. Arya felt increasingly optimistic about gaining passage to Westeros; they needed only one west-bound ship with space for two and they’d be home in days. 

She wouldn’t miss the captain of the Moonshadow, at whom she had directed murderous looks whenever she laid eyes on him in the days since their departure from Pentos. But she had to admit that the sellswords had been fun once she’d got them to toe the line.  The Summer Islanders, the two Tyroshi, and one of the Lysene men had taken passage as far as Tyrosh. The Pentoshis and Torreo, the other Lyseni, had left the ship at Pentos, to be replaced by three more Tyroshi, who were a boisterous addition to the ship’s company. Even Jaqen had chuckled at their jests. 

But now it was time for the passengers to leave the Moonshadow, and before long, they had said their farewells and had melted away into the city and only Jaqen remained at Arya’s side. Arya wanted to check the ships straight away so the two walked along the quay and at each ship that was moored there, they hailed the men on board.

"Passage to Westeros?"

Arya's frustration grew as, one by one, their enquiries produced no results. There were ships to everywhere it seemed, except Westeros. Most were sailing to Lys, Volantis, Slavers Bay, Sothoryos, and of course, Braavos.

Tyrosh was literally within spitting distance of Westeros; yet it seemed she was prevented from taking the elusive final step. Arya swore bitterly. Of course, it would make sense to sail North back to Braavos. By now, the backlog at Ragman's Harbour may have cleared and they might easily find passage from Braavos to White Harbour. From White Harbour it was but a hop, skip, and jump to Winterfell. But the thought of going back to the very place their journey had started was a very disheartening one.

As they stood disconsolately, a customs official approached. He was a small man with a dark eyes and sparse head of hair that was dyed blue. In answer to their enquiries, he informed them that a west-bound trading cog was expected in a week, which would carry casks of pear brandy to King's Landing.

"A week!" exclaimed Arya in disgust.

He smiled placatingly. "Worry not, my lady. There is but one west-bound ship that's expected, but many come to harbour without giving the Free City of Tyrosh advance warning of their arrival date.  Such a ship might appear any time. Stay close to the port and check each day before the tide. You will likely be lucky."

He glanced at their leather armour and sword belts. 

"Many a captain and crew will be glad of a few extra hands such as yours. King's Landing ships need not venture near the Stepstones but any sailing for Planky Town or Oldtown must pass through them. The Stepstones are a favourite hunting ground of Southron and Westerosi pirates, and they have attacked merchant ships thrice in the last moon. I'd venture they're about to get their comeuppance though. Magisters, Princes, Archons, and ruling priests from Essos are sailing to Dorne in a moon's time, and they'll likely bring their own protection. I'd like to see those dogs of the sea run like rabbits when the Unsullied come after them."

Jaqen asked. "Why are Princes and Magisters sailing to Dorne?"

"Queen Daenerys has proposed a great Queensmeet in Dorne. All that rule a land or city have been invited. They seek to agree peace and protection for all."

Arya was uninterested in the Queen's grand meeting. She thanked the man and turned to Jaqen. "We can look for new ships at the dock later. For now, we may as well go and see Tyrosh. According to Corlio, it's the finest of the Free Cities."

The air was warm as they weaved their way between barrows and the men working to load and unload cargo from the ships. Dockside taverns and pleasure houses were built up against the outside of the city wall, which loomed so high that most of them stood in the long shadow it cast at this time of the day. They passed through a great archway in the wall, and as they emerged into the sunlight, the heart of Tyrosh lay before them. The inner walls of the city were of a strange dark stone that looked like black ice but when Arya laid her hand on it, she found it warm to the touch. Thin dogs lounged and scavenged amid the stalls and shops, and the air was filled with traces of garlic, pepper, spices, and brandy. The streets bustled with people. Some wore impossibly tall brimless hats and every man, women, and child wore fantastically dyed robes, cloaks, coats, tunics, and gowns. Flags and banners in every colour were hung high across the lanes, and they swayed gently in the air. Tyrosh was a rainbow.

Turning a corner, they stood at the back of a crowd to watch two red priests of R’hllor preaching from atop the low wall of a great fountain. Both wore voluminous scarlet robes with embroidered yellow and orange flames flickering up from the hemlines. One had flames tattooed on his cheeks and the other opened his hands to reveal the same flames inked onto his palms. They addressed the watching crowd in piercing and impassioned tones.

One called out “Praise be to the Lord of Light, who in his mercy has delivered the world from the hand of the Great Other! Winter, darkness, and death came down from the frozen North to the Free City of Braavos and at its cold heart, the Great Other’s cold creature supped on the warm blood of living men, rendering them dead yet walking, and handing them lances of ice! They marched upon the Temple of R’hllor, seeking to quench the holy flames that burn eternally to protect us from the dark and all its terrors, so that the endless night might engulf the world.”

Ha paused for breath and the other continued in a loud voice. “All hail the Lord of Light, R’hllor who made the sun and stars and fights forever against the darkness! Godly flame he sent to his servants in the temple and this they carried in scabbards of gold and jewel, and they hunted the ice creature of the Great Other, his chosen one, until the day came when Fire met Ice. For life is warmth, and warmth is fire, and fire is God's and God's alone.”

The first priest launched in again. “His holy fire burnt pure and hot in their hearts and in their sword hands. They plunged their fire blades into the cold body of the Great Other’s chosen one and his agony was thousandfold and he screamed and begged the Lord of Light, R’hllor, to relent but R’hllor was deaf to his plea, for fire melts ice and its power is insurmountable, it is known.”

Several in the crowd nodded and repeated “It is known.”

The second priest. “Blue ice filled the veins of the Great Other’s creature and when the holy flame touched it, his cold blood became water, and then as the Great Other howled in rage, his creature's ice flesh became water, and his ice heart became water and the Great Other’s chosen one diminished before the very eyes of the living and the dead. Water he became and then the most bountiful Lord of Light showed him mercy and he became nothing as the holy fire swept over the stones that were wet with his melting and made them hot as the sun warms the day. Praise and thanks to the Lord of Light! ”

“All who bore witness to the death of the Great Other’s chosen one fell to their knees and begged the victorious Lord of Light, R’hllor, to shield them always from the night that is dark and full of terrors. The servants held aloft their flame swords and prayed and all that saw swore their lives to R’hllor, to be his servants always and keep a holy fire burning, burning, burning always in tribute to him. Light your flame amongst us, R’hllor.”

Both held their arms aloft and called out in one voice.

“Praise and thanks to the Lord of Light! Fill our hearts with fire, so we may walk your shining path. R'hllor, you are the light in our eyes, the fire in our hearts, the heat in our loins. Yours is the sun that warms our days, yours the stars that guard us in the dark of night. Lord of Light, defend us. The night is dark and full of terrors. Lord of Light, protect us. Praise and thanks to the Lord of Light!”

The crowd answered as one, “Praise and thanks to the Lord of Light!”

This put Arya in an excellent mood. Grinning broadly, she told Jaqen “Now, that’s the kind of rumour I like. We must make sure to spread it further so that everyone can know who really killed the Night King.”

They stopped at a stall to buy fingers of baked pastry sweetened with honey and pepper. Their purse wasn’t as empty as it had been - the gambling on the ship had replenished it a little although only with a handful of silver marks and some Tyroshi coppers. It was not enough to buy passage to Westeros.

As they nibbled on the flaky crust, Jaqen nodded to Arya.

“So, Lovely girl. These two need more coin. Has a girl any thoughts?”

“Quickest way would be to find a wealthy merchant and cut their purse.” Arya mused. “Or we could wager with our silver.”

Jaqen hummed doubtfully. “And if the wager is lost?”

“We won’t lose if we bet on knife-throwing. You won every time when we played on the ship.”

He smiled his wonky smile. “It was a very close thing and a man only won by a whisker. Each time a Lovely girl threw, he was certain he would lose his hard-won Tyroshi coin. But there are many in Tyrosh that look to have such skills.” 

He nodded towards a couple of lean men talking in the shade of a colourful canopy. They wore helms adorned with wings and teeth and eyes inlaid in precious metal. The ornate rapiers that hung at their hips were honed to perfection and yet were not in scabbards but were instead worn casually and fearlessly. These were men for whom blades were no more than another limb. Between here and the port, Jaqen had seen at least forty men in varying types of elaborate armour, and dirks, daggers, falchions, arakhs, stilettos, short swords, rapiers, throwing knives, and bastard swords were on display everywhere. Tyrosh was a city of swords as well as a city of colour. A dangerous city.

Arya reflected on this. “Let’s find the gamblers of Tyrosh and see what they’re like.” She looked around. “I don’t see anyone that looks likely to give up their purse too easily. All the rich ones are surrounded by servants. It would be hard to get close enough.” 

Jaqen followed her eyes to a man in a tall vermilion hat and a gold brocade robe. He was strolling through the stalls that lined the street. On his fingers were golden rings set with large gems and his long beard was dyed indigo. Strong-looking men walked alongside him. Each wore a brigandine and an elaborately-worked short sword hung from their belt. Some of the men had green tiger stripes tattooed on their cheeks.

Jaqen regarded the group and for once, his feelings were written all over his face.  

”Slaves.” he replied coldly. “Not servants.”

Chapter Text

Tucked behind the stalls was a dusty shop selling cups of pear brandy. A handsome woman in a pink cap and leather apron stood behind a counter calling out her prices to the people passing. Jaqen walked over and bought two small cups, before enquiring “What manner of sport is there in this city? A man would like to win some coin.”

The woman gave him an admonishing look and replied disapprovingly. “Those that want to lose their hard-earned money go to The Huddle in the Old Town or the Painted Lady by the port. If you have sense, you will avoid them. They are full of cut throats and brigands.”

Jaqen bowed his thanks and turned to Arya, handing her her cup. 

“Is a girl certain she wants to enter this den of thieves?”

“Yes. This time we’ll be the thieves.” she smiled up at him, and Jaqen couldn’t help but stoop to kiss her and taste the sweet brandy on her lips.

Having ascertained that the Old Town was only streets away, they followed their noses until the streets became narrower, the windows were smaller, and many of the doorways were hidden away below ground level. It was quieter here. Dogs sunned themselves in dusty corners and laundry hung from lines between the houses to dry in the warm air. Arya looked around her with approval; the Old Town had a secret and disreputable air that she liked. They emerged onto a small square, at the end of which was a wooden platform enclosed in drawn curtains. 

“It must be mummers.” Arya remarked. “I wonder if they will play tonight?”

They paused to look up at the long red curtains, which rippled as someone moved behind them. The curtains twitched open and a man stepped out from between them. He wore a long red coat and a length of silver material that was wrapped around his head and secured with a brooch. Arya regarded him for a moment, then a wide smile broke out across her face. 

He bowed deeply to his audience of two, and beckoned them closer as he sang out in a familiar accent. 

How swift the days and years depart!

Where once a young clam seller toiled with her cart,

And now, behold, this woman fair, 

The same grey eyes and Northern hair.

Cats wander far, as is their way—

But how did this one go astray?

Through war's cruel scourge and winter's breath,

She's danced with fate and courted death.

The Gods unleashed their storm and sting,

Yet cats, they say, may conquer kings.

This cat endures, with youth’s sweet grace,

Life’s triumph o'er death glows in her face.

How? A mummer grins, half-wise:

Tis true—Cats live nine splendid lives.

“But perchance this cat has lived too many lives to be remembering her old friend, Myrmello?”

Arya laughed delightedly. “Of course I remember you, Myrmello.” 

She jogged to the front of the stage and held up her hands to take his but the mummer bowed and gestured to the side of the stage, where a low wooden box acted as a step. She quickly climbed up beside him and the two looked at each other appreciatively.

“It is very good to see you all grown up, little Cat.” he said, smiling with pleasure. "We both have survived war and winter. And now we are meeting again in the sun-filled Free City of Tyrosh. Who would have believed it possible?"

Arya thought Myrmello had not changed at all since she had been Cat of the Canals in Braavos, but when he stepped back, she saw that his left sleeve was pinned up. He followed her eyes.

“A remnant of the war with the dead. Many Braavosi fought alongside the Westerosi under Ser Jorah Mormont in Northern Westeros. Mummers believe themselves skilled with a sword until we find ourselves in a real battle. Then we learn that steel and wood make two very different weapons. One of my fellow soldiers hacked off my hand at the wrist to save me when I was besieged by walking dead men who caught hold of my sword hand and tried to pull me from the tower where we stood. I returned to Essos without it, but fortunately, a hand is not necessary in my profession, indeed on occasion, the lack of it has been of benefit to my roles. It also saved me from the Battle of Braavos since I am a poorer swordsman still without a sword hand, and so Cat, we are busy plying our trade in Tyrosh for the nonce.”

“You were brave to fight in the North.” she told him.

“We each do what we can. I came home. Many did not have that fortune, including Ser Jorah. But now the war is over, and we are all forever indebted to the Lord of Light and his servants.”

Arya’s grin became wider still.

Myrmello looked beyond her to where Jaqen stood.

“And now, dear Cat. We will sit and catch up on each other’s lives as old friends must. But first, please introduce me to your companion. If he is wishing to join the finest mummers in Essos, he need only say so. With looks like that, he will be an excellent addition to our troop and we are in need of handsome heroes.”

Arya giggled and called Jaqen over. 

“Myrmello, please meet Leto, my companion from Braavos.”

Both men bowed. Myrmello stepped over to the curtain and held it open for them in invitation.

“Come and meet my fellow mummers, one of whom will also be known to our little Cat.” He called into the back of the tented area, “Joss, see if you can recognise this fine lady.”

Arya was delighted to see Joss The Gloom appear. The rest of the company were a young girl named Jorey, a tall thin man called Seleno, two young men in long cloaks who were called Mors and Oakly, a woman called Sweet May, and a dwarf named Cleor.

The mummers were rehearsing The Septa and the Stars, which they expected to perform three nights from now. As Arya, Myrmello, and Joss exchanged stories in a huddle at the side of the stage, Mors and Oakly resumed their work, reciting their lines and striding around the stage. They were playing earnest supplicants to the God of Ghosts, Cleor explained. Jaqen watched them with interest.

Joss grinned as Mors learnt forward into an imaginary audience and invited a “virtuous young maid, fair and true” to come onto the stage. Joss pointed at Arya. “Here is one such maid!” he declared.

Mors nodded and strode over to where they sat. As she laughed and protested, he pulled Arya to her feet and steered her to the front of the stage. Holding her before him, he shouted “Queen of Beauty and Virtue, you are a fitting tribute to our God.” and pulled a long silver knife from his cloak. Its blade was thin and cruel-looking. In a sudden savage gesture, he pulled the blade across Arya’s throat and as he did so, it left behind a weeping red line on her white skin as she uttered a cry of surprise and snatched at her neck.

A breath later, Mors was on his back with the point of Jaqen’s blade pressed to his own throat as Arya sprang over to grab Jaqen by the shoulders. Jaqen took one look at Arya’s shocked expression, and stood up abruptly, sheathing his knife.

With a dark look at Arya who was giving him a reproving look and rubbing away the red paint from her neck, he turned to Mors, who was still lying on the wooden boards and was frantically feeling his own throat with his fingers. Jaqen bent to take his hand and hauled him to standing.

“You are unhurt. Forgive me. I thought…” he trailed off with an apologetic gesture. “That blade, it is a good trick.”

The watching mummers had been rooted to the spot, but now Myrmello rose to his feet with a bellow of laughter and began applauding loudly. The rest unfroze and joined in, laughing and prodding Mors in the ribs. Even Mors grinned sheepishly and reached over to shake Jaqen’s hand.

Myrmello slapped Jaqen on the back. “Are you sure you will not join our troop, dear Leto? You will make a fine hero, and Mors may never be the same man he was.”

Jaqen smiled a little grimly. “I thank you but no.”

“Well, at least we know our little Cat will not come to harm with you to defend her from knives and men.”

Chapter Text

Jaqen was quiet as Arya took her leave of Myrmello, Joss, and the rest of the mummers. She'd promised to return for The Septa and the Stars if they were still in Tyrosh in three days, but had confessed that they hoped to be on a ship to Westeros by then. 

He had to admit that the mummers had been an agreeable group, especially the unfortunate Mors, who did not appear to hold a grudge. But that did not excuse Jaqen's error. He should have identified that there was no threat to Arya, although in fairness, good mummers were harder to read than most men. Like the Faceless, their true selves were hidden by the character they played. 

He knew why he had acted so. It had been fear. His only fear.

He sighed his prayer to the God.

Do not take her this day.

He recognised now that this fear had taken root inside him on the day that he had plunged into the pool in the House carrying Arya in his arms. His Lovely girl was so rash, so impulsive, so warlike - and so seemingly beloved by Him of Many Faces. Would He want her for His own? She had danced with Him from an early age; from the moment her Lord Father had been cast into the Black Cells, her life had been under constant threat. As a boy on the road North, as a mouse in Harrenhal, as a fugitive in Westeros, as an acolyte of the House, as a warrior during the war - she had so oft evaded Him, it was a miracle that the God had tolerated it for this long. 

Bury this, he ordered himself. Fear would affect his ability to accurately judge and assess a threat, just as it had done in the mummer's tent. When he had given himself to the God and the Order, it had been necessary to become No-one because No-one had not loves and hates, nor any allegiances that caused him to fear and therefore misjudge.

Death was a gift, this he knew. To fear that she might receive this gift made no sense - but, he concluded, this was what love was.

Selfish. Irrational. Idiotic. Intoxicating.

He reminded himself that Arya had been trained by the House and had excelled in all of her lessons, aside from those that required temperance and selflessness, which were qualities she would never have. But other than her Faceless Masters, he had not seen anyone best her at swordplay, cudgel or staff, knife skills, arrow, or dart. She was also fearless, agile, athletic, aware, and had the reflexes of a cat. All of these qualities together with her native cunning and intelligence had allowed her to excel in every field of combat. His faith in her skills and experience verged on religious. As Myrmello had said, she would surely endure.

So this fear was wholly unnecessary: Arya could handle herself. 

He resolved to let her do just that.

"Forgive this man his ill-judgement, Arya." he said dejectedly.

Arya twinkled up at him. "I liked it. Poor Mors though!" She laughed merrily.

Then she saw his mood and became solemn. "There's nothing to forgive, Jaqen. I love that you would protect me, even from a wooden mummer's blade with its false blood. I've been mostly alone since my Father was killed, and when I was with others, I was always the protector. It's very nice to know that you have my back."

She reached up and held his face for a moment, then kissed him briskly. 

"Now. You can put those excellent knife skills to good use and win us money for passage to Westeros."

Myrmello had given them directions to The Huddle and had cautioned them that it was a rough place. He had been right. They heard The Huddle before they saw it - its patrons were rowdy and, from the sound of it, appeared to be heckling a singer. As they approached the entrance, the door was thrown open and a man roughly ejected from the dark interior. He stumbled and fell into the street, and a small harp was flung after him. He gathered it up and angrily shouldered his way past Arya and Jaqen before disappearing around the corner.

"Well, The Huddle is certainly living up to its reputation!" said Arya. 

Jaqen raised his eyebrows before pulling open the door and stepping inside. Arya grinned and followed.

Their eyes adjusted quickly to the dim light and they stood looking about them. The Huddle smelt of sweat and spices and ale, and it was just as busy as it had sounded. Arya aside, the patrons were all men, and the servers were mostly women. The owner of the tavern was a large man in a green turban. He wore a gold beard that matched the gold rings in his ears and on his fingers. 

Jaqen and Arya found space on a bench and a serving girl brought them ale. The men at the table looked them over and were amused to see Arya.

"S'not often you see a woman customer at The Huddle." one observed. "You like girls, my lady? There's plenty here and if you let me watch, I'll even give you a taste of this." He grabbed his crotch.

Arya looked unconcerned and replied pleasantly. "No thank you. I have come here to win your coin."

Jaqen added. "We seek a little sport."

"What kind of sport?" asked a burly man.

"A contest of skills. Can any of you throw a knife well?" asked Arya, nodding at a painted canvas hanging on the wall. It depicted a lady and a goat, who seemed very friendly with one another. "Closest knife to the goat's balls wins."

A rangy-looking man who was clearly a sellsword smiled dangerously at the man in the green turban. "Orso here doesn't like knives brought out in his place. But I expect he'll make an exception today."

Orso gave a curt nod of assent, clearly unhappy but loathe to pick a fight with this man.

"What's the wager?" asked the sellsword.

"Five silvers." said Jaqen. "I will let you throw first if you so wish."

He gave Jaqen an appraising look. “I don't think so, friend. You have the look of a man that can throw a knife and I don't like to be codded." he said.

His gaze turned to Arya. "I’ll take on the girl though.”

Arya smiled prettily and put their silver on the table. "Who else is in?"

Jaqen sat back and watched them throw for a while. The Huddle seemed full of men that were handy with a knife but they lacked Arya's precision - she had already landed the goat's testicles twice. A crowd had formed and the noise escalated as the throwers were cheered or booed depending on their popularity. Happily, Arya had been met with cheers. Jaqen reflected wryly that she had never yet failed to befriend the rougher elements of society.

He took a sip from his tankard. The ale was weak and watery. Orso was playing a dangerous game - Jaqen suspected that some of Orso's patrons would make their displeasure known if they were served a jug of this. Nevertheless, the Huddle was doing a roaring trade.

As he scanned the room, a trio of girls emerged from a door with a silken curtain hanging across it. They proceeded to the nearest patron, a hard-faced man who was perhaps Qartheen and who was sitting on a plush leather bench. They bowed and and each offered him food from a platter. The first offered dried-looking pastries with pomegranates, the second thin slices of some spiced dark meat, and the third offered blood sausages and grapes. Once he had taken some from each platter, the girls moved to the next man and repeated the action. They walked in perfect unison as if they were three of the same girl, because the gold bands on their ankles were linked to the ankles of the girl behind with heavy bars. As they moved through the room, they never faltered in their pace or duty, even when men reached out to stroke or squeeze them.

Jaqen breathed hard through his nose as he reached inside himself for facelessness. Tyrosh was the only Free City he had never visited in his duties to the House and the overt displays of slavery and exploitation here left a bad taste in his mouth. Of course, he had seen slavery's victims in the past. He had been to Slavers Bay, Volantis, Lys, Qohor, Asshai, and had even seen them in Pentos but of course, he had been No-one then. Now, his emotions were nearer the surface and he felt truly sickened to see the plight of these girls and the other slaves he had seen on the streets. Tyrosh's vivid colours were not enough to hide its evils. It was difficult for him to conceive that in much of Essos, the practice of slavery continued without challenge. Mayhaps one day, punishment would come to the slavers of Essos, just as it had done for the slavers of the Valyrian freehold.

Perchance he ought to deliver Orso of the green turban to Him of Many Faces, but what was the point? Another Tyroshi master would step into his place before the dawn broke and the girls’ bondage would continue uninterrupted. Besides, he no longer knew whom the God had marked for death and whom He had not. But he couldn’t help but ponder on whether it would be a kindness to deliver the gift to these girls. He closed his eyes and asked the God, but He chose not to answer.

His dark reverie was interrupted by a loud cheer and laughter. It seemed the contest was over and his Lovely girl was the victor.  Arya was grinning as she reached across the table to claw the silver pieces close and sweep them deftly into her purse. She left five silver marks on the table for a round of drinks, which further endeared her to the crowd. Jaqen had to smile. Only Arya could charm these ruffians thus - she had taken most of their silver and yet they loved her for leaving them a few coin for watered-down ale.

"Ah," said a voice at his shoulder. "I see Nymeria is busy teaching The Huddle a lesson about underestimating women with knives."

Jaqen turned and saw Corlio, the pink-bearded Tyroshi.

"Well met, Leto." Corlio continued. "You have found the best tavern in Tyrosh."

Arya came over, her cheeks flushed with triumph. "We have coin!" she announced. Seeing Corlio, she greeted him with a smile and offered him a drink also.  As they sat down, she told him about the Septa and the Stars but Corlio shook his head. 

"I leave Tyrosh this night."

Arya was surprised. "Why? You only just got here."

Corlio shrugged. "I had expected to stop here for a while but I have spent a fruitless afternoon seeking out my old friends and sad to say, I have learnt that every one of them has died in the war or has rejoined the free companies. There is naught for me in Tyrosh and the war made me forget how I dislike honey fingers and fat merchants. I sail on the morrow to rejoin the Golden Company who wait outside Volantis for sellswords, freeriders, and bowmen to restore their numbers."

Arya was curious about the Golden Company and asked Corlio many questions. As they chatted, the tavern filled up with newcomers, and Arya wondered if she should wager anew on her knife skill. She'd had three tankards of ale but it might as well have been water, so she wasn't worried that her knife throwing would be affected. The three tankards were pressing on her bladder though. Standing up, she informed Jaqen and Corlio that all the ale made her want to piss, and she headed off through the tavern on search of a privy. As she drew near Orso, her attention was arrested by a young girl who slipped past her. She wore a slave collar and blood ran from her mouth although she tried to suck it back in. Arya frowned and watched as the girl crept close to Orso and bowed, before attempting to whisper a message. He batted her away in disgust as a drop of blood fell from her lips onto the floor near his sandal.

"What." he growled.

"The captain asks for more girls."

"He cannot have any more. He has beaten every girl in this place. Tell him to leave and go elsewhere."

She shrank back and terror was all over her face. "Oh, please. Please, not I. He.. he will be angry."

Orso lurched to his feet to tower over her with a thunderous expression. It was enough. The girl nodded hurriedly and crept back through the tavern, disappearing behind the green curtain.

Arya'a eyes were hard as she followed her. 

Chapter Text

Behind the green curtain, the Huddle was very different to its noisy front room. Arya found herself at the end of a dingy, windowless passageway. Light was thrown onto the floor from three doorways that opened onto the passage from the right. She could see the girl ahead of her. Arya watched as she stopped for a moment to dab at her bloody mouth with the hem of her skirt.  As Arya advanced silently, the noise from the tavern receded and she could hear someone weeping quietly. The sound came from the first room. She moved to the doorway and cautiously looked inside.

Dusk was falling and a lamp had been lit which provided some of the light in the room. There was an unmade bed and a table below a window. Hobbling painfully across the room was a young girl - a child - who cried helplessly as she reached for a jug on the table. She was oblivious to Arya's presence. Arya thought that a Dothraki warlord could have thundered through the room on a stallion and the girl would scarcely have noticed: she seemed enveloped in her pain. Arya watched grimly as she shakily lifted the jug to pour cold water onto a rag, which she then held gingerly to her face. 

A cold rage was creeping over Arya. The force of it made her tremble. This girl was no older than she had been in Harrenhal. She remembered Weese and The Mountain and all the cruelties she and others had endured at their hands. Fear had been her constant companion, and the same was true for these girls now. She knew first-hand what men like this Captain were. Brutal, inhuman sadists. 

Arya glanced further along the passage and saw that the first girl had turned into the room at the end. She followed and edged stealthily to the door frame to see inside.

