A/N: Heya. So...I watched the movie Leap Year with my boyfriend the other day, cause it's one of my mom's favorite movies and I assured him that he didn't want to see it with her and she wouldn't rest until he finally did. That being said, even though I've seen it so many times, I picked up more on the brief Irish folk tale (The Pursuit of Diarmuid and Gráinne) that's told roughly in the middle, and decided to adapt it. It was originally going to be for SanSan, but it ended up fitting better with Arya and Jaqen so they're just there to be supporting characters. Sorry, but I can't write without my OTP. That all being said, I did change some details of the original folk tale, cause there's like an irresistible love mark and a geis involved so it starts kinda rapey and then gets pretty weird and there's pole vaulting and invisibility cloaks, so...yeah, changed stuff, but still based on that. And...that's all. So yeah, go ahead and read. Hope you enjoy. Thank you to GrowlingPeanut and tardisinthesgc for reviewing "Need for Speed", and friendly reminder that if you want any particular chapter to be continued, you just need to let me know. Always open to requests.
Disclaimer: Everything belongs to George R. R. Martin.
Rating: M for some language, sexual references and content, alcohol, lecherous old men, being a rebel, all the fun stuff.
It was all Sansa's fault, as so many things often were.
Arya was the younger daughter, not so pretty or graceful as her sister, and yet still, because of Sansa, she was the one forced to marry for political gain.
When Sansa grew to womanhood, men from every corner of Westeros sought her hand, and though once as a girl she had dreamed of such attentions, she only cried when Eddard and Catelyn declared that she would wed Harrold Hardyng of the Vale. He was handsome by all accounts, but, although just a few years Sansa's elder, was already the father of two known bastards.
Their parents took that as the cause for her grief, but Arya knew the truth. Sansa, foolish and naïve Sansa, had spent the years of her blooming womanhood falling in love with the kennel master at Winterfell. He was a crude and bitter man, seventeen years her senior, and horribly scarred, but, they were in love nonetheless. And so, with Arya as their witness, they wed in secret before the weirwood tree, and when they consummated their union beneath the stars, Eddard and Catelyn could do nothing but accept her choice, and force the burden of betrothal upon their only other daughter.
His name was Walder Frey and he was approaching his ninetieth nameday just as Arya passed her eighteenth. The thought of marrying him alone made her feel sick, not to mention what would follow the wedding.
Arya's desperate appeals to her mother fell on deaf ears, and each time she expressed her disgust at the betrothal, Catelyn reminded her young daughter that she too had married out of duty, and had simply had the good fortune to fall in love with her husband. Of course, Eddard was of an age with Catelyn, and she wasn't both his ninth wife and younger than half of his grandchildren.
It was decided that a banquet would be held in honor of the betrothal so that the two could meet before preparations for the wedding began, and Arya awaited the day with dread. In a moment of anger and spite, she made the one choice she could control and found herself in the bed of Winterfell's young blacksmith. It wasn't a particularly pleasant experience, and she avoided him once the deed was done, but it would rob her betrothed of the satisfaction of taking her maidenhead, and for that, she felt a measure of spiteful glee.
When she told Sansa of what she had done, her sister had merely sighed and shaken her head in disappointment. She was scandalized by the impropriety of her sister's decision, and yet she understood. Arya was not in love with another man, but she still dreaded the marriage she was being forced into, and Sansa too had sought to control her own fate.
Walder Frey and his entourage appeared at Winterfell's gates two moons before the wedding would be held. Ned and Catelyn had agreed that was ample time for their daughter to become accustomed to her betrothed and his men and to realize the inevitability of what was to come. They held some pity for Arya, but the Freys controlled a region of Westeros that would strategically benefit the armies of the North, and so, she was offered as sacrifice.
"Gods, he's hideous," Arya said with disgust, her arms crossed over her chest as she watched him ride through the gates. He looked even older than he was, with thinning white hair and spotted skin that looked like it was carved from leather.
"And ancient," Sansa's husband commented, eyebrow raised. "Mayhap he won't even be able to get it up come the wedding night."
Sansa swatted at his arm as Arya snickered. "Hush, Sandor. Don't be so crude."
He shrugged his massive shoulders and then rolled his eyes when Arya met his gaze with amusement. Sansa sighed in exasperation.
Arya's eyes returned to the men who flooded through the gates, and she was about to turn away and fulfill her duty as his betrothed when a man at Walder's side caught her eye. He was a slender man with sharp and handsome features, framed by long, straight hair, dyed red on one side and white on the other. Quite the opposite of both the brawny giant Sansa had married and the feeble geriatric she was meant to.
Her sister followed her gaze and Arya flushed slightly when she raised her eyebrows and gave her a knowing look.
"I should go and meet them," she said, excusing herself hastily. "You," She pointed to Sansa. "Stay quiet. And you," She nodded toward her good-brother. "Keep your snide comments to yourself. I'll want to hear them later."
