Things are settled in Westeros. The army of the Dead is defeated, the South is in good hands, and yet two characters are unhappy and too blind to see they could be happy together.
I Will Leave At Dawn
Jaqen roamed the big corridor, his feet light as always, though he needed not to hide. Not anymore. He observed, his sight and ears sharpened to notice every detail.
He entered the quiet Great Hall and looked around. There was nothing to see, expect for the strings of coloured light that passed through the decorated glass windows. The Iron Throne sat there, huge and frowning down upon him. It was the New King's seat now, and it seemed every bit as severe as the King did himself, now that he had lost his Queen. But he could not think about the King now, nor all the remaining lords and ladies who had been in this same place only a few hours prior.
He went down the steep steps underneath the tower of the Red Keep, where he had seen her sneak around sometimes. He entered the dark cave, and closed his eyes to follow his other senses. His training had required him to go blind too, when he was but only a green boy lost in Braavos challenging the authority of the House of Black and White. He used his enhanced hearing, and the tips of his fingers to guide himself. The walls were cold and uneven, and the place smelled of humidity and rot, and he heard some rats chase each other somewhere close. He was guided further by the sharp perfume of iron, spicy with a slight tinge of leather none but familiar.
When he felt the space of the small corridors expand, and heard the echo of a drop of water falling from the ceiling resonate against the walls far enough from him, he opened his eyes.
He almost gasped, but made not a single sound. A dim shine of the daylight that seeped through the small holes in the stone was gliding on black dragon skulls around him, the height of three men. He carefully snaked between them, and he felt watched, their eyes but only empty sockets of bone. Some were smaller, but the one she was standing in front of had teeth the size of heavy swords, and a spear was poking right through it.
Her smell of leather tingled his nostrils, and he got closer, still as silent as a cat gliding in the night. He did not wish to trouble the still flow of her thoughts, and waited until she noticed his presence.
"I got lost here once." Her voice resonated against the stone. "I was chasing cats, for my lesson."
The side of his lips curled up. He imagined her as a little girl again, covered in mud, like the first time he had seen her. Little did he know back then that she would grow to be… the woman she was now. How could he have guessed? And how could he have protected himself from her?
"Syrio Forel," she continued, as if she were speaking to herself. "He was my teacher. He was from Braavos. Did you know him?"
He waited for her to turn her head towards him, but she did not. She kept fixating the dragon, her shoulders relaxed, as if her mind was only partly here.
"Everyone knew Syrio Forel.", he said, not loud. "First sword of the Sealord. Until he left Essos for Westeros."
"It was a mistake." He did not see her gaze drop, but he knew it had. "He got killed here. Because of me, because he was training me." She sighed, and he was sure she thought he did not hear it. "But I avenged him."
"A man remembers." He made his tone ironical on purpose. "Meryn Trant, a brothel, the face of a blonde girl. That mistake cost a girl her eyes."
"It wasn't a mistake." She quickly snapped. "And you would've taken my eyes anyway."
He repressed a smile.
"The real punishment was watching you down the vial of poison.", she continued.
He thought back on that little show he had given her. It had been quite a cruel game to play, but he could not deny the accelerating beat of his heart when he saw her sob on the body she believed was his.
"I have something to ask you," she said after a while, still facing the giant of stone. She rose her left arm, and the leather of her coat squeaked. Between two gloved fingers, she held an ugly piece of iron carved with the sigil of the Faceless Men.
"When you gave me this," her voice was cold and flat, but he knew she willed it to be so. He would have liked to know what she was hiding behind that tone as well, though.
"How did you know I would come back to you?"
"A girl was fierce." She still is to this day. "And eager to find her path. A man knew she would understand that in order to find out who Arya Stark was, she had to become someone else first." There was no point in hiding the truth from her. She had never meant to become No One, he had known from the very first look at her. And maybe that was what drew him to her, but now was not the right time to linger on that thought.
"So you decided to train me."
"Yes," he answered, images of their nights in Braavos flashing in his mind, while they played the Game of Faces, stick in his hand, disdain and confusion on her face, until she learnt how to hide it all.
And now the roles are switched, and the girl is playing with this man, he thought, remembering that one night they had shared, far up in the north, before the great battle and the new dawn.
