Chapter Text
310 AC. Somewhere in the Sunset Sea
The routine of the morning was a familiar monotony.
She had had one as a girl. All gangly limbs flailing in the bedding until she fell upon the stone floor, tossing the fallen furs back and racing to her wardrobe to choose her own outfit before the servants arrived to choose one for her. As soon as she was dressed she was out the door and scampering down the hall, knocking in rapid succession upon Sansa's door to alarm and irritate her, and then she would attempt to evade the guards and reach the Great Hall. That seldom happened.
They were good memories and ones she was loathe to repeat upon the ship. She preferred her morn's in comfortable silence. Or as close as one could achieve on the open water.
It had been the crack of dawn when she was awoken from three hard knocks to her door; the evening crew heading to bed. Blinking herself awake she would stare at the ceiling for several beats as she checked her body without moving with all her senses. A leftover survival skill she'd learned in the House. One never knew when a priest might invade their quarters. Sometimes they meant to attack outright, other times they meant to leave evidence of their coming, and others... were not worth thinking of. Your space was never truly safe and neither were you within it. Vigilance kept one alive.
In truth no one on the ship was capable enough to sneak into her quarters without waking her. Still, the pattern was a source of comfort, one of a few she had desired to retain. Once satisfied that nothing was amiss she would sit up. Her room was not so lavish as some captains. It was practical. Stark.
There were drawers with various baubles and trinkets, chests to store clothes and maps, a proper Captain's desk and chair, and a vanity with a mirror that had two long cracks in it. All her belongings stored in a room half as small as her childhood room in Winterfell. It left little room to move around but then that was fine. She was not entertaining guests nor did she tarry long there.
Meals were held in the mess hall in a lower level of the ship but Arya did not eat with her crew in the morn. It was too many bodies pressed together too soon. She preferred to dip her hard tack into a cup of water and watch the bubbles float to the surface as it moistened. And once it was suitably done, she'd pull it free and crew in slow motions before swallowing the water down. Next she'd dip into a pouch of pickled cabbage. To keep disease away.
There was never enough to eat.
Beneath her smallclothes her stomach rumbled. It was not the most filling way to break ones fast but she counted herself lucky that they still had fresh food and water. There were countless horror stories of sailors who went without. When true hunger set in crews were known to resort to cannibalism. She could only hope it wouldn't come to that.
She was luckier than most.
The room she had was comfortable and her bedding worn but still left her feeling refreshed.
Her cabin was the best on offer. All those years ago when she'd given the iron coin to a man from Braavos she expected that it'd pay for the fare; not that the Captain would cede his room to her, bowing his head in awe and reverence. What child from Westeros would comprehend the worth of a piece of engraved iron? Coins were coins. Traded for goods in exchange. Arya had kept her coin even after making payment for it was what the coin represented that mattered.
After being on the run and traveling through the wartorn Riverlands for moons, a little bit of luxury reminded her of all she had lost, and that a piece of iron might pay for all that was absurd. Still, it hadn't landed her in the lap of the rich and renown in Braavos, but the House where one earned the right to remain.
The cost was one's self.
A price few were willing to pay.
Somehow she'd been allowed to walk away.
Though she had returned to Essos many times she had never ventured back to the House to ask them why.
It did not seem wise. Sometimes she dreamt of the day she left and each step that she took through the lower levels retreating away from Jaqen, up the steps and out into the long hall, towards; around, and then away from the fountain, until she pressed through the ebony and weirwood doors and outside into the wider world. No one had thought to stop her. No One should have had more questions.
There was no time to ponder on that mystery for she was the Captain of her own vessel and it was the start of a new day.
With her meal behind her she stowed away her tack and cabbage. She pulled her long hair back and wrapped it in a tie. In the years since she had starting sailing it had grown enormously. Arya thought she might like it long were it not like to get itself tangled upon the rigging. Soon she'd need to hack it off again, but Arya was hoping that she might do so once they found dry land. A celebration of sorts. Donning her tunic and breeches, she wrapped a belt around her waist and secured her Needle and three daggers. One was hidden in her wrist and the other behind her right boot while the last, the dagger that Bran had acquired from Littlefinger and she later used to kill the Night King, she had named Icicle; sat upon her thigh opposite Needle. Buttoning up her shirt Arya examined herself in the crude looking glass as she pulled on simple leather gloves. Age had not yet caught up with her.
"Good enough." she muttered.
Grabbing the far eye from a drawer she shielded her eyes as she thrust the cabin door open and stepped out into a new day.
The sun shone brightly from behind them with not a cloud to be seen. Wind came from the east, curling around the stern and blew them ever westwards, her loose strands flying with them. The two masts had most of their sail in use. Looking over the railing the waters were a crisp blue. Light sparkled across the surface as far as the eye could see. It had been that way ever since they'd left the 'Three Dragon Isles' behind.