The girl bowed low before a man sitting in a chair. Arya could see only the back of his head. His thinning hair was rusty red and spotted with grey. The girl spoke quietly and Arya was impressed at the way she now hid her fear. This girl had steel in her.

"Lord Captain, my master says that there are no more girls. He recommends the Happy Traveller, which is close by. I will be glad to show you."

"Come close." he said, getting to his feet. His voice sent a chill through Arya. He had a Westerosi accent, but there was something else. His voice was somehow familiar.

The girl did not move for a moment but then she crept forward obediently, her face rigid. As soon as she was in range, he took a step towards her and, with the full force of his strength, he punched her hard in the stomach. The girl doubled over in pain and remained there, sobbing quietly. He tilted his head to watch her until she slowly straightened up with a half-suppressed cry and stood before him, her gaze fixed on his feet. Arya saw her jaw clench a couple of times before she was able to speak.

"Will that be all, Lord Captain?"

"No." he replied.

"Yes." said Arya. She walked into the room and then stopped dead.

The girl looked up quickly but it was the man staring back at Arya that filled her heart with sudden elation and hatred and triumph.

She spoke to the girl in a low voice. "Go. Get out."

The girl needed no urging. She walked quickly from the room hugging her middle while darting a desperate look at Arya.

The man had turned to face her, and was frowning with an irritated but puzzled expression. The red beard that Arya remembered was now grey. But his dour face and drooping eyes were just the same as they had been when she was ten.

"Do you need help remembering me?" she asked in an offhand manner.

Arya could see him reaching for her face in his memories. "I do know you." he said slowly.

"I'll give you a clue. My dancing master, Syrio Forel, had only a wooden sword and a leather vest, and you had swords of steel, plate armour, and were six men. He protected me. And you killed him." she stated coldly.

Realisation dawned. "The little Stark bitch." An incredulous smile crept across his face. "Well, well, well. All thought you dead long ago. Where have you been all these years?"

"You'll get no answers from me," she replied. "Except this one."

Arya lunged at him with a snarl and her hand held a knife. She was an arrow loosed from a crossbow. Her arm and hand and knife formed a longsword. Rigid. Deadly.

Ser Meryn Trent did not even have time to step back or lift his arm to ward her off. Her blade punched into his eye and buried itself in his brain. He fell to the floor with a cry and Arya fell with him, landing athletically and straddling his body. Ser Meryn made a deep groaning sound and weakly lifted his hand to try to shove her away. It was his last act.

She gazed into his face as she pulled out the knife. It left a wet red hole where his eye had been. She whispered viciously "For Syrio." and plunged the blade into his other eye. Then for good measure, she pulled it from his eye and stuck it into his throat. The hole in his throat filled quickly with blood, which bubbled from his lips for a moment before his breathing stopped. 

She pushed herself off him and climbed to her feet. Standing tall, she looked down at his corpse. This death had been a long time coming but finally she had exacted bloody vengeance on this man, who had been on her list from the very first time she spoke the words aloud. Her mouth twisted into a smile of satisfaction.

"Valar Morghulis."

Chapter Text

Jaqen had been listening to Corlio's tall tales and wondering if he himself should invite some of the newcomers to wager on skewering the goat's testicles. But at the back of his mind, Arya's absence had begin to nag at him. He did not know where the privy was, perhaps it was outside, but the longer she was gone, the more bothered he was becoming. He gazed across the tavern, scanning the room for a sight of her, and noticed idly that a girl was talking urgently to Orso. Jaqen could not see her mouth to read her words but Orso responded to whatever she had said with a horrified expression and then Jaqen could see his mouth and although his beard made it hard to read his lips, Jaqen thought he said "You lie, girl. I'll beat you myself." and then "What woman?".

Jaqen frowned as Orso called on some nearby sellswords and they all pushed their way through the crowded tavern and disappeared behind a green curtain that hung above a doorway.

Arya.

He stood abruptly and cut off Corlio's story, informing him that he would visit the privy also. Corlio shrugged and turned to the next man on the bench to continue his tale. Jaqen crossed the tavern and slipped behind the curtain into chaos. The passageway was full of girls crying and pushing past one another. At the far end was a crush of sellswords who were shouting and gesturing as a big man busily rammed his shoulder at a door.

Jaqen took one look and turned back into the tavern. Walking swiftly through the crowd, he scooped up a pink Tyroshi cloak that was hanging on the back of a chair and a bottle from a table, and headed out of the entrance at the front of the building. Flinging the cloak around his shoulders and pulling up the hood, he took a sharp left into an alley that led down past the rear of The Huddle, and counted the windows until he identified the room that the men had been trying to break into. Its window was wide open.

A crash from inside the room told him they'd broken the door down. Excited shouting followed and Jaqen slumped down onto the dusty ground of the alley, leaning back against the wall as he wrapped his cloak about him. He brought the bottle to his lips as some men appeared at the window. A couple of them fought to be first to lean out over the windowsill to peer to the right and then the left in the evening twilight.

He heard the words "A woman in men's garb. Pale skin and dark hair in a long braid."

He sighed to himself. Arya, what has a girl done?

Some men climbed out of the window and split up to run right and left in search of their quarry.

As men drew closer to where he sat, he muttered a greeting in Qohorik and swigged from the bottle. The men barely glanced at him before running past. When the sound of their boots was no longer audible, he walked to the window and looked in. The room was empty but for a dead man laid on the floor, who'd had his eyes taken and a stab to his throat.

His Lovely girl had indulged her most feral instincts. He did not know why but that was not important now. Where was she? Still in the room? In the tavern? Or had she gone further afield?

"Arya?" he asked quietly. 

Nothing.

He thought she'd have left the building via this window. He had not seen her reenter the tavern. He stepped back and imagined if he were Arya and had just slain a man in a place where the death was likely to be discovered quickly, where would he go?

On the other side of the alley was the windowless side of a tall building. She had to have gone right or left, or.... His gaze stopped at the window frame and then at a ledge further up in the wall, and then at the roof, which was flat-topped in the usual Tyroshi style. There were plenty of places to support quick and strong feet and hands that were used to climbing.

Yes, he thought. If this man was a killer who sought to evade capture, he would go up, not to the right or left where he might meet adversaries and be trapped like a rat in a pipe. He put the bottle down and, darting a quick glance about him to make certain there were no witnesses, he put one foot on the window sill and steadied himself with his fingers around the window frame, then straightened and reached for the ledge. He placed the other foot onto the top of the frame, pulled his body up until he was flat against the dusty wall, then another foot onto the ledge as he reached for the apex of the wall, and then he was rolling over the top and onto the flat roof. He lay still for a moment, his body pressed against the inside of the wall, which formed a low barrier enclosing the roof. He scanned the area. The tavern roof was empty.

Staying low to prevent being noticed from below, he traversed the roof expanse with light, swift steps and paused at the far edge. The roofs of Tyrosh extended before him, a landscape of pale boxes, some roofs higher than the one he stood on, some at the same level. The tops of many buildings might be crossed easily from here. 

"Arya?"

Nothing.

He could see the tall city wall far away to his right. Beyond that, he knew, was the port and an opportunity to escape from Tyrosh, ideally to Westeros. He reasoned that Arya would head for the port.

He started off, leaping across gaps between buildings where possible and staying low when he was near a roof edge to escape curious eyes. The roofs of Tyrosh provided an easy way to cross the city but he knew this convenience could not last and eventually he reached a roof that offered no access to the next building along his intended route. There had been no sign of her. He stood for a moment, considering.

Where the fuck was she? This was like finding a needle in a haystack. Had he been mistaken? Mayhaps Arya had fled down the alley and been caught like the proverbial rat and now faced retribution, imprisonment, or death. He shut his eyes for a moment to force away that thought.

He should go back to the tavern. 

A voice behind him almost made him jump.

"You took your time."

He turned in relief to see Arya sitting in the shade of a low structure on the roof behind him. He walked over to her and crouched down in front of her.

"Lovely girl... what happened? Is a girl hurt?"

She was liberally spattered in blood but was grinning from ear to ear.

She shook her head.

"Jaqen. I killed a man. And guess who he was."

Jaqen could certainly hazard a guess. Only a name from Arya's list would merit this level of triumph.  

"Ser Ilyn Payne?"

Arya's face grew hard for a second and she shook her head dismissively. "No, not him. Not yet."

She regained her good mood. "Try again."

Jaqen gave up. "A man does not know. Who was he?"

Her eyes sparkled. "Meryn Trant."

He nodded solemnly, understanding her elation.

"That sadistic fucker beat all the young girls at that tavern. I saw him punch one of them. He knew me, I made sure of that. And before I took his second eye, I told him that his death was for Syrio."

She remembered watching the blood bubble and then still on his lips. Gods, that had felt good.

"How did they discover his death?" asked Jaqen.

"The girl he beat went and told someone, I suppose. She couldn't let anyone think she had done it. Orso would probably kill her. She was a slave."

Yes. He had seen the girl inform Orso. His lips tightened. Obedience was the only protection a slave had, and truly, it was no armour at all. It was the whims of their master that determined whether a slave's life was tolerable or not.

"And now, Lovely girl?"

"The port. I think we need to get out of here."

He nodded in agreement. Tyrosh did not appear to have many pale women in warrior garb who wore their dark hair in a long braid. That alone would make it easy to spot Arya, not to mention that her hands and clothes were red with the lifeblood of Ser Meryn Trant.

"A girl will need to change her appearance. A man will find her some other clothes and bring water to wash away the blood. It is safe to wait here, yes?"

Arya nodded.

Jaqen slipped away and returned a few minutes later with a tunic that he'd dipped into a fountain, and some dry clothing. The Tyroshi habit of drying their laundry on lines strung between buildings was a happy fortune.

Arya shed her sword belt, breeches, and leather and stood in her small clothes. Night had fallen and the sky was a dark blue against the pale silhouettes of the Tyroshi skyline. A crescent moon hung above them. She rubbed at her hands and face with the wet fabric, and droplets of water fell onto her stomach and breasts.

Jaqen watched her in silence. How beautiful she looked with her bloody hands and that victorious, feral look in her eye.

Arya looked up at him and, noting his ardent expression, smirked.

"You really are sick, do you know that?"

He smiled wryly. The hardness in his breeches had also not escaped Arya's attention.

"Come here." she commanded with a wicked smile.

 Jaqen obeyed.

Back at The Huddle, Orso looked sourly at his goat picture. The goat had been virtually destroyed and the girl wasn't in a much better state.

He'd have to replace it.

Chapter Text

A very different looking Arya stood demurely on the dock as Jaqen hailed the ships moored there.

She wore a long green Tyroshi gown and her hair fell loose around her shoulders. On her head was a blue cap, and in her arms she carried a bundle of damp clothes wrapped up in a pink cloak. Her sword belt was around Jaqen's waist for the time being.

It was past midnight now, yet the dock was nearly as busy as it had been in the afternoon. Great fires burned in tall braziers along the quay to illuminate men loading the ships, ship's crews hauling on ropes, and customs officials inspecting cargo. The docks at Tyrosh apparently operated around the clock.

Jaqen returned to her side with the news she'd come to expect. Why would Tyrosh be different than anywhere else? she thought bitterly. There were no west-bound ships.

Arya looked back towards the City. There was no sign of her pursuers but Tyrosh was a large city. Perhaps they were still scouring the Old Town and had not yet thought to search the port. But mayhaps the "Captain"'s death had been a welcome one  and the hunt for his killer had been perfunctory and short-lived. But, just in case, she wouldn't mind getting out of Tyrosh as soon as possible. She said as much to Jaqen.

He nodded. He too was keen to leave Tyrosh and its slavemasters. "The next ship to sail is Last Lament, which will leave at dawn."

The name matched her mood. "Alright. Let's go talk to them."

Last Lament was a towering swan ship out of the Summer Isles. It was bound for Volantis via Lys, and its crew were a mixed bunch from Essos and Westeros as well as the Summer Isles. The captain was a tall and scarred Summer Islander with puffy cheeks. They watched as he ordered the crew to load barrels of dye in the Common Tongue, the Summer Tongue, and even in several varieties of Low Valyrian. His name was Wahlo Jala.

Arya and Jaqen were pleased to learn that passage to Lys cost silver, not gold, mainly because the risk of attack by pirates was higher than usual. Arya was not deterred by this - however, she'd had enough of sailing halfway around the world when Westeros was but a sea away. She told Jaqen she would only set foot on Last Lament if the next leg of their journey was certain to be to Westeros. 

"We have been trying to buy passage to Westeros for more than a moon and have, through ill-luck, ended up sailing the length of Essos." she complained to Wahlo, who listened with a patient air. "What are the chances of us getting passage to Westeros from Lys? To the North of Westeros."

"From Lys, passage to Westeros is certain, lady, but it will be costly." he answered in a mellifluous voice. "Many rich Westerosi fled to the paradise islands when the war began in the cold lands. They now return to their homes, or what is left of them. They bring with them fine Lysene tapestries to make their castles grand again and red wine to drown their sorrows. With enough gold, you will find passage to Westeros from Lys, but only as far as the port of King's Landing. Lysene ships will venture no further North. You will need to buy passage on a North-bound ship from there or travel on land to reach Northern Westeros."

Arya grimaced. "I don't fancy the company of a ship full of cowards but if that's what it takes to get home finally, we'll have to do it. We will sail with you to Lys."

The captain bowed his agreement and before long, they were installed in a cabin out of sight. When dawn painted the sky and Last Lament sailed out of the harbour, both breathed a little easier. Arya, because she could go back to wearing her own clothes and did not have to keep looking over her shoulder for people hunting the "Captain"'s killer, and Jaqen, because he had put Tyrosh on a par with Asshai in his list of places he hoped never to return to.

Once Last Lament was on the open sea, Arya and Jaqen emerged onto the deck. Arya smiled up at Jaqen. It was a relief to be out of her skirts and the sea always made her feel good, even if the ship was heading in the wrong direction. However, Jaqen did not return her smile but looked past her with a displeased expression. Arya followed his gaze and saw a man leaning casually at the prow looking out over the water in a familiar stance. His scarlet jacket flapped in the breeze and he had now braided his pink beard.

They quickly stepped back out of sight. 

"Corlio." said Arya heavily. "Of course. He's sailing to Volantis to join the Golden Company. And he was in The Huddle when..."

Jaqen nodded. "Yes. He will know that this girl slew the dead man in the back room and that many men sought to bring her to justice. This man is a sellsword with no duty to anything save his own purse. Had he encountered her in Tyrosh, he'd have sold her to the Magisters without a qualm."

He added thoughtfully. "It is fortunate that these three did not cross paths until they were aboard this ship. The man Corlio cannot deliver a girl to the Magisters of Tyrosh from the middle of the sea. Mayhaps he will not tell the crew - he will not want to share the bounty he will hope for. And Nymeria and Leto can disappear when they get to Lys." 

"I'll tell him it was self-defence. He might be sympathetic."

Jaqen raised his eyebrows. "Mayhaps. But a little fear might also stay his hand."

A minute later, Corlio was joined by Arya and Jaqen. Jaqen appeared at his left and Arya at his right, and they were so close that their elbows touched him. 

With a frown, he spun around to confront the people who crowded him.  When his eyes lit on them, his irritation turned to surprise. 

"Leto!" he exclaimed, and then, more thoughtfully "And Nymeria..."

"Well met, Corlio." said Arya evenly. She looked out over the water with hard grey eyes.

Corlio looked bemused. "But I thought... you were sailing to Westeros? This ship is bound for Volantis..."

He trailed off. They could see his mind working furiously.

Arya glanced at him before replying. "I'm afraid we had to leave Tyrosh in a bit of a rush." She gave a heartfelt sigh into the breeze. "When I sought the privy in The Huddle, a man attacked me and I was forced to defend myself."

Corlio said nothing but his eyes studied her profile.

"Unfortunately, he died of his injuries." she added in a regretful tone.

Jaqen spoke up. "We were concerned that the Magisters might not see the truth of what happened, so we bought passage on Last Lament and left Tyrosh."

Suddenly his dagger glinted in his hand. He examined it as he continued airily. "I hope that no trouble follows us here. Nymeria was much distressed after her encounter and I do not like it when anything upsets her."

Corlio glanced at the dagger as the sunlight reflected off its blade and Arya could see him recalling Jaqen's sublime knife skills.

Arya produced her own blade and twirled it in her fingers. She spoke sorrowfully.

"To kill a man in cold blood is very upsetting but I had no choice. I had to protect myself. And I'll do it again if I have to."

Corlio held up his hands and stepped back away from them.

"No more!" he exclaimed. "By the Child, I will have enough threats to my life when I am in the Golden Company. Dear Nymeria, dear Leto, I understand the message. You need not fear that I will cause you any headaches about this matter. Truth be told, I doubt any man or woman in Tyrosh regrets the death of your Captain. From the talk in the tavern, it seems that all agreed that somebody would have killed him sooner or later. Even Orso was happy - his girls could not continue with their duties for days after one of his visits. I will have gold aplenty soon and I tell you, my friends, you have nothing to fear from me."

Jaqen nodded blandly. "Good."

He flipped his dagger and dropped it back into its sheath. Arya followed suit. Corlio cleared his throat a little awkwardly, and launched into one of his stories, which this time featured a beautiful woman who'd been an archer on a swan ship. Arya darted an amused glance at Jaqen, who couldn't hide his grin. 

It was afternoon when the big ship entered the Stepstones. The islands looked like crouching bears on the silver sea, and each one had deep, shadowed inlets and coves, many of which could hide an unfriendly ship.  As they watched the islands pass by, Arya, Jaqen, and Corlio were joined by the fourth passenger. Arya was surprised to see he was a Westerosi Maester. Maester Noell was perhaps forty years, with a thin face, neat auburn beard, and hair cropped close. He explained that he had joined the ship two moons previously and had paid for passage by attending the captain, who had crippling pain in his back from time to time. He expected to take his leave of the Last Lament when it docked at Lys.

"They say Lys is five days sail from Tyrosh as long as there are no difficulties along the way. Seven protect us. It is too dangerous to sail these days, especially here in the Stepstones. Pirates and marauders are everywhere, and if we make it to the Summer Sea, there will likely be storms. All that is wanting are krakens." he said with a shiver. "Would that I were back at Oldtown with solid stones beneath my feet. I was never a good sailor although I have become used to it." 

"What made you join the ship?" asked Arya curiously.

"Every six moons, the Citadel sends a Maester across the Narrow Sea to buy healing powders and tinctures. After Lys, I return to Westeros, Seven willing." He closed his eyes for a moment in fervent prayer.

Jaqen was interested. "You are at the Citadel?"

The Maester nodded. "After more than ten years of learning, I have this year taken my vows. I have not yet been assigned a position in a noble household."

The Maester's apprehension concerning the pirates of the Stepstones was shared by the captain, who had put his crew on high alert and had readied the Summer Isles archers. A boy was installed in the crows nest as lookout and he called down regular "All clears" as the captain scanned the inlets with a long brass far-eye. 

Arya remarked that it was the first time she had seen a swan ship whose crew were not exclusively from the Summer Isles.  Jaqen had looked them over and, with the exception of a few, had pronounced them all one step away from sellsails and pirates. Maester Noell told her that the captain had been forced to recruit from all over. Summer Isles seamen and women were in short supply following the war and it was rumoured that a good portion of them had joined the crew of the recent rash of Lysene pirate brigs.

He added "Let us hope they will not attack this swan ship out of love of their countrymen."

Arya watched as Wahlo gave orders to a tall Summer Islander. Maester Noell commented that this was Xaq, Wahlo's second-in-command. He was Wahlo's sister's son, and in Noell's opinion, this was his only qualification for the job.

Arya thought Xaq seemed capable enough. Look with your eyes, she reminded herself. She saw that when Wahlo gave an order, it was done immediately and without question. The captain walked the deck like a King, and when he wore his feather cloak, he looked more than a King. The crew respected him. They laughed genuinely when he made a joke and sought guidance from him when they were not certain of something. But Xaq lacked his uncle's presence and authority. He asked the crew to perform their duties and seemed to want their friendship rather than their obedience. In return for his pleasantries, the Westerosi and Essosi seamen dragged their feet to act on his orders, were often surly, and they openly questioned him when they did not agree. Arya thought that Jaqen had been right about this section of the crew. The captain should get rid of them and if that were not possible, perhaps Xaq would be better off leaving the ship at Lys too.

Night fell and the passengers retired to their cabins to be lulled to sleep by the gentle creaking of the ship's timbers and the murmurings of the sea around them. Arya sat on the bed and watched Jaqen, who had removed his blades and darts and was methodically inspecting each one. 

"The Maester was a poor liar." he remarked.

Arya looked surprised. "What did he lie about?" 

He threw her a reproving look. "A girl did not notice? Maester Noell claimed he is at the Citadel and has not yet been assigned to a House. An obvious lie. Morever, he said he had studied there for more than ten years but a man was at the Citadel ten years ago and this Maester was not there.

She frowned. "So what is he up to?"

Jaqen took a dart in his fingers and scrutinised it closely. "Who can say?"

Arya nodded. "We'll keep an eye on him."

Chapter Text

When the passengers stepped onto the deck the next morning, they learnt that the voyage might not be without complication.

With the dawn had come a sighting of a large ship just past one of the islands. As soon as the lookout had alerted the crew, Wahlo had spent a few minutes scrutinising it in his far-eye. He had not liked what he'd seen. It was a dromond with no banners or flags raised, and while it had been too far to see the ship's name, Wahlo thought he could guess. This part of the Stepstones was Torturer's Deep, which was known to be the domain of the Lord of the Waters, a corsair that had hunted here on and off for nigh on ten years. Wahlo had ordered that all sails be raised and the Last Lament began surging through the waves at speed. Even from deck, it was a magnificent sight and Arya could see why swan ships were so named, with the Last Lament's sails full and white like the great wings of a swan.

The wisdom of the captain's actions soon became evident. Everyone on board the Last Lament watched in silence as the dromond pulled out into the channel behind the Last Lament and began its pursuit. They were yet too distant to see the scorpions, ram, oarsmen, and crew but all knew what their fate would be if the dromond got close enough to put the Last Lament in range.

Wahlo shouted an order in the Summer Tongue and the red archers began to ready themselves.  These were all Summer Islanders, tall, slender men and women whose backs and arms rippled when they flexed their goldenheart longbows. Their captain was Moajja, a tall solemn woman with braided hair that reached her waist. Each wore a leather quiver with arrows a yard long and deadly. Cat of the Canals had once asked a Summer Isles archer to show her how far she could send an arrow and the woman had grinned and kindly obliged. Cat had been awed as the shaft had flown - forever, it seemed - before piercing the eye of the lamprey on the hanging metal sign of The Lamprey Inn four hundred yards away. Any pirate that took on the Last Lament would be hard pressed to get close and would no doubt suffer many losses. This might be enough to persuade them to seek easier prey - as long as the arrows did not run out before the attack ended.

Maester Noell appeared beside Arya on the deck. He was in a state of extreme agitation and stared at the dromond with pure dread.

"Seven save us." he quavered. "Those pirates will kill us all. They'll use our skulls for cups and our blood to dye their sails. Oh, I should never have gone to sea. All know that pirates have no mercy. Oh, Seven save us!"

Arya patted his arm reassuringly and said that the Last Lament seemed to be outrunning the dromond, but it was no use.

"The sea will be the death of me." he insisted. "I have always known it. Oh, to be killed by corsairs. Oh, Seven protect us!"

He turned to Arya and urged her. ''Pray with me, Nymeria, I beg you. Let us pray to the Mother for our protection."

Noell is religious for a Maester, Arya thought. She replied "I was brought up to pray to the Old Gods," - and another God too, the one that is all of them - "But I can pray with you if you wish. My Mother's faith was that of the Seven." 

She bowed her head respectfully as Noell beseeched the Mother loudly to save them from the cruel marauders.  

A nearby Pentoshi seaman with a weathered face like a wrinkled apple remarked that the warship had not a hope of catching a swan ship in full flight. But if the wind dropped, then the Last Lament would be at the mercy of the dromond, which had oarsmen as well as sails, and a crew spurred on by a thirst for blood and gold.

Arya felt sorry for Noell. For a heartbeat, he'd gazed at the seaman with a pathetic air of hope but when he heard what would happen if the wind dropped, he gasped and hurried off to consult the captain.

"Do you think the wind will drop?" asked Arya, gazing back at the dromond which was far enough away to look like a toy ship.

The Pentoshi grinned ruefully. "No, my lady. I smell a storm. May the Merling King prove me wrong."

"But won't a storm be good for us? There'll be enough wind to keep us ahead of those pirates."

He laughed and his gold tooth glinted. "Enough wind is right! It would be better if we could moor at one of the coves in the Stepstones and wait out the weather but that whore Cersei is on our tail and we daren't stop. Southron storms are ferocious and if we do come out the other side of the islands, we'll likely be swept off course unless the good captain can steer us to Lys before the body of the storm hits. So let us hope that my nose is mistaken. It sometimes is."

Arya frowned at him. "What did you just... did you say Cersei?"

"That ship will be the Queen Cersei if her captain is the Lord of the Waters."

Queen Cersei.

"Queen Cers... but why did he give it that name?"

"It was King Tommen's warship but Lord Waters filled it with cuthroats and poachers and then took it off to the Stepstones to relieve honest men of their gold and their lives. He had three of the King's dromonds but two have been lost, so I hear."

Arya grinned. "Do you mean to tell me he stole three of the Lannister's warships?"

When he nodded, she laughed out loud. 

He shook his head at her. "Don't be too merry about it, my lady. That stolen ship is driving us into a storm - or if the wind drops, they'll board our ship and feed us to the fish. Either way, a good bit of trouble lies ahead."

The late afternoon sun cast its warm glow onto the water as the Last Lament plunged onwards. The wind kept up and the gap between the Last Lament and the pirate ship grew until the towering dromond was nothing more than a speck on the sea, and then it could no longer be seen at all.

When night fell, the captain ordered the crew to strike some of the sails and the Last Lament slowed its speed somewhat but did not drop anchor. Wahlo knew the sea here like the back of his hand, and he stood with the helmsmen at the tiller all night, steering by the stars and the dark shapes of the islands.

In the Southron Sea, the night was never black as it was further North. Although the moon was new, the sky was a cobalt dome even at midnight and the stars filled it with light. When Arya crept up on deck in the small hours, she thought it the most beautiful sight she had ever seen. 

Her sleep had been disturbed by another dream about her mother. In it, Arya had kissed her torn face and promised her that she would come. When she woke up, her cheeks were wet with tears.

She had listened to Jaqen's steady breathing for a while, remembering how Noell had beseeched the Mother. In a breath, she whispered - to Jaqen or perhaps to herself - "How do you talk to the Many Faced God?" 

She felt him shift beside her as he woke. He replied softly. "To talk to the God, a man whispers silently."

He paused then added. "But a man fears that He does not listen to him now. The God has not answered since a man left the House of Black and White."