She had never come back to him, not after their victory against the Undead, nor after the taking of the south. On the celebration feast night the King had held after taking the capital, he had seen her eager to enjoy life, joyfully eating, smiling and laughing, and he had imagined taking her to a room and show her some further delights. But she had not come back to him, nor shown any sign of affection.
He had examined her face many times, scrutinizing every detail and wondering why. Maybe she had not liked his methods, or his approach to that very special craft of fleshes, but thinking back on that moment they had shared, he had not noticed anything but satisfaction from her part. She had had her pleasure, so why did she not wish to have some more? What did he do wrong? Ah, if only he had not taught her how to rule her face so well.
Maybe she had only wished to experiment, he thought. After all, she had never shown any tenderness towards him, except for that night. And they were no wife and husband, only old friends with mixed sentiments (on his part at least), she had not promised him anything but ephemeral pleasure. That realization made his heart sting a bit, though he did not wish to feel it and hoped he could quickly forget about it.
"Thank you," she said, and those mere words almost took his breath away.
"For training me. I don't know if I'd be here if you had not given me this coin."
They had had this conversation before. Only then, she had not thanked him for what he had done for her, but simply claimed that what was in the past belonged to the past, and that the game was over. And a couple of days after that conversation she had knocked on the door of his room and he had found her in her nightwear asking for his touch. Damn it, he should not think back on that night.
"Bur everything's different now. They're all gone. The Baratheons, the Tyrells, the Martells, the Tullys, the Arryns and the Greyjoys, the Lannister… and even the Targaryens now. It's just us, the Starks. "
"The world will heal, lovely girl. And before we know, new houses will rise."
"You're going to leave too, aren't you." Her tone was still flat, but he thought he heard some sadness in it. Or maybe it was just an unconscious wish of his that twisted his hearing into understanding such a thing.
"The other faceless men said you had no business left here, that you must go back to Essos now that it's all over.
"A girl has her pack, she belongs with them," he said, his heart stinging. "And a man is no wolf."
He watched her stand in front of that skull, hoping she would say something, and he thought about that time she was sobbing for him again. But he erased the memory. It was selfish and cruel.
"Right. You're not a wolf."
She left and dissolved in the shadows, her pace sure, without granting him a look.
On this night, he did not know how, but part of him knew she would come again. He expected her to knock late in the night, when the moon was far above the Red Keep and only cats and spirits and the two of them would be awake. She would knock, barely dressed like the last time and use these newly acquired tricks of hers to get what she wanted. He readied himself. He had to refuse her. Maybe he had been No One once, and able to push his feelings aside, but that was no longer the case, and it was no longer her right to treat him so.
But, surprisingly, she did not wait for the dead of the night to come. He heard a knock on his door, and he had barely finished eating his supper.
"Lovely girl.", he said unsurprised nonetheless. He opened the door, reciting the words he was about to tell her in his mind.
"A man should warn you that-" he lost his voice. She was fully dressed in long sleeves of wool and high boots, and a laced leather coat that would probably take years to unlace. She held two long sticks of wood, and something about her face was off. She wore the habitual confidence, but this time it was hiding something, yet he did not have the time to pinpoint what exactly.
"I want to fight. To train, it's been a while."
He looked at her, abashed. When she rose her brow, he was reminded that time had not stopped to let him think.
"A girl will be leaving for Winterfell on the morrow, she should get some rest before-"
"If you won't fight with me I'll find someone else who will."
He frowned, and let her in. To train? Was it another one of her tricks? But if she was counting on taking the upper hand on him during a fight to push him on the bed, he would gladly show her that she was wrong to underestimate him.
"A man will train with you. But why him, if a girl has so many others to pick from?"
"You're the best.", she threw him one wooden stick, which he caught with one hand. "Ad Jon's busy these days."
She spun, and whirled her stick.
"Why does a girl wish to train so late in the night?"
She sighed.
"Do you want to help me, or not?"
He frowned more. What was wrong with her?
"Then don't ask questions.", she finished, before putting herself in fighting stance.