Arya would not claim to be Elissa Farman with her limited experience but she was certainly inspired by her. Aegon, Rhaenys and Visenya were poor names for islands but they were places that an explorer that came before her had found and named. To walk - or sail - the same path the missing woman did was unintended but prudent given their course. It served as good a spot as any to pick up more supplies. Fresh water, nuts and fruits would not be remiss on their journey. The fruit was long gone but the nuts and water remained.
The Starks were not seafarer's by nature. With the wars in Westeros over there had been plenty of goods left unclaimed. There were countless dwellings in the North that had been overrun by the dead, their occupants taken if they had not died of winter or war, and left abandoned after they had all fallen. When the snows would peel away in spring those huts would be rediscovered and new families would move in. The same was true in the Riverlands which saw the brunt of the fighting from the War of Five Kings, and the surrounding Crownlands and Reach, decimated by the Dothraki and Lannister's both.
She did not wish to settle down and grow attached to any particular location. If it had been, she'd have her pickings of any of the castles that had been abandoned. Hornwood was close to Winterfell and had decent lands. So did Cerwyn and so many others. But that wasn't her.
Whilst in King's Landing for the Great Council she had found out that merchants who had died in the razing of King's Landing had left behind many ships. Arya had her pick of them, changing the prow to a wolf and updating the rooms. Then, she had left Westeros behind while her family enjoyed their newfound status at the centre of political power. Arya had no intention of playing her own part within it.
Those early days were not easy. Crews that could escape the conflagration upon the Blackwater had done so but most weren't in Westeros to begin with. Finding good hands was trouble when she was a she and unproven besides. So she had sought out boys with little skill and learned alongside them. Sailing up and down the coast of Westeros to the Vale, Gulltown and the like, and even across the Narrow Sea to Pentos. With greater command of her ship and knowledge of seafaring she broke out of her own world and into another one.
When one spoke the language of ports and traders and customs, one found others of a similar mindset, especially the adventurous types. Those in Westeros spoke of adventurous sailing as heading to Yin, the Thousand Isles and Nefer, or even those who dared to sail into the Smoking Sea itself. Most of the veteran sailors she had met had been to Qarth and beyond. The lands and people might've been unknowns to them but the docks were not. Where men and women, no matter their station nor city they resided, mingled among one another.
With her newfound contacts and understanding she was sailing to Ibben and all the way down the Essosi coast to Volantis. No place was off limits but trade was centered still in the Narrow Sea. Much as she wished to escape Westeros and its trappings she found herself drawn back. Often she made port at Oldtown, as she did before they'd left for her current journey. Her crew were mostly a mix of Westerosi and Essosi, men who had sailed to the Thousand Isles and as far as Leng and Great Moraq, they had no interest in Westeros either. Most thought the Sunset Sea a more interesting challenge than the far east where vile black magics and poisonous creatures lay in wait. Rumours abounded about what was in the east and none of it was any better than what was known. In the West...
Well, no one knew. And for a certain type of sailor that was exciting.
"Captain." chorused several deckhands as she passed by.
"Tym, Rogin, Otter." she acknowledged each man. The deck creaked beneath her feet.
The only three Ibbenese aboard. They were burly with arms half as thick as the centre mast. Good for lifting supplies, they protested little that she heard, though occasionally switched to their native tongue. Especially when they were racing each other up and down the rigging.
They all had their games to keep sane over the long voyage. After nearly two years at sea they hadn't found any land. Few wished to sour the mood but Arya had heard some mutter that the voyage into the Sunset Sea would be the 'sunset of their lives' as it had for so many others.
A poetic notion best suited for taverns and alehouses. Not the lamentations of men who she needed to possess every confidence in. Still she could not suppress all talk.
Others wondered where previous vessels ended up. Corlys Velaryon claimed to have spotted the Sun Chaser in Asshai but that was a singular account from a man who sought fame and glory. Most vessels that were never seen again had sunk and sometimes vessels would sink in similar places. A sandbar that appeared all of a sudden, a kraken that lurked in the waters, or an ambush spot used by pirates. Out in the open sea Arya doubted there would be a sandbar and they'd not seen other men since Oldtown. Mythical beasts were not out of the question but Arya would believe what she saw with her own two eyes. Even so, the thought of the only land they'd find was a floating mass of ship wreckage rankled her.
She hadn't wanted to think about her end. Nor why she went on the journey to begin with. When Ice glittered in the sky and swung down, it had taken with it her hopes, dreams and wishes. They were buried within and it was for the best they remain there.
Though they'd not sighted land that didn't mean everything was the same. The further west they sailed the more they learned of the Sunset Sea. There were few, if any, storms. Some of the older crew were perturbed by that and called it unnatural. At first she'd chalked it up to them sailing the Narrow Sea often which was known for its stormy nature but as the months dragged on she was convinced they had a point. Experience taught her that when something was unnatural that meant magic. Yet she had never tasted magic upon the air. None except her own which she seldom used. Somehow even without storms they had wind. It usually came from the east or north but sometimes came from the west. Tacking through the whole day had her stomach in knots but luckily those days were few and far between.
