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[Post a starter here, or ask for a starter and I'll write one!]

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[ starter for Arya, please! I'd post one but it's nearly midnight here ]

[This world was a strange one, with an awkward orbit that gave it odd, years-long seasons. Flagg had been here once before, three centuries ago when the Targaryens conquered with their dragons. That was a sight to behold, and he certainly appreciated the bloodshed. He wasn't quite sure why he suddenly felt motivated to return to this place, but he soon came to realize that this was another great period of chaos and turmoil as several families fought over the throne. Not to mention the things coming from north of the wall...

He had assumed the form of Rowan Frey, a Frey brother that didn't actually exist but was nonetheless immediately accepted by the rest of the clan by way of that passive enchantment he used to blend in to other worlds. Growing bored, he'd considered pulling off his own little mass execution before he spotted Arya in the guise of his dear old not-father, Walder. He could tell it wasn't Walder (although he didn't know who it was), and smelled the poison in the wine. He had to restrain himself from grinning ear-to-ear as the massacre took place, and although he didn't really drink any poison he put on a good show of pretending to die.

As soon as Arya left, the apparent corpse of Rowan Frey stood up and followed. The leftover women drew back against the wall as he left, not so much frightened of the walking corpse as they were of the fact that they only now seemed to remember that there was no Rowan Frey. He silently followed Arya until he was certain they were alone, and then spoke:]

Quite a feat, for one so young.

[The man who spoke to her still looked like a poisoned corpse for a moment, before he shifted back to his regular form (or, at least, the form he'd grown fond of as of late). Jet-black hair, blue eyes, definitely not poisoned, and definitely not a Frey.]

No need to worry; I'd have done the same myself if you didn't beat me to it. A vile family, truly.

[ Arya jumps as he speaks, visibly annoyed with herself that she hadn't realised someone was following her. The admonishment Syrio would have given her rises up from the back of her mind before she can stop it and she tries to quiet it, not feeling right bringing a memory of him to this place, having long ago traded the honor of how he'd taught her to fight for the necessary viciousness that she unapologetically embraced as she worked her way through her list.

Instead she focuses on the man in front of her, watching him shift back to his usual form with none of the wonder that he may usually have received when performing that particular trick. Instead her fingers twitch, ready to grab Needle. The only thing stopping her from unsheathing it right then is that he's complimented her, something which confuses her, given her assumptions about the strict code held by others she's met who can change their faces. ]

Shouldn't you be telling me, 'their lives are not yours to take'?

[ This had to be Jaqen, or someone he'd sent, to finish the job the Waif had started and punish her for using the techniques of the Faceless Men for nothing more than her own satisfaction. ]

I'm more of a 'take what you want' kind of guy, really.

[He smiles. He knows a little about the Faceless Men, and he's not surprised that she thinks he is one.]

I'm not with them, either. Too strict for me. And don't feel too bad about being followed, I've got my ways.

[Ways of being nearly-invisible and passing by others unnoticed. Just another of the seemingly endless tricks up his sleeve.]

Edited 2017-08-18 21:14 (UTC)

Who are you, then?

[ She cuts to the chase, getting the feeling that even if he doesn't know who she is - and she's not certain that he doesn't - he's seen her change form and kill a room full of people, far more than she would go around sharing of her own accord. ]

Just a passer-by.

['Just' a passer-by who could shapeshift and read minds and turn semi-invisible and...well, a lot of other things.]

You can call me Randall Flagg. You could call me a friend, too, if you needed one - and judging by your current ambitions, I think you might.

[Regicide is quite the goal, no matter what one's age was. And while Flagg wasn't really a friend to anyone, occasionally someone's goals lined up with his, and right now his goals can be summed up as 'wouldn't it be hilarious if this kid tore the political fabric of this society to shreds'.]

[ She doesn't believe he's just a passer-by, not for a second, when he's capable of the changing his face as easily as she can herself, and especially when he seems to know so much about her. And yet, she doesn't get the sense that he's lied to her, either, which just makes her even more confused. But if he says he's a friend, she'd take it - Gods knew she needed them. ]

You can call me Arya.

[ She deliberately echoes him there, though she omits her full name inclusive of Stark and Winterfell, both of which seem dangerous to admit in the enemy controlled Riverlands, and both of which she's sure he knows already. ]

My only ambition is my list.

Your ambition is regicide.

[He paused for a moment. That's the type of thing one would want to keep a secret, of course.]

Don't worry. No one heard us. No one will hear us. But regicide's a lofty goal. I would know. Do you intend on staying alive once you make your way through that list?