It was too dark in the cabin for Arya to see that this admission made Jaqen’s heart ache but she could hear it in his voice and she wriggled closer to him.

He hugged her against his side and sighed. "Perhaps He no longer notices this man’s voice. There are ways to get His attention but.. these are not usual things." 

Arya trailed her fingers across his flat stomach. "What ways?"

He smiled sadly in the dark. "Blood and pain, Lovely girl."

He continued. "But some things are for Faceless Masters to know and cannot be spoken of. To speak to the God, close your eyes and speak from the heart. He may listen or He may not. Who can say? Gods do as they please and it is all the same to the Many Faced God."

Chapter Text

At first light, Captain Wahlo ordered the sails raised again and the Last Lament gathered speed until it soared across the waves once more. The wind had continued to favour the ship and they had cleared the Stepstones before dawn. Now, they were headed out into the open sea where the waves were grey and white-capped and the coastline of the Disputed Lands was a distant brown smudge on the port side.

The boy in the crow's nest had been ordered to remain watchful and alert the crew to any pursuers but as yet, there was no sign of Queen Cersei at their back. Arya was relieved until she saw the hulking grey cloud in the sky to the south.

Recalling her conversation with the wrinkled Pentoshi seaman, she frowned and hurried off to find him. It wasn't long before she spied him on the lower deck, grimacing as he hauled on ropes and spat over his shoulder. He told her his name was Gurro and at her question, he squinted up at the sky and bared his teeth.

"Yes, lady. A low North wind with a Southron wind blowing above it? The Merling King is angry and we'll be the worse for it. My bones tell me this storm will be a bad one."

Arya looked out over the sea. Though still far from where Last Lament forged through the waves, the stormcloud looked like a towering grey creature that grew almost imperceptibly as it crawled across the sea towards them. She shivered.

Noticing her concern, he smiled gruffly. "But worry not. Captain Wahlo has sailed these waters since before your first name day - and a swan ship can outrun a storm in the open sea. He'll sail straight for Lys."

"For Lys? Wouldn't it be better to moor up in a sheltered cove over there?". She pointed towards the distant line on the horizon that was the Disputed Lands.

He shook his head. "There's no hiding from a Southron storm on the coast of the Disputed Lands, especially if it turns to blow East, which is likely. And if we turn back to the Stepstones, the Lord of the Waters will be glad to receive us. We have little choice." 

Arya chewed her lip and said nothing more, but went to tell Jaqen and Corlio what she'd learnt. They had been watching the stormclouds from the prow and had consulted some of the crew who were at work nearby. While neither appeared to relish the prospect of a storm at sea, they were sanguine.

"The crew have great faith in their captain. They are confident he will sail this ship to Lys safely and speedily." Corlio assured her.

Jaqen slid his arm about Arya's waist and murmured into her hair. "Lovely girl, it is out of our hands. But if the captain is as skilled as they say, there is little to fear."

The helmsmen at the tiller had been replaced by fresh crew when the dawn came but Wahlo continued to oversee the ship and issue orders in his deep, carrying voice. The Last Lament was moving forward at an incredible speed and as the wind plastered her hair back from her face, Arya thought this must be what it is like to fly. She began to feel more optimistic.

It was noon before Wahlo announced that he needed rest. As he lowered his far-eye, he stifled a groan and announced to his nephew.

"Xaq. My back is rigid like ropes lashed to a barrel and the pain is starting. I will sleep now. Continue our bearing to Lys and take sails down only if you must. We will need our best speed to get past this coming storm."

He glanced over at Maester Noell, who had been anxiously scrutinising the sea behind them for any sign of Queen Cersei.

"Good Maester, come. I have need of you."

Turning back to his nephew, he instructed him to fetch him when the rain began to fall, and then he disappeared with the Maester into his quarters.

Two hours later, the wind had picked up considerably and Xaq had been forced to have some of the sails taken down. As the storm loomed, the sky had darkened into an oppressive grey, and the air felt crackly and threatening. As Arya stood with Corlio and Jaqen, she couldn't shake her sense of foreboding.

Corlio looked grimly at the clouds. His earlier optimism has faltered a little and when he spoke, his words were whipped away by the wind. He tried again, this time louder.

"Now is the time to drink Tyroshi brandy and pray to your Gods."

Arya raised her face to the sky above and felt warm raindrops on her skin for the first time. She turned to watch Xaq, who was talking to the seamen at the tiller nearby. When he felt the rain, he looked relieved and called the boy. 

"Fetch Captain Wahlo, if you please, Laro."

The lad took off at a run, weaving between the busy crew in the direction of the Captain's quarters. Before long, he returned alone and distressed.

The wind tugged his tunic as he shouted up into Xaq's face. "It's the captain. Captain Wahlo. Please come."

Xaq stared down at the boy in confusion. "What are you saying?"

''The Captain. I can't wake him. Nor the Maester."

Jaqen darted a quick look at Arya and then at Corlio, and said "Let us go and see what this boy reports."

The three walked swiftly to the Captains quarters with the boy and Xaq hard on their heels.

Pushing open the door, they found the room quiet. A lamp hung from the ceiling and as it swayed back and forth with the rolling of the ship, it illuminated a spacious cabin with fine furnishings. A polished desk stood before a wide window at the rear, and a neat pile of books and maps sat on top of it. A long table and chairs in a polished dark wood occupied the centre of the room and two high-backed easy chairs stood to the right. To the left, a rich Lysene tapestry was hung across an alcove to curtain off the captain's sleeping quarters. It had been pulled only half-way across and they could see luxurious white sheets and a brightly woven blanket tucked neatly around a still figure. 

Laro pointed helplessly at the bed. Xaq seemed too bewildered to object when Corlio strode forward and yanked the curtain to the side to reveal the captain, who lay unconscious and so unmoving that he might have been carved from stone. His hands lay open atop the blanket and they were blue and mottled, while a sheen of cold sweat made his face glisten in the lamplight. His deepset eyes were closed and his breath rasped faintly from between grey-tinged lips.

Corlio leant over him and spoke into the captain's face in a low, urgent voice. 

"Captain Wahlo? Captain!"

Wahlo lay like a dead man.

Corlio gripped his shoulders and shook him gently, before looking back at the others in alarm.

"By the Child, this is not good." he exclaimed. "What is wrong with him?"

Xaq had been rooted to the spot but suddenly he bounded forward. Shoving Corlio aside, he bellowed into the captain's face, shaking him roughly. 

"Uncle! Wake! Please, Uncle!"

At this, Wahlo's head lolled frighteningly and some pink foamy spittle ran from the corner of his mouth. 

Laro gasped and Arya and Corlio exchanged a shocked look.

"He is sick." exclaimed Xaq in despair. 

Jaqen spoke into the silence. "He has been given milk of the poppy."

Corlio, Arya, Xaq, and the boy turned to look at him. Jaqen stood over Maester Noell, who was slumped in one of the high-backed chairs, snoring gently. Jaqen held up a small glass bottle.  

Xaq stared for a second, then leapt across the room to seize Master Noell by his robe. Shaking him violently, he bellowed "What have you done?"

The Maester opened his eyes slowly. They were unfocused and his pupils were tiny. He mumbled "What. What?" before closing them again.

Jaqen picked up a flagon of water and dashed it in the Maester's face. 

The Maester's eyes flew open this time and he cried out in shock. Jaqen glanced at Corlio. "Help him stand."

Together Corlio and Xaq hauled him to standing. When his head nodded again, Jaqen stepped back and delivered a stinging slap.

"Nymeria. Get water. Or wine. Any drink." he ordered. Arya brought a cup of wine and poured it between the Maester's lips.

The Maester coughed and spluttered but it did the trick. He looked at them in bewilderment.

"How much of the milk of the poppy did you give the Captain?" Jaqen asked quickly.

"What? The milk? I... I can't remember.... I was afraid of the pirates... the storm... I was afraid."

Jaqen understood. "You took some yourself. And gave a larger quantity to the captain."

Maester Noell nodded dazedly. "I took just a few drops...."

"How much did you give the captain?"

Noell frowned. "I... I don't recall.. it was.. it was enough to stop his pain."

"How long ago? It is two hours since you left the deck."

Noell began to look perplexed. "I gave it to him... as soon as we came to his quarters. Why?"

Jaqen looked over at Wahlo as he replied. "You gave him too much. He is poisoned."

Maester Noell followed his gaze and saw Wahlo lying in his bed. The captain looked even worse now. His rasping breath was impossibly slow and his face had greyed. 

"Seven save us." Noell breathed in horror.

"Can't we purge the captain?" demanded Arya.

Jaqen shook his head. "The body absorbs milk of the poppy in less than a half hour. It would do nothing."

He turned to Noell. "Have you Shade of the Morning? It might save him."

The Maester shook his head numbly. "No.. it might have helped.. but I do not have it."

Xaq stared at the Maester. The words dragged from his lips. "Will my Uncle die?"

Noell seemed unable to take his eyes away from the captain.

Jaqen answered for him. "Mayhaps."

A lie, thought Arya. Jaqen was being gentle. The captain was almost dead now. She was reminded of her time as an acolyte when she'd checked the alcoves in the House each day for corpses. She had always marvelled that their chalky, still faces had once laughed and cried and been alive, and looking at Wahlo now, she had that same feeling. It was hard to believe that this grey statue was the same great man who had commanded the crew only two hours earlier.

Xaq staggered backwards and sank down on Wahlo's bed. He stared helplessly into his Uncle's face.

The Maester looked about to collapse but Corlio held him upright. He began to babble.

"By the Seven... it is not my fault. His pain, it was the worst yet...I have been treating him since I came aboard. He had taken the milk for years. He needed it. I had to give him more than I would usually - he was so accustomed to it, the usual dose did not help his pain. I remember now. Yes, I gave him his usual dose but he complained it did not help and he was angry with me. I gave him more, and then... perhaps, another dose. I did only as he bade me! It is not my fault!"

"What sort of fucking Maester are you?" exclaimed Arya. "I never knew any that would be so reckless with milk of the poppy. And you took it yourself!"

"Oh, I was afraid! The pirates. I will die at sea, this I know. I have always known it. Oh, Seven save me."

Noell's voice dropped to an anguished whisper. "And... oh.. forgive me.... I must say it... I am.. I am no Maester."

At this confession, Noell began to sob. He clutched at Corlio who shrugged him away with a hard look as Arya stared at him in disbelief.

Noell blundered on. "I was made leave the Citadel before I got my first link. I stole the robe when I left and my... my chain was forged by a smith in the Riverlands. I needed to buy the tinctures...the powders... And merchants and mages will sell to a Maester before they'll even look at a common man.... Oh, Seven forgive me!"

"Did Captain Wahlo know this?" demanded Arya.

Tears ran down his cheeks. "No.. no. But he was always pleased with me because I treated his pain so well. I always did it perfectly. Until today. Oh! I should not have taken it myself, but I was so frightened... the pirates."

Arya gazed at him incredulously, then muttered a curse and turned to Jaqen. "What can be done for the Captain?"

Jaqen answered simply. "Sit with him. Pray for him. Talk to him of happier times."

Xaq began to weep quietly.

Jaqen continued but now he was addressing only Xaq. "And then captain this ship to Lys."

Chapter Text

Even as the wind wailed outside, within the walls of the Captain's quarters it was a different world. The ship rose, fell, pitched, and swayed as waves rolled against its hull and the rain drummed the deck like a clog dancer at a wedding but in that fine room, it was hushed save for Xaq's desolate whispers. 

Jaqen had sent Laro to find the captain of the Red Archers. Tall Moajja had returned with him and she stood over Xaq like a sorrowful angel, her hand on his shoulder as his tears fell onto the bed sheets.

Arya, Jaqen, and Corlio then withdrew from the cabin, taking Noell with them to spare Xaq the sight of his Uncle's killer.

The wind buffeted them as they emerged onto the quarter deck. Night had fallen but it had long been dark thanks to the black clouds that loomed over Last Lament like angry Gods. Arya's eyes adjusted to the endless grey-black around them - but for the rain, she'd have been able to see almost as far as the main deck and above it, the white sails floating like pale ghosts. Noell's protestations had been quickly and expertly silenced and now, as the rain soaked into him, he had the look of a man upon whom the axe was about to fall. Arya, Jaqen, and Corlio propped him up against the exterior wall of the cabin, drew their hoods over their heads to try to stave off the weather, and waited.

Word of the captain's poisoning spread quickly among the crew. The rest of the archers arrived in a group to stand outside the door of the Captain's quarters. They stood tall despite the rain and wind, their bodies moving gracefully to accommodate the rise and fall of the deck. Some were disbelieving, some wept, but most were angry, and Noell cringed before lingering gazes that were heavy with the promise of vengeance. It was clear that only respect for their dying captain prevented them from hurling him overboard there and then. Most of the remaining crew could not leave their posts but those that could joined the archers, and began clamouring to know if the rumour was true.

Arya was relieved when the Pentoshi, Gurro, materialised at her side and spoke in a low tone, his wrinkled brow even more furrowed than usual. 

"Tell me what has happened, lady. I'll take care of the crew."

Upon hearing of the events in the Captain's quarters, he bowed his head for a moment. "Captain Wahlo was the best seaman on this ship, may his spirit soon be at peace in the salt and sky."

He threw a cold look at Noell.

"Best place for the Maester is the brig. For his own safety. There's many might like the idea of giving him to the sea - and that is likely what will happen - but Captain Wahlo would have wanted it done right."

Noell uttered a loud cry, which Gurro ignored. He beckoned to a big man called Piley and instructed him to lock Noell in the brig down in the depths of the ship. 

As the rain beat down around them, Gurro raised his voice over the wind and addressed the crew that stood before him.

"Friends, my heart wishes I could tell you otherwise but what you have heard is the truth. Captain Wahlo is dying and it seems that he cannot be saved. Xaq and Moajja sit with him."

The crew erupted. One man's voice cut through the rest.  

"What has killed our captain?"

"A grievous accident. The Maester is in the brig until we learn more."

More shouting followed, until one man bellowed.

"We are sailing a storm without a captain. I tell you all to start praying for we'll be feeding the crabs before the day is done."

Gurro replied shortly. "We have a captain. Captain Xaq. He is Captain Wahlo's choice."

There was a hush and the assembled crew exchanged ominous looks.  

Gurro affected not to notice. "If we are to weather this storm, we must work as one to sail this ship to Lys. I will remain at the tiller until the captain is ready. Now fellows, return to your duties. Let us get this ship to harbour."

The crew saw the sense in what he was saying but their discomfort was evident as they returned to their positions. The Summer Isles archers remained and they stood like stone towers until Moajja appeared at the door of the Captain's quarters. 

"Captain Wahlo is dead." she said simply.

Beckoning to some of the archers, she added. "We will prepare him as is our custom, and will celebrate his life when the storm passes."

As the door closed behind them, Corlio narrowed his eyes and peered out over the sea.

"The crew mislike this new captain. Let us hope that he is more skilled than they believe."

Arya hoped so too. Jaqen said nothing.

Arya, Jaqen, and Corlio huddled in the lee of the Captain's quarters but in truth, there was no shelter from the wet anywhere on deck. The planks underfoot were slippery and as the ship lurched and tilted, they were thankful of the good handholds provided by the swan ship's elaborate carvings. Here, they had a good view of the tiller and were out of the way of the crew. Despite the rain that fell like a hail of arrows, not one of them entertained the idea of going below just yet. It would be dry there but they each were determined to see how the new captain would handle the ship in the difficult conditions that threatened. 

When Xaq emerged from the Captains quarters, he paused for a moment and looked out over the ship. He wore his Uncle's feather cloak, which added a somewhat regal air but was nonetheless a little long for him. For the first time, thunder rumbled distantly.

Gurro was overseeing the helmsmen. As Xaq approached the tiller, Gurro bowed and called over the howling of the wind.

"My condolences, Captain Xaq. Captain Wahlo was a good and true man, and we will not see his like again."

Xaq shouted back. "I thank you, Gurro. But why so few sails? We continue South, surely?"

"South East as best we can, Captain. It's not as fast as we'd like but we are crossing the wind at present in a direct bearing for Lys."

"My Uncle ordered that the Last Lament sail with all possible speed. We will steer South for now and hoist sail to travel fast with this good wind. In an hour or two, we can bear East to reach Lys."

Gurro gave him a careful look. "But to sail South is to sail into the heart of the storm."

He took a step closer to Xaq to make sure his words were heard.

"Captain, I have been at sea since I was a boy." He thrust his arm out and tapped the inside of his wrist. "It's salt water, not blood, that runs through these veins. And I tell you this. When a low North wind and a high Southern storm meet here in the heat of the Summer Sea, there's no ship in the world that can assume safe passage."

A flash of annoyance passed over Xaq's face.

"Gurro, Last Lament is a swan ship, not one of your delicate Essossi cogs. Storms and winds are what this ship was built for. We sail South." 

Gurro tried once more. "And if this wind takes us beyond Lys? We will be hard-pressed to tack North or North-East if we end up caught by the Serpent."

Xaq shook his head. "That will not happen.", he assured him. "Let us harness the wind to reach harbour as quickly as we can."

His attention was then caught by the boy Laro who darted past.

"Perhaps the boy should go to the Crow's Nest before dawn breaks and alert us to first sight of Lys."

"Captain.." Gurro protested. "He will never make it up there even at the storm's edge. With the pitching of the ship, he'll be dashed onto the deck or flung into the water. Or worse."

It was as if the Gods agreed, for the darkness of the sky was broken by a sheet of light, and the grey sea and clouds flashed silver for a moment.

Xaq hesitated for a moment and then nodded curtly.

"I will send him up there after the storm abates."

He shouted to the helmsmen. "Steer South with the wind at our back. Gurro, instruct the crew to raise more sail."

"But.."

"Gurro, I am the captain of this ship. Return to your duties, I beg you."

Gurro looked at him for a long moment, before complying. 

"Yes, Captain."

Moajja appeared and joined the captain at the helm. She nodded approvingly at him.

Arya was shocked at Xaq's new manner. Who even was this new captain? The louche and even a little obsequious Xaq she had observed on the previous days had gone it seemed, replaced by a man whose arrogant air certainly held authority but would likely win him even fewer friends than before. 

"Whatever has got into Xaq?" she wondered.

Jaqen gazed at Moajja who stood at Xaq's side "It seems likely that the captain of the red archers has exercised some influence over him. Mayhaps she has a notion of what a Summer Isles captain must be and has instructed him to act thus. It is certainly a departure from his previous manner."

Corlio nodded. A brief grin touched his lips as he raised his hand to shield his eyes from the rain. "Who can blame the man? If I were in his shoes, I would obey also and willingly."

Arya rolled her eyes. Corlio's admiration for Moajja was no secret.

She wondered at the wisdom of Xaq sailing South, never mind his orders to raise more sail in a storm. Gurro had not liked it and she'd value his experience over Xaq's new title any day.

As Gurro made his way towards the main deck, his body leaning into the wind, Arya ran forward to catch up with him. 

"Will you do as he orders?" she asked him breathlessly as her hair blew around her face.

When he answered, it seemed that he was almost talking to himself. "The crew must obey the captain's command. The last thing we want now is a mutiny."

He seemed to notice Arya then and spoke more reassuringly. "Captain Xaq has the right of it, lady. We will travel faster if we sail with the wind. Pray though that we can sail East before these winds decide to dance. When a Northern gentleman meets a Southron lady, they dance and the sea dances with them."

"Oh." said Arya. She wasn't reassured at all. "Gurro, what is the Serpent?"

He looked at her keenly. "You've good ears, if you don't mind my saying so. The Serpent is a great sea current that runs south of Lys towards Naath and the Basilisks. Once a ship enters the Serpent, little can tear it free from its coils. Even a swan ship in full sail will be challenged although will likely break free if the wind is steady. Smaller vessels however, become its prisoner and must to ride it to Naath. "

As Arya opened her mouth to continue her questions, he held his hand up to cut her off. "Lady, forgive me but I must attend to my duties. Best thing for you to do is to go below where you'll be dry at least. You're wetter than a merling."

She watched as he vanished into the rain.

The crew had also not liked the captain's orders and many had objected angrily. However, Gurro commanded much respect among the crew and when he'd urged them to comply, they had reluctantly hauled up the sails, which were now so filled with wind, they looked about to burst. The ship leapt across the waves as lightning shivered in sheets that lit up the sky. The waves were higher now and the troughs between them were chasms in the darkness.

Corlio eventually announced he was tired of being sodden through to his small clothes, and disappeared below. Seeing that Arya was determined to stay on deck, a Summer Islander handed her a portion of old sailcloth that had been waxed. She and Jaqen wedged themselves into a nook between the Captain's quarters and the bulwark, and wrapped it around themselves, peering out at the helmsmen and captain as they strained against the tiller to keep the swan ship flying South. 

The movement of the ship was at times jarring and saltwater washed freely across the deck but it was sheltered underneath the sailcloth and Arya was huddled against Jaqen's warm body. She had almost drowsed when a shout cut through her, and her eyes flew open in time to see white lightning illuminate an immense wall of water that towered over the bow of the ship.

Jaqen braced himself and Arya thought her bones would crack as he crushed her against the bulwark. Then the sea was upon them.

As water filled her mouth, she couldn't breathe and and she tried to push Jaqen off her but he wouldn't budge and there was water in her lungs and nose and she fought him but it was useless. And then the water was gone and Jaqen was shaking her as she coughed and coughed. 

When her vision cleared, the lightning flashed again and she saw the damage with an awful clarity. As water rushed through the scuppers to spill back into the sea, ragged-looking lines hung from the masts in tangles, and the sails looked wrong. Nearby, four seamen desperately hauled a rope that strained over the bulwark and into the water. One man was still at the tiller, the rest were - where?  Xaq had been crushed against the bulwark and now clambered dazedly to his feet. The magnificent feathered cloak had been torn off his shoulders.

More men appeared through the rain and threw themselves onto the rope with the others. They were shouting names. Others staggered to the rail and called into the dark waters that raged around them.

Quaharo! Gurro! Ben! Denyo! Chussy! 

The men hauled on the rope until the muscles on their arms stood out like bands and their bodies were almost flat against the slick deck. But it was a losing battle. The sea sucked away at the rope and they began sliding inexorably towards the bulwark as the ship began to list. Then one produced a knife and with grim resolve, he sawed through the rope and the men all fell to the deck and watched despairingly as the rope slipped away into the sea. Another wave hit the Last Lament and then there was a splintering crash and two or three figures were flung across the main deck to the rail. 

Jaqen was still braced in their corner, and had pulled Arya between his legs where he could better keep hold of her. She leant back against him for a moment. "Did they say Gurro?"

"A man thinks yes." he admitted. "But the wind is loud. Possibly it was another name."

Arya nodded back bleakly. But it was Gurro. She knew it. After a lifetime at sea, the Merling King had come for him at last.

In front of them, the long arm of the tiller swung back and forth wildly as the remaining helmsman hung on. He shouted for help and more men scrambled over to put their shoulder to it. By the time they had steadied it, Xaq had joined them. Over the roaring of the sea and wind, he bellowed an order to drop anchor and strike all canvas.

The lines whipped and the wind punched the sails, which groaned and snapped wildly as the crew fought to lower them. Some, they managed to haul down but some tore and broke free before they could manage it, and as the canvases spiralled away into the darkness, the crew's frenzied shouts were snatched away by the wind too. The air whirled around them and Arya could no longer tell its direction. It seemed to come from everywhere. The winds were dancing and there was nothing to be done now but try to survive it.

The boy Laro appeared on the forecastle and stumbled towards where Xaq stood, braced against the tiller with the helmsmen. Laro was less than twelve years old and was built like a reed, and when the wind barrelled across the deck in a ferocious gust, Xaq shouted in alarm "Hold fast, Laro!" but the boy didn't hear. The gale lifted him clean off his feet and swept him, limbs flailing, across the deck to where Arya and Jaqen had wedged themselves. Before he slammed into the bulwark, Jaqen caught his arm and hauled him into their corner.

The panicked boy struggled to get free but Arya shook him.

"Stop it, you stupid. You're safer here or below. You're too small. This wind will blow you overboard if you run around the deck like that."

A tall Southern Islander fought his way over, his long robe made alive by the gusts. He yelled to the boy to take shelter inside the Captain's Quarters but Laro shook his head firmly. Nothing could induce him to spend the storm with dead Captain Wahlo. He shouted back that he would stay under the canvas with the passengers, and the three of them didn't move from their spot until the storm finally abated more than a day later.

When, at last, the clouds broke to reveal the morning sun in the sky, the exhausted crew and passengers surveyed the ship in a stunned silence. Last Lament was a broken thing that resembled more a wooden skeleton than a swan. The magnificent main mast that had once towered above the deck had been broken off three quarters of the way up, and the broken end trailed behind them in the water amid a mess of ropes. Lines hung uselessly from the other fractured masts. The only sails remaining were those that the crew had succeeded in hauling down, and they could not be raised until the masts were repaired. The hold was full of water and they had lost sixteen to the sea. 

The first thing that Xaq did was to send the boy to the crows nest. The entire crew and passengers stood gazing up at him as they awaited his report. He carried with him the far-eye and the sun caught it as he scrutinised the horizon in every direction. When he eventually called down to say there was no land in sight, the crew did not react. They had been expecting it.

Last Lament was in the middle of the sea and they had to assume that the ship had dragged its anchor in the storm. But with no landmarks visible, how far they'd gone and in what direction was anyone's guess. Only one thing was certain. This broken wreck would not be sailing to Lys.

The sea around them was sinuous, smooth, and fast-moving. The Serpent had them.

Chapter Text

The crew watched with grim, set faces as the captain's body slid into the water.

In the tradition of the Summer Isles, his life would have been honoured with drink, love, and laughter but on the Last Lament, the mood of the crew was solemn. Wahlo was just the first. Four more had to be given to the sea and soon, and even the archers could not muster the celebratory mood that a burial required. The crew had argued briefly about how to dispose of the rest of the dead. Some feared that putting five bodies in the sea at once would draw a kraken but the heat of the sun here in the Summer Sea soon put an end to that discussion - nobody wanted to share what was left of the ship with rotting corpses. As the water closed over each of their former crewmates, the crew murmured prayers in their five different tongues and paid tribute to all those that had been lost.

Xonyo had been crushed to death when the top of the main mast was broken off, crashing onto deck where he was braced, hauling on a line. He joined his fellow Summer Islanders Quaharo, Jaxos Xo, Bajjo, and Usabar, all of whom had been gulped down in the night by the raging sea.

Gurro, Chussy, and Denyo had just taken over the tiller with Ben, a Westerosi, when the big wave came. They now supped with the Merling King below the warm water, and would doubtless welcome their fellow Essosmen whose wrapped bodies sank down to meet them this day. Ramberro, Norro, and Kas.

The other Westerosi losses were named Skinner, Alfred, Jem and Conroy, but they had been pulled into the water in the night when the sails tore free. May they sail to a fair sweet land of light and honey.