The lack of a westerly wind might've been why none had ever returned to Westeros. It was easier to believe that than the alternative.
Reaching the prow Arya looked out over the open sea. The wolf's head was sun bleached and dripping with salt water. She followed the prow to the bow and inspected the hull all the way down the side. Few men were out and about. Most like they'd be eating in the galley. She continued her inspection on the other side before climbing the steps to the quarterdeck. Her Helmsman, Narea, stood at the wheel, long fingers gripping the wood with lazy intent. She gave her a cheeky grin.
"Captain." the woman greeted her.
"How fares the Nymeria?" Arya asked blithely.
"Same as yestermorn." Narea answered with teeth.
Arya nodded. She'd met the woman while they were resupplying in Volantis. A chance encounter on the docks brought them together. Narea had had a colourful life as part of a crew of a swan ship out of the Summer Isles that attacked slave ships. At first to protect their own lands and rescue their people and later to hurt and deter slavers. She was old, near twice Arya's own age, with curly brown hair turning grey at the fringes and scores of freckles on her brow. Scars criss-crossed her arms that spoke of countless battles at sea. She overheard what Arya was planning and thought to join. One last adventure to see her life to its conclusion.
Though she had a family back in Tall Trees Town, Arya hadn't the heart to turn her away. Some people, Arya knew, were determined to set the course for their own lives, and so who was she to deny another their heart's desire?
They hadn't lingered long in Volantis. Arya had listened for news of Drogon as she always did when they made port but no one had sighted the black dragon. Not since Daenerys had gone west. The red priests from the Temple of the Lord of Light would no doubt know more, but they had magic of their own, mayhap even seeing through those of the Faceless Men; she hadn't wished to tempt fate anymore than she had by returning to Essos.
"Your ghost is still there." Narea commented, gesturing with her eyes to the two stars above the western horizon.
There were many new stars to see when they started their journey west. Largest among them were two bright red orbs they hung close together in the night sky over the western horizon. Twin beacons guiding them west. Arya had named them for Ghost, Jon's direwolf. They were so bright that they were visible during the daylight hours when all the other stars dulled and disappeared. Only hiding when the sun overtook them as it set. Ghost had appeared over the horizon six moons after they'd left Oldtown and rose steadily as the moons came and went. Now they were around forty degrees above them. An everpresent reminder of what she had left behind and how much had changed.
The pine sextant she had bought in Myr had little use in the Sunset Sea. Not long after leaving Westeros behind all the constellations changed. Until they'd spotted the Ghost they relied upon two southern stars which had also vanished behind them. While she'd been able to track her progress west well enough, they were well and truly lost; drifting only with forlorn hope. Mayhap the careful measurements they'd been logging could be put to use on a return journey.
Another part of her gave voice to her own doubts. Logging is merely something to keep busy while waiting to die.
"Where else would it be?" she remarked. Looking out over the stern, the wake left by the ship swirled in the open sea, the sun rising steadily in its wake.
Narea hummed but did not comment further. One arm balanced on the wheel while the other scratched an itch. Behind them a door slammed open and the stomps of men as they poured out onto the deck sounded but Arya paid them no mind. The crew knew their assignments and her own cursory inspection revealed no faults worth immediate attention.
Cyvasse, cards and dice had long grown dull and the Ironborn axe games never interested her.
Endless travel allowed too much time for introspection, Arya had found.
Her existence in Westeros had taken an abrupt detour to Essos and then back again but she never formed roots. Winterfell, King's Landing, the Riverlands and later Braavos all held memories she cherished and despised in equal measure. The reminders of who she had been. A carefree girl with a taste for adventure. Someone who could speak to anyone. She'd been able to travel the world far beyond the expectations of those tasked with protecting her.
Yet if she had the opportunity to go back would she have changed any of it knowing that her spirit would be stifled by the expectations her rank and name demanded? All that she had bore witness to, partaken in, and enjoyed were never for her. They were for men who came of age and were able to travel. While men would be off enjoying the ports and inns, markets and mummers, their sisters, daughters and cousins would remain behind. It was a woman's place to sit cloistered in stuffy rooms, knitting gloves and blankets for babes; maiden cloaks for themselves or their sisters upcoming wedding to some Lord that they'd never met in a castle that was little more than words on parchment.
Arya had wanted to take on the world on her terms. To create a place for herself where she belonged.
Wanting was not for girls.
Her Father had allowed her to learn the sword with her 'dancing master' but would he have allowed her to pursue her flights of fancy as offers came for her hand as swiftly as the blood fell between her legs? Southrons lords, she knew, would scoff at a woman who fought. Brienne showed that much. Hawking was far more accepted but Arya had little interest. Not when she could simply skinchange the hawk and hunt for herself. There was no sport there.
Instead she was forced to bend to the will of the men around her. Give up the parts of herself she cherished. Act in their interest as an extension of her own. Dance to their tune and maybe, if she was conniving enough, convince them that what she wanted was really their own idea. It was a bitter pill to swallow and so she acted out at every turn. Still, she had always been an able administrator and took to numbers better than Sansa did. It was the one area she excelled in that gave her and her mother a measurable amount of pride. Those pieces of Winterfell were everything she was running from still.