[ She'd always dreamed of finding Jon and Sansa, the last of her siblings she definitely knows are alive, and running away together to somewhere far-flung, since she assumes that Winterfell is lost to them forever. But she knows that's just a pipe dream, and that with a list of enemies so long and filled with such prominent people, she's never been destined for a long life. ]

Of course I intend to stay alive.

[ But she tries not to think about after. She'd been in the revenge business so long, she wouldn't know what to do with herself. ]

And unless you can capture the throne yourself, the murder of a queen doesn't usually go unpunished. It may take years, but someone will put two and two together and come for you and yours.

[Running was an alright option. Across the sea, perhaps. But that didn't leave House Stark with a terribly bright future, as if things hadn't been grim enough for them already.]

You could use a few more tricks up your sleeve. Regaining and keeping your stronghold would help, as well. Winterfell, was it?

[ Retaking Winterfell had never calculated into her plans before. Even if she could reach it, even if she could kill the Boltons and their entire army, she knew that she wasn't the right sort of person to command there, even if she were the last Stark. But Flagg was right, she needed a better plan and more tricks with which to carry it out. Just getting in and killing Cersei wasn't enough, not if she wanted to taste her victory instead of carrying it with her to an early grave.

And if this man thought that changing his form was small potatoes, what he had to teach her must be great indeed. She leans forward with interest - he clearly has her full attention now. ]

...What kind of tricks?

Tricks that'd make the same folk that would have you hanged for regicide bend the knee to you instead. Or, at least, run away screaming if they detest you too much to bow to you.

[He takes a knife from his pocket - a knife with the twin Frey castles carved into the handle - and plunges it into his own chest. He doesn't wince. He doesn't cry out. And when he pulls his hand away, there's no blood, not even a hole in his clothing.

Instead, where the ornate and no-doubt treasured family keepsake of a knife used to be, he now holds a simple, harmless pink tulip.]

I don't want them to bend the knee to me, I just need to--

[ She's thrown off mid-sentence by his display, finding herself just staring at the spot where he should be bleeding, at the tulip in his fingers. Slowly she reaches up to turn his hand over in her own, looking up his sleeve to see where he could be hiding the dagger that he surely must have switched out at the last moment. ]

That wasn't sleight of hand. You stabbed yourself, I saw it. Then how--

If you don't want them to bend the knee, you can at least make them leave you alone.

[He throws the flower on the ground, and it begins to wilt as soon as it leaves Flagg's hand.]

How? With the same magic I use to change my face. Once you've learned how to change yourself, changing other things is simple. I've been studying magic for a long, long time.

[And then he holds out his hand, a burst of flame briefly appearing on his palm.]

[ She isn't sure she wants that, either. She did, back when the world felt a lot simpler, when her happy ending was striking all the names off her list and returning to Winterfell to live with her siblings and hoping the rest of the world would leave her alone. But as much as home calls to her - or at least the memory of it, for as far as she knows Winterfell is lost to the Boltons - the talents she's learned call in equal measure, knowing how they'll languish if she were simply to leave them to rust after she'd finished what she started. What Flagg is offering isn't merely a trick to help her kill Cersei, she realises, it's the next step down the road of training her in the art of death, a road she started down all the way back in Kings Landing and one that she aches to continue down, as if massacring the entirety of House Frey over dinner weren't proof enough of that. ]

Can you really teach me? Would you?

[He tilts his head to one side. Now, that was unexpected. Revenge was a simple enough motive, and one that seemed easy to come by in this world, but this girl had tasted blood and wanted more. After her list was complete, she wanted to keep going.

And that? Well, that was just delightful.]

I can. And I will, if you're not afraid of magic darker than that of the Faceless Men.

[ She shakes her head, it never having occurred to her that she should be afraid of it. With some of the things she'd faced, she'd had to conquer fear very quickly, when she was still far too young to have to do so. ]

That's like being afraid of fire.

[ The comparison makes her think of the Hound, and she resents that she misses him just a little. ]

It's only dangerous if you're not the one in control.

Exactly.

[And he was always in control.]

Some people are less afraid of being harmed by magic and more afraid that it'll...steal their soul, or something like that. That's a bunch of bullshit, of course.

[ Arya can't help but scoff a little at the idea. ]

Souls belong to gods. And there aren't any of them. Only death.

[ And she didn't revere death in the same way Jaqen did; she intended to master it like Syrio had drilled into her long ago. ]

[He nods.] Only death, and death always wins.

I've studied death for almost two-thousand years, and I've learned some things that would drive most people mad. [What comes after death. The scope of eternity. Dying and being revived, over and over and over.] Is that a risk you're willing to take?

[ She nods agreement at that proclamation. It was the smartest thing she'd heard anyone say in a long time. ]

I'm willing. [ She says it perhaps a little too quickly, too willingly. ] I've already seen things that would drive people mad. They can't hurt me any more.

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