Seventeen lives lost, and more would be joining them before long. Two Westerosi were below deck, one with a broken back and the other had a foot-long splinter in his gut and his bowels leaked out through the hole in his belly. After some debate, the crew removed Noell from the brig and locked him in the cabin with the dying men with instructions to tend to them. The room stank and it didn't matter to the crew whether he was a true or false Maester, just that he would spare them from having to be there. For the first few hours, Noell sat miserably at the dying men's bedsides and twitched in horror whenever they screamed in their agony. He'd have willingly administered milk of the poppy, despite his experience with Captain Wahlo, but when he asked for the casket of the potions and tinctures he had collected on his travels, he was informed brusquely that it had disappeared in the storm. 

Seventeen lives lost, leaving fifty-three mouths to feed. The Serpent would take them to Naath in perhaps a moon.The ship had taken on food and water to feed seventy people for two weeks. Some of it had been spoiled or lost in the storm, and the only livestock, this being a pretty white goat, had last been seen careering about the deck in a panic before a wave washed her overboard. But it might have been worse. Most ships sailing from Tyrosh to Lys carried basic food and water enough for seven days, and for this, they must thank the late Captain Wahlo for his generosity, experience, and appetite. Still, they'd have to ration what they had.

The first of Noell's charges died the next day, but the man with the broken back took four more days to draw his last breath. Noell had attended the sick men assiduously and was often heard praying over them. His efforts seemed to give the men some relief as their screams subsided. This had won grudging approval from the Westerosi members of the crew who preferred to see their fellow countrymen dying peacefully.

Noell had no hope of gaining favour with the Summer Islanders though. They remained bitter over the death of their captain and blamed Noell for the subsequent wrecking of the ship and the fact they were now bound for Naath. Naath was a land that was protected by Butterfly spirits who delivered a fever deadly to anyone that had not been born there. Even those for whom death held no fear did not want to spend their final moments sweating blood as the flesh sloughed from their bones.

However, they saw that giving him to the sea at this moment was perhaps unwise. The night before, everyone on board had been woken by a strange jolt that had shuddered through the ship's timbers. They'd thought Last Lament had gone aground somehow, but when they'd measured the depth on a line, it had proved so deep that the line had not reached the seabed. Talk of krakens or leviathans began. It was decided that, for now, Noell would remain locked in the cabin in which he'd cared for the dead men.

Since the storm, the crew had taken a collective approach to decision-making and Xaq had been reduced to being captain in name only. Had he allowed Gurro to command the ship upon the death of Wahlo, they likely be in Lys harbour now, enjoying the pillowhouses and other delights that the island was known for. Instead, they were being sucked through an endless sea to Naath.

During the first days in the grip of the Serpent, they had raised as many of their patched and ragged sails as they could in an effort to escape its coils, but the air has been still since the storm and were it not for the current, they would be becalmed. It was futile too to try to pull the ship from the current with rowboats. Swan ships carried only four rowboats and anyhow, two had been lost in the storm. It would be like kittens trying to haul an anchor. Xaq spent most of his time in his quarters with a portion of the Summer Islanders who seemed willing to overlook his failures, and when he did emerge, he spent his time standing alone at the prow and scanning the horizon through his far-eye. 

The rest of the crew and passengers of the Last Lament worked together to repair the ship as best they could. Frayed ropes were twisted together to make new lines, split sails sewn up, tarred rags were hammered into cracks to stop up leaks, splintered wood reworked and affixed to broken masts, and buckets of water were passed from person to person from the hold up to the deck whereupon it was poured into the sea. Arya and the boy Laro had become fast friends and they worked together to climb the masts and mend the lines that hung from booms high above the deck. Jaqen and Corlio slotted into whatever task was needed and proved quick and willing workers.

While not without its unhappy moments, the next ten days kept the crew busy and a resigned camaraderie existed among them. The problems began when the ship had been repaired as much as was possible and the only ongoing tasks were ship's maintenance, manning what little sail they had, and standing at the tiller to keep the nose of the ship in line with the current.

At first, all had been glad of the respite. Their bruises and blisters were allowed to heal and they'd spent most of their time japing and playing card games. But then time began to drag until every day seemed an eternity. The sun beat down on them when they were on deck and the carefully rationed food and water began to leave them wanting. Tempers frayed and a wariness set in as they waited for the first fight to break out.

Today, even Corlio - who was generally full of reckless humour - was showing his irritation. Nobody could accuse him of being a patient man and the last week had driven him half demented. He'd told every story in his arsenal, paced the decks relentlessly, gambled away half his coin, and made many attempts to convince Moajja to take him as a lover, declaring "I am hopeful that boredom will drive Moajja into my arms." In a ploy to impress her, he'd wagered one of the gold bands on his arm and had lost it to a Summer Islander called Baraq Xo.

Now he wanted it back and had challenged Baraq Xo and some of the red archers to a card game he'd learnt from a Summer Isles sellsword called Bill Bones. They now sat in the shade of a sail on the forecastle and Corlio's frustrated exclamations suggested the game was once again not going his way.

Arya and Jaqen sat nearby with their backs against a knotty coil of rope on the shaded side of the ship, a gentle breeze rippling the mended sail above. 

"At least he has something to occupy himself with." remarked Arya. "We could all use a break from his constant complaining."

Arya was idly whittling a shard of wood with her knife and trying to stay alert. She was hot and thirsty. Her Northern blood was meant for cold climes and here in the Summer Sea, the air was stifling.   It was cooler down in their cabin, but even Jaqen's company did not prevent the time dragging down there. At least on deck, they had hope of sighting a ship or sea creature or oddly-shaped cloud - she'd welcome anything to break the monotony.

As for Jaqen, the heat in the air did not bother him at all and he found plenty to divert him as he discreetly watched the crew.

Xaq was in his quarters with some of the Summer Isles crew, and the main deck was littered with mostly Westerosi and Essos men. Most of the Essossi were older seamen that knew how to stay busy on a long voyage and like Arya, were occupied whittling wood or braiding rope or catching fish.  The Westerosi on this ship however seemed a different breed from most of the Western seamen he'd known in the past. He thought them the worst of the crew and suspected that Wahlo had been forced to recruit from a low tavern in some Westerosi port. With just a couple of exceptions, they were all lazy, disagreeable, and bigoted.  Their down time was spent feeding and watering the superstitions and resentments that were their second nature. It was not surprising that much of their rumbling animosity was directed at Xaq and his small band of loyal Summer Islanders. The archers were not their favourites either. Most of the Westerosi were sheep that echoed the opinions of the louder crew members, but a handful were leaders and it was these men that would determine whether the rest of their voyage would be spent peacefully. 

Aside from one Naathi - the only person on board that did not mind that they were now bound for Naath - the rest of the crew were from the Basilisk Isles. One had struck up a conversation with them on the previous day, and it had taken an unexpected turn that had left Jaqen disturbed and thoughtful.

When the man had introduced himself as Sirtumco, some nearby Westerosi sailors laughed and bowed. Sirtumco cast them an angry look.

"Those dogs. They know not what it is to have honour."

He turned back to Arya and Jaqen.

"I was dubbed by Ser Barristan when I served Queen Daenerys in Meereen."

Arya had stared. "Ser Barristan?"

"Ser Barristan Selmy of Westeros. A man from your own land, my lady."

Arya looked incredulous. "Ser Barristan Selmy? Of the Kingsguard? You don't mean Barristan The Bold?"

The Basilisk man nodded.

Arya continued disbelievingly. "Ser Barristan Selmy who died in Meereen?"

Jaqen grinned, amused by Arya's unstinting skepticism. He had, of course, heard of this famous knight of Westeros, but had known nothing of his fate.

Sirtumco nodded. "Ser Barristan. He was of great age, white-haired and wise. But so strong, so skilled, that it took ten men to kill him. He died a warrior, as he had lived."

Arya was dumbfounded. "And he made you a knight?" Realisation dawned. "You're Ser Tumco. Not Sirtumco."

The man bowed.

"And you serve Queen Daenerys? But, what are you doing on this ship?" She reflected for a moment.  "I never met a knight that was a sailor."

"When Queen Daenerys came to Meereen, I was a slave, like so many in the cities of Slaver's Bay. The Queen gave us our freedom." He smiled briefly. "I was young but Ser Barristan thought me skilful with a sword. I and some others were invited to the Queen's pyramid where he trained us in the knightly skills. But I serve her Grace no longer."

He paused. "When the Queen left Meereen, she left us to enforce her law. But it was impossible - there were too few of us and the slavemasters were not vanquished, only waiting for their chance. They were too wealthy, too powerful, and we could not stem the tide when they sought to return slavery to the city. Meereen reembraced slavery quietly and quickly. At first, the masters feared to anger the Queen and did not enslave those she had freed. I took to the fighting pits for twelve moons to earn my food and they called me the Basilisk Knight. But then, when the Queen did not return, the slavers grew emboldened and began to cast even freedmen into bondage once more. That was when I left. Since that day, I have been sellsword and sellsail but I have never returned to Slaver's Bay. And now, I will end my days as an honest sailor on this wrecked swan ship, likely dying of the butterfly sickness.

Jaqen tilted his head. "Why did you not seek audience with the Queen in Kings Landing and return to her service?"

Ser Tumco looked uncomfortable. "I was angry for many years, my friend. I believed the Queen should have stayed to protect Meereen. Without her rule and without her dragons, the slavemasters rose up and our moment of freedom was but a taste."

He seemed lost in thought for a moment, before he continued.

"I made my peace with it in time, but by then, the Queen had the Iron Throne and all the knights in Westeros. I knew she would not have need of a half-trained Basilisk Knight."

He flashed a smile. "I have also found Westeros to be very cold so it was likely for the best."

Arya smiled back at him but Jaqen did not.

When Ser Tumco walked away, Jaqen watched him go and he pondered on what he had learnt. To deliver unto a slave nation the sweetness of freedom - and then sit back and do nothing as it was taken away?  This Queen Daenerys was... what? Callous? Fickle? Thoughtless? Cruel? He pictured this silver queen atop the Iron Throne, laughing merrily with her court, as slavery crept back into Meereen like a sickness. She had been intent only on regaining the throne of her forefathers - the plight of the people she had left in her wake mattered nothing. 

Arya muttered a curse as her blade caught a knot in the wood shard she was working on. Jaqen reflected that, if they survived this wreck, they would not become rich on the back of her woodcarving skills.  Despite their dire situation, he felt strangely unconcerned about their fate - almost as if he had regained some of his Facelessness. He supposed his efforts at burying his fear had been successful, but he was still a Someone, this he knew. His passion for Arya was undiminished and at night he still dreamt of fire and smoke.  

Down on the main deck, his attention was drawn to one mountainous Westerosi in particular whose name, he recalled, was Piley. This man was physically imposing and oft muttered to other Westerosi when he thought himself unobserved. Before the storm, he had been the only seaman who had not shown respect for Captain Wahlo, having thrice challenged him on matters of the sails. Wahlo had cast a black look at him but had not thrown him below. A pity, thought Jaqen. It was clear to him that the man Piley required a firm hand. He would be first to make trouble. Piley had been the man assigned to guard Noell, and Jaqen had noticed that he was a lax jailer, sometimes absent as was the case now, and sometimes slouching outside the cabin with the door ajar so that he and Noell could while away the hours in conversation.

Later that evening, as Jaqen made his way to join Arya in their cabin, he happened across Piley. The man had been in the false Maester's original cabin and as the ship rolled a little in the Serpent's embrace, the cabin door had swung open to reveal Piley on his hands and knees peering below the bunk. Jaqen said nothing but slipped into a doorway further along to wait until Piley emerged. He followed on silent feet as Piley lumbered down to where Noell was imprisoned. Upon reaching the door of Noell's cabin, Piley produced a bunch of keys, turned one in the lock, and pushed the door open. Jaqen cocked his head to listen. Noell appeared and the two conferred in low voices. The false Maester could not be heard but Piley was less cautious.

"I told you. It's gone. Someone took it or the sea moved it when it rushed into the hold."

Noell murmured something.

Piley replied "Mayhaps. If it's on this ship, I'll find it."

Jaqen smiled faintly to himself.

Later that night when he and Arya had retired to their cabin, he'd told her what he'd seen. She asked him what he thought they were up to.

"A man knows."

Arya frowned. "What?"

"This Piley seeks the false Maester's box of tinctures and powders."

Arya raised her eyebrows. "Oh. Well, I'm surprised he hasn't found it - there's not many places to put a box in a cabin."

Jaqen replied. "The box is not in the false Maester's cabin."

At Arya's enquiring look, he added. "The box is in the sea. The contents are here."

He raised his roughspun shirt to reveal a slim leather purse strapped against the skin of his lean waist.

Arya laughed.

Jaqen allowed himself a small smile. "A man pondered and decided that the contents of the false Maesters's box might prove a dangerous curiosity to bored seamen."

"So, what's in there?"

Jaqen unstrapped the purse and carefully deposited the contents on the bed. There were three glass bottles, a number of folded fabric sachets, and a small flat metal box.

He held up a small glass bottle. It was almost empty. "Here, milk of the poppy. A man gave a little to the two men in the false Maester's care so there is little left."

Arya threw him a look but didn't bother to ask how he'd managed that.

He gathered the other bottles and sachets together in a heap. "These powders and tinctures are as false as the Maester. A girl would be as well to drink a mouthful of water as take any of these, for all the good that is in them. A man supposes that Noell is an unscrupulous salesman that promises these will heal the afflicted. And mayhaps they work occasionally. Sometimes it takes only belief to heal."

"He's a liar, that's for sure." Arya agreed.

Jaqen held up the metal box and turned it in his fingers. "And this? This is something entirely different."

The box was of solid workmanship and appeared to be made of steel. It was secured by two screws that Jaqen twisted carefully, first one, then the other. Then he gently eased open the lid and leant across to show Arya. Inside the box, nestled in a soft pad of red velvet, were 3 small, dark purple crystals.

Arya stared down at them.

"Is that...?"

Jaqen continued mildly. "The Strangler? Yes, beloved. It is interesting, yes? How came this charlatan to have in his possession this rare, costly, and deadly poison." 

Arya thought for a moment. "He was sailing to Lys. That's where they make it. Do you think he meant to get more?"

"Why can say? The false Maester had very little coin in his cabin. Certainly not enough to pay for any more."

"Why would he have this poison with him? And he must have known what it was - he kept it separate from the powders and potions, and look how secure the box is!"

Jaqen shrugged. "It is possible. He was at the Citadel and the Maesters know of it, but he was but a novice and his tenure was brief. Mayhaps he acquired it in the box and did not know what he possessed. If he knew what it was, he would be most anxious if he thought it lost and he did not seem concerned when he spoke with Piley. He was only a little angered. Possibly, he wants only to lose his wits to more milk of the poppy. A man believes the false Maester stole it without realising what he had, but it is possible he was given it to sell - or to take a life. Mayhaps we will learn in time what he planned. Certainly, nothing is clear now."

As is often the case, one good thing came of these events. For the next two weeks, Arya had a new thing to watch and it afforded her some much needed entertainment. Piley had announced to anyone in earshot that he had lost a cherished dagger in the storm, and would be scouring the ship to find it if it were still on board. As he hunted through every inch of the Last Lament, growing ever more impatient and frustrated, she smiled to herself and one time, she approached him with a delighted grin, holding aloft one of her own daggers. "I found it, Piley!" she exclaimed, and he had curtly thanked her but had told her through gritted teeth that it was not his lost dagger. 

Jaqen played no part in her mischief but he did not object. He too had a new distraction. He had taken to standing at the bulwark on the port side, gazing the horizon.

A light wind had risen from the East, which rocked the ship even as it glided along the Serpent's coils. It left a fine red dust on the patched up sails, giving them a pinkish hue, and it smelt faintly of ash and brimstone.

Chapter Text

Arya found Jaqen on deck, gazing dreamily at the horizon. Sliding up against him, she admired his profile for a moment before leaning over the rail to watch the water glide past. As she followed his gaze, a puzzled look crossed her face. She'd noticed the glow to the East on the previous evening but had assumed it was some effect of the magnificent sunsets that painted the sky and sea here in the Summer Sea. But the sun was high overhead now and the Eastern sky was still orange and strange-looking. She sniffed the air. It left an acrid, burnt taste in her throat.

Gods, could it be a ship ablaze?  They had seen no other vessels since they joined the Serpent. It would be just their luck if the only ship they happened across was a burnt wreck that was more in need of rescue than they were.

She looked again and squinted her eyes. No, not a ship. The glow was too far spread to be the fire from one burning ship.

Was it possible that an entire fleet had been set afire? By whom? Was there another war?

Or perhaps it was land.... land devastated by a vast fire? Was it Naath? What might have happened?

As she stared, a new thought struck her. Her mouth fell open as she turned to face Jaqen.

“Jaqen... what is that.. Gods, is that…?” 

“Old Valyria.” he'd replied, absently. “It must be. This ship is being taken to Naath from beyond Lys, and the Valyrian peninsula is to the East. The Fourteen Flames still burn, by the look of it.”

Arya almost forgot to breathe.

Old Valyria. It was the stuff of legends.

She stared until her eyes ached but there was no sign of land. Just that persistent orange halo blurring where the sea met the sky. To lay eyes on Valyria would be something she would never forget even if she lived as long as Old Nan. She pictured towering, blackened towers above crawling creatures spitting fire. But then she recalled a conversation that Mercy had overheard in the Happy Port in Braavos. A flamboyant Braavosi captain had declared to the other customers that he'd seen Valyria's red shores many times, and all had pronounced him a liar - to lay eyes on Valyria was certain doom, it was known. True enough, she had later met the captain in the House of Black and White, where he had come to seek the gift after taking a dagger to his stomach in a tavern fight. His handsome face had joined the others in the Sanctum.

She regarded Jaqen with interest. “Have you been there?”

“No, Lovely girl. A man knows of it only from the lore of the Order.”

“But you’re a Targaryen. Well, your blood is. Does it mean anything to you? Being this close?”

He shrugged noncommittally. “Blood means nothing to this man."

He paused, and then, making an obvious effort at openness, he continued.

"A man is curious about this infamous Valyria though. It is where the Faceless Men were born. And no Faceless Man has returned there since the Doom took the Valyrians and turned the land into poison and ash.”

Arya became earnest. “Jaqen, they say nobody has ever returned there since the Doom. There are demons and firewyrms, and who knows what else.” 

“If no man has returned, then how is it known that there are demons and firewyrms?”

A young Arya had not paid much attention to her lessons with Septa Mordane but there were a few stories she had heard from her brothers, and one of them was hard to forget.

“Did you never hear of Aerea Targaryen? Robb told me she flew to Valyria on Balerion The Black Dread and when she returned, she was riddled with fiery slugs, and died in agony soon afterwards, eaten up by fire from inside her skin.” For a moment, she could hear Robb's voice as he intoned the words and then Jon's laughter, and her heart beat in her ears. They'd always tried to frighten her but she was never truly scared until the day her father was killed. She missed them. At least Jon was not lost to her. If she could only get to Winterfell...

Jaqen nodded. “Yes, a man would not wish that on anyone. The Valyrian peninsula must indeed be an unpleasant place.” 

He seemed to sense her mood and felt for her hand, giving it that same quick squeeze that she remembered from the battle in Braavos. But his gaze returned to the smoky orange that smudged the Eastern horizon. 

As the day progressed, the Serpent swept the Last Lament further East and the glow over Valyria became oppressive. It had warmed from orange to a dull red, and, when dusk fell and the sky darkened, it took on the hue of a blood bruise.  All on board became silent and uneasy - with one exception. Jaqen stood as before, his gaze fixed on the faraway Valyrian haze. Watching him, Arya felt oddly disturbed. In all the years she had known this man, his devotion to the Many Faced God - and more recently, his devotion to Arya - had consumed him, and he had never shown anything beyond a mild interest in anything else. But now, this fascination with Valyria and all its sinister connotations was worrying.

“Jaqen?” she said.

He turned to look down at her, but his smile faded when he saw her staring.

“What is it, Lovely girl?”

Arya’s face was a mask. “Come with me.”

Jaqen frowned at her strange tone as she seized his hand and pulled him towards the hatch that led to their cabin. Once inside, she pushed him to the polished bronze mirror that was nailed to the plank wall, and grabbed a lamp from its hook. Jaqen watched his reflection as she held the lamp up beside him. He was very still for a second, and then raised his hand to his hair. 

His long, dishevelled hair was no longer the red and white he had known from his youth. The red had gone and, in the mirror, a silver-haired Valyrian gazed back at him. He turned his head slowly to the side. The platinum gave him an unearthly, regal air. 

“We should never have sailed on this ship!” Arya blurted in distress.

Jaqen continued to stare at his reflection as if mesmerised.

Arya grabbed his face and turned it away from the unfamiliar person in the mirror. Tears sprang into her eyes as she saw his confusion. Then he reached up and took her hands. 

“Arya. Stop this.” He looked into her face. 

“Jaqen. It’s that fucking land. It’s done something to you. Gods, this is bad. It's so bad! We have to get away from here. I'll make the crew raise more sail. We.. we might catch a breeze. They'll agree - none of them want to be near Valyria. And... Gods, what is this? How? Your hair. You look...”

He gave her a little shake. “Stop. Yes, a girl can ask the crew to raise more sail if that is her wish. But the colour of a man’s hair does not matter. It is nothing. A man has told a girl of his bloodline. This sorcery is unexpected but it changes nothing.”

“No”, she insisted, “This is bad.”

It frightened her to see him look like this. Like a Valyrian.

Valyrians were overlords, sorcerers, dragonriders. Valyrians meant cruelty, torture, slavery, and oppression. This was not the Jaqen she knew. Of course, his father had been the Mad King - he had told her that day in the House of Black and White, the day he’d confessed that he had lost No One to Arya Stark. But it was one thing knowing ancient history, and quite a different thing to see how Valyria had somehow put its mark on him and claimed him as one of its own.

He seemed to read her thoughts. “Lovely girl. A man is still the same man that he was this morning.”

Arya swallowed. “But..”

Jaqen glanced at the mirror and ran a hand over his face. His hair darkened once more into his customary red and white. 

“Better?” he inquired.

Arya glared furiously. “First of all, you said you couldn’t do that anymore, and no I do not feel better about this.”

Jaqen smiled at her livid tone. “A man did not say he could not change. He said only that the faces are to be used in service to the Many Faced God. Yes, he can still change his face - and hair - if circumstances demand it, but he would not do so frivolously. But he does not want white hair to distress a Lovely girl. And truly, some secrets are best kept from the crew.“

“But what does it mean? That’s what I am worried about.”

“It means nothing. Valyria is a strange land and it has power. A man has felt the land’s power, as he did when he was in Asshai. He does not know if it comes from sorcerers, priests, firewyrms, or from its scorched earth. But this man does not love Valyria. He was a Faceless Man - an order that brought the Doom down upon the Valyrian slavemasters to end their tyranny.”

He gazed at her intently. “This man has worn many faces to serve the God and perhaps is more exposed to this magic than those that have not. White hair means nothing to him.” He gestured to his head. “See? It is gone. A man is simply the companion to a lovely wolf girl and his one desire is to serve her.”

Arya opened her mouth to speak but Jaqen cut her off.

“A girl does not believe him? Come. He will show her.” 

He smiled and pulled Arya to him.

Some time later, Jaqen gazed at the ceiling as Arya slept in his arms. Despite his reassuring act, he was deeply disturbed.

His journey to re-embrace Someone had barely begun, yet every step of the way seemed to hold a new violent onslaught of Self. First Lorath, and now Valyria. Neither of which he had sought out. Whatever the God’s plans were for this man, He was not slow in realising them.

Truly, he had not expected it to be this fast and this hard. He had envisaged a gentle, gradual learning of likes and dislikes as his past and future were slowly excavated, but instead he felt like a man caught in a melee, attacked relentlessly from all directions. Today, for the second time, his ancestry had been flung in his face and he was reeling from the blow. When his eyes had met those of the Valyrian in the mirror, it had shocked him. More so than the day he’d worn his first face and gazed in wonder as its reflection blinked back at him in the pool in the House of Black and White. 

Faceless Men separated themselves from blood, family, and all the trappings of Someone on the day they surrendered themselves to the Many Faced God. He’d been younger than 5 years when he had become an acolyte, but he had not been so young that he didn’t remember the conversations his Masters had had with him about his particular history. Valyrian ancestry wasn’t uncommon among the Faceless - half the world had it running through its veins, and in Lys, Myr, Tyrosh, Pentos, Norvos, Lorath, Qohor, and Volantis, it was a given. But his was King’s blood. Dragon blood. And not only had it had paid for a King’s death, but it was possible his entire life was shaped by prophecy. 

All this he had left behind when he became No One. But now he felt the weight of this Someone for whom the spectre of a Targaryen lineage was trying to resurface. And while Jaqen H’Ghar was still a fledgling Someone,  there were some things he knew of this new person, and one of them was that he did not want Valyria or thrones and dragons. He wanted only to be with Arya and spend his days by her side in peaceful anonymity.

His face darkened as he thought again of the silver haired prince reflected in the polished bronze. Son of a Mad King. A remnant of the Valyrian freehold, from whose wretched burning tunnels the Faceless Men had risen. The Faceless had given the Valyrian overlords the gift but Valyria still exuded a dark power. And it wanted him. Why? And what lived there now? Demons and firewyrms? Or men and dragons?

He closed his eyes and put his questions to Him of Many Faces. The God chose not to answer.

Chapter Text

As dawn broke the next morning, Jaqen stood before the mirror on the wall with a leaden sense of expectation. When he saw that the person gazing back at him was not a silver Valyrian, but a former No-one with auburn hair and a streak of white, he took a steady breath and felt some of his tension dissipate.

Arya waited at the cabin door as he picked up the pink cloak he'd acquired in Tyrosh. When he pulled it over his head to cover his hair in case of further Valyrian influence, she nodded her approval. They left the cabin, picked up their rations of fish, biscuit, and a couple of orange segments, and made their way to the deck where they settled down in their usual spot with their backs resting against the large coil of knotted rope. With the exception of Laro and Corlio, Arya and Jaqen generally kept themselves to themselves. They played cards when crew or archers invited them to do so and saw no harm in showcasing their knife skills in a knife-throwing game, but both knew that it was only a matter of time before the simmering tensions among the hungry, volatile sailors boiled over. When that day came - and it would come soon - it would be wisest to remain neutral as the fragile peace between the factions that had formed within the crew finally shattered. Of the other passengers, Noell was still held below, which was just as well since the sight of him would surely inflame the Summer Islanders. As for Corlio, he had cheerfully ignored the rising tensions on Last Lament and laughed off any attempts to enlist him into one group or the other. He devoted his time to gambling with anyone who’d play and relentlessly pursuing Moajja, insisting that she was beginning to warm to him.