"Welcome to Winterfell," Eddard said courteously, and with a smile. "We hope your journey was a pleasant one and that your stay is equally so."
Walder Frey grumbled something in reply, a deep frown on his wrinkled face. By this point, he was probably tired of the boring formalities of a betrothal and Arya couldn't blame him. She was and it was only her first.
When his eyes fell on her, however, they lit up with a lascivious gleam and Arya struggled to maintain her smile as her skin crawled. If that was the way he looked at her in their marriage bed, she wasn't sure she could make it through the ordeal without retching.
"Our daughter," Catelyn said with a smile. "Arya Stark."
Arya stood for a moment in silence, and when her mother shot her a pointed look, she slowly extended a hand, the smile on her face stiff and false. "A pleasure to meet you, my lord."
"And you, sweetling," Walder purred, lowering his lips to her hand and holding them there for an unseemly long moment. "You are as young and fair as I've been told."
"Thank you, my lord," she choked out, swallowing down the bile in her throat. Never before had she met such a horrid man, and she had met more than a few unsavory ones in her time.
"This is my eldest son, Stevron." The man nodded in greeting, and Arya couldn't help but note that he was at least ten years older than her father.
"And my guard, Jaqen H'ghar."
The man to his left was the same that Arya had seen in the yard, and again she offered her hand. He bent at the waist to press his lips against it, and far from the slimy feeling of Walder's lips against her skin, his mouth was soft and smooth, and she felt a thrill run through her at his touch. When he pulled away, his blue eyes had darkened and with her heart pounding in her chest, she wondered if he had felt it too.
"How many wives have you been around for?"
Jaqen turned and was not the least bit surprised to see Walder's betrothed standing at the door to his chambers. He had felt something the moment that he first saw her, something that was powerful, and frighteningly strong.
He shrugged and continued to remove his armor. "Only six through eight." He met her eyes again. "Or nine, I suppose." Her mouth quirked into a frown at that and he shrugged again, lifting off his breastplate and setting it in the chest at the foot of his bed. "You aren't the youngest."
"Have they all borne him children?" She asked, and the sour taste in his mouth reflected the revulsion in her gaze.
"Aye. For a man his age, he still has the…vigor…of his youth."
Arya sighed at that. So much for Sandor's theory, and her own desperate hope.
"And you're content to stand by and watch?"
His expression darkened at that, and he moved his fingers to the laces of his tunic. She followed the motion with her eyes, and did not turn away.
"I swore an oath to serve as his guard, and so I do my duty as I must." He met her gaze evenly. "As we all must."
She watched as he removed his tunic and her heart skipped a beat at the sight of him half-bare before her. His chest and abdomen were toned, but not heavily muscled, and for a moment, she imagined him in the midst of battle, quick and fluid as he fought. The image in her mind was tantalizing—dangerously so.
Her feet carried her closer of their own will, and she raised a hand to rest against his chest before she spoke again. "And if we don't want to do our duty?"
His eyes were dark as he looked down at her and his hand moved to her cheek as she tilted her face toward his. "Then we must make a choice..."
"He isn't your betrothed!" Sansa protested in a whisper, crossing her arms and shivering in her thin shift.
"Neither was Sandor!" Arya retorted, giving her a pointed look. When she had gone to her sister's chambers to tell her of the strange feelings that had welled suddenly and forcefully within her, Sandor had only very grudgingly let his wife go, and Arya could tell from his vicious scowl and Sansa's swollen lips that she had most certainly arrived at an inopportune moment.
"Yes, but..." Sansa's protestation trailed off and she sighed, her teeth worrying absently at her bottom lip. It was Arya who had stood beside her as Sandor placed his cloak about her shoulders, and more than anything, she wanted her sister to be happy. With Walder, she would certainly not be that.
"What are you going to do?"
Arya frowned and shrugged her shoulders, pacing restlessly. "I don't know. I know that I've only just met him, but by the gods, I think I love him." She sounded confused and helpless, and it softened Sansa's expression.
"Have you told him?"
Arya laughed shortly at that and shook her head. She had nearly kissed him there in his chambers, but her fear and uncertainty had overcome her and she had fled instead, leaving him behind. "What could I possibly say? 'I don't know you and you work for the man I'm to marry, but I think I'm in love with you.'?"
Sansa shrugged and Arya sighed heavily, pushing her hair back from her face. She had given herself to the bastard blacksmith with nothing more than calculated control, and she was sorely unprepared for the barrage of sensations that rose in her chest at the mere sight of Walder's handsome guard.
"If you're sure," Sansa said gently. "Then go to him. I don't know what we can do, but you were there for me and Sandor, so we'll help you in whatever way we can. And I'll deal with Mother and Father when the time comes for that."
Taking a deep breath, Arya nodded. She didn't always get along with her sister, but she had gained admiration for her when for once in her life, she had acted rashly and of her own