He readied himself too, and before he had tested his balance she was fusing towards him, pointing the stick like a sword towards his chest. He flew his stick through the air and prevented himself a hurtful poke. She spun furiously and swung her stick towards his hip. He stopped it with his own and the wood cackled. She attacked again, taking a step towards him, making him step back. He would have attacked, normally, not just merely defended himself, but something about her was not right so his mind was not fully into the fight. She tried to hit him again, and again, not allowing herself to think between her attempted strikes.
Why was she so aggressive? This looked nothing like a regular training. And-
He took a shot at the back of the shoulder in a miscalculated move. Fuck- he used his stick as leverage and spun it to hit the back of her knees. He stumbled on the table and crushed a glass. He had no time to care. The next second she was flying towards him and tried to hit his arm. He countered and pushed her back by hitting her ribcage. She grunted and crushed against a divan, that made another table stumble and fall, with all the vials and the fruits and the wine on his. She fumed and bared her teeth like a wolf, and flung her stick again in no particular movement. He was pretty sure she just wanted to hit him.
"Arya." he growled, and hit her back for every strike she gave him, only his were training strikes, and hers were… close to the line between training and massacring a life-long enemy. They were both panting from the exercise by then, and from the swirl of darkness that went through their minds. She spun the stick above her head and aimed it at his face, and was too much for him to bear.
"Stop. Arya!" He caught her stick. She tried to fight his strong grip, but he was as steady as a marble statue. She shot him a look boiling with rage.
"What is this madness?"
"What?!" She still tried to take back her stick. "You said you wanted to train!"
"This is not training!" He harshly pulled the stick towards him to make her let go of it. "This is a fight. A girl is mad." He shoved both sticks in a corner of the room. Usually he would have cared about not making a sound, but now they had crushed furniture and glass and probably woke half of the castle and he could not care less. "You know what? A man is mad too." He controlled his anger and made it cold and satyric. He took a step towards her and meant to intimidate her, but she stood her ground.
"Am I just a tool to you? A body to fuck and fight with whenever you please?"
She looked at him as if he had insulted her entire family.
"You're No One.", her lip trembled.
He inhaled and raised his chin.
"I told you I was done playing this game."
"Why are you leaving with them, then?" Her eyes watered, and he lost the control over his own face.
"You think I don't care about you, but you're the one leaving."
She lowered her head, and he knew she was angered by the unfallen tears. She swallowed them away angrily.
"I have no other choice, a girl knows it." He examined her face, and he knew she did not believe him.
"What was your plan for tonight? Hit me a couple of times to make your anger go away?", he asked, confused.
"I-…", she stuttered, and regained her composure. Her nose was still wrinkled from anger.
"Tomorrow, I'll ride North. To Winterfell. And you'll set on a boat to go back to Braavos. We'll… never- I wanted to write and end to… this. A proper one, since we haven't talked since…what happened." she motioned between them but kept her eyes low.
He scoffed.
"An end?" He was still mad at her, but then smirked. She did have a keen sense of poetry, when one thought about it.
"What a glorious end, then." He looked around, at the mess in the room. We should have talked, he thought.
"It sums it up quite well if you ask me.", she answered. I should have told you.
He smiled, and picked up the sticks again.
"Well, let's not end on an unfinished job. Someone has to win this fight." He tossed the stick towards her again. She smiled and brandished hers. I love you.
He spun again, dodged again, whirled and hit the side of her ankle to make her stumble. The fire in her revived, and she pivoted on her foot to prepare for her attack. He dodged the strike, but instead of stepping back, he came close to her this time.
He felt the wind of her heavy breath against him, and she tried another strike but he made her stick clash against his and spare his arm. She tried to manoeuvre but with him this close it was way more complicated. She used her knee to push him and escape his figure, but he was quick to pick up her strategy and ended up blocking her in a corner of the room.
She blocked him with her stick and shoved it against his frame, but he noticed how soft her arms were compared to mere minutes before. He did not move an inch. He put his stick behind her right knee and in front of her left ankle for her to be unable to move, but he did not attack her. She grunted when she noticed she was stuck, and he connected their lips.
He felt her melt into the kiss. If he wanted to be true to himself, he may admit that he felt his knees go weak for half a second. Soft. She had soft lips. How could he forget?