Arya nibbled on her biscuit but Jaqen had no appetite today. A breeze curled around him like a whisper, gentle and salt-sweet, rippling the light fabric of his hood. He allowed his eyes to close. He was tired, and today he welcomed the rest imposed by storm and Serpent. Preoccupied as he had been with thoughts of Valyrian sorcery and the dragonblood inside him, sleep had eluded him until late into the night. When his eyes had eventually become heavy, he'd faded into dreams that had been more exhausting than his waking thoughts.

The spectre of a woman in a shroud of flames as other women shrieked and keened.  Balls of fire with black smoke billowing as his blood flowed like lava through his body. His reflection again in the polished bronze, but this time his face and hair were drenched in red and his heart burned in his chest. Faces came and went - his elderly Master in the House Of Black and White, a white-haired King whose face was twisted in anger, a woman whose face was covered by a mask of scales, a grey man surrounded by dust and water, a silver girl on a silver horse. And Arya, Arya, Arya lying on grass that shone wetly in the moonlight.  

He had woken with his heart hammering.

He opened his eyes a crack and looked to the East. The sun had yet to rise high and the burnished gold-pink of the dawn sky obscured Valyria's orange glow at this time of the day. The benign fascination he'd experienced for the last couple of days had been replaced by an uncomfortable sense of foreboding and many questions.

Should he assume that proximity to Valyria was producing these effects? It seemed an obvious connection but was so entirely unexpected that he could scarce credit it. Whatever it was, it had washed away the mother blood that had marked his hair since childhood, leaving only the platinum colouring of his father until his own skill had masked it once more.

He sighed. His ancestry was something he had never acknowledged but it could be ignored no longer. It seemed that the blood of Old Valyria had been roused and he would have to deal with the consequences. 

He had become almost inured to the fiery visions that visited him one night in six, but last night’s dragon dreams had been particularly violent, vivid, and distressing. Once more he asked himself, was it nearness to Valyria that had produced them? If so, then he hoped fervently such dreams would subside as the Serpent took them away from Valyria's red shores and towards Naath. He'd almost choose butterfly fever over more of these visions. He had read long ago that such dreams were sometimes prophetic and sometimes spoke of the past. Had the burning woman been his mother? The raging King his sire? Of the others, some were not known to him, while others - such as his Master in the House, the one Arya called The Kindly Man, and of course Arya herself -  had been instrumental in shaping the No-one-Someone that was Jaqen H'ghar. 

He should not have been surprised that Arya had been in his dreams. She was the only constant in his life now, and the only person that mattered to him. But it troubled him, and as a result, the fear he had managed to quell with logic and rational argument had taken up residence once more in his heart. It seemed that unwanted dragon dreams found even the secret parts of him and unearthed whatever he had carefully placed there. He silently voiced his prayer. Do not take her.

Arya had not slept as poorly but the shock from the previous day had lingered, and she retreated into her own thoughts, glaring at the Eastern horizon and berating the crew, who had confirmed that without a good wind, they could not get anywhere faster than they were already travelling. She glanced at Jaqen often, chewing her lip anxiously. He looked exhausted and there was a tension in his jaw that made her stomach knot.

Fuck Valyria. Fuck the Last Lament, sorry wreck that it was. Fuck the Iron Bank that lured all ships to Braavos and stopped her from getting home. Fuck that dishonest idiot, Noell. Fuck this damn ship's biscuit that made her mouth even drier than it already was. And fuck this relentless heat.  

She sighed as sweat tickled her back. Oh, to be cool again and draw the crisp Northern air into her lungs.

When they had first become trapped in the Serpent, she had scanned the horizon constantly, confident of swift rescue. In their work on the lines high above deck, she and the boy Laro had often reminded each other to keep a look out for the sails that would inevitably appear. She'd pictured that first sighting so often. A Westerosi galley with an honest Northern crew, who'd pull them from the current that imprisoned them and would give them all safe passage to White Harbour. And when she set foot on her home soil, she would kiss the ground and she wouldn't care who laughed.

But as the days dragged by without any ships, never mind a friendly Northern one, she'd been forced to admit that it had just been a pathetic fantasy. She knew the Summer Sea was vast, but it was either remarkably devoid of ships or they were all sticking to the coastlines to avoid unkind seas. The Last Lament would either be sunk by another storm or would wash up on Naath just as starvation set in and they'd have to either risk the fever by going ashore or send the one Naathi seaman on board for water, food, and help, and truth be told, he'd probably take off as soon as his feet touched solid ground.

She was glad of the interruption to her thoughts when Laro appeared in front of her. The boy was the sole member of the crew that Arya made time for. In the days since the storm, she had taught him hop frog and eye spy, and he had shown her how to knot lines so that they would never part and told her stories from the Summer Isles. Laro was a natural seafarer and oft times slept in a nest he had made from the lines strung between what was left of the masts high above the deck. His sunny nature was unaffected by the dire circumstances on the Last Lament; perhaps in his youth he did not understand their peril. At any rate, he enjoyed the privileged position of being a favourite of all the crew, wherever they harked from. 

Arya returned his wide grin. 

Laro stared as Jaqen handed Arya his rations. "You do not eat. Are you not well, friend Leto?"

Jaqen shook his head and smiled benignly. "No, just not hungry." Her gestured to the hood that covered his head. "I was in the sun too long."

Laro looked at the food on Arya's lap with interest.  "Nymeria, my good friend, if you would share the orange, I would be most thankful. I did not get any segments these last two days and I would not want my teeth to loosen. Captain Wahlo told me oft times that orange segments have the power to keep sailors hearty."

Arya blinked at him. "What do you mean? Everybody gets orange."

Laro's smile faded a little. He said nothing. 

Arya frowned. "Why didn't you get orange?" she repeated.

A anxious look passed over the boy's face. "Oh lady, do not trouble yourself on my part. I ask only for a couple of orange pieces."

Arya scrambled to her feet and she searched his face. "Tell me, Laro. Did someone take your food?"

Laro shifted uneasily but Arya would have her answer. Eventually, he confessed that one of the Westerosi men had told him he should not have a man's portion since he was but a boy, and had for two days past made him surrender most of his ration up to him.

Her jaw tightened. "What Westerosi?"

Laro looked around him nervously before answering. When he replied, it was reluctantly.

"The big one. But I beg you, lady, do not accuse him. That is a man who loves trouble and loves not the people of the Summer Isles. He will use this to cause a war between us."

That fucker Piley.

Again.

Arya breathed out slowly. She ought to have known it would be him. Jaqen had told her exactly what he had thought of this man and had even warned her to stop trifling with him. Piley was the most dangerous of men. An ignorant, cunning bully and a master at sowing discord to gain personal power. Not only was he clearly up to no good with Noell, but it was he who had created the tribal divides on board Last Lament. With a muttered word here and a loaded look there, he had played on the Westerosi crew's smouldering resentment and fear and they had in turn formed alliances with the Essos men and become hostile to the others on board, especially the archers. Where once every man and woman had worked shoulder to shoulder with the others, they had now separated into groups and had carved up the wrecked swanship into territories particular to Westerosi and Essossi, or Summer Islanders, Naathi, and Basilisk men. The Summer Islander group now lounged on deck by the Captain's quarters, while the Westerosi claimed the main deck. When any intruded onto the other's patch, they were met with silent hostility. Truly, the Last Lament was a keg of wildfire just waiting for the lick of the flame.

Arya handed Jaqen's ration to a delighted Laro and stalked over to the rail to look down at the main deck where Piley was sitting among other Westerosi. He was holding court as if he were a King, and the others were hanging on his every word. She frowned. The group had a conspiratorial air that was concerning. Were they planning something? As Piley bent low to mutter to one of the men sitting nearby, Arya's breath caught and she stared in disbelief.

There was no doubt about it. The man was Noell, the false Maester that had been imprisoned below these last weeks. In that time, his red hair and beard had grown quite wild and he'd discarded his Maester's robe, but it was him alright. Noell was clearly frightened and he kept his head bent to hide his face, which was pale and white in stark contrast to the sun-baked complexions of the rest of the group.

Was Piley so hellbent on provoking the Summer Islanders that he had freed Noell and persuaded him to appear above deck?  Or maybe he had simply grown bored of guarding him below.

She turned back to Laro and pushed her own orange, biscuit, and fish into his hands.

"Have this." she ordered. "I'm not hungry either."

Laro looked about to protest but baulked at her furious expression.

"I thank you, Nymeria." he said and hunkered down to push the food into his mouth. Arya's heart tugged as she watched him. He was scrawny enough already, his limbs boney and angular. How could anyone steal from this child and continue to live with themselves? Piley would rue the day he took food from Laro, this she promised herself darkly.

When the last morsel had gone and Laro had disappeared off towards the back of the ship, she turned back to watch the Westerosi group on the deck below. It wasn't long before Noell said something to Piley, who raised his eyebrows and nodded. The two of them climbed down into a hatch and went below decks.  She wasn't surprised. Noell was a fearful man, who did not share Piley's confrontational nature. He had surely been bullied into showing his face above deck today and had now contrived to return below at the earliest possible opportunity. But if she knew anything about Piley, he'd have Noell back on deck soon enough, and when the Summer Islanders spotted him, it would be a declaration of war.

Gods damn him to hell. She flexed her fingers. If anybody needed a knife in their guts, it was Piley. 

Jaqen shifted against the coil of rope and regarded Arya with quiet apprehension as she stood glowering down at the main deck. The taut muscles in her back and shoulders... her knuckles white as she gripped the rail... the sound of breath sucked through gritted teeth.. A man did not need to have been trained at the House of Black and White to perceive her barely-contained rage. He hoped she would not rush down to confront the big man about Laro. Impulsive actions today would bring no good to anyone, and he was himself not keen to take up arms against half the crew after the night he had had.

But Laro's words had given Arya pause for thought. He was wise indeed even in his youth. Piley was clearly set on creating conflict and would indeed use any argument as an opportunity to divide the crew and archers.  Even Captain Wahlo had had trouble with him.

Jaqen relaxed slightly when she walked back to where he sat and slumped down onto the deck beside him. 

In answer to his enquiring look, she replied. ''In addition to stealing food from the mouths of children, Piley freed Noell and just had him up on deck for a while."

Jaqen raised his eyebrows and nodded resignedly. "War will surely come this day to Last Lament."

He threw her a penetrating look. "Is a girl..?"

Her eyes were hard and unreadable as she stared out at the sea.

"A girl is thinking."

Jaqen sighed to himself.

To their surprise, the day passed without further incident. The Summer Islanders played cards and laughed among themselves in their place outside the Captain's quarters. Some of them manned the tiller while Laro scaled the lines to adjust the mended sails, more to provide shade on deck the Last Lament than to drive the ship onwards. The Westerosi lounged in their group on the main deck. Noell continued to hide below. Corlio and some of the older Essos men caught a large fish and hauled it on board with much triumph. Rations were apportioned and eaten. And when the long shadows faded into night, the ship settled down to sleep in the darkness.

Arya closed the door to their cabin and turned to Jaqen. He was on the bed, his long legs stretched out. He had remained in his breeches and overshirt in case the trouble that loomed over the ship erupted in the night. She joined him and fixed him with her eye.   

“That fucker Piley will provoke a riot sooner or later. If any Summer Islanders find out what he's been doing, everyone will be at each others throats. The rest of the Westerosi will just follow his lead."

Jaqen responded wearily. "A riot is inevitable, Lovely girl. Hunger and resentment and the prospect of a bad death when the ship reaches Naath? Men have gone to war for less. It is a miracle that Last Lament is not already awash with the blood of the slain."

Arya saw an easy solution. 

"So let’s head off trouble. We’ll kill the big man. The other Westerosi and Essos men will be cowed and we might all somehow survive this nightmare.” she said matter-of-factedly. "You still have your darts?"

"Or -", She reached over and lifted his shirt to reveal the leather purse still tied at his waist. "- you could even use those interesting purple crystals that Noell provided."

Jaqen became watchful. “No, Lovely girl.”

“What? Why not?”

“A man must say it again? He knows not if this Piley has been marked for the gift and he will not deliver it to him. Death will come for him when the time is right.”

Arya regarded him irritably.

“How do you know the time isn’t right now!”

“A man does not know.”

“But if the God told you to kill him, you would? Even if you’re not a Faceless Man anymore?”

Jaqen thought for a moment. “Yes.”

Arya glared.

“Well, I’ll do it myself.” she decided. "That man will be the end of us all. I'm saving lives, if anything!"

Now it was Jaqen’s turn to be irritated. He tightened his lips but said nothing.

Arya waved her hand at him. “Don’t worry, you won’t be involved at all and I'll make sure it looks like an accident. There's a big blue sea just waiting for him to fall into. Now, don’t bother me for a bit. I need to plan.”

Ignoring his baleful look, she lay back and closed her eyes.

Chapter Text

He stood atop a tower as the hot air shimmered around him. His body thrummed in time with the steady beat of muscular wings. Vast golden eyes looked into his soul and he felt his blood spark. The dragon loosed a roar that seemed to begin in the bowels of the earth and ended in a shriek so harsh it made him shudder. The sound was full of triumph, warning, and primal, absolute power. It commanded him to kneel before it, to give himself, and to worship with the deepest parts of him that he had not even known when he had pledged devotion to the God of Death. He wanted to. The urge to prostrate himself before this new God consumed him. He had always served. What pure love and fear and surrender it would be to worship this creature that demanded his fealty. 

But he would not kneel. He knew the way of it. He must be… its equal? No, he must be more than that. He must be its master.

"Jaqen." Arya said quietly.

He woke instantly and slid from the bed, his dagger in hand. Arya was already poised by the cabin door with her blade drawn as a stealthy footstep approached in the passageway outside. Jaqen moved silently to her left and they waited with eyes locked on the door handle, a worn brass fitting that shone dully in the half light. Jaqen wondered what time of night it was. Arya had turned the lamp down low and the level of oil left in the glass suggested it was perhaps an hour past midnight but the abrupt end to his dream had left him disorientated. He had not intended to sleep.

The footsteps stopped at their door and he felt the air shift as Arya moved her weight to the balls of her feet, her muscles tensing in readiness as they waited for the handle to turn.

A heavy thud sounded and as the door reverberated for a moment, they realised too late that they were not being ambushed. They were being barricaded into their cabin.

Jaqen exhaled steadily and a muscle clenched in his jaw. What was happening to him?  He had never been so careless. Control and discipline had been second nature to him since his youth - and yet this night, he had somehow drifted into sleep when it was most critical that he remain awake and alert. His many years of training had honed his ability to notice, understand, predict, and avert events. That is what he should have been doing. Not sleeping like a babe, oblivious to all. Unforgivable. He was stunned by his own incompetence.

"Fuck!" breathed Arya. "They’ve locked us in.”

Jaqen shook off his self-recrimination. It was unhelpful now. He put his shoulder to the door and pushed but it didn't budge. 

“That scumbag Piley!” Arya said savagely. “I should have killed him already. Gods damn it, why did I wait?"

Jaqen cocked his head to listen.

A sudden shriek echoed further down the passage, followed by a whimpering and scuffling that neared their door and then passed it. Above them, the timbers shook as running feet thundered across the deck in every direction, accompanied by furious bellowing and the occasional scream. This continued for some minutes until all fell quiet.

In the silence that followed, Jaqen and Arya waited. It was clear that an altercation had occurred on the deck of Last Lament. It was clear also that whomever had started it had not wanted the involvement of Arya and Jaqen, and likely the other passengers. It was probable that the timing of the altercation had been intended to take full advantage of the element of surprise.

The obvious conclusion was that the smouldering feud between the groups in the crew had finally come to a head. Who had initiated the conflict? And would the passengers now be forced to choose a side? Or face some other fate?

Arya's bitter cursing of Piley was interrupted by the sound of two people approaching once more in the passage. This time, there was nothing stealthy about the advancing footsteps; instead they were brisk and business-like. Whatever had been placed against their door was pushed aside with a weighty, scraping sound. Jaqen and Arya stepped back in one smooth movement, tense and ready, as the handle finally turned and the door opened.

Unexpectedly, a tall Summer Isles archer stepped into the room, and he was joined immediately by a second. The second archer held a short spear, which he pointed in the direction of Jaqen's chest. Arya knew them. The first man was Chatayo Xo and the other was Balabhar.

Chatayo Xo spoke.

"Leave your blades and come with me."

Jaqen and Arya exchanged a wary look, before slowly placing their knives on the bed and following him up to the deck.

As they emerged from the hatch, Arya felt the warm night air against her skin. The sky was crystal clear and the starry dome above threw its blue light down onto the deck, where Xaq stood tall on the steps to the castle. The breeze had picked up a little and it pulled restlessly at his coloured tunic. Before him stood the Westerosi and Essos men, who had been herded into a tight group. Some were bloody. All were silent. On either side were a line of archers who had each nocked a yard-long arrow into their goldenheart bows. The archers' muscles stood out as they held their bowstrings taut in their fingers, ready to loose their arrows at the group. The rest of the crew stood to the rear of the archers.

Arya looked around her carefully and as her thoughts clarified, she reframed her assessment. It was the Summer Islanders that had engineered this, not Piley and his acolytes. They'd surprised the Westerosi and Essos men, and Xaq had reclaimed his command. This new knowledge brought Arya little comfort, however. Nymeria was from Westeros and Leto was from Essos. Were they about to face punishment alongside their fellow countrymen?

She breathed a little easier when, instead of being pushed into the Westerosi and Essossi group, she and Jaqen were instead ordered to stand with Corlio, who had already been brought up to the deck. As they approached him, Corlio caught their eye and tilted his chin for a second towards the Westerosi group. Arya followed his glance and saw that there was one passenger who had been included among the Westerosi seamen.

Noell.

The rest of the Westerosi appeared angry, defiant, or outraged but the false Maester was shaking like a leaf and the sweat stood on his forehead. Arya realised that it must have been he who had been forcibly dragged past their cabin door while they had been barricaded inside. 

Xaq spoke into the silence.

"As Captain of Last Lament, it is my duty to inform all on board that seamen on this vessel have broken contract. A trial will now be held to determine their guilt or innocence. And deliver punishment where it is merited."

The Westerosi and Essos men looked at each other wildly and exploded into loud protests, but Xaq continued, and they quickly fell silent.

“There are men among you that must face judgment,” he said as his eyes swept over the group. “Those men have been named conspirators in a ploy to seize this ship and its command. Murder aside, mutiny is the gravest charge that may be brought against a member of a ship's crew and all know what the penalty is."

They knew. Some of the men in the group began to push and turn on one another, but they stopped when Xaq reminded them. "Know too that the archers surround you and will kill in an instant any that interfere in this court."

He called out. "Bring forward the accused."

Eight Summer Islanders stepped forward and each one pulled a man from the group of Westerosi and Essos sailors.

Arya was not remotely surprised at the men that had been selected. They were Piley and his gang - Dennedy, Mertyn, Red, One-eye Will, Karris, Wenorro, and Gylo.

Xaq raised his voice. "These men” - he motioned toward Piley and the others - “stand accused of conspiracy to mutiny. They will answer their charges before the crew."

He looked Piley up and down, and paused significantly, before commanding. "You first."

Piley looked at him without expression, then smiled belligerently. 

"Your name?"

"Piley is my only name. All on this ship know me." he declared.

Xaq raised his eyes to look at the wider company. "This man is accused on three counts. First, dereliction of duty in which he was ordered to guard a prisoner below decks, but has allowed him to leave his cabin on several occasions. Second, he attempted to whip up a mutiny among the Westerosi and Essossi crew. Third, he conspired to murder his captain and the other Summer Islanders so that nothing would prevent him from taking command of this ship."

Xaq paused and looked at the accused.

"These are the charges. Do you deny them?"

"I do." declared the big man. "I've done none of that."

"We shall see." replied Xaq.

His calm air riled Piley, who lost his smirk and scowled darkly back at Xaq.

"Where's your witnesses?" he growled. "You've none."

He swung around to the crew and said. "This is no trial. This is murder, plain and simple."

He raised his fist in a rallying gesture. "Don't stand for it, shipmates. These Southron men think they're better than us. This Xaq calls himself captain, but I say -"

Xaq cut in. "There are witnesses. Both have told the same account."

"Who?" demanded Piley, looking around at the assembled crew, archers, and passengers. "Come on! Speak up if you accuse me!"

A young voice rang out.

"I accuse you."

Arya's mouth dropped open as Laro stepped forward. The boy directed his steady gaze up at Piley, who seemed stunned into silence. 

Laro's clear voice seemed to echo around the deck as he continued.

"I saw the false Maester on deck yesterday. I thrice saw you unlock his door and allow him to roam below deck. And I heard you tell the other accused men that when dawn broke, you and they would kill the Summer Islanders and take command of this ship."

Piley stared incredulously for another moment, then seemed to wake up from his trance.  

"The word of a boy? He is no witness! It's just another fairy story to one as young as he!"

"There is another witness. And this one is a man grown." replied Xaq.

"Then let's hear him speak his lies!" Piley shouted. 

This time, nobody spoke up. The crew searched each other's faces. Who was the second witness? Eventually, a Summer Islander stepped forward and delivered Noell a forceful shove.

Piley froze. 

Noell would not meet his eye and when he spoke, it was so timorously that all had to strain to hear him.

"You freed me from my cabin. You forced me to go on deck to provoke a fight with the Summer Isles crew when you had weapons ready and they did not. And you told us to kill them all at dawn."

Piley had no trouble hearing these words. With a wild bellow, he lunged at Noell and clamped his hands about his throat. The Summer Isles men sprang forward but it took three of them to release Noell from his grip. Noell collapsed to the deck as if his bones had melted, his face a livid purple as he gasped for air. 

As Piley was dragged away, he kicked out viciously at Noell and screamed insults - Treacherous whore - Liar - Self-serving scum - until the spittle ran from his lips. Eventually, Balabhar pushed a rag into his mouth so that Xaq could be heard.

"Are there any among the crew - aside from those that face the court - that can truthfully contradict the testimony of the witnesses?" asked Xaq as Piley's muffled curses persisted and he twisted and fought against the Summer Isles men that held him firmly.

Silence.

He stared down at Piley. "Then I find you guilty." 

He nodded to Moajja. 

Moajja moved in front of Piley and pulled the rag from his mouth, dropping it to the deck. One of the Summer Isles men grasped a handful of his hair and pulled his head back to bare his thick neck. The big man cried hoarsely "No! Help me!" and his struggles became frantic. Moajja regarded him impassively and raised a Summer Isles stabbing spear. She said not a word but took one measured step forward and in a graceful, precise act, she drove the end of the spear into Piley's throat. As his roughspun vest turned red and a choking, wet, gurgle came from his lips, the men holding him dragged him upright to the bulwark and hoisted him over the edge. There was a splash and then silence, which was broken only by Noell's loud sobbing.

The rest of the crew were silent as Piley's companions were each tried and found guilty. Karris and Mertyn sneered and cursed Xaq, Laro, and Noell as their guilt was pronounced but the rest gave into their fear and begged the court's forgiveness until Moajja cut their throats. All seven were given to the sea, their final journey on Last Lament marked by a glossy scarlet trail leading from the steps to the bulwark.

Arya followed the red smear with her eyes, unease tightening her voice as she murmured, "Aren't they afraid of drawing a kraken?"

Jaqen did not reply but reached for her hand.

Xaq nodded to a Summer Isles man called Feathers, who walked over to the group of remaining Essos and Westerosi men. They shrank away from him and their relief was palpable when he stopped by Noell, still lying in a heap on the deck. The false Maester cried out in terror as he was hauled to his feet. Feathers dragged him to stand before Xaq but when the Summer Isles man stepped away, Noell collapsed to his knees. With a scornful grunt, Feathers gestured to Balabhar, and they both took an arm to pull Noell to a standing position.

In a desperate voice, Noell blurted "But I told you! I told you all about Piley and the others! I'm on your side! Oh, please! Please, no!"

Xaq was unmoved. "Your name?"

"Oh please..."

"Are you Noell of Westeros, an imposter who claimed to be a Maester from the Citadel and who was given passage on this ship in good faith because you claimed you could tend Captain Wahlo for his pain?"

Noell whimpered.

Xaq looked pointedly at Feathers, who thundered into Noell's ear, "Answer the captain."

Noell answered in a broken tone. "Yes, yes. I am Noell."

Xaq continued. "You are accused of killing Captain Wahlo, the truest man that ever sailed the Summer Sea. You prepared Milk of the Poppy and bade him drink it. The captain died only two hours later."

"An accident." Noell wailed.

"This is the charge. Do you deny it?"

"I didn't mean to! I don't know how it happened? I never made a mistake before!"

Xaq raised his eyes to look over at Corlio, Jaqen, and Arya. Arya's heart sank. She could guess who the next witnesses would be. And she did not want to testify against Noell. She thought him a cowardly, unscrupulous idiot but she did not believe he murdered Captain Wahlo in cold blood. A man who was so frightened of death at sea would surely not trouble to kill the only man with the experience and authority to deliver Last Lament safely to Lys. But, she suspected that this court had already ordained that Noell was guilty.

In this respect, Piley had been right. This was no trial. It was simply a means to an end.

Xaq opened his mouth to call the witnesses, but the words never came. Instead, his gaze drifted past them and, for a heartbeat, he seemed rooted to the spot, disbelief and a mounting horror etched across his face. Staring as if bewitched, he began to back away but in his haste, he tripped on the steps and sprawled onto his back. He held up a trembling hand as if to ward off evil. The watching crew and passengers had frozen as this chilling scene had unfolded before them, but then, as the air began to throb, they spun around to face whatever horror had affected Xaq so. The deck pitched violently, throwing everyone off balance. Those that did not find something to anchor themselves to began to slide across the slick, bloodied surface as the ship tilted ever more sharply.

A swinging rope lashed the air near Jaqen's face and he grabbed it with one hand and with the other, he gripped Arya who had sprung sideways to avoid being knocked down by a loose barrel. Both stared as the night was filled with a thunderous rumble.

"What's worse than krakens?" Arya whispered.

Chapter Text

As the deck tilted beneath his feet, Jaqen twisted his wrist to gain a better grip on the rope and wrapped his other arm tight around Arya, all the while gazing at the behemoth that weighed down the starboard side of the main deck. Even now, he was equanimous but he was also at a loss as to what he should do next. Recent dreams had left him with a certain expectation that he would act on instinct when this day came, but it seemed that dreams could lie.

He felt no connection with this creature at all.

The dragon crouched, immense, reptilian, and deadly. It glared about with molten eyes and its muscular, sinuous body was covered in black scales that gleamed in the moonlight. It took up most of the main deck where its talons had gouged deep channels into the wood. Great, leathery wings beat sporadically, sending out gusts of hot air that tasted like irons in a furnace. Its tail lashed dangerously. Smoke coiled from its nostrils as it swiveled its head to watch as a writhing tangle of Summer Isles, Westeros, and Essos men slithered inexorably across the bloodied, slanting deck towards it.