If Gendry had his way, Storm's End would be her keep and prison both; the man did not seem to recognize it as such. For him, being highborn was an elevation and blessing. He did not recognize the danger. The fact he would always be an other to them. Mayhap so self-assured that she would be with him he forgot what it meant to be alone. To fend for himself again.
The offer was not strange considering his new station and their feelings for one another. To complete the circle that had been broken with his father and her aunt.
When they had met she had been in a new environment and unaccustomed to truly dealing with smallfolk. She could speak to them and walk among them, but at the end of the day she returned to the castle, or the Tower of the Hand, and could resume the normal life of the daughter of a Lord. She hadn't truly needed to sleep in ditches, hide her lack of a cock, or maintain appearances for moons. She was freshly frightened by the death of her father and nervous for the long road back North. What would become of her? Would anyone discover she was a girl? She had projected a sense of weakness, the small thing that she was, boy or no; something for bigger men to prey upon.
Needle protected her then. A comfortable weight at her side that she could never give up. Gendry had too. A nobody who saw an injustice and acted because he could. There was something familiar about that. It was their bullying that drew his eye, then her blade, and after that...
Arya preferred the Gendry that had no notion of who he was. It was more revealing of his character. Big, burly but quiet and clever. He wasn't one to boast or start brawls. His conflict over his identity reminded her of Jon and his sullen nature was so similar it made her teeth ache. Mayhap growing up among the smallfolk, alone and afraid, had hardened him in a way; but kept him soft to the people's struggles. Gendry became her girlhood crush because for all his teasing he did drop his guard around her. Treated her as an individual and not a Lord nor a Lord's daughter. Had he known her feelings then?
He was entirely too honest for his own good... and let me take the lead. The son was not the father.
The notion that he could be a Lord was too overwhelming for him to deal with. He had no ability to read nor write, and while Davos might help him, the Lords despised the man they called 'Onion Knight' and only tolerated him because of Stannis. As far as she knew Gendry had never even been to the Stormlands. He might look like Robert but looks did not make the Lord. Now he was meant to inherit Storm's End; and she his wife?
No.
Mayhap she could have imagined a life with him were they not struck by a reversal of fate.
She had once been a highborn on the run pretending to be something that she was not in order to survive. He was a nobody, cast aside from his master for reasons denied to him, and ones that when they became known he wished to be forgotten. Now he was a Lord Paramount and Arya... she wanted to be nobody. To blend into the background and have no one turn their eye on her. Commenting on her long face and grey eyes. The way they prowled around her. Had he remained just Gendry the Smith mayhap they could've build something for themselves. To find themselves in one of those abandoned hovels left vacant by the wars and death.
Mayhap not even then. No one would forget my name is Stark nor would they let Gendry go, not with his looks. We can never escape it.
It was better to be just another member of a crew in a foreign land.
To shed the skin of being highborn. To forget who she was and where she came from.
Jon, exiled back to the Wall and beyond. He had gone north, she knew, and hadn't heard from him since. Mayhap he was happy there with the Free Folk and Ghost. They'd spend so little time together since their reunion. Winterfell was filled with ghosts for them all. The household that was slaughtered in King's Landing, all those that perished in the Sack of Winterfell, and later under the Boltons. The castle remained but the people were what made it. When the nights grew restless and her meditation complete but sleep evasive she often wondered what he was up to. If he had all he needed. If he missed her.
This is my path, she would tell herself, over and over.
It was what she had told Bran in Oldtown as he skinchanged into a raven with one last message to dissuade her. Father had once said that to deny her something was to make it her heart's desire. Bran's persistence in asking her if she truly meant to leave certainly lent itself to the notion that she ought to go. Not the least of which was with Bran now King of Westeros, and she by extension a Princess, he had the authority to force her to wed. Mayhap she was interrupting carefully laid plans by departing.
She'd told him that she was leaving. To find a place she belonged. He accepted it and bid her farewell but warned they would never meet again. Whatever lay west of Westeros was beyond his sight.
She was so certain.
Now, with the stars on the horizon a constant reminder of what she left behind, she found herself wavering.
Movement to her left caught her eye as Narea reached into a pack on her belt and withdrew a fareye. There was nothing to see but open ocean and the occasional bit of sea life that broke the surface. They hadn't seen anything in moons. As far as they knew this sea was dead.
"Captain." Narea said in calm tones, still looking through the far eye with a curious tilt to her head.
Arya turned around to peer between the fluttering sails. She saw a thick white mist floating atop the water in the distance. It hung above the surface like a billowing cloud but did not span the whole horizon, mayhap a third. Pulling out her own far eye she could not see the tell tale signs of lightning nor the darker clouds that spelled rain.