He broke their embrace and set her free, and she whirled around him again, quick as a snake. He countered a blow on his cheekbone, why did she always aim at his face, did she not like it? He blocked her arm by circling it with his hand, but instead of letting it go immediately, he allowed his hand to glide on a few inches before totally letting go of her.
He noticed her repressing a smile at his faint caress, and she tried to do the trick he had done to her with the stick between the legs to prevent him from moving. He allowed her to, he had a plan in mind.
She positioned her stick the first chance he saw, and instead of letting her cripple him, he squeezed his thighs. Her hands let go of the stick as he expected, and he used his to make her stumble and fall.
His plan would have worked, if she had not anticipated and used a table to give her leverage to spring on him and put him on the ground. Clever girl.
He fell down, and she was straddling him, using his own stick to push down his throat and make him grunt.
"I won," she said, the look on her face high and mighty.
He responded to her arrogant smile, and watched her dark hair make a curtain around her face.
"You won.", he answered, smirk on his face. But she hadn't. No really.
He felt her arms grow weak, and watched that beautiful face descend towards his. His hands travelled to the sides of her thighs, his touch light.
Her mouth closed onto his, and an uncontrolled moan flew out of her, passing off as a sigh. He closed his eyes to feel more, and felt the sharp pain of a bite on his lower lip.
She stood up and lazily looked around the room. There were broken vials and crushed furniture. He stood up too and she looked at him then.
"Why didn't you come talk to me sooner?", he asked. She kept her eyes low, analysing his form.
"I didn't want to…" She bit her lower lip, the same way she always did when she was troubled. "The dead were rushing upon us, and then we had to take the south, and then… we'd be separated, I didn't want to get attached because I knew I'd only be more difficult."
He sat on the edge of the bed.
"But now I'm realizing staying away only made me crazier, and I was angry at you for being… you, but I just couldn't see that I was stupid."
His heart beat faster.
"Arya, I l-" she rushed towards him and swallowed his words in a kiss. Then she pinched her lips and squeezed her eyes shut, and he knew she was battling against a sadness.
"Please, don't say anything. I'm sorry." Her hand glided through his long hair. "I'm sorry I wasted your time, your energy, or if you ever thought you didn't matter to me, I-"
He hushed her in a kiss too.
"Shh, lovely girl." The endearment made her smile. He circled his arms around her waist and made her sit on his lap. "It's all forgotten."
She kissed him again, with more hunger this time, snaked her tongue between his lips her fingers got lost in his hair and when she drew back her lips were red and her breath was uneven.
He started undoing the laces of her unbearably covering coat. She tugged at his shirt, but he wanted to undress her first. He pulled and toyed with the strings, and he felt her shake in excitement. He had missed feeling her so close to him. His fingers worked through the top, descending one inch after the other, revealing the pale skin underneath.
"Oh, seven hells!", she growled when he still was not finished after a few minutes. She snaked her long fingers between his to accelerate the work, but he chased her hands away. He slid the coat off her shoulders as far as it went with the laces still tight at the bottom, and uncovered her right breast. He suckled on her nipple and kept working until the darn thing finally hit the ground.
He let her get rid of his shirt as well, and then proceeded to undress the rest of her. He remembered every inch of her he had loved the first time, yet under the light of the southern moon and the warm candles her body seemed new. He noticed new scars in some places, especially that long one on the left side of her ribcage. He traced it gently, marvelling at how close the blade had come to her heart.
"Who did this?", he murmured while she was sliding his pants down.
"A White Walker.", she answered casually. "My dagger found him next."
He looked into her grey eyes again, and did nothing to hide the worry that twisted inside him. Of course he knew everyone almost died in the last few months. But she… that blade so close to her heart… he had almost lost her forever, and he almost never knew. He crushed her under his weight and kissed her deep. Her hands drew his back, and he wondered at how much he had missed the sound of their skins gliding against one another.
He drew a path with his lips from her throat to the tip of her breast, just faintly touching and enjoying the shivers that gently shook her every time he went just a little bit further down. By the time he reached the crown of hairs that led to that warm and sweet place, her moans were thick with desire and excitement.