A horror-struck, otherworldly silence reigned. Even the unlucky seamen who thrashed and twisted in their futile struggle to halt their slide towards those dread talons did so silently. The only sound was the slow creaking of the ship as it listed under the creature’s weight. 

As one, the helpless men cannoned into the solid mass of muscle and the dragon emitted a feral snarl. In a sudden, violent movement, it pinioned some of the men down with its talons and then the air was filled with their screams as it tore through flesh and bone, tossing some parts over the bulwark into the sea and leaving the rest on deck in a bloody heap. Their dying cries were drowned out when it threw its head back and shrieked, and the night air seemed to shiver with the force of it.

The sound cut through the rest of the stunned crew like a spear and jerked them out of their stupor. Moajja screamed a command in the Summer Isles tongue and then the archers were on their feet. Some found a part of the ship to wedge themselves against and others were grasped about the waist by surrounding crew members in a bid to secure them in place. The archers that had not lost their bows nocked long arrows into place and the others readied longspears. Moajja barked an order and the arrows and spears were loosed, soaring through the night to rain down on the dragon. All reached their target but the dragon's scaled hide was harder than iron and the shafts scattered harmlessly and fell to the deck. Moajja screamed her command a second time and the archers nocked and loosed another volley to similar ineffect. Moajja shouted again, this time instructing them to send their arrows into its eyes or its leathery wings.

This time, as the arrows neared their target, the dragon tensed. Its muscles rippled as it lunged forward savagely, its jaws open wide with scaly lips drawing back from black gums. For a moment, all were transfixed by the sight of teeth as long as a man's arm and then its throat glowed orange and they found themselves staring into a furnace that became flame. A deafening roar made the air tremble and a stream of fire burst forth from its mouth. The cedarwood shafts turned into blackened dust that hung in the air and their steel arrowheads fell to the deck with a hiss. The archers froze. All that was needed now was the ship to set afire. Moajja paused, then barked another command. The archers nocked their arrows in readiness and stood like statues as all on deck stared up at the dragon.

Jaqen felt Arya stiffen and then heard her agonised whisper. "Laro!"

Jaqen dragged his eyes from the dragon and the bloody mess of corpses at its feet. To avoid the same terrible fate as their shipmates, some of the crew clung to the bulwark where the row boats were tethered. The young boy Laro had been among them. But he had slipped away from the group unseen and was now stealthily ascending one of the masts. He held a long dagger clenched between his teeth and its grey-blue blade glinted in the moonlight. 

Arya tried to shake off Jaqen's iron-grip. "Let me go.. I have to stop him..."

Jaqen watched Laro steadily as he shook his head and replied quietly. "The boy's courage is impressive but he is foolhardy. He has escaped the attention of the dragon thus far, but the creature will surely notice if a second person climbs the mast."

He did not need to add that the dragon would certainly direct its deadly fire at the boy as soon as it spied him in the rigging. A shame. The boy had many gifts. But he would not risk Arya's life to save him.

Arya was now squirming and twisting like a devilcat. He frowned. At this rate, he would lose his grip on her.

"Stop this." he ordered sternly. "The boy is his own master and if he chooses to attack a dragon, then he has chosen his fate. It is not for a girl to change it."

"You cold bastard!" she hissed, and to Jaqen's great dismay, she wrenched herself free with a tremendous yank and half-slid, half scrambled across the slick deck to the foot of the mast.

Before he could grab her, she had scaled the mast and was high above the deck. With precise movements, she began to gain on Laro, who had crawled out along the maze of lines that had been strung between the broken masts and was now looking down upon the dragon as its attention returned to the gory heap that once were men. Several of the crew saw her swarm up the mast and then they spotted the boy, and some groaned at the sight but all feared to call out a warning. They knew that as soon as the dragon spied them, the two would be torched, and likely the rest of the crew would die in the aftermath.

Jaqen swore savagely in Lorathi. By the Gods old and new and by Him of Many Faces, if they ever got off this accursed ship alive - which was looking increasingly unlikely - he might someday enjoy throttling Arya.

He could not go up after her. The dragon would likely notice one person hanging above it in the rigging, would very likely notice a second, and would certainly notice a third. 

She reached Laro and leant across to whisper in his ear. With a sinking feeling, Jaqen observed that Arya did not seem to be trying to pull the boy back from whence they had come. Instead, the two of them were now inspecting the dragon through narrowed eyes, presumably seeking areas of weakness in its armour.

Fuck! Of all the stupid, foolhardy, reckless, idiotic things Arya had ever done, this one beat them all, damn her. What were they thinking? To leap down onto its back, scramble forward and plunge a dagger into its eye? They might blind that eye if the Gods were on their side but that small dagger would not kill a dragon of this size. And then... a half-blinded, enraged dragon would be a terrible thing. All would be aflame and while they burnt, the sky would glow over the Last Lament as it did over the Valyria peninsula. Surely Arya, with all of her training and experience, would assess the risk and see that it far outweighed the likelihood of success. Wouldn't she?

Beneath his fury, he could feel the cold hand squeezing his heart. Do not take her this day.

At least his uncertainty had gone. He had little choice in what came next; Arya, the boy, and the dragon had decided for him. He loosed his grip on the rope and gingerly stepped forward, his weight adjusted to balance on the slanting deck as he carefully avoiding the bloodied areas that had so hastened the other men to the dragon's talons. He ignored the frantic whispered protests from Corlio. He reached the bulwark and used it to steady himself as he slowly moved towards the creature. Glancing upwards, he saw Arya staring down at him, her face white, and he prayed she would have the sense to seize the opportunity to pull Laro back and abandon whatever mad plan they had been formulating.

The dragon’s golden eyes locked onto him, and a low rumble issued from its throat, deeper than thunder, more felt than heard.

Jaqen approached carefully and slowly. With every step, he felt the air grow hotter. The dragon watched his every movement. When finally he stepped in front of it, it hissed and shifted slightly, its muscles coiled.

The creature towered over him, filling the sky. The air he breathed in was acrid. He felt as calm and detached as he had done when he was Faceless, and as he stared up into its eyes, he thought that his dreams had felt more real than this strange encounter. Would he die now? Probable. Valyrian blood or not, he doubted the dragon would treat him any differently to the mess of corpses on the deck before him. But he would die willingly to keep his Lovely girl alive for a little longer and he prayed to his God that she would somehow survive this voyage and in time be returned safely to her family in Westeros. But, even at this moment - perchance the last moment of Jaqen H'ghar's life - the God did not answer. It was all the same to Him of Many Faces. Well, soon this man would be able to stand before Him and plead in person for the life of Arya Stark.

The sea beyond was silver in the moonlight and he allowed himself a moment to appreciate its beauty. It occurred to him that although he had delivered the gift to so many, he had never really contemplated his own death. Now that he faced it, he thought that this was a fitting end although he would have chosen a less painful death had he been given the choice and he did not like to think of Arya having only a few torn up body parts to weep over. 

The dragon growled again and Jaqen felt the rumble echo though the timbers beneath his feet. It pushed its cruel face towards him and the air around him crackled with the heat of it. He stood firm, gazing up at it. His dreams had told him to be a master not a thrall, but he felt no mastery, only quiet acceptance and a strange kind of liberation. His only remaining disquiet was a nagging feeling that his Lovely girl might yet be in danger. He did not dare seek her out with his eyes in case she was still crawling in the rigging and his gaze would alert the creature. He prayed again that she had for once acted in good sense and was back on deck. Do not take her.

The dragon exhaled suddenly and its breath blew his hair from his forehead. A thought came to him, and he decided that he had little to lose by trying it.

High above in the rigging, Arya and Laro stared desperately at the scene below them. All the world knew of the Targaryen queen and her dragons but Arya had never imagined such a horror. She had entertained the idea of attacking it from above but she soon saw that the creature was a living, breathing fortress, its plate armour impenetrable, its weapons fire and steel, its savagery unrivalled. It was the most terrifying thing she'd ever seen, worse even than the Night King. And now Jaqen stood before it, without armour and without the advantage of surprise. She could barely breathe for fear. The sight of him picking his way along the bulwark had almost stopped her heart. What was he thinking?

She reminded herself of Jaqen's ancestry, his fascination with Valyria, the magical change it had wrought in him, the dragon floor in Lorath, his fiery dreams, and a wild hope flared inside her. Could he tame this monster? She pictured him astride it as the dragon riders of old had done. But then fear crept in. What did he know of dragons? Had he ever even seen the three that Queen Daenerys called her children? She'd heard that they were the only living dragons, but now a dragon has come to the Last Lament. Was it possible that Valyria was not yet done with Jaqen H'ghar?  

She tried to ignore her pounding heart.

Below her, man and dragon gazed at each other. Then Jaqen quietly spoke into the silence.

"Sōvēs".

Arya knew this word. She could speak High Valyrian as well as anyone.

Jaqen had said "Fly".

The dragon's reaction was instant. It opened its red mouth wide and Arya screamed in horror as Jaqen staggered and was engulfed in a ball of fire.

Arya didn’t feel the blast of scorched air rise up around her.

She didn't hear Moajja scream an order and the whistle of the arrows through the night air.

She didn't feel the ship lurch as the dragon launched upwards to disappear on dark leathery wings.

She didn't hear Laro cry out in warning.

She didn't remember falling-swinging-falling-sliding down the ropes as the friction seared her palms.

She didn't feel the thud of the hard deck against her shoulder and her body rebounding somehow to where the dragon had crouched.

She didn’t see the remaining crew wake from their paralysis and dart forward to beat the fire that had caught a ragged roll of canvas.

She saw only Jaqen, and could hardly take in what she saw. 

He had fallen to his knees. All that remained of his clothing and hair were a few cinders. His face and body were blackened, but somehow, he was not burnt or blistered. She scrambled in front of him. Staring wildly up into his face for a second, she burst into tears and sobbed bitterly against his bare shoulder. Jaqen didn’t speak but stared ahead and put a hand on Arya’s back. They didn’t move for a long time.

Eventually, Arya raised her face from Jaqen’s shoulder. She saw that the crew had put out the fire and were now standing silently, looking at Jaqen and Arya in wonder. Moajja stepped forward hesitantly. 

“Do you need the Maester?” she asked, momentarily blinded to the fact that the only Maester on the Last Lament was false and had been about to face trial for murder.

Arya gazed around her and shook her head dazedly. “No... No, I’ll take him below.”

As she helped him up, the crew found their voices.

"Gods be good. How?"

"He was in the fire and yet..."

"I can hardly believe it... a dragon."

"Impossible..."

Arya led Jaqen to their cabin and closed the door behind them. Aside from promising her that he was unhurt, Jaqen was silent, and submitted to Arya as she wiped away the soot and cinders from his face and body. His face looked strange and priest-like without his long hair. Arya brought him water and he drank it and then they lay on the bed.

After a few minutes, Jaqen spoke. “Beloved girl. It seems that this Targaryen has much to learn about befriending dragons.”

She turned to look at him and caught a rueful twinkle in his eye.

“Don’t you dare jest about this, Jaqen!”

Jaqen looked chastised and nodded.

Arya’s eyes filled with tears. 

“I thought you were dead. You were covered in fire.” She shook her head in bewilderment. “Even up high where I was, I could feel its heat. It was scorching. But you’re not burnt. How?”

Jaqen shook his head slowly. “This a man does not know.”

“Why the fuck did you go near it in the first place?” she demanded suddenly.

He directed a meaningful look at her. "A man might ask the same question of Arya Stark, who clearly considered attacking the dragon with her young friend." Then he sighed. “A man sought to distract the creature. Mayhaps he thought he might command it to fly away. Because of his Targaryen sire…” 

Jaqen trailed off and darted a glance at Arya.

Arya looked hard at him, and then started to laugh. 

“Gods, you’re an idiot.”

Jaqen grinned ruefully. 

Arya became somber. “Don’t do it again, ok?” 

He nodded. Arya reached up to trace her fingers along his smooth head. “I’ll never get used to this. First white hair, then no hair.” She looked into his face suddenly. “Make the red and white come back?”

Jaqen shook his head. “The crew saw a hairless man go below deck. They were stunned but their reason will return, and with it, many questions. Why sow more suspicion? While he is in their company, he should remain bald until it grows back with time. Although whether it will grow red or white, a man cannot say. At any rate, he may not be in their company for long. A ship’s crew do not welcome dragons and men that magically escape burning by dragonfire. Likely the crew will soon put the dragon man and his lovely companion off this ship.”

Arya looked uneasily at him. “They wouldn’t put us ashore on Valyria? They couldn't.”

Jaqen did not reply.

Up on deck, Moajja and Xaq had recovered their wits and commanded the crew to lay the slain men to rest, all the while anxiously surveying the skies. The archers were on alert, standing in formation along the bulwark with their bows ready. The crew busied themselves with scrubbing away the blood and checking that the ship was intact. All worked together in quiet obedience, their divisions forgotten in the wake of the dragon's visit and Piley's demise. As the sky lightened and the sun appeared over the horizon, rations were apportioned and the crew began to digest the events of the night.

The false Maester Noell had been forgotten.

When the dragon had rocked the ship, the Summer Isles men holding him had staggered and they had all three tumbled to the deck. They'd all begun to slide towards the dragon with the rest of the doomed men, but Noell's sleeve had caught on a hook and it had won him just enough purchase to halt his movement. With desperate strength, he'd dug his fingertips and toes into the tarred gaps between the timbers and had clung there as the two Summer Islanders become tangled with the rest of the men and in slow motion, were pushed up against the dragon. Then he'd clawed his way back to the forecastle and had hung onto its carved decoration with trembling fingers as the screams rent the air. From there, he'd watched, paralysed by fear, as Leto was engulfed in the fireball, and had stared in utter disbelief when the fire subsided to reveal that Leto had survived. And when Moajja had asked Leto and Nymeria if they needed a Maester, he had felt such hope, he'd thought his heart would burst. Just for a moment, he had dared believe that all had been forgiven after the incredible events of the night, but in his heart he knew the captain of the archers had just been stupefied with shock.

Since that moment, he had lingered uncertainly in the shadow of the castle for a long time, not daring to move for fear of drawing unfriendly eyes. He had watched with a dry mouth as the crew had cleared the deck and he had seen much. When the crew started to queue for their ration, he summoned what little courage he had and emerged into the sun. Glancing around nervously, he walked swiftly to the bulwark close to where Leto had faced the dragon. A Summer Isles archer was on watch nearby with his bow in hand, but he stood looking out over the sea and was fully engaged in scanning the pink-orange sky for the dragon. With his eyes fixed fearfully on the archer, Noell stooped quickly and reached into one of the splintered channels that the dragon's talons had gouged into the deck. His fingers closed about a small steel box that it seemed had been the only item in Leto's possession to survive the burst of dragonfire. He retreated to the lee of the forecastle once more and, peering in the dim light of the shadow, he inspected the box carefully, turning it over in his fingers. Carefully, he twisted the screws and eased it open for a moment. One glance told him all. He closed the lid and secured it once more with the screws. Then with another cautious look around, he put his head down and hurried along the deck and up the steps to the Captain's quarters. 

His fist trembled slightly as he knocked on the door.

Chapter Text

Arya gazed down at Jaqen and her heart tugged in her chest.

Her lethal, mysterious, beautiful former Faceless Master had eventually surrendered himself to sleep in her arms. How vulnerable he seemed now. Without the red and white locks, dark brows, and the stubble that had always softened the lower part of his face, he looked angular and chiselled. His full lips were parted. He had not yet dressed in the blouse and breeches she'd found for him in the chest of some dead seaman, and his bare chest rose and fell with every breath. Her eyes travelled over the contours of his lean body with its various scars, each with its own story. Many times, she had kissed each one, and Jaqen had sometimes indulged her questions about how he'd come by them although there were a couple that he would not elaborate on. His breath sighed and she resisted the urge to brush her lips over his forehead. 

When she was a child and Nymeria had been her constant companion, she'd oft times tried to sneak up on the direwolf as the great beast slept, a mountain of grey fur snuffling and twitching, her paws paddling as she dream-hunted hinds in forest. Arya had failed every time. Nymeria had always remained alert to the world outside her dreams and could never be surprised, even by a barefoot, stealthy girl whose soul was joined to hers. Arya would still be feet away when the great yellow eyes would open and regard her enquiringly. And Jaqen had been the exact same - until recently. Where once he slept so lightly, his eyes opening at any noise or movement, now he slept like the dead.

Arya shivered.

She had so nearly lost him. How had he survived the dragonfire? He'd confessed that he had no idea why he hadn't been burnt. She had made him describe the moment the rushing orange inferno surrounded him, how the blast of white heat forced him backwards as the scorching air poured into his lungs, how he'd glanced down to see the sleeves of his shirt crisp away into black cinders against his skin - all in a moment. But he'd been adamant - there had been no pain - and clearly his body had somehow emerged unscathed.

The only possible conclusion was that his unexpected survival was either due to something inherent in the dragonfire or to something inherent in him. Arya thought she knew which it was. The blistering heat from the dragonfire had been real - even where she had clung to the rigging high above the deck, the rising air had seared the skin of her face. Had it been Arya confronting the dragon, she'd have been incinerated, of that she was certain. She could only suppose that it had been the Valyrian royal blood in his veins that had saved him somehow - and Arya wished she had the knowledge to understand what it all meant, because it meant something, she was sure of it. Something connected to Valyria, which had coloured his hair to mark him as one of its own. Something connected to dragons, which, incredible as it was, just kept cropping up - in Lorath, in his dreams, and now on Last Lament.

From my blood comes the Prince That was Promised and his will be the Song of Ice and Fire.

Was Jaqen really the prince of the prophecy?

Arya hoped desperately that he was not. Jaqen did not want it, she knew. And she did not want it. Both of them had had enough damn duty to last them a lifetime - they deserved their freedom now, not to be bound by the weight of some dusty old words scratched onto a knife.

She chewed her lip, remembering suddenly that she'd heard that one of Queen Daenerys' titles was The Unburnt. Could it be that this Queen had also survived dragonfire? She was Jaqen's half-sister by blood after all.

This realisation made her feel uncomfortable, and she quickly moved on with her thoughts. Was this resistance to fire normal for those with Valyrian ancestry? If so, she envied them this fantastical quality. But she would never forget the absolute horror that had gripped her at the sight of Jaqen in the flames.

She gave in to her impulse to hold him a little tighter, and he murmured something inaudible.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps approaching in the passageway. Arya stilled as they stopped at the door and a ponderous knock sounded that was loud enough to wake Jaqen at last. His eyes flicked open. A breath later, he was up on his feet with his ear to the door. He signalled to Arya, still on the bed, and she nodded grimly. That bad feeling was back.

Jaqen quickly pulled on the seaman's breeches and shirt, and opened the door to reveal Chatayo Xo and Malthar standing in the passage.

"Please come." said Chatayo Xo. "Leave your blades."

Again. Arya stared at him in disbelief as those words echoed for the second time in just a few hours. She cursed under her breath and slid off the bed. She would leave her more obvious blades in the cabin as Chatayo Xo commanded, but the rest she was keeping with her. She'd been caught without a weapon last time and a fucking dragon had attacked them. She pulled a tunic over her thin shirt and breeches and as she did so, her fingers discreetly brushed the outline of a slim knife in her sleeve and a few tiny blades lying in hidden pockets.  

Jaqen was unreadable as he waited for Arya to put on her boots. They fell into step behind the Summer Isles men and returned to the deck.

Emerging from the hatch, Arya blinked as her eyes adjusted to the daylight. She was surprised to see that the sky was not its usual unbroken blue and was overcast. The air felt different too. Heavier. She turned to remark on it to Jaqen but he seemed preoccupied and did not look at her. As they followed the Summer Islanders along the length of the ship, she saw the crew were hoisting the ragged sails with an optimism she had not seen since they fled the Stepstones. Would there be another storm? And with it, wind enough to finally break the ship free of the Serpent? Perhaps they could reach New Ghis or even the Basilisk Isles. If the grey skies did indeed herald a storm, she prayed that the beleaguered Last Lament would survive a second battering.

They followed the Summer Isles men into the captain's quarters, where they found Xaq at the captain's polished desk and tall Moajja standing behind him. The boy Laro stood to the left near the long table, and Arya felt his tension as soon as she entered. He raised his chin in greeting but his eyes were troubled. Corlio leant against the wall near Laro. He did not speak but threw them a look that meant... what? Another man stood before Xaq and Moajja. He didn't turn to acknowledge the newcomers as Laro and Corlio had, but as soon as Arya saw his untidy red hair, pale neck, and hunched, rigid shoulders, she knew him. Noell.

Of course... The false Maester's trial had been halted by the arrival of the dragon.

She scowled at Xaq. She did not want to be dragged into this farce again. Noell was not a cold-blooded murderer, just a lackwit and a coward. But the Summer Islanders were thirsty for vengeance and he'd be at the bottom of the sea before the day's end.

Xaq motioned to Chatayo Xo who stepped between Arya and Jaqen. He placed a firm hand on Jaqen's arm and ushered him forward a step to stand beside Noell. 

"Leto. Nymeria." He paused. "Leto, you are well?"

Jaqen nodded.

Xaq's eyes lingered on him for a moment, taking in his new, hairless appearance. "We will speak of that shortly. But, first, I must inform you that an accusation has been made against you and you must answer to it."

Startled, Arya looked from Xaq to Jaqen in confusion. Jaqen did not move. His eyes were on a small steel box that lay open on the desk. The screws had been removed and had been placed next to it. On their bed of velvet, the purple crystals glinted in the lamplight.

The captain wasted no time in proceeding.

"This man.." Xaq gestured to Noell, "has accused you, Leto, of the murder of Captain Wahlo."

"What!" exploded Arya. She felt as though the breath had been punched out of her chest.

Noell danced away nervously as she rounded on him. 

"You bloody snake! Is there anything you won't do to save your own skin? I never..."

Xaq nodded curtly, and Malthar instantly nocked an arrow into his bow and stepped in front of Arya. The arrow's steel tip was pointed at her heart.

She stared in disbelief. "Malthar! What the fu.."

"This is a trial, Lovely one."

Jaqen's voice cut through her. 

"What?" she gasped faintly.

Xaq replied.

"Leto is correct. He is a passenger so the trial will not be held before the crew, save for any witnesses. But he must answer this accusation. And this trial will be held in accordance with ship's law."

Arya curled her lip and pointed at Noell. "Well, this scumbag almost had a public trial before the dragon came. Let's finish his trial first. You will not need a second."

"Whether Noell is deemed passenger or crew is a matter of some disagreement. So we have ordained that both men stand accused in this court. Here and now, we will learn once and for all who is responsible for the death of Captain Wahlo. Since I am a witness, Moajja, Captain of the archers, will conduct the trial. Two have been accused. Both will be questioned, as will the witnesses."

Arya's outrage consumed her but before she could angrily object, Jaqen glanced back and the message in his eyes was clear. Rule your face. Glaring at Xaq, she stalked over to stand with Laro.

Moajja bowed and fixed Noell with an unfriendly eye. She clearly had little love for him, but the captain of the archers was known for her discipline and she was certain to observe trial proprieties.

"Who accuses this man?"

Noell stood tall. "I do. I am Noell of Westeros." It was a far cry from the last time he acknowledged his name. Now, he seemed filled with righteousness, not cringing like a kicked dog. 

"Speak."

Noell cleared his throat. His nerves were evident but he was resolute. "W..when the dragon burnt this man, Leto, it cast its flame onto him and destroyed all."

His voice began to rise and his tone became shrill. "His clothing.. everything.. even his hair.. all was burnt away to nothing, leaving only flesh untouched. We all saw it. He should, of course, be dead, but he lives somehow. All can see that he is a magician, an enchanter, a sorcerer who summoned the dragon to this ship, endangering all on board."

He made an effort to collect himself, before continuing in a calmer tone.  

"All watched it happen but I saw something else too. Amid the flames, this small metal box fell from him to the deck and, being made of steel, it survived the burst of fire. In the confusion, it was kicked into a crevice in the wood. But I sought it out. When my fingers touched it, it was still warm to touch, long after the burning. I was curious and opened the box. Inside was a deadly poison that I recognised from my time at the Citadel. There, we called it the Strangler."

He drew himself up to his full height. "I contest that Captain was not killed by Milk of the Poppy. I never made a mistake before. I am an innocent man, wishing only to serve all on board this ship. But the Captain was poisoned and lo! here is a poison."

He pointed to Jaqen.

"Leto killed Captain Wahlo. Why? Because he desired to sail to Valyria and he knew that Captain Wahlo would steer this ship to Lys. He desired that we be caught by the Serpent and taken to the sea near the cursed isle, where his dragon might come to burn our ship and take him to its red shores."

The allegations were so ridiculous, Arya almost laughed.

Moajja's eyes here hard. "What evidence have you?"

"That he is a magician ? All have seen Leto watching from the bulwark, his eyes fixed on the orange skies in the East, awaiting the appearance of his dragon. This metal box is still warm. Feel it yourself. Such is the effect of the dragonfire. And yet, all saw how he was unburnt in its flame.
That he is a murderer? The poison was in his possession. No man would carry death in his pocket unless he intended to kill. And Leto was present when I woke in the captain's quarters and learnt that our beloved Captain Wahlo was about to draw his last breath."

"This is the box that you saw fall?" Moajja pointed to where it lay on the polished wooden surface.

He nodded and twisted his hands nervously.

Moajja looked thoughtful. "Have you anything else to say?"

"No," he replied with dignity. "I have said all. Now find him guilty."

Arya could scarcely credit Noell's brass neck but his words still unsettled her. His argument made not a jot of sense, his evidence was scant, and it was an excruciatingly obvious ploy to shift blame. And Moajja's contempt for Noell was written all over her face. So what was there to fear? Noell would surely be the one to answer for the captain's death, not Jaqen.

But Jaqen's encounter with the dragon had deeply shocked all who had seen it. And only magic of some kind could explain it. Would this blur the line between truth and falsehood and give weight to Noell's wild assertions? A chill went through her as she remembered how Moajja had served punishment to the men found guilty during the previous trial. She bit her lip and tried to steady her breath.

Moajja almost smiled. "We will find someone guilty, of that I am certain. You accuse Leto, yet you yourself were about to face trial for this crime."

Noell did not reply, his face rigid as her gaze turned to Jaqen. 

"We will now hear the account from the man you accuse. Your name?"

Jaqen's voice was silk. "Leto Myrllio"

Moajja cut straight to the point. "Did you poison Captain Wahlo?"

"No, my captain. The first I knew of his illness was when we overheard the boy Laro tell Captain Xaq that he could not rouse Captain Wahlo. Nymeria, Corlio, and I together went to the captain's quarters to see for ourselves and offer our help, since the crew were occupied with sailing the ship in poor weather. The captain lay in his bed and the false Maester was in the chair there." He gestured to the chair near the wall. "Both slept soundly but the captain's look was concerning. His breath was slow and loud, his lips grey, his hands blue."

He sighed sadly before continuing. "The captain could not be woken, but we succeeded in waking Noell. We all heard him admit that he gave the captain an excessive quantity of the milk."