They could sail around it, mayhap, but the closer they got Arya realized it was futile. The winds picked up behind them and drove them closer to the mist that strangely did not move with them. Above them the red stars of the Ghost pierced straight through like the direwolf come to life.
"It is too large to go around." she observed.
Narea grunted in acknowledgement.
"Then we sail through it." Narea agreed.
The deck was abuzz with intrigue and those who were not watching the fog were looking to her for direction. In moments it would overtake them and so she shouted orders for everyone to remain calm and vigilant. They answered back in a chorus of 'Captain!' as others poured out onto the deck to see what the commotion was. Most were partially dressed, if that; there were few mysteries on board a ship. Not since they'd seen a huge whale had there been more than half the crew on the deck.
Obscured by the mist the eyes of the ghost were larger than they'd ever been, discolouring the clouds an ominous pink to herald their entry. The sky darkened with hues of blue and grey reflecting off the water as the ship passed through into darkness. Arya put her spyglass away and peered behind her. Curls of mist closed around the hole they had created before fading from view entirely.
Taking small breaths she could sense nothing amiss even as butterflies fluttered in her belly. The wind continued to blow but a ringing silence hung with only the sounds of the ocean apparent under the din of the crew chattering away in their native tongues. They wondered where it had come from so suddenly, why the wind wasn't blowing it as it was them, whether it meant land was close and if they ought to slow to prevent ramming something unnecessarily. Others balanced themselves on the handrails and thrust their torsos over the side to watch the ship as it cut through the water. They pointed out sights she could not see while Arya felt her heart rate pick up.
They are enjoying themselves. There is nothing to worry about.
They floated along for several minutes. Conversation dwindled as the mist carried on without end. The Nymeria continued without delay. Nothing had changed. Few left the deck of the ship however.
The mist had a weight to it and when she breathed deeper she felt the familiar sensations of dew and... something else. It was as if it was wrapping itself around her throat, forcing her head to look at the glowing red orbs in the sky, to ponder their meaning in all of this; yet she could no longer see them. Arya frowned at that. It had been right in front of them.
Glancing over to Narea at the wheel Arya was alarmed to see her leaning against it, the wheel turning them hard to port.
"What are you doing?" Arya demanded.
Narea mumbled something and slumped over, falling and clutching at her side. Arya was quick to grasp the column and steer back to their westerly heading. Only the ghost was no longer apparent in the sky. No matter which way she looked the stars were gone.
They must be around here somewhere. Obscured by the mist and sails both. Else why would the mist remain red?
But then what had caused Narea to move the ship as she had? There were no call outs among the crew, no input given through her word, so why? What had she seen that eluded all others?
Arya abandoned the wheel. Steering back would be counter productive if there was an obstacle and she'd lost her horizon. The ship did not even feel like it was moving yet the sails indicated it was. She moved over and knelt down beside her Helmsman who was still slumped on the deck, her body wracking from silent sobs. There were scrapes on her hands and forearms but the older woman showed no interest in them. Arya had never seen her so undone like this and worse still there was nothing that could've caused it.
"Narea, what's wrong?"
Brown eyes were soaked wet with tears. She sniveled taking a shuddering breath, clumsy hands reaching for her forearm and tunic, lip quivering.
"Laena, I'm so sorry, I..." she started, her voice cracking, "I had to. You know I did. I couldn't leave you alone in the world!" she shouted and threw herself back, eyes wide with fright, shuffling against the deck until her head impacted the far railing and knocking herself out cold.
Arya stared after her in befuddlement.
Laena is one of her daughters. But she's back on the Summer Isles.
Standing again Arya moved to the front of the quarterdeck and looked out over the rest of the ship. The crew were still speaking among themselves, in smaller groups than before and with less animation. Two still leaned over the rail pointing out sights beyond her comprehension. They hadn't noticed the way the ship lurched nor that anything was amiss at all. She needed to fix that. Restore order after the chaos of entering the mist.
"Standby for command!" she shouted.
Instead of the expected replies there was nothing. Few cocked their head to her in acknowledgement but the looks on their faces were blank and they soon went back to speaking; in her direction, but the words did not reach her.
Licking her lips she tried another.
"Furl sails!"
Nothing.
Cursing she descended the steps and came face to face with Tym. The large Ibbenese man looked at her with such confusion it took her aback.
"M'lady, this is no place for you," he said in a heavily accented common tongue, "We'll be setting course for Nefer soon. You're on the wrong ship." he added, gesturing her to the port side and non-existent docks, "Off with yous."
"I'll be on my way." she agreed on instinct, brushing past him.
What in Seven Hells is happening to my crew?!
She pressed forward to the bow and few brushed past her, turning with the slightest contact and looking at her as if they had they never met before in their whole lives. They muttered to themselves, speaking to people who were not there, having whole conversations within her hearing but none who answered back in kind. They'd not been in the mist for a quarter hour before the crew thought to lose their minds. Arya knew that being lost at sea could addle the mind but instincts told her it would set in slow. Not like this.