He lapped between her folds, and circled that spot that made her jolt. A finger found it's way in her, and oh- he had forgotten that a woman's body was so deliciously perfectly tight. Or was it just hers? He did remember any other woman's body right now. He felt his manhood grow and slid in and out of her, adding a second finger once she was wet enough. Before long she was holding onto the sheets and grinding her hips against his mouth, riding off a climax.
She felt the waves in her crash more gently, and worked on regaining her breath. She had completely forgotten how good it felt. He shot her a gaze from down there, full of arrogance and satisfaction and damn, that bastard knew how good he was. He released her core, still pulsing from the aftershocks, and came back up to meet with her lips. She was a bit surprised at first, and then let her tongue mingled with his. There was that sweet kind of summer berry taste on it, her taste, and the thought that he had been relishing that between her legs made her giggle.
She circled his broad shoulders. She loved how strong they were, how they made his entire frame look more imposing, and how they pinned her down onto the bed and made her feel so safe. Her hands glided to his chiselled waist and she could feel the muscles contract and release underneath his warm skin of gold. She felt the strands of blood-red hair tickle the sides of her face and brought her hands back to it, looking for that one white lock.
Part of her wanted to take her time, to enjoy softly every drop of time they still had, and the other wanted to explore as much as possible, to do all the things they'd never be able to do again, and she could not find a middle ground. She alternated between wolfing him down and touching him ever so slightly, as if to infuse his skin with her smell, her taste, her own skin, herself. Please don't forget me, the thought kicked in as he slid his arms under her waist and fell to his side. He turned her so that her back was against him, and started to toy with her breasts from behind. It was a lovely view, his hands on her body, just his hands and his magic touch. Hells, how could he be so brutal in fighting yet so delicate in lovemaking?
He kissed her shoulder, and she felt his breath against her cheek. He lifted her leg, and she felt him hard against her entrance. He slid in, and she blushed at how wet she was. He began rolling his hips against hers, and it looked like a dance. Not the dance of the ladies and the lords during feasts, nor a water dance, but something in between the delicacy of one and the explosiveness of the other, and all in all just much more enjoyable than both combined. She thought she loved sword-fighting but this, oh, this was on a whole new level of love. It was need, a carnal and animal need and yet so profound and intricate, so… them.
He grazed his teeth on the side of her neck, and she placed her hands over his to guide one of them to that soft spot that made lights flash in her head. He laughed, a quiet and low laugh that said a girl is hungry probably or so she imagined, and she felt a fuzzy feeling build up in her lower body. She started feeling hot, and the sound their bodies made was just too much for her mind to stay sane.
She remembered Sansa's advice about making them wait, and why she thought about her sister right now by all the Gods she did not know, but this feeling felt way too good to be troubled by anything and she did her best to hold it. It kept building, and each time he went back in her it felt like she was breaking through invisible walls.
She bit her lip and curled her toes and squeezed her abdomen, and in the midst of her frenzy an Oh Jaqen escaped her.
He did like to hear his name for someone who claimed he had so many. She heard him moan, not really a moan but a guttural sound of satisfaction rather, and that was all to push her off the cliff and into the bliss she had so desperately been keeping away.
She came and her back uncontrollably arched, her brows twisted in that delicious distress. He chased his own orgasm for a couple more minutes, and squeezed her tight when he reached it. She felt that hot liquid jerk in her and relaxed in his arms, her breath still shaky.
They stayed there for some time, enjoying the weight of their bodies making them sink in the feather pillows, and the feeling of their skins still brushing against one another. They were perfectly the same temperature, as if they had both reached the point where they could melt into each other. When her thoughts were calm again she turned around and put her hand on the side of his jaw. She closed her eyes, and let her fingers wander on his face, tracing his features delicately. She had forgotten so many faces before… and his, she could not allow herself to forget his, so she drew the high of his cheekbone, and travelled all the way to his brow, and she knew that there, close to the bridge of his nose there was a scar. The curve of his lower lip, she traced next, and concentrated hard on associating it with the feeling of kissing it. A couple of seconds later, she realised he was smiling.
"We will meet again, lovely girl." He kissed her. "I promise."
On the morrow, Arya rode back to Winterfell, and Jaqen followed his faceless brothers on a ship.