Noell started violently and blurted "I was frightened and weary and I knew not what I said! I am innocent!". At this outburst, Chatayo Xo directed a stern look at the false Maester and Noell fell silent.

Moajja turned back to Jaqen and pointed to the box on the table. "Was this box in your possession when the dragon tried to burn you?"

Jaqen bowed. "It was."

Moajja and Xaq exchanged glances. Arya knew that Jaqen must carefully navigate his way through Moajja's questions. Perhaps Noell was not the only person to have seen the box fall. 

"Where did it come from?"

"I happened upon it after the death of Captain Wahlo." He paused before continuing. "On the floor outside the cabin that was the Maester's. I thought it must have been one of his." 

"I never saw that box before in my life! I carry only healing herbs and tinctures!" cried Noell. Chatayo Xo glared down at him and Noell closed his mouth but the defiant look did not leave his eyes.

Arya had borne witness to men begging for their lives more times than she cared to recall and Noell's desperate denials were all too familiar. At this point, he believed his own lies.  Would Moajja?

The Summer Isles captain looked down at the box. "How do we know this is truly poison?" 

"It is a poison!" insisted Noell. "Give it to his woman. You will soon see."

With a furious cry, Laro pushed forward to face Noell. He spat an insult in the Summer Isles tongue, before exclaiming in the Common tongue. "Nymeria has done nothing to you!"

Despite all, Arya couldn't help but feel warmed at the boy's ferocious loyalty. Moajja rapped on the desk for silence. Malthar growled a sharp rebuke and Laro stepped back with a sullen look. Chatayo Xo bent to gaze into Noell's face. His quiet tone was heavy and menacing. "Must I gag you? Speak out of turn once more and I will."

Jaqen answered evenly. "I believe it is a poison. I knew it as soon as I opened the box. Many times I saw crystals like these being sold for gold by Alchemists when I was a sellsword in Lys. There it is called Eloudiam but as Noell has said, the Maesters of the Citadel call it the Strangler. Why? Because its quickly closes the throat as if it is squeezed by an iron fist. The victim fights for breath. Blood runs from their nose and their face purples like a wine from Dorne. Captain Wahlo's face, in contrast, was grey and his breath was slow but not choking."

He turned to look at Noell and something in his eyes made the man pale. "Nymeria will not take it, else you will be responsible for a second death."

Moajja nodded. "Leto, why did you not speak of it to the captain when you found this box and saw what was inside?"

"A deadly poison? When I saw its contents, I feared that I might be incriminated by surrendering it. Captain Wahlo was poisoned, was he not? I could not hope that all would know that to be poisoned by the milk is very different to being poisoned by the Strangler. Today, my fear has been proven a valid one." He sighed. "I should have tossed it into the sea, I know that now. But my time on Lys taught me what Eloudiam is worth, and I hesitated, thinking mayhaps I could sell it for gold if we reached land."

Xaq nodded judiciously. Apparently, this accorded with what he knew of sellswords and their love of gold.

"How does he know so much of poison? Ask him that!" interjected Noell, who seemed unable to contain himself.

Moajja did not need to rap the desk a second time - it was clear that Chatayo Xo had had enough of Noell's interruptions. He nodded to Malthar, who stepped forward to pinion Noell's arms to his sides. Noell began to protest but he stilled fearfully as Chatayo Xo stepped close to loom over him. The big Summer Islander reached down wordlessly and gripped the bottom of Noell's shirt in his enormous hand. With a sudden movement, he ripped away a strip of fabric, exposing Noell's white belly. He grasped the back of Noell's head with one hand, and with the other, he fed the length of fabric into Noell's mouth until the false Maester's whimpers became muffled. Once done, Chatayo Xo fixed Noell with a look full of dark promise and then stood back to face Moajja and Xaq once more.

Moajja looked thoughtful.

"For once, I will heed the false Maester. You do seem to have unusual knowledge of these poisons."

Arya's breath caught but Jaqen replied in a bland tone. 

"I know as much as any sellsword who has lived among the Alchemists and has used the milk to soothe the pain from the wounds that are common to ones in our profession."

Moajja seemed satisfied by this answer and turned her attention to the back of the room. "We will now hear from the witnesses. Laro first."

The boy marched forward and stood in front of her. His righteous indignation was evident to all.

"Your name?"

"Laro Dhoru."

"Tell us please what happened on the day of Captain Wahlo's death. From the moment that Captain Xaq ordered you to fetch Captain Wahlo."

Laro answered in his clear, ringing voice. "I went into the captain's quarters and found the captain in his bed. I tried to wake him but could not. I tried to rouse the false Maester also. Then I returned to Captain Xaq to inform him."

"How did Captain Wahlo look?"

"Just as Leto describes, my captain. Grey of face, slow of breath, and when Captain Xaq shook him, a pink foam emerged from his lips."

At this, Xaq nodded grimly.

"The false Maester was present. What about Leto?"

"Not then. Leto came only after I spoke to Captain Xaq. He arrived with Nymeria and Corlio."

"And then?"

"First, Corlio shook Captain Wahlo, then Captain Xaq tried, but Captain Wahlo did not respond. We thought him sick of an illness but then Leto noticed the vial of the milk on the false Maester's lap and he realised what had happened. We worked to wake Noell and when he opened his eyes, he said that he gave the captain more of the milk than was usual. Leto sent me to fetch you, Captain Moajja. Captain Xaq stayed with Captain Wahlo. Corlio, Leto, and Nymeria took Noell outside, where they waited until Gurro ordered Piley to put Noell in the brig."

"Thank you Laro. Corlio, please."

Corlio stepped forward.

"Your name?"

"Corlio Lemyenis of Tyrosh."

"Corlio, tell us your account of the death of Captain Wahlo."

Corlio shrugged disdainfully. "I need not since it happened just as Laro and Leto have said. Leto was in my company all of that morning and I vouch that he remained on deck. I have also sold my sword in Lys and I know of the purple crystals and the death they deliver. You die quickly and violently, choking and bloody, not slipping away with grey lips and slowed breath. This milk-blooded, lying, false Maester seeks only to save his skin by accusing another of a death that he caused."

Noell renewed his muffled protestations until Malthar gave him a shake.

Corlio raised an eyebrow and added "If I were not so thirsty, I would spit on him for his cowardice."

Moajja spoke into the silence. "I call Captain Xaq."

Xaq stood and bowed to Moajja.

"Captain, have you anything to say that will contradict any of the testimony we have heard already?"

"Laro informed me of the captain's illness and I arrived in his cabin with Laro, Leto, Corlio, and Nymeria. I accord with all that Laro, Leto, and Corlio have described. When Corlio, Leto, and Nymeria left the cabin, my Uncle's breath grew slower and slower until finally it stopped."

"Have you knowledge of these poisons also?"

"Alas, no. I know of Milk of the Poppy but have not seen it cause death. I know nothing of this Strangler."

Xaq turned to address everyone in the room. "My Uncle, Captain Wahlo, was a great man, who should have lived another half lifetime. A truer, kinder, greater man, there has never been. His killer must face punishment." Tears filled his eyes as he sat down again.

Moajja nodded.

"I call the final witness. Nymeria."

Noell's muffled protests sounded again. No doubt he wished to point out that Nymeria could not be relied upon to give unbiased testimony.

Unprompted, Arya said "I am Nymeria of the Stormlands."

"Have you anything to say that will contradict any of the testimony we have heard already?"

Arya stated baldly. "Leto speaks the truth. Noell does not."

Her eyes dropped to the floor for a moment. She didn't want to defend Noell, he deserved everything that would come to him. But her conscience pricked at the thought of letting him be found guilty without giving voice to what had not been said.

She raised her chin and looked at Moajja squarely. "Noell is a liar and a coward and I am shocked, truly shocked, that he is trying to blame Leto for the death of the captain. I believe Noell is responsible for the captain's death but, Captain Moajja, I feel compelled to say that I think it was truly an accident. Why would he murder the captain in cold blood? Captain Wahlo's experience meant that this ship would likely make it to Lys before the storm. Captain Xaq was not as able to sail the Last Lament safely to Lys and Gurro did not agree with his decision to sail South."

Xaq flushed but said nothing.

Arya continued. "Noell has oft times spoken of his fear that he would die at sea. To kill the captain and throw this ship into turmoil? Why would he do that? It was an accident. A tragic accident. If you find that he murdered the captain in cold blood, then there must be evidence to support it."

Moajja and Xaq were as still as statues for a moment and it felt as though everyone in the room had stopped breathing. Even Noell did not move. Eventually, Moajja threw Arya a hard look and replied. 

"This court decides guilt or innocence by listening to facts, not opinions."

She stood straighter and gazed ahead.

"As Captain of the archers and judge in this trial, I find Leto innocent of the charge."

Arya felt as if a weight had been lifted from her but Jaqen did not move a muscle.

Moajja continued with obvious reluctance. "And there is not sufficient evidence to prove that Noell killed the captain deliberately."

She raised her voice so that everyone in the room could hear her next words.

"However, by his own admission, Noell gave Captain Wahlo too much of the milk and the facts -" here, she looked coldly at Arya, "-  suggest that he is responsible for his untimely death. And he was false in his claims that he was schooled in medicine and healing. Hence, this court finds him guilty of negligence and the subsequent death of Captain Wahlo. However, since it was not a cold-blooded killing, he will not be executed."

Noell made a small sound from behind his gag. Xaq's face was stone.

The captain of the archers continued. 

"Nonetheless, he must face punishment for what he has done. This court ordains that he will be put into a rowboat and set adrift with rations enough for seven days. The God of the Sea will decide if he lives or dies."

Noell emitted a stifled shriek and his legs gave way. Malthar, who also had had enough of his histrionics, released his grip on his arms and Noell collapsed to the floor as was his custom in such circumstances. The Summer Isles man silenced him with a kick but his muffled sobs continued to echo around the room.

Arya had had enough too. She took Jaqen's arm and turned to Moajja. "Leto has been through enough today. We will return to our cabin."

Xaq shook his head slightly and Chatayo Xo stepped in front of them.

Startled, Arya turned to Xaq. "What? Let us go."

He replied "We are not yet done."

Arya frowned as he turned to Jaqen. "I must ask you Leto, how was it that you were not burnt by the dragon's breath?"

Jaqen replied simply "I do not know."

A flash of irritation passed over Xaq's face. "Speak truth." he commanded.

"I speak it."

Xaq's gaze hardened. "The false Maester has claimed you were entranced by the red shores yonder. He is a known liar but Leto, I myself saw you watching the orange skies. All on board this ship did. And all saw you survive the dragons flames. And all saw too that you commanded the dragon."

Jaqen looked back at Xaq impassively. He opened his mouth to reply but before he spoke, a shrill, insistent voice piped up from the floor. "And what did he say? Likely 'Take me to Valyria and burn this ship'!"

Arya swung around to glower furiously at Noell, who had taken the opportunity to rid himself of the gag when Malthar released him.

Malthar growled "Silence." and delivered him another kick.

Xaq ignored the interruption. "What command did you give the creature?"

Arya barrelled forward and yelled "He said Fly in High Valyrian. Fly! To protect the ship. To protect all of us, including you. And the dragon did what it wanted anyway! It burned him! That proves he was not its master!"

Xaq returned her gaze coldly and Arya saw that any goodwill he'd had for her had gone. Perhaps she should not have spoken so plainly in defence of that treacherous worm, Noell.

"Whatever he said, all saw him command the dragon. And whether it tried to burn him or not, he was yet unburnt. Leto, are you a magician from Valyria as the false Maester claims?"

"I am not. I am a sellsword. No more, no less."

"Well. It matters not." Xaq spoke heavily. "As captain, it is my duty to protect this ship and I will take no chances. You were unburnt and neither you nor I can come up with a reason for that. If the dragon indeed sought you out, I believe it will do so again. And Last Lament may not survive a second dose of dragonfire."

He paused to look around the room as if to imprint his position and authority on the others. "Leto, I am regretful of this. You have done nothing to deserve it. But you must join the false Maester in the row boat."

Arya's mouth fell open, while Jaqen did not move.

He continued "Such a small craft may escape the Serpent if you row hard enough. Then, if you are lucky, you will be rescued by another ship, perchance from the Basilisk Isles or traders sailing from the Gulf of Grief. There will be rations enough for two and.." he directed a bland look at where Noell lay, "if your companion should be washed overboard, then you will have food for more than half a moon to reach shore or ship."  

His words were met with silence as all in the room digested this new turn of events. Jaqen's distraction was evident and he failed to react when Arya launched past him.

She leapt high across the desk and the heel of her boot thudded into Xaq's chest, who fell backwards, chair and all. But it was Moajja she reached for. She knew the code of honour of the Summer Islanders. When it came to a one-on-one fight, Malthar, Xaq, and Chatayo Xo would wait to see who would be the victor and then act. Take Xaq hostage, and she'd have Moajja and her archers to contend with. Take Moajja hostage, and she might gain control of all on this ship. She'd make them understand that Jaqen must stay aboard and that she and he would leave as soon as they reached land.  

Pulling her slim dagger from her sleeve, she tried to grab Moajja's long braids but the Summer Isles captain sprang backwards to avoid her grasp and expertly knocked the blade aside. Then Arya was upon her, driving an elbow into her neck as Moajja delivered a powerful punch into Arya's stomach. They fell to the floor, Arya on top, and she got a fistful of hair in her hand as Moajja pushed upwards and used her height advantage to roll them over until she was on top. She pinioned Arya to the ground. Arya jabbed at Moajja's eyes, but the Summer Isles captain tilted her neck and did not wince as Arya's clawed hand raked her cheek instead. Moajja grabbed a wrist and forced it to the floor but Arya's other hand slid down to a pocket in her tunic that held a slim razor. She looked into Moajja's eyes as her fingers closed on it. She'd put a hole in the captain's slender throat and would staunch the blood only when Moajja weakened enough to be subdued. But before she could raise her hand, the captain of the archers was yanked off her and then Jaqen filled her vision and his knee was on her chest, holding her down. 

"Nymeria."

His severe tone transported her back to the House of Black and White, when he was her Master and she was his student. She stared up into his eyes in bewilderment. 

"Stop this. You cannot fight an entire ship's crew."

"But it's not fair! It's wrong! You have done nothing! I won't let them. J-"

"Nymeria," Jaqen spoke the name again and she remembered whom she was supposed to be. "I will go with the false Maester and you will stay on this ship."

"No... no, I won't."

"Yes. Now, up." He took his knee away and pulled her to her feet. Chatayo Xo helped Xaq up and directed a solemn look at Jaqen and Arya.

The captain of the archers was standing also, and she nodded abruptly at Arya. "You fight well but it was ill-done."

Her expression was ice. "You will join your friend and the false Maester in the small boat."

A strangled cry sounded from the back of the room. Laro. Arya suddenly felt dreadful. The boy was so young and they had grown as close as brother and sister. He'd be bereft. But, if Jaqen was leaving the ship, then she was going with him, whether Moajja ordered it or not.

Jaqen looked sharply at Moajja but said nothing.

Moajja gestured to Malthar. "Take them to their cabins and keep them there until the boat is readied."

Malthar hauled Noell up roughly, as Noell began to beg. "Oh please, no. The men outside, I heard them say the wind will blow from the west. We will end up on Valyria's red shore if we don't sink. Oh please, I cannot..." His whimpers continued until he was out of earshot.

Chatayo Xo gestured to Arya and Jaqen. "Come." His manner was almost sympathetic.

Laro darted forward and clung to Arya's arm. "Nymeria, my friend.. my dear friend. I will beg the captain to allow you to stay with me." He gazed up at Jaqen. "Leto, I am sorry. I wish..." He trailed off as Chatayo Xo ushered them forward.

Arya looked down at Laro's pleading expression. She spoke gently. "Laro, my place is with Leto. If they make Leto leave this ship, then no matter how wrong that is, I will go too. And I fear the captain of the archers loves me no longer!" She raised her eyebrows and ventured a little smile but the boy ignored her jest.

He pulled on her arm to draw her face down to his level as they walked and whispered sorrowfully in her ear. "Nymeria. I did not say it before Captain Xaq and Captain Moajja, but... I saw the orange skies wash the colour from Leto's hair."

Arya frowned as she looked at him. "You saw?"

The boy whispered urgently. "Yes. And I saw too that the next morning, his hair was red again. Is Leto a sorcerer? Tell me, please."

She replied sadly. "No, he isn't. If he were, I'd hope he'd have magicked up a ship to rescue us from this wreck - the ship that you and I wished so hard for." 

Laro nodded desolately and continued. "Nymeria... I beg you to heed your good friend. I think that the captain is right - the dragon sought Leto, whether he wishes it or not. The red waste wants him. He must leave this ship, for the good of all. But you must not go with him."

"Laro, I don't think we have a choice in the matter now. And I will not leave Leto. Where he goes, I go. That is how it is with us."

Laro didn't reply. 

She stopped for a second, and Chatayo Xo paused respectfully as she took Laro by the shoulders and spoke into his face.

"Don't you worry for me, Laro. I have been in a lot of dangerous situations since I was even younger than you and I'm still here. Leto would give his life for me, you saw that. So don't worry. I hope we meet again before you grow much taller. And if you are ever in need, dear Laro, I ask you to go to Westeros and find the King in the North, Jon Snow. Tell him what you know of me, and he'll help you, I promise."

Laro threw himself at her and they hugged, before Chatayo Xo eventually tapped them and they parted. Arya held back tears as she climbed down through the hatch behind Jaqen and walked along the passage to their cabin. When they entered, Chatayo Xo bowed and closed their door. Arya knew he waited outside.

Jaqen sat beside her on the bed. He sighed. "Lovely girl... forgive this man."

"For what? You're not a magician. And I don't even think that dragon liked you." she sniffed.

Jaqen turned to look at her and threaded his fingers through hers. He waited till she lifted her eyes to meet his, and then spoke quietly.

"A man must leave this ship. There is no choice. He knows not if this dragon will return but the crew will be in fear of it whenever they see this man's bald appearance. It is better for this man to leave now in a row boat than be thrown overboard this night with his red blood painting the deck. But a girl can stay. Her young friend will convince the captain, a man is sure of it. Arya Stark of Winterfell may yet see her home after ten long years of war if she stays aboard Last Lament. And if this man survives ten days in a small boat with only his good friend Noell for company -" his eyes twinkled for a moment before becoming serious again "- then he will make it his life's mission to find this girl wherever she is in Westeros."

Arya shook her head vehemently. "No, Jaqen. I'm staying with you. You're my pack and I'm your pack and that's that."

He tried again. "The false Maester fears the row boat will run aground on the red shore. Lovely one, it is possible that a man - and his Valyrian blood that has caused so much upset - might survive amid the Fourteen Flames, but this Northern girl likely will not. This man asks - no, he implores - her to remain on Last Lament. "

Arya gazed back at him mulishly.

Gazing into her eyes, he leant forward and kissed her mouth softly. She felt his breath on her lips as he murmured "Please?"

She kissed him back but said nothing.

His lips drifted to a spot below her ear. It sent lightning bolts down her spine.

She could barely hear his whisper. "Please, beloved girl. Do this one thing. And forget not that this man loves a girl above all else."

His right hand stroked the side of her neck.

Gods, he really was using every weapon in his armoury. Arya's eyes narrowed suddenly. He had tried reasoning, he had tried seduction, next was...

She shoved him away and sprang over to the door, exclaiming "Don't you even think of trying to knock me out, Jaqen H'ghar. I know your tricks. If you come near me, I'll shout for Chatayo Xo. He's only outside."

Jaqen threw her a wounded look. "A man would not."

"You would. And I bet you were about to, you snake. And it would be no use anyway - they'd just pick me up and dump me in the rowboat instead. I'd rather climb into it myself, thank you."

Jaqen tightened his lips and regarded her for a moment. Then he stood abruptly. "For the last time, this man asks a girl to stay on Last Lament with her young friend."

Arya raised her chin and replied firmly. "Don't you understand? I won't ever leave you. And you never leave me. Ok?"

Jaqen's eyes were glacial as he looked down at her, but Arya didn't care. She was no longer his student. She was his equal and he loved her and he could glare and glower all he wanted to, nothing could change her mind.

Suddenly, he sat down on the bed and ran his hands over his head in a rare gesture that spoke volumes. The words dragged from his lips. "Just so."

Arya allowed herself a small victorious smile. She climbed onto his lap and kissed him briskly.

"That's better. Now, we don't have much time. So let's make the most of it." She kissed him again, this time slowly.

It wasn't long before another knock sounded and Chatayo Xo escorted them up to the deck and over to the bulwark where a long rowboat bobbed in the water below. It was covered in elaborate carvings and the name Tall Trees was painted on its side in the Summer Isles script. A barrel and wooden chest were lashed there, alongside a pile of colourful Summer Isles blankets. A pair of long oars lay along the inside of the boat. Arya felt a lump form in her throat. The storm had left only two rowboats on Last Lament, and they had given them the good one. She suspected that Laro had had something to do with this.

The deck moved beneath them, telling her that the waves had picked up little. A light wind ruffled her hair. The crew and archers stood by in silence under the grey sky. Arya saw Corlio among them. She and Jaqen could expect no further help from him, this she knew. He had spoken up for Jaqen in the captain's quarters and for that she was grateful, but he was a sellsword and would not endanger himself for nothing as he'd seen Arya do. 

He waved regretfully and called out "Our journey together is at an end, dear Nymeria, dear Leto. Gods speed, girl. I'd wager on you two against anything lying above or below these forsaken waters."

Arya nodded grimly in response. Gods damn the lot of them.  Jaqen's only crime had been trying to save her and Laro and the rest of the ship, and all she had done was try to defend him from a false charge made by a coward seeking to save his own hide. She hoped she would not lay eyes on Xaq or Moajja. She was struggling to bite her tongue as it was and the sight of them might tip her over the edge.

Arya looked around for the boy. He was huddled against a Summer Isles archer named Meila. She waved and he returned her salute before burying his face in his hands as she and Jaqen climbed down the rope ladder and stepped into the boat.  

When Noell was brought out, the atmosphere among those on the deck of Last Lament changed. A threatening murmur began which quickly became jeers and shouts. The Summer Isles crew and archers seemed in no doubt about his guilt in the matter of Captain Wahlo, while the Essos and Westerosi crew did not care for his craven betrayal of their fellow countrymen. From their position in the rowboat, Arya and Jaqen could not see him until he was pushed up against the bulwark by Malthar, who wasted no time in strong-arming him over the side. Noell was too rigid with terror to grip the rope ladder and Jaqen quickly leant out over the prow to push the rowboat away from the ship's hull just as Noell dropped from the ladder and plunged into the water with a splash. As he surfaced, gasping and crying, Arya got hold of the wet collar of his shirt and with Jaqen's assistance, she hauled him into the small boat, ignoring the shouts from Last Lament that urged her to let him drown. 

Jaqen untied the line that was knotted around the bottom rung of the rope ladder, and the rowboat began to drift away from the broken swan ship as the catcalls and hoots followed them.

"I'd wager Nymeria will push that whoredog back into the water by nightfall."

"The Merling King waits for you on the seabed, Maester - and our Captain too."

"Feed him to the fish - or the dragon!"

Arya could take it no more. "Fuck the lot of you! You're sending us to our deaths." she screamed.

She was about to add that she hoped that Last Lament would sink and soon but then she saw Laro running lightly along the bulwark as the Serpent swept the ship ahead and she gulped back her words. He called out, his hands cupped around his mouth, and the wind made his desperate shouts tremble like the wail of a seabird. Arya leant out over the water, straining to hear him over the sound of the waves slapping the sides of the rowboat.

"Nymeria! Leto! Row North and West! Not East. Not East! Nymeria! My friend! Nymeria!"

Chapter Text

A couple of hours had passed. Last Lament was still in sight - just. The swan ship had been taken quickly by the sinuous currents of the Serpent but the twisting waters had less effect on the lighter row boat, which revolved and pirouetted with each eddy until Arya had complained that she was going to be sick. Jaqen had taken the tiller in his hand and the little boat had steadied. Soon, Last Lament would disappear over the horizon and then they would be alone in a vast sea with only their shipmate for company.

After being hauled on board, Noell had lain in a heap at the front of the boat and the sound of his whimpering competed with the slap and rush of the waves. He was wet through and terrified. Arya sat with Jaqen at the tiller end and the boat was long enough to give them a little space from their self-serving companion but after a while, Arya decided it was time to inspect the provisions they had been promised. She stood carefully and climbed across to the middle of the boat where the small barrel, wooden chest, and blankets were secured. 

The boat rocked gently with Arya's movement and Noell opened his eyes. When he saw her advancing upon him, he shrank away from her and his crying grew louder.

Arya threw him a harsh look, climbed over the provisions and, making her way to where he lay, she dropped one of the Summer Isles blankets over him.

"Stop that noise." she ordered.

Noell quieted instantly, eyeing her fearfully but Arya ignored him and returned to the middle of the boat. She knelt down before the barrel and eased off its lid. In the shadow of the its tall sides, water swirled. She sniffed it.

"Drinking water." she announced, replacing the lid firmly.

Loosening the lines that lashed the chest in place, she pulled at the clasp and pushed the lid back. Inside it lay a bundle of dried fish wrapped in a piece of sailcloth, some ship's biscuit, eighteen oranges whose skins were dusted with white mould, a wooden cup, a couple of empty wineskins with strange oversized cork stoppers, three half-melted candles in a tin, a flint, and a roll of thin line with a hook attached.

She raised her eyebrows. "They kept to their word, at least, although the oranges won't be good for much longer. There is quite enough food here for three of us for seven days. And there's a line and hook - we can catch fish."

Jaqen nodded.

Noell sat up at last. "I am thirsty." he said in a small voice.

"You can have a cup of water this evening" replied Arya. "If I were you, I'd stop crying. You need to preserve the water in your body."

Noell looked about to weep again but swallowed hard instead.

Arya pointed at the oars that lay in the belly of the boat and looked at Jaqen. "Laro said to row north or west."

Jaqen saw no point in continuing the charade. He lapsed into his customary speech patterns. Noell likely wouldn't notice anyway.

"The boy must believe these ones have the strength of giants. If a man has the right of it, only the city of Volantis lies in that direction and it will take a year to row there. In the East lies the remnants of Valyria, in the South lies Naath, and to the West lies naught but the Summer Sea. We have not sufficient water to last until Naath unless it rains often. And Valyria is an unlucky place to go ashore. So these three must hope for rescue. Trade from Volantis, Lys, Slavers Bay, or perhaps Naath must surely sail these waters."

"You'd think so," agreed Arya, "But we have seen no ship since the Stepstones. Besides, there are a lot of Lysene ships whose profession is not honest trade. It seems like we have three probable fates: One, be killed by pirates. Two, die on Valyria. Or three, starve to death in this tub.”

“Four. A girl forgets drowning. This boat will not withstand a storm like the last one.”

“Five. I kill you and then it’s one of the other four for me.”