Without the mast and sail to hinder her sight she tried to find the distinctive brightness of the ghost in the sky but it was gone. As if it had never existed at all.
Behind her the sails fluttered and went still. The wind gone.
Huffing at yet another unexpected problem she crossed the deck to her quarters. To make a log of the event, if nothing else. They would sail onwards until the mist ended and then reflect on what had happened so they might prepare again in the future. They had grown careless. At sea too long with nothing to entertain them. Now they were stuck in a mist, unable to navigate and with a crew that had lost their minds. They might be useless now but she wasn't and so long as there was one sane person on the ship they were not lost. Throwing the door open she managed two steps inside before she paused at the sight before her.
A man sat behind her desk.
He looked the same as she remembered him but was dressed in more formal attire of a long sleeve button up tunic and breeches more suited for a life at court than a mariner. The fingers on his right hand bounced in a rhythm along the surface of the desk. When he tilted his head to look at her, the part in his red and white hair remained firmly in the middle, as it had the day they'd met.
"A woman meets a man again." Jaqen greeted her.
She stared at him for several long moments uncertain if he was real or a part of her imagination. The mist did not feel magical to her and yet it must have had magical properties. For so many crew to see others in her place, for her to see him here, there was no other explanation. It hadn't surprised her that she might resist the effects longer than most but eventually she would be susceptible but she hoped there would be a sign for the cause.
Pressing further inside the room she left the door open behind her and crossed to her vanity. If Jaqen were truly here, a closed door would not stop him nor anyone else who had come aboard. Setting down her spyglass she kept careful watch on his features. He was a master of the game and as he was wont to remind her; they never stopped playing. He sat in her chair behind her desk as naturally as if he were the Captain and not she. Jaqen had a way of dropping himself into others spaces that was perfect. Arya might have even believed that he belonged if he didn't insist on keeping his Lorathi way of speaking.
"A man meets a woman again." she parroted back in an even voice.
He tilted his head, his red hair falling to one side, eyes drifting towards the open door.
"It is a curious thing that 'Arya Stark of Winterfell' would leave the House, her stated intention to return home, only to wind up in the midst of the Sunset Sea; Winterfell nowhere in sight." he said without looking at her, his hands steepled in front of him.
Arya jutted her chin in challenge.
"So it is. I returned to Winterfell and found it wanting. Now I'm a sailor... and I don't recall your name on the manifest. Where is your fare?"
Jaqen's mouth moved with amusement writ on his lips. Between two fingers he produced an iron coin, flicking it to her and she caught it. The iron felt solid. As real as the iron coin he'd once given her outside Harrenhal when she was a girl and naive to the ways of their world. A familiar weight in her palm. Something to create a crease in her pocket. There was no tingling sensation in her fingers from where she caught the coin. Her gloves didn't allow for any of the touch based poisons to get her, and the resistances she'd built up in training did the rest.
Still, she wouldn't expect Jaqen to stoop to such a novice mistake. He would bide his time. If he was showing himself now there had to be a reason.
All the senses can be deceived... but not all at once.
"Valar Morghulis." she said.
"Valar Dohaeris." the man answered.
His gaze bore through her heavy with expectation. The man had been her saviour, mentor and torturer all in one. The House provided her with shelter and safety so long as she served in the manner they desired. Even after disobeying and killing those whose names had not been called, she was not cast out. There were innumerable skills she'd picked up from them that she'd never have otherwise. The House had nurtured her and helped her grow and given her the tools to take her revenge.
And revenge is what she'd gotten.
Even after they'd given her name to the Many-Faced God.
She should've known it would never be so easy to walk away. Time meant nothing to He of Many Faces and eventually her time would run out. There was always a price.
Quirking a brow he waited more and Arya heard the sounds of splashes outside the door. So much like the dolphins they saw off the coast of Dorne when they'd leap up and land beside the ship. Only these were singular splashes and no one was commenting upon them.
"A man ought to know that a woman always did what she wanted. The whims and wishes of others meant little to me." she answered his initial question more sincerely.
Jaqen smirked, raising a hand to his face as she took a step back and fell into a defensive stance. His outstretched fingers paused at either side of his temple and moved down, changing his features with it, until he reached his chin and Arya gasped.
"Yes, I did see that." Bran said with his lips curled into a smile. So similar to Jaqen but... not. The monotone voice of her brother was unmistakable.
This isn't real, She hastened to remind herself.
It couldn't be.
The technique demonstrated was one few Faceless Men ever succeeded in mastering. To absorb the essence of a face and to call upon it at will. Most kept the face as an anchor through which to channel the magic and even then the master must have been in physical possession of the face before they could do it.
She had spoken to Bran before she left Oldtown.
Even were it the Faceless Men they would've had to kill him and cross the whole continent before following after them. Always out of sight. For well over a year until... the mist, and then to strike. No. If the Faceless Men wanted her dead, they wouldn't have followed such a convoluted plan. Nor would they have killed Bran to get to her. It was senseless and the Many-Faced God was anything but.
