The Unmasking of a Girl
'A girl is Arya Stark of Winterfell, and I am going home.'
In the great, dim Hall of Faces, he stood at her Needlepoint. The weapon's deadly tip pressed unforgivingly, invitingly, at his heart. The Faceless Man's eyes bore deep into the gaze of the girl who was No One, as the passage of time ticked like a heartbeat, slowly, surely, to a dead stop.
The Red God watched, as did the Stranger, and the others, too.
His traitorous lips curled into a seductive grin, and the man felt something hot and sweet and forbidden course through his being, with a dawning realisation that he now treaded upon the path to the point of no return.
For should he succumb, Jaqen H'ghar would face the wrath of the Many-Faced God.
They stood on the edge of a knife, a threshold that once crossed, could spell sacrilege to a sacred religion and a doom to it all.
Oh, but desire rolled like molten flames through his veins as he looked upon her elfin face, paled by the days she was kept, locked in this House of Black and White, to serve the One true God and wash the bodies of the dead, no paler than a girl herself.
The girl's— No One's gaze was knowing, unwavering. The glimmer in her eyes wove a thousand tales of secrets and promises, but the teasing tilt of her head and the barely there coy grin on her lips posed a challenge: to mock fate and dispel the enchantment of the night, to shun the path whereupon destiny was carved, and to damn every god and man who stood in their way.
It was how she had made her way in the world thus far, he understood; stealing from the Red God, breaking rules of beasts and men and shaking the foundations of the Earth, to have what she sought, what she craved, what she desired...
Now he knew she would have this, too, for the girl who was No One always claimed what she wanted, and Jaqen H'ghar knew that even Death would not withstand her willpower.
The girl lifted her chin and curled her lips into a cunning smile, her eyes met his, sharp and daring. The Faceless Man watched her turn with a purpose to stride out of the hall with a deadly grace of a victor, and he knew the battle was lost for she had won the war. The choice was never his to make, it never had been.
Or perhaps it had been made from the start, but Jaqen H'ghar was too faceless to admit to it.
A girl knew that this was wrong, for they the Faceless Ones must cast aside all desires and devote their service to the Many-Faced God. This, a girl knew, as did a man; yet even then, he descended those stone steps and swept across the hall to follow her to the damnation of all.
Was it truly wrong? For after all, they were No One.
And what No One did, no one heard, and no one saw.
A girl says nothing. A man keeps his mouth closed. No one hears. And they may meet in secret, yes?
She had uttered her name in the House of Black and White that day, but Jaqen lent it a deaf ear, opting instead to hush the nameless girl, and led her by the hand to his chambers.
She understood, he knew she did. In that darkness, laying in the featherbed, he looked at her. Her eyes shone like burning ice in the Never-ending Night, and there was almost too much Winterfell in that gaze; too much... Arya. Her pale little hand drew up to caress his face, her fingers were cold as they brushed against his cheekbones, tentative and exploring as they swept through the tresses of his hair. So Jaqen chose instead to close his eyes, leaned into her touch and sighed, as his arms encircled her slim waist, pulling her towards his chest.
At dawn she would leave Braavos, and return to Westeros, home, she called it, forever.
He traced little circles on her back as she lay atop him, her cold face nestled in the crook of his neck, her hands played with his hair, toyed with the seams of his cloak, as she liberated him from the worldly garment. She had wanted him, from that day she first laid eye on him as a girl. Yes, way back then. She might not have realised it but he could see the desires in her eyes, burning darker than the night itself. And while he would never admit it to the Seven Hells, a Man had wanted her too.
She was a highborn lady of Westeros, and he a Faceless master assassin; the distance that lay between them should have been an ocean and a world, and yet here they were, two souls bound by the same fate of blood and death.
With every slap of the switch, every drop of blood drawn in her training, her eyes only grew fiercer, and more cunning every time she looked at him. It was as if she knew of a secret between them that was meant to be kept hidden, one which Jaqen was certain was masquerading naked on his face. They fought and she claimed, she took and she owned; she won. Knowledge passed between their heated gazes in the hall, under the watchful eyes of the Many-Faced God; promises were whispered in the labouring of her breaths, and challenges posed in the desperation that grew like wildfire every time their skins brushed.
And now here they were, limbs entangled, with only dying embers in the hearth to witness their sins. He would take her, for she was No One, and neither of them would be succumbing to their desires, so long as they chose to remain that way: No One, only for tonight.
That was what Jaqen H'ghar chose to tell himself.
