Author's note: First ASOIAF Fanfiction. Modern AU in which Jaqen is a graduate student pursuing his interest in writing at Kings Institute ( by way of a PhD ), and Arya is a freshman undergraduate pursuing her love of two dimensional art, such as sketching and painting — which Jaqen does on the side. Point of view should be obvious. Please excuse any typos or grammatical errors ( exception for texts, as Arya is certainly not fond of capitalization ) because I am without a Beta reader. Thank you kindly.
The Library. Chapter I.
"Damn it. Where is—"
A short sigh, a quick flicker of grey skimming over a row of perfectly organized books. Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, Animal Farm, Don Quixote . . . Nineteen Eighty-Four. 'Ah.' Nimble fingers pull the thinly bound book from its shelf and sift through lightly annotated pages, toned legs shifting to put most body weight on the right limb.
A thin finger then opens to the inside cover of the widely acclaimed novel and traces over a neatly written phone number. '. . . College.'
Short moments pass as the freshman student of Kings Art Institute checks out her book and brusquely pushes through the glass doors that mark the exit. She shoves the book, along with the receipt that shows its return date, into her side bag and wastes no time to put her headphones in. Music or no, the opportunity of being stopped by a fellow student will be lowered as long as she at least looks busy with something.
Arya Stark represses a chuckle at the thought and after about ten minutes opens the door to her dorm and drops her keys on the side table that rests just left of the entrance. Her bag stays hung on her shoulders, though, as she needs to have the first three chapters of George Orwell's dystopian novel annotated by the morrow.
A sigh would be a waste of energy at this moment, and so the action is grudgingly repressed.
"Could you throw me that pen over there, Nymeria?" The girl murmurs to herself and walks past her obscenely large dog to retrieve the item that must have dropped out of her bag as she walked in.
Settling on the bed that is nestled in the corner of her small dorm ( near a closed window laced with some black-out curtains — good for nighttime when she wants to remain incognito while staying up late. Her Hall Adviser has a tendency to take late night walks around the dorm rooms and Arya was caught one time more than she had liked, so made no hesitation investing in something that would prevent such stupidity ), she props the book open and eyes the phone number one more time.
'Why do homework for that class? It blows.' She reasons, pulling her cheap smartphone from her pocket and unlocking its screen. She decides to name the unknown person 1984 due to the lack of name next to the digits written down.
[ new SMS to: 1984 ] hey.
—
"Exactly, yes. All that is needed now is to add some grey to make a more neutral tone—"
A buzz amidst the quiet chatter of the art room causes a good number of students to eye the foreign student, gazes accusatory for only a short while — there is a presentation due within the upcoming week and everyone is beginning to rush on their projects.
"One . . . moment."
Eyes avert and slender fingers click the lock button on the side of a smartphone to quickly see who — or what automated machine — sent an email.
Or text, in this rare case.
[ new SMS from: unknown ] hey.
Neat brows furrow in mild confusion at the unexpected message. The man puts his phone away and resumes helping a fellow student, hands soon covered wrist-deep in various shades from the color wheel.
"All right, that is headed in the right direction," he concludes before packing up, sure to not bury the mobile device in his canvas bag — which has happened far too many times — and instead leaves it in his pocket for easy access, as no one texts a man who is bad with technology.
Just as the graduate student enters his bare dorm — half empty because his roommate, Rorge, is studying abroad for the semester — he pulls out his phone and eyes the text for a few moments before deciding to respond. His curiosity is ultimately piqued at the fact that someone has his phone number without his apparent consent.
[ new SMS to: unknown ] Hello. Who is this?
—
"'. . . Only the Thought Police mattered,'" she mumbles. Foreshadowing? Underline.
A vibration knocks Arya from her string of silence and Nymeria cranes her neck to look back at her owner before resting it once more on to the girl's thin legs in hopes of falling back asleep.
The girl opens her phone and scoffs at the proper capitalization of letters from the person labeled as 1984. She doesn't have time to press the shift key and then type after that. Capitalizing texts is for Literature majors, not art students currently annoyed by the prospect of annotating a book that has nothing to do with art in the first place.
[ new SMS to: 1984 ] found this number inside of a book from the library with no name next to it. if i don't need your name, you don't need mine.
—
As Jaqen H'ghar takes a sip of steaming black coffee, a smirk crosses his thin lips as his bronze eyes read the incoming text message. 'What in the world . . .' He shakes his head and reclines in the dining chair, able fingers quickly typing up a response. Who knew that the prospect of speaking with an anonymous user could be so interesting?
That, or he has a truly uneventful life.
[ new SMS to: unknown ] All right, then. A sender may refer to me as 'a man.' That should be simple enough.
But just as the man sends the message, a thought rings through his mind. If the person got his phone number from the library, that means that it must be in Nineteen Eighty-Four, as he and a group of close friends — when young, foolish freshmen — wrote each of their phone numbers in various books for the fun of it. He clearly remembers writing down the string of digits in the novel, and in no time sends another text.
[ new SMS to: unknown ] And now a man takes the liberty to assume that a stranger attends Kings Institute . . . just as he.