"What is on your mind?" Not-Bran asked, his voice tilted with disinterest.
His head shifted towards the door once more. Arya's ears adjusted and she could hear more splashes. They increased with intensity but nothing was impacting the ship nor were there cries of awe or alarm. If anything the number of voices speaking to themselves was diminishing.
"Your crew are succumbing to the whispers. Yet here you stand. Don't you have questions?" Not-Bran goaded.
Rather than run to save her crew Arya watched Not-Bran for a time. If one knew that the person before them were Faceless and knew the person they were meant to imitate then there were little signs to give them away. A man who ate his evening meal each night at the same table in a tavern might choose another, one with a more defensible position to the door, or allow them to eavesdrop better. He might hold his knife wrong when cutting his meat or eat using the wrong hand; Arya had to train at that, being left handed herself.
Not-Bran seemed too real for her. He was expressionless, unflappable, stoic and far more at ease than he ought to be for a man who changed his face before her. Their order was predicated upon the targets never knowing they were targets. The people around them being left alone and never suspecting the death was anything but an accident.
To kill her crew as they had was unconscionable.
Had Arya died mysteriously two moons out to sea they could have turned back. It would spare their lives and the House would've had their due.
Taking a gamble Arya pressed forward. Not-Bran followed her movements the whole way but did not react even as she stood before him. His hands were folded over in his lap, the furs that were present on his wheeled chair conspicuously absent. Jaqen might change his face and body but he could not create objects out of thin air and she would see through a glamor. Arya examined the fabric and saw few places where a blade might be hidden but he was at a disadvantage sat as he was. She would be faster.
Icicle was a comfort on her hip but she did not draw the dagger.
Instead she reached out with her right hand and tapped Not-Bran's forehead. The flesh felt warm under her glove, the pulse from one of his smaller arteries near the brow strong; real. Whatever the illusion she was experiencing it did encompass all her senses, she was sure of it now. It also answered why the others had succumbed as they had. Without the training she'd undergone, she'd have believed it too, for what reason would she have had to suspect that what lay before her would be anything but the truth?
"What did they see?" she asked with her arm still outstretched.
Not-Bran glanced out the door. The elevated brow when Bran moved was so real that she finally felt her nerves catch up with her. Steeling them down Arya kept herself steady as she took a deep breath. She'd made it this far.
"When you gave water to those at the pools, what did they speak to you of?" Not-Bran retorted, his eyes drifting back towards her with a knowing glint in his eyes.
Of regrets, mistakes they'd made, opportunities they wished they had pursued and others that they wished they had not. Those they loved that were lost, that they wished to be with again... a desire for peace. Stillness. An end.
It still did not answer why they had to die.
"Who are you really?" she demanded, gripping the edge of his face between her fingers, "The House I knew did not condemn those by association. It did not force the waters upon people. They came willingly. My crew has not wronged you."
Not-Bran's lip upturned.
"I am No One." he said.
Arya roared and ripped the face off Not-Bran. Beneath her brother's blue eyes were another set, far more piercing, flashing with anger, his brows furrowed together as Jon sat - then stood - towering over her.
She shrunk back on instinct, eyes wide, her legs trembled as she put several feet between them. He stood on unsteady feet and leaned against the desk, his blue eyes - so much like an Other's - and so different to her own. They had always looked alike and now they couldn't be anymore different. A chill swept up her spine and she felt herself rooted the spot. The breath she'd taken fell from her lungs and she blinked rapidly, trying to regain control of herself. Jon seemed to revel in her loss of control.
"Not who you were expecting?" her brother's voice taunted. Not-Bran's fingers had been white with a shade of pink dusting them but Jon's were grey and black. The rot of death permeated the air as he shook out his collar. Hands drifted lower and began to unbutton his tunic.
Arya's throat felt dry as she tried to speak but no words came forth. Instead she watched as his tunic came undone, the stabbing scars beneath from the mutiny plain to see, and the beat of his heart against his chest the only crack in the illusion before her.
He's at the Wall. He's... the Night King is dead. He must- panic welled up and threatened to burst.
When Jon spoke again it was with such a familiar sadness that her heart seemed to tear in two. "In Winter the pack must set aside their differences and come together to protect one another. We had the chance to do that and instead we all went our separate ways again," Jon stared at the floor, the creaking of the ship the only sound she could hear beyond her the hammering of her heart and heavy breathing. When he looked up at her there were tears staining his cheeks, the otherworldly blue eyes washed over, "Did you forget I'm your family too?" he choked.
Arya gasped. The words were familiar. Accusing.
It's not him, a voice told her.
Before she knew it her feet were carrying her forward, her hand drawing Needle from her side and lunging at the man before her. The point pierced his beating heart and he grunted, his arms encircled her in a cool embrace but it was no crushing grip. Arya felt her stomach roll, the confusion and anger mixing and fading. A trickle of blood ran against her fingers as his beating heart seemed to stutter and slow.