He smirked and bowed his head. “Valar Morgulis, Lovely girl.”

A loud wail from the end of the boat interrupted them.

"We are doomed!"

Arya raised her eyebrows. "Seems like it."

Jaqen shook his head at Arya. "Doom is not certain. A man proposes that this boat rides the Serpent until it clears the Southron end of the Valyrian peninsula. Then row East to escape from the Serpent and hope for rescue by ships from Slavers Bay or New Ghis."

"That's the exact opposite of what Laro said." Arya pointed out.

"The boy was thinking only to urge a girl to avoid Valyria's red shores."

He hoped that was possible. He had noticed something the other two had yet to realise.

Arya nodded. "How will we know when to start rowing?"

"The skies are red over Valyria. When the red sky is North East of these three, it will be time to row this boat from the Serpent."

Arya's brow furrowed as she realised that the air here tasted not just of salt but of smoke too and something else that reminded her of old boiled eggs. She wrinkled her nose and looked Eastwards. To her surprise, she could see a dark line against the orange of the sky to the East.

"Gods, is that...? We've got closer than I realised."

Jaqen nodded sombrely. "Just so."

As the day wore on, the dark line became a black cloud that hung over the sea and the air's acrid taste became so pronounced that even Noell noticed. The little boat was swept along and its three occupants lapsed into a mesmerised silence as they stared out from the port side. Occasionally, the cloud would part to reveal glimpses of a jagged silhouette against red skies and a black and smoking wasteland in the foreground. 

To lay eyes on this cursed and fabled land made Arya feel strange. She was pretty sure she knew of no other Westerosi that had ever been this close to the red shore, but it was too intimidating and dreadful for her to feel superior about.

“Well, that’s Valyria. It looks just as shit as the stories say.” she observed to Jaqen. 

Despite his concerns, Arya's pithy summation made Jaqen grin briefly. No-one would contest that the black cloud and snatched glimpses of scorched earth had little about them to love. But, confined as he was in this small vessel that in turn was in the grip of a powerful sea current, he felt able to surrender to his complex fascination with this land that called to him, and he could barely take his eyes off it. Had he hair on his head, he was certain that it would have turned as silver as platinum.

Through breaks in the cloud, they could see bright orange lines that striped the sides of one of the tallest peaks. When Arya pointed them out to Jaqen, he told her she was likely looking at one of the Fourteen Flames. The orange lines were Valyria's rivers of fire that had existed even before the Doom and it seemed, still ran. They were the blood of the mountain, and he described how they emerged from the mountain's apex like wine from an overflowing cup. Wherever this fiery blood cooled, it hardened into a black rock. During the freehold, the Valyrian overlords had channeled these red rivers to deposit their contents wherever they wanted to build. From the burning liquid, their slaves, sorcerers, and dragons created marvellous structures with fanciful decoration.

"What does a girl know of this land?" Jaqen asked, his eyes dreamily fixed on the dark cloud. It had grown a tall black column that rose into the sky at an angle, which he thought must be a vast pillar of smoke. 

Arya tried to remember what she’d learnt from Septa and Maester Lewin and from her time in the Order and from stories and rumours over the years. It wasn’t much. The facts were few. The rest, only speculation.

“There were cities and mines and slaves and Valyrian overlords and dragons. Most of Essos was in the Valyrian Freehold. Then the Doom came and the Valyrians and dragons were all killed except a few. It’s hot and dry and, by the look of it, still burning in places. It’s dangerous.”

"Just so."

"Nobody lives there now. Nobody could."

Jaqen hummed thoughtfully. "After the Doom, some men brought armies to Valyria to reclaim it, but they never returned nor were heard of again. There have been rumours of men living in the remnants of Valyrian cities in the North of the peninsula. But this is certainly the Southron end that was broken into islands when the sea rushed in. A man believes it uninhabited."

Arya recalled the Braavosi captain who had bragged about seeing Valyria. She glanced warily towards where Noell sat hunched and lowered her voice.

"They say that the mere sight of Valyria means certain death."

Jaqen smiled into her eyes and dropped a kiss on her hair. "Those are only fancies, Lovely girl. Sights cannot kill a man, unless that which he sees is so shocking that it causes his heart to stop beating. A girl will not suffer such a fate from the sight of a few fiery mountains and some cloud."

Arya nodded, reassured. She didn't see Jaqen's jaw tense as he tried not to speculate about the many other ways Valyria could kill a beautiful Northern girl.

It was no surprise that Jaqen knew more about the Valyrian peninsula than Arya did. The House had a substantial library dedicated to the Valyrian freehold, which he told her rivalled some of the great rooms in the Citadel. It seemed that he had spent much time amongst its tomes, tablets, and scrolls.

Noell had wrapped himself in the blanket Arya had thrown him and had been sitting quietly at last. Hearing this, he looked up and inquired "What library is this? Few can rival those of the Citadel." 

Jaqen tore his eyes from the cloud in the East to regard the false Maester in silence. 

When he met Jaqen's bland eye, Noell froze and seemed to be groping for words.

"I don't think you'll get much conversation out of Leto." Arya informed him. "Not since you tried to frame him for your killing."

Noell's face crumpled and Arya sighed. More tears. His voice quavered. "Oh, Nymeria. Leto. Forgive me, I beg you. I did wrong, yes. But I was so very scared. I have always known that the sea will be the death of me. I'm not a brave man. My terror made me do it, you must understand that? I have always been a slave to fear. It is my curse. I meant nothing by my actions. Please, oh please, forgive me."

Arya's tone was conversational. "I can't speak for Leto but I'll tell you what I think," She held aloft one finger, "First, you are a coward, Noell. There is nothing I despise more. Anyone can be brave. Courage is when you do what's right even though you are afraid of the consequences."

A second finger joined the first. "Second, you are a traitor, willing to betray anyone if it helps you. Leto did nothing to you yet you tried to make him take your punishment."

A third finger was raised. "And finally, you are a vindictive man. Why else would you have tried to convince Xaq that Leto commanded the dragon to fly him to Valyria and burn Last Lament? It had no benefit for you, since it was after he was found innocent and you were found guilty."

Her hand closed into a fist and Noell watched her knuckles whiten. "So, don't think that just because I hauled you out of the sea, I have forgotten any of that. That will never happen." She leant forward and her tone became menacing. "I will never forgive you."

Noell stared back at her wordlessly.

She leant back and slapped her hands on her knees. Her tone lightened. "I must say though that you are fortunate because Leto decided a while back that his killing days are over. It was actually very ironic that it was he you tried to frame."

She nodded cheerfully. "And I won't kill you, not unless you make me. We three are on this small boat together and it won't be easy. As Leto knows well, normally I am all about revenge, but since we don't know what the future holds, I'm giving you some mercy. We might need your help to row us out of the Serpent and that's Valyria, right there -" she pointed. " - so we are in a bit of a spot as I'm sure you agree. But I know you are a treacherous dog who will stoop to anything to save his hide. So, heed this warning. Don't try to take more food or water or blankets than is your portion. Don't try to push one of us into the sea or turn Leto and I against one another. If you do that, I'll kill you as soon as look at you, and then we will enjoy your third of the food and water. Do you understand?"

Noell gazed at her. Then he nodded woodenly. He hunched over to wrap the blanket more tightly around him and turned his back on Arya to stare ahead at the sea.

As the sun crept towards the Western horizon, Jaqen looked grimly about them. “This wind is concerning.” he admitted.

Arya nodded her agreement. The swell was bigger now and while the little boat rose and fell with it well enough, water had splashed over the side and she'd had to stuff the Summer Isles blankets into the wooden chest to keep them from getting wet.

He raised his chin and addressed Arya. "Fill the wineskins with drinking water and hang them from your belt, Lovely girl. And make a pack of food also. It will not hurt to do so."

Arya obeyed. Noell had turned to watch her anxiously. He asked "Why do you do that? Do you think this boat will sink?"

She replied cautiously "Just taking a few precautions. The sea is rougher now and we'll take no chances on being separated from all of our food and water."

He shuddered before appealing to her. "Give me a pack and a wineskin. It is only fair. One third of the supplies is my portion."

Arya thought about refusing but she didn't want to leave him with nothing and her sense of fairness won out. As Jaqen looked on with disapproval, she took some of the fish and biscuits from the bundle and handed them to Noell along with the second wineskin. Noell had nothing to wrap the food in and tried to rip a strip from the Summer Isles blanket he had wrapped about himself, but it was too well-crafted to tear. His overshirt was but a rag since Chatayo Xo had taken part of it to use as a gag back on Last Lament. In the end, he crammed the food into his pockets and tucked the wineskin under his arm.

"I will pray for us." he announced. He closed his eyes and began to beseech the Mother loudly.

At the tiller, Jaqen watched Arya push the wrapped bundle of food inside her shirt and tie the remaining wineskin onto her belt. A wave lifted the boat, making it list sharply, and she grabbed the rail. Their feet were in a few inches of water now, which slopped around the belly of the boat. Arya retrieved the cup from the chest to use as a pail. She had bailed out as much as she could when another wave buffeted the starboard side, splashing more water into the boat. Arya cursed and redoubled her efforts, hurling water over the side with her customary energy.

Jaqen's heart twisted in his chest. Her pluck was humbling to witness. The Valyrian shore was closer then ever now and the Tall Trees was not designed to surmount a violent sea. They had few supplies and their companion could not be trusted, not for one moment.  All this and still Arya of House Stark was undefeated.

She might have stayed on Last Lament, which promised a much better chance of survival. But she had chosen loyalty and love over safety. Loyalty to him, love of him.

His thoughts darkened as he acknowledged something that had lingered in the back of his mind since they had been put off Last Lament.

He had failed her.

He should have made her listen. He should have made her see the sense of staying. To the Faceless Men, the art of manipulation was second nature. And while he was no longer a member of the Order, he had retained the skills that had been drummed into him by his Masters. Had he been cleverer about it, Arya would surely still be on the swan ship. He had not thought to invoke the name of her beloved brother Jon and the possibility of reuniting with him. Or her direwolf, Nymeria. Or Sansa, her sister. Would it have swayed her resolve? He did not know and now it was too late.

He too prayed. 

Arya sat down, oblivious to Jaqen's remorse. The wineskin was heavy and cumbersome, and its giant bulbous cork stopper was in the way of her arm. She looked around her. To her left were devilish-looking black and orange clouds yet to the right, the setting sun had painted the overcast sky a beautiful golden peach and pink. Night would come soon. Craning around to look at Jaqen, she said "We should drop anchor."

Jaqen nodded slowly. They did not know what lay ahead - submerged crags, whirlpools, or any number of threats - and visibility would soon be poor since the overcast sky would hide the moon's light. He hoped that dropping anchor here would not expose the Tall Trees to unfavourable waves. It seemed a hardy enough little vessel but it was nevertheless just a row boat. At present, they were being freely swept South by the Serpent while being pushed East by the wind and waves. If the wind was the stronger of the two forces, then dropping anchor would be safe since it would cause the bow of the boat to face the wind and waves. But if the current was the stronger, they'd be pulled South or South-East, which would expose the starboard side to waves from the West. Well, there was only one way to find out.

He sighed and remarked "Likely the anchor line is sufficient to reach the seabed here since the boat is not too far from shore."

It turned out that Noell was sitting atop the coil of line and anchor, so he was given the job of dropping it. He seemed glad to be of use. Jaqen tried to find a landmark on the Valyrian coastline by which he could judge if the boat was drifting but the black cloud had thickened and told him nothing. Still, the boat swung around to face the waves which was good, and Jaqen reasoned that little else could be done.

Though the moon could not be seen, they were not as blind as Jaqen had feared. He had overlooked the fact that the Fourteen Flames burned always and their glow cast coppery tones onto the dark waves and onto the Tall Trees with its three occupants. They each had a cup of water from the barrel and a bite of the dried fish. Despite the saltwater swirling around in the base of the boat, Noell lay down in the bow under his blanket and Arya had rested her head on Jaqen's lap with a sigh and closed her eyes. All was quiet.

Jaqen was lost in his thoughts when the air suddenly shuddered and a split second later, a deafening boom sounded that was one thousand claps of thunder made one. The glow above Valyria intensified and then the sky there became alive with fiery shooting stars and, for a moment, Jaqen was back in the Battle of Braavos where the night was crisscrossed by flaming projectiles hurled from the mouth of the Titan onto the swarming dead below. Arya had woken instantly and was tensed against him and Noell was wailing in terror. In the orange light, he saw the black cloud had become alive and enormous, billowing and rolling across the water. The air grew hot and he was astonished to see snow fall from the skies. He looked down at Arya and for two breaths he was paralysed as he saw that he now held in his arms a grey statue of a huddled Northern girl. Then Arya began to cough and he realised it was not snow but ash and that she and he and Noell and the Tall Trees and even the sea around them were covered in it. 

He glanced back and his breath caught as he saw that the vast wall of cloud was still tumbling across the water towards the little boat. The fiery light over Valyria dimmed as darkness filled the sky. The cloud and its contents would be upon them unless.... he turned, shouting urgently to Noell in the bow.

"Weigh anchor! Pull it up!"

But Noell was too shocked to move. Arya flinched away from Jaqen as he scrambled forward to shoulder Noell aside and start pulling on the line that anchored the boat. Noell watched him open mouthed and then scrabbled to help. 

"Haul it in. Quickly." ordered Jaqen and Noell obeyed with a gasp. Jaqen scrambled back to the middle of the boat, grabbed the oars, and began pulling away from Valyria with every ounce of his strength.

As he rowed, he could see the cloud marching upon them like a tidal wave. Arya was still coughing but was leant over the port side paddling feverishly with her hands. Then Noell was beside him. He wrenched an oar from Jaqen's grip, and the two began rowing in unison. They strained at the oars desperately, muscles burning, inhaling more dust and smoke with every ragged breath. Both men were coughing now and Jaqen's voice was hoarse as he urged Noell to keep pace. “Pull....pull....pull...” Sparks landed on their skin, stinging like bees. 

The Tall Trees plunged through the waves like a swan ship and they fought to maintain the rhythm of the oars that pulled them onward. Water splashed into the boat and soaked the rowers, washing the ash from their faces and clothing, but they did not stop hauling on the oars until Arya croaked "I think you can stop now. It's gone."

Jaqen looked back the way they had come as a wave struck the rear of the Tall Trees with a heavy slap. He assumed they were still in the Serpent but the sea was certainly rougher here. Towards Valyria, it still seemed darker than before down at their level but above, he could once more see the orange glow that its fires cast onto the sky and the ash was mostly gone from the air. He took a steadying breath. They had somehow outrun the cloud. He knew little of such things but it seemed certain that it had been produced by the explosion and it occurred to him that they had just been given a small taste of how the Valyrian freehold had met its abrupt end. He eased up on the oar, arms trembling with the exertion, and Noell followed suit. The false Maester's chest was heaving and his breath was laboured but when he turned to meet Jaqen's eye, his face broke out into a smile of relief and triumph, just as the sea rose up in a wall behind them and tumbled the little boat over. 

Chapter Text

Arya felt as though her lungs were burning a hole in her chest. She was under water, the dark sea pressing in on her and the sinuous coils of the Serpent dragging at her clothes and hair. There was no sky, no land, no Tall Trees, no up, no down, no end to the blackness. She didn't know which way to swim to find the surface and she had the feeling that she was being tumbled by the current.

She was going to die down here. Her heart pounded in her ears as she tried to quell her rising panic. The wind had been knocked out of her lungs when the sea had rushed up to meet her and the urge to breathe was becoming impossible to resist.  Something bumped her and she almost cried out, but then she realised it was only the wineskin fixed to her belt. It tugged her sideways and she realised that the oversized cork stopper was straining to tear loose ... was it being pulled to the surface? Kicking hard in the same direction, she prayed she was right. When her face broke the surface, she desperately sucked the air into her lungs before a fit of coughing took over. A wave lifted her high and she squeezed her eyes shut for a moment to clear her vision. 

"Jaqen..." she gasped. Where was he?

Stinging water slapped her face and the cork stopper bobbed in the water in front of her. She clutched it to her chest and looked around wildly. The sea was a surging panorama of amber reflection and black shadow. She scanned the water in every direction but it was impossible to see clearly. Gods, where was he? Another wave carried her up and then down. As the water sprayed over her, Needle's slim leather scabbard caught about her legs and - Needle! - her breath caught as she frantically felt for its hilt. When her fingers found its smooth metal, she breathed out, thankful that it hadn't been lost, but her relief was short-lived.

Jaqen.

She shouted his name and her voice was carried away by the wind and waves.

All Arya could remember was her end of the Tall Trees rising up until she was looking down where Jaqen and Noell stared up at her with ashen faces. Then she'd been hurled through the air before hitting the water with force. The boat would likely have crashed down right on top of the other two.

"Jaqen!" she yelled, "Jaqen, I'm here! Where are you?"

She stretched her arms and began swinging them around below the surface, desperately hoping to touch clothing or an arm or swordbelt or any part of him. It was irrational she knew. He might have been anywhere in this endless sea, but she had to do something. The sea surged around her like a living thing and salt pricked her eyes.

She shouted his name again. And again. And again. And again.

Her voice cracked with the strain. Minutes had passed now. She knew he'd have searched for her, shouted to her, held her, as soon as he surfaced.

But what if he hadn't found the surface? What if he was still down there? Hurt? Unconscious?

Drowned?

She remembered the Kindly Man's words, "The Faceless are hard to kill..... but they are not immortal." And Jaqen was even more a mortal man now that he was no longer No-one.

She pushed away the thought.

Another wave lifted her and she spied a long dark shape in the water over to her left. The boat!  

She began swimming clumsily toward it.

Suddenly, something wrapped itself tight about her arm and she was pulled under. Then she did scream and the sea rushed into her mouth and nose before her face broke the surface again.

"Nymeria!" 

She saw a blurry pale face and red hair. Oh, thank the Gods. Then she blinked the water away and saw that it was Noell's face next to hers.

Of course, she thought, with a strangely detached feeling. Jaqen's hair was burnt away.

Noell was shouting incoherently. He clutched at her, pulling her down, and she went under again. In a panic, she fought against his grip, kicking and shoving and scratching until he released her. Racked with coughs, she struck out for the boat. It was floating upside down and when she reached it, she hung on to its slippery timbers as she vomited up the sea water that she'd swallowed.

Noell appeared beside her and threw himself against the upturned hull.

He was hysterical, one moment shrieking deranged prayers to the Mother, the next crying inconsolably. Arya watched him warily and moved backwards out of his reach. She knew well that this latest turn of events was, for Noell, his worst nightmare come true. When she had met him for the first time on the deck of Last Lament, his apprehension and unease about the voyage had been obvious, but it had yet to become crippling terror. So much had happened since then and each new threat to his life had knocked corners off what little courage he'd started with until all that remained was an all-consuming dread that had devoured his honour and rationality. She had, in the past, seen men come face to face with their greatest fear. Some shook off their terror and faced the threat with a clear head and a grim resolve. Others could not do it. And they were the dangerous ones. Noell was certainly in the second camp.

But, she thought hollowly, what did it matter now?

Noell felt Arya's eyes on him and turned to face her. "Oh, Nymeria... Nymeria... it has come for me as I knew it would. I told you many times I would die at sea, and now...." He began to cry again and was trembling so violently that his teeth chattered. 

Arya gazed back at him without replying. Her heart had become a hole again.

Noell finally seemed to notice. He looked around wildly.

"Where is Leto?" he wailed.

Arya could barely bring herself to say it. "I don't know."

"Leto! Leto!" Noell screamed into the wind, "Answer us! Where are you?"

Arya realised it had begun to rain. The surface of the sea became a myriad of circles and the air grew warmer.

Desolation overwhelmed her and she suddenly felt weakened to the point where she could barely maintain her grip on the boat's moving hull.

He was gone.

She turned her face away from Noell and, closing her eyes, laid her cheek against the rough wood. 

A hand gripped her upper arm.

"Leave me be, Noell." she said brokenly, "Just for a moment. Please."

"Lovely.." began a familiar voice.

With a sob, she spun around and threw her arms about Jaqen's neck. Her weight pushed him below the waves for a moment and she gasped and released him. Grabbing the boat with one hand, she hauled him up against the timbers and he took hold of the hull. Noell gave a loud cry and threw himself against Jaqen's back, hugging him from behind until Arya shoved him off.

"Where were you? I thought..." she trailed off.

Valyria's orange sky cast shadows that hid his eyes and painted dark hollows below his cheekbones. 

"Worry not, Lovely one." His tone went from reassuring to urgent, "Is a girl hurt?"

She shook her head. "Just scared witless. Are you?"

Jaqen hesitated before answering. "A scratch." he admitted.

"Where?" Arya demanded.

"A man's leg was struck, he thinks by the anchor. It is nothing. And Noell?"

"Well, you can see for yourself." she said. Noell had resumed his desperate entreaties to the Seven.

Jaqen studied him for a moment and nodded. He looked down the length of the boat. "These three must try to right the boat."

Arya followed his eyes. "We can use the waves to help push it the right way up."

Jaqen nodded approvingly. "Just so. The boat must be pushed so that this side faces the waves. Then these three must go around to the other side and climb onto the hull - one in the middle and the others near the ends. When the next wave lifts it, they will try to use their weight to pull the hull back on top of them."

Jaqen had to shake Noell roughly to get his attention but once he understood what they were going to try, he calmed and fell in with the plan eagerly. As the waves buffeted them, they pushed and pulled on the boat until its bow pointed South. They then moved around to the other side of the boat and with some effort, they each managed to haul themselves up onto the hull. All three leant over to take grip of the far bulwark and tried to brace their feet against its side. 

They waited until a good surge lifted the Tall Trees. "Now." shouted Arya. 

All three threw their weight back and the long boat smoothly rolled over on top of them and righted itself.

They surfaced quickly and wasted no time heaving Arya up and over the bulwark.

Once in the boat, she scrambled to her knees and leant over the bulwark to thrust her hands out to Jaqen. "Come on," she urged. "Noell, help him."

Noell looked up at her and, amid the rise and fall of the waves around them, it seemed to Arya that he became the only thing that was still. When he spoke, his voice held a strange tone.

"No. I am next, Nymeria. Help me up."

"What?" Arya asked in irritation.

Noell's pale eyes were unwavering. "Once the two of you are in the boat, you might choose not to help me in. My food is gone and my wineskin has been lost, but you still have your water. And mayhaps your food is still inside your shirt. Whatever remains, there is little enough for two, still less for three. I know your view of me. You explained it very well. You will leave me to drown and the sea will take me as I have always known it will."

Arya was outraged. "I wouldn't and neither would Leto!"

Noell was adamant. "Me next." His eyes bored into her.

With a savage curse, Arya held out her hands to him and he gripped them in his. Noell turned to look at Jaqen expectantly and Jaqen gazed back for a moment before nodding abruptly. He braced himself against the side of the boat, and when the next surge raised them up, he hauled Noell up and over.

Noell flopped into the boat and lay still for a moment. Then he looked up and exclaimed in surprise. "The chest! It is still in the boat. Seven be praised!"

He scrambled over to where the chest was still lashed. With a desperate excitement, he wrenched off the rope, unclasped the latch, and flung back the lid.

"Oh Mother of mine!" he declared, relief and delight written all over his face. "Nymeria, look! The oranges! And the candles and flint. And the hook and line! Seven be praised!"

Arya ignored him. She had leant over the bulwark and had taken Jaqen's hands. As Jaqen looked up at her from the moving water, he spoke in a low tone "Watch him." but Arya had turned back to exclaim "Noell, leave the chest. Help me pull Leto up."

Instead, Noell barrelled into her, knocking her overboard.

As she spluttered to the surface, she saw Jaqen reaching for her urgently and she spat "I'm fine. Get that fucker."

Instantly, he lunged at the side of the boat, but Noell was ready for him and stamped viciously on his hands. Jaqen got a handful of wet shirt but Noell jerked backwards and the fabric tore away. An eddy swirled the boat around and Noell knocked back every attempt Jaqen made to get over the bulwark. The boat began moving away and Arya started swimming after it.

"I'll go around to the other side." she gasped and began to thrash faster through the water but the Serpent had the boat in its grip and it was moving fast now. Arya and Jaqen could do nothing but tread water and watch as Noell and the Tall Trees disappeared into the night.

Arya's rage was a sight to behold. She used every expletive in her lexicon to curse the day she had saved Noell from drowning. Water splashed in her face and she coughed it out of her lungs before resuming her tirade. 

Eventually, Jaqen bade her stop. "A girl must save her energy. It is a long swim to shore."

Arya stared at him. "You don't mean...."

Jaqen replied "What choice is there, Lovely one? These two cannot float in the sea forever." He did not add that the wound in his leg was likely leaving a trail of blood in the water.

They began to swim in the direction where the sky was most orange. The wind continued from the West and pressed the sea into waves that carried them forward. 

Over the next hours, both were thankful for the ingenuity of the Summer Islanders when they took turns in hanging onto the buoyant cork stopper in Arya's wineskin. Their limbs were heavy and the water dragged on their clothes but Jaqen would not allow Arya to remove her boots or pants.

"A girl will need them when she reaches land."

He would also not allow her to sip water from the wineskin, fearing that in this surging swell, saltwater would get in and spoil it. Arya had thought she'd been thirsty when she'd been aboard Last Lament, but now she knew the true meaning of thirst. Her lips were parched and sores were forming at the corners of her mouth. Her tongue felt like sand. When the waves slapped her face, water went up her nose and into her mouth, and it stung worse every time. She tried to catch rain in her mouth whenever they rested but she only succeeded in wetting her tongue and as soon as she resumed swimming, the saltwater dried it out again. When she looked at her hands, they were soggy and bloated, and her fingertips were wrinkled like Old Nan's. 

The swim seemed endless and the orange twilight with its long black shadows meant that it was impossible to tell if they had progressed at all. At some point in the night, the rain stopped. Her legs had turned to jelly after the first few hours and her arms flopped at the water ineffectively but the waves pushed her onward.  She'd have given up many times but her boiling fury at Noell's treachery kept her going. With every flailing stroke, she cursed him anew. Her only satisfaction lay in the fact that he had no water at all since the barrel had been lost when the boat capsized. The oars had gone too and likely the anchor. The Tall Trees would wash up on Naath with a corpse on board and she hoped the gull pecked his eyes out before death took him.

It was only when dawn finally came that they saw they had made some headway and could now see clearly the cloud that hung ominously over Valyria. They paused and took turns hanging off the cork.

"Now what? We can't swim into that." exclaimed Arya. "It's probably poisonous vapours."

Jaqen said nothing and frowned as he looked over to the right. "Is that...?"

Arya turned in the same direction and saw a low finger of land extending out from the cloud. 

They started to swim.

It took them two more hours but finally, their feet touched rock and they staggered on through thigh-deep, breaking waves.  The water looked murky and smelt bad. When they cleared the shallows, they threw themselves down onto the red sand and didn't move.

Valyria had them.