She seared soft kisses down his neck as her hands wandered, robbing Jaqen H'ghar of his resolve with every touch on his skin. He let out a strained groan, sliding his palms down the length of her frame and traced her curves, revelling in the swells of her hips and the softness of her bosom, grinning as she gasped in surprise when he brushed his fingers against the tenderness of her breasts. He slipped his hands beneath her faded cotton blouse, and pushed it off her lithe frame in one smooth glide, leaving her arms and torso to bathe in the glow of candlelight, her full breasts conquered by the hungry palms of his hands.
The girl sat straddled across his hips, and with only his smallclothes and her breeches between them, every movement she made sent jolts of heat right in between his thighs. A girl's inner wolf took delight in cornering her prey, for while she feigned nonchalance, her eyes grew wicked as she rolled her hips ever so slightly, eliciting delicious bolts of pleasure that were never enough. Jaqen groaned in frustration and reached to grab her hips, his own rocking up involuntarily and the girl stilled her motions, smirking a victor's smile.
'A girl teases...', Jaqen sucked in a breath between his teeth as she ground down on his hips once more, his green eyes glaring at her, chastising.
His apprentice raised her eyebrows.
'A girl remembers her lessons', she purred, voice as smooth as velvet. 'To serve the Many-Faced God, one must have patience. A man taught her this himself, or has he forgotten?'
'Cruelty is unbecoming of you, sweet girl', he groaned, letting his head fall back onto the linen with a thud, and allowing his tormentor to do as she pleased. The flames in the fireplace danced behind his closed eyelids, and the tightness in his groin grew with every rocking of her hips. He willed himself into stillness and could hear her breaths becoming more and more shallow as she moved. The handsome man suppressed the urge to smirk with wicked satisfaction, knowing this was undoing his acolyte as much as it was him if not more, and was taken by surprise when he felt the unbearably tight smallclothes yanked from his body.
His eyes flew opened, but his vision blackened once more as he felt the girl's damp palm closing over his eyes.
'Don't look...', he heard her rasp breathily, and if the assassin did not know his apprentice better, he would have thought her voice was laced with something akin to... shyness?
He felt his hardness lying stretched against the taut muscles of his stomach; he felt it throb and ache, and he felt her eyes on him as her breath caught in her throat. It dawned on him then, and Jaqen H'ghar berated himself; of course she was a maiden. Then again it was never his place to wonder, never his place to know.
'Lovely girl...' he purred, his rough fingers gripping the smooth flesh of her thighs that were straddling him, massaging slowly, inching a little higher every second to the sound of her breathing, delighting in the stifled moans that threatened to spill from her lips. The smooth skin beneath his palms gave way to a realisation that the girl had discarded her breeches, and the man drew his brows together in confusion because when? It was also a question which would remain unanswered till the end of time, for she suddenly ground down into him once again with a passion, and this time there was nothing to keep her soaking, warm folds from pressing deliciously against the head of his hard length.
The master assassin threw his head back and suck in a breath. His apprentice also gasped at the foreign sensation, and began to rock harder, obviously liking the feel of his hot, smooth flesh rubbing hard against her sensitive nub, as she slid back and forth. Her master pried her hand away from his face and instead settled his own on her hips, as he watched her pleasure herself on his hardness. Molten green eyes traced her movements ravenously, and Jaqen H'ghar released a breath he did not realise he was holding, cursing softly in Asshai'i, the only tongue he knew she was none the wiser.
As his apprentice's breath became increasingly more erratic, and her thrusting a frenzy, her master let out a soft chuckle; his grip on her hips tightened and he flexed the toned muscles of his stomach, bringing himself up face-to-face with her. She gaze up at him, the pupils of her wild, grey eyes blown wide and ragged whimpers escaped her lips. He held her gaze and bent down so that their lips were only a breath apart, hiding a smile behind his whisper.
'A girl does not know pleasure.'
Immediately, the mists of lust in her eyes dissolved, giving way to their usual cat-like appearance; his acolyte glared at him and gritted out in mild annoyance.
'Are you mocking me?'
A man laughed, and would never admit it in a thousand years that his hardened heart could hold anything akin to adoration as he looked upon her. Jaqen carded his fingers through the locks of her hair, damp with perspiration, and began rubbing at a certain spot behind her ear that made the cat-like girl mewl with satisfaction, as steel melted from her eyes and she herself melted against his chest. The hard tips of her breasts rubbed against his chest, and the man had to still his breathing to regain his composure.