His hold on her grew weaker until he let her go entirely. Arya hadn't wanted to look - to see - but she did anyway. She owed Jaqen that much. Expecting to see Jon's face, or mayhap his own, instead they had vanished and in its place was nothing at all. Where blood came from his wound smoke poured and the room around her faded from view. Arya pulled her blade free from the body that seemed to weigh no more than the air she breathed. Shadows swirled around her and Arya took a defensive stance, circling around on the back foot as she waited for something to make its presence known.
A voice spoke around her from no discernible direction. There was a weight to it, a foreboding that spoke of certainty; of promises unkept. Doom.
A life of service... rejected.
A life of duty... rejected.
Your life...
Arya braced herself for the rest but there were no words.
In the darkness Arya saw the swirling smoke take different forms before her. They lacked colour but the shades of grey varied in intensity and depth.
The first was her ship in the port at Oldtown. The Hightower loomed large as the shadow it cast over her ship was plain to see in the sun. Arya saw herself step out of her cabin as she had countless times before, only this time a raven landed on the railing, a note attached to its leg. She unfurled the scroll and dropped it over the side of the ship, speaking words to her brother before the raven flew away.
The second was older. The dragon pit came to life around her and Arya saw herself and a score of others frozen in time. When Tyrion Lannister, distinguished only by his middling height and chained wrists was brought forth and her brother crowned King. Arya sat beside her sister, Sansa, as she declared her and the North's independence. She recalled that she had gone out of a sense of duty. To see the war's end through and protect Sansa should the council descend into violence. The rest mattered little.
The third was older still. Snow fell in tiny clumps as a crowd gathered in the Godswood. Her brother sat in his wheeled chair at the base of the heart tree, gazing up at the being before him, the ice poleaxe on its back. He seemed to stare past the being and at her, at the girl who would leap to save his life and all of men; or was he communicating with the being? The Night King had never spoken though he was intelligent. Time seemed to slow as Arya saw herself lunge, drop her knife and thrust it into the being's side; and then the smoke fell away.
She stood next to the heart tree with Jon oblivious to her presence. When was the last time she had shown such emotion? Lost control? She had gathered herself for so long. Mayhap hoping that he'd sense she was there. Watching herself leaping into his arm had her breath come up short. She had said the words, hadn't she? Arya mouthed them alongside herself. 'I'm your family too.' but like the rest she had turned her back on him. She hadn't placed her faith in him. They had been apart too long and their priorities and desires from life had gone off in different directions. By the time she left Westeros for good, he was out of her reach, so she thought. The way Jon shared himself with her, his blade and his thoughts... was there something she missed?
Before she realized it the images were gone and replaced by a Great Hall. Fires burned in their hearths but there was no merriment to be had. Not while the men lay on the ground with blood pouring from their mouths, the poison they had consumed doing its job, and a lone figure walked from the hall with her head high; her revenge for the murder of her mother and brother complete.
The last was different than the rest. A young woman stood in a robe before an ebony and weirwood door. Needle in her hand, she descended the steps determined to return to Westeros; her family.
The space shifted once more.
A faint glow of candles appeared.
Where darkness once lay came pillars of stone and a thousand small alcoves carved into their exterior. Walls circled the room with a similar appearance. Around the pillars and edges of the room were hundreds of candles, all lit, all illuminating the room around her in a dull orange.
The Hall of Faces. What was significant about this place that she might see it in more detail?
Before her was a freshly made face and one she'd seen many times. She'd put it there after all.
The Waif.
Blood still dripped from the eye sockets, chin and forehead. From where she had made the incisions and left the face as a tribute and warning both.
Arya stared at it uncomprehending. Footsteps approached from behind but she dare not turn. There was no space on the pillar for her face and the smoke that appeared from the other visions did not appear to be returning to whirl her away to another vision.
Is that to be my punishment then?
"Finally a girl is No One." Jaqen's voice rang out.
Arya spun around in surprise and raised Needle to point at his chest. He wore his own face once more and in the same robes as he'd worn in their last conversation, before she'd left the house years ago, but displayed no recognition in his eyes. Not for what had just transpired between them. That he stood so unbothered after she had just stabbed him was disturbing, and that he would repeat the same line, as if inviting her to leave as she had before was another point of contention.
He drank poison once before too yet he lived after, the voice reminded her.
Jaqen raised a brow, unaware of her inner turmoil, "A girl disagrees?"
Arya shook her thoughts away and pressed on.
"A girl is Arya Stark of Winterfell and I'm going home." she repeated the words she'd said long ago. The ones that allowed her to walk away.
There was a beat of silence and Jaqen nodded. Arya withheld a grimace as she withdrew the blade and brushed past him, so much like the last time; into the rest of the temple and eventually out into the sunlight of Braavos. The sun was warn on her skin, the saltwater breeze familiar from years at sea, but the bustle of the crowds off on the other islands beckoned her.
Sheathing Needle upon her hip she was remiss to find her clothes changed and a robe left in its place. Sighing to herself, she departed determined to see how extensive the new illusion was, and what she might learn from unraveling it.