'A man does not mock', his voice was a gravelly drawl as he continued to stroke the cat behind her ear, his breaths sweet and hot on her lips 'He merely wishes to remind a girl of a lesson.'
'And what…', the girl rasped through a moan, struggling to not lean into his touch, '...damnable lesson might that be?'
Immediately, she was forced to let out a yelp, as the handsome man quickly flipped her onto the mattress so she was now gazing up at his sculpted form, all muscles and tanned skin, hovering just above her.
'Valar Dohaeris', Jaqen's voice was seduction made honey, and his eyes raking her form were positively ravenous; he met her gaze with a roguish grin, 'All men must serve.'
And with that, he descended upon the apex between her thighs with his lips and tongue, his stubbles grazing her soft skin, as he devoured her core. He lifted her hips and licked into her folds, teasing at her little nub of flesh that flared pink and wet. He grinned and watched as the girl beneath him let out choked gasps, her grey eyes blown wide, her lips parting with want, as she thrashed about in his sheets, seeking more of the delicious friction he had tempted her with. Her ankles, crossed behind his shoulder blades were digging insistently into his back, and Jaqen obliged, dipping his head back between her thighs and pressed his lips against her opening, sucking hard, his hot breath ghosting against her flesh.
His beautiful apprentice cried out in abandon. The tresses of her hair spilled onto his pillow like great waves, and as he chanced a glance upon her face, he saw the first crack in her mask of self-assuredness that she had been wearing for as long as he had known her. A man's lips quirked into a wolfish smirk, letting his eyes feast on her pleasure, making a secret vow that he would see to it that her mask shattered.
He lapped at her soft, pink folds; she tasted like smoke and something deeply sweet that he could not find a name for. The trembling of a girl's legs in his hands and the wild shuddering of her hips told him that she was teetering right on the edge, threatening to crash, and so the assassin mercilessly delved his clever tongue into her soaking opening, in and out and again, as the tip of his nose brushed repeatedly against the nub of her fluttering core.
That was all that was needed for Arya Stark to come undone. The girl threw her head back and her mouth fell open to let loose a silent cry, her fingers were fisted in his sheets as she spasmed over and over again, her hips trembling violently, until her master relented the torturing of his prey and set her hips down once more.
'Jaqen...' his lovely girl moaned hoarsely as she collapsed into the sheets, completely unable to move. The assassin slid up to lay beside her, pushing a gentle finger against her lips.
'No', he rebuked softly.
She gazed at him, her hazy eyes, still misted with pleasure, showed a hint of confusion.
'A man has no name', he bent down to kiss her lips sweetly, and she sighed into the touch, threading her fingers through his hair as he shuffled closer so they were pressed against each other. 'A man is no one' — another kiss — 'And so are you.'
As she lay spent in his bed, their chests pressed together, the assassin saw her false bravado, the facade of insolence beginning to crumble, shattering into fragments, revealing the face of a girl who had just known true pleasure for the first time. He allowed his faceless self a taste of sweet retribution and grinned. For too long had she had the upper-hand, and he, her master, would be the undoing of her tonight.
His train of thoughts was sent to a crashing halt, as the girl whom he had mistaken for falling into a slumber pushed off his chest in one fluid motion and slid down the length of his body. Before Jaqen H'ghar could make sense of what in the Seven Hells was about to come to past, she had taken his rigid length into her mouth and swallowed.
Pleasure exploded behind his eyelids; warmth and wetness and bliss hit him like a shockwave of pleasure, shaking him to the very core, and the master assassin let out a strangled shout. A girl continued drawing her wet lips up and down his length, each time taking his heavy length down to the base, and using her tongue to swirl at the dip right beneath the head of his member when she drew out. His vision flashed white and Jaqen H'ghar let out a moan as his hands found their way into her hair, fists clenching and releasing with the undulating wave of pleasure he felt around his cock. So warm, so tight, so wet.
'Go on then.'
Her voice was a mere whisper, and the Faceless Man would not have heard it if he had not felt her wicked lips drawing to the tip of his member to form words. He opened his eyes and saw her stormy grey ones clouded with lust. Her lips were pink and wet, and her hair was a tangled mess beneath his palms.
'Go on', Arya whispered, trailing her lips along his shaft, dropping wet kisses on it up to the tip, making Jaqen groan in desperation, her eyes never leaving his, 'You know you want to.'
As if to assuage the raging storm within his mind, his apprentice grabbed his wrists gently, forcing him to hold onto either side of her head, her soft tresses of hair fell between his fingers.
'You want to fuck my mouth', she whispered, her eyes were pools of alluring, molten steel, and her lips quirked into a wicked smile as she purred, 'Go on then, master.'
'Lovely girl...' her master groaned in disbelief, his breathing ragged, the tightness, the heat were almost unbearable, 'You cannot do this to a man…'
'A girl does know a thing or two about pleasure', Arya cocked her head to the side and gave the head of his member another lick, sucking it into her mouth and drawing out, letting it pop with such an obscene sound, 'And she is a quick learner.'
She kissed her way languidly down to his tightened balls, burying her face into his thigh, as she took his balls between her wet, warm lips, one-by-one, rolling them with her tongue, and nudging her thumb at that secret pleasure spot just below the base of his length. Her master moaned in absolute defeat and wondered where in the Seven Hells she had learnt the fine subtleties of pleasuring men, before realising that it was he who sent her down to Ragman's Habor in the first place. When her small hand replaced her mouth, and the girl's lips descended on his hard, throbbing length once more, swallowing him whole, something inside Jaqen H'ghar snapped, hard.
He all but seized her by the hips, and with an otherworldly strength she had never before witnessed, crossed the room and crashed her into the stone wall next to the fireplace. She threw her head back against the cold wall and hissed, as he pushed the tip of his length against her pulsing heat, threatening to breach her innocence. But his grip on her thighs remained firm, as her master willed his young acolyte to look into his burning, emerald green eyes.
'I have wanted you', he breathed against the shell of her ear, as he pushed against her a little harder, and she let out a soft whimper. Images of her, fierce and proud, flashed across his mind, in the training hall where she fought him, bloodied and sweaty, and her clothes would cling to her curves like a second skin. Her dance was as graceful as it was deadly, and it sent shivers spiralling up his spine. 'My tribute to the Lord of Death', she had whispered coyly to him one time after taking down an entire room of faceless assassins and acolytes, 'A devout servant that I am, do you think Him of Many Faces would take me as his bride?'
'No', he gritted his teeth and ravaged her lips hungrily, and the assassin pushed his length into her warm, wet heat, in one sharp thrust, white-hot pleasure blinding him, 'You are mine', he pulled out and this time thrusted in all the way to the base of his length as she cried and dug her nails into his shoulders, 'You have always been mine.'
No, this was the one thing Jaqen H'ghar would not share with his God. Let them think he was mad to let possessiveness hold him against the religion's sacred figure, he would not let anyone have her.
Arya was clinging onto his shoulders for dear life. Gentle sobs escaped her lips, but when he made to slow down, to move more gently, she clamped her teeth down hard on his neck, leaving a mark.
Jaqen hissed, but she interrupted.
'You have never before shown mercy in our way', a girl whispered, pushing herself against his strong form to fix her mentor with her deadly glare, 'Remember what a man said to a girl when they first met?'
When he said nothing, she braced herself against his shoulders, and slowly pushed herself down; her wet, tight heat sucking him in, eliciting a delicious ache that made Jaqen's breath hitch.
'A man has a thirst', she whispered hotly against the shell of his ear, her small frame trembling from the effort as she drew him into her impossibly tight opening once more, and again, 'And if that thirst should still persist, then take from a girl what you came for.'
If the Lorathi had been clinging to any semblance of sanity before, the final strand of Jaqen H'ghar's restraint snapped the instance she uttered her command. The master assassin let out a strangled sound and drove his hot length into his willing apprentice, hard, unrelenting. His strong form towered over her tiny frame, and he sinfully plundered her body for pleasure, truly as a man dying of thirst. He grabbed her by her hips and rammed into her impossibly tight heat, pressing her harder against the cold stone wall. Arya cried out, clutching at his shoulders, for the first time since he had known her, completely helpless. The labouring of her breaths against his skin told him that the pain had not ebbed, and yet it had made room for pleasure. She gasped when he plunged in all the way, melding their bodies together, her tiny hands seeking purchase on his muscles as she let out moans of raw pleasure. She cursed at him to keep moving, to fuck her harder.
A girl was insistent, and a man would obey, for this was their way. They whose fates were intertwined with blood and death, and the only salvation to their souls a surrender to one another.
He ripped her off the stone wall and they both staggered to the floor. His apprentice regained her balance and pushed him onto a rug in front of the fireplace. Her cold fingers threaded through his hair as she climbed atop him, bare thighs straddling his hips as she lay one pale palm on his collarbones and let her fingers ghost over his skin.
'If I but push my dagger in here…', her whisper was as sweet as poison as she traced the hollow of his throat, 'You'd be dead in less than a moment'
'Valar Morghulis', her master droned in a gravelly voice, his fingers digging into the muscles of her hips, 'But a man has learnt that a girl has other gifts to give.'
The devilish smirk on a girl's face slowly melted away to reveal pure desire as she sunk her hips down, taking his length deep into her. Her brows tightened as passionate little moans escaped her parted pink lips, and her skin glowed with sweat which he chased with his lips and tongue. She snapped her hips and sobbed as pleasure surged through her tiny frame, and she moved again, faster, and faster still, until all that Jaqen could do was hold her tighter and breathed against her skin, as he succumbed to the blinding heat that threatened to break him any second.
The flames in the hearth flickered, and their shadows danced on the cold stone wall of the House of Black and White, moulding together, becoming one, binding in a holy matrimony in a way that they themselves could never. In that moment, Jaqen H'ghar found his own mask slipping, for in the secret depths of himself, a heart that had been hidden away so deep was still beating, and it ached and yearned. For what? A Faceless Man was too fearful to find an answer for.
He was No one, and here in this Sanctum of Death, no one longed; no one loved.
He lurched up to face her, his strong hands grabbing her by her sides. He thrusted deep and hard, groaning as he set a punishing rhythm. Arya whimpered and he held her tight against him, fucking into her sweet, tight heat, deep and long. Mine, his heart taunted. Mine, it mocked. Heat was building in the pool of his stomach, and his pace became erratic. She was spasming above him, crying out in abandon as they both teetered on a precipice, threatening to crash. Heat was swallowing them like dragon fire, but no flames would cleanse their sins; he sunk his teeth into her skin, and they moved together, faster, harder, until hot, white pleasure bursted through him.
A flame that burnt hotter than wildfire erupted where their bodies met, consuming them in a shockwave, blinding a man and robbing him of his sanity as he spilled his pleasure into his apprentice. Her body went rigid, taut as a bowstring, and she screamed as she came crashing down onto him, her legs trembling as release wracked through her. Arya's mask shattered into thousands of fragments as she gave in, becoming undone and collapsing onto him, submitting to him, and him to her. Her master throbbed deep inside her; she was hot and wet, and a tangle of weak limbs, her core pulsating in the aftermath of their duel to the death. In that moment that seemed to last an eternity, No One became someone, became one another, became one.
She fell to her knees as if bowing in supplication to the Many Faced God, but Jaqen knew that this offering was to him and him alone.
He gathered her pliant body into his arms and carried her to his featherbed. Jaqen sat down next to her as he watched long lashes rest peacefully on her cheeks, for once the beauty of youth not marred by the burden of her birth, the cruelty of her life, and the memories of her grief.
The Faceless Assassin allowed himself one last moment of selfness, and let his own mask dissolve with the first winds of winter that swept beyond the Narrow Sea. Emerald green eyes roamed her features longingly, as he watched her fall into a slumber, tracing his thumb along the curves of her lips with adoration in his eyes. He brushed her soft tresses of hair away from her face and glance upon Arya Stark, his chosen apprentice.
Father, Smith, Warrior…
He bent down and placed a kiss upon her brows, lingering there as if she would fade to dust the moment he drew away.
Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger…
When he finally did draw away, Jaqen found a pair of smoky grey eyes glancing back at him with something unfathomable dancing within their depths. Arya's hand sought his, tenderly, and she gathered both of his hands to her chest, pressing light kisses on his knuckles; Jaqen's breath hitched. He lay down beside her, lost in the whirlpools of mesmerising grey that looked at him with utter devotion.
I am hers and she is mine…
She caressed his face, her long fingers drawing trails along his cheeks in scripts whose secrets were only known to them. He caught her hand, and brought it to his lips, as he kissed her fingers with sweet reverence, in surrender.
From this day, until the end of my days…
A gentleness bloomed upon her face, and a soft smile graced her lips, arresting his soul, rendering the servant of Death to concede to his humanity. It was bittersweet, he realised solemnly, as he drew her close into a possessive embrace, not ever wanting to let go. The assassin closed his eyes and drifted into slumber; daybreak could wait.
Some hours later, Jaqen H'ghar would feel a soft kiss upon his lips. His eyes would remain closed as he revelled in the taste of her unfathomably sweet lips. A gentle ray of sunlight slipped past the curtains and warmed the skin of his face.
'Arya…', he whispered, and opened his eyes.
But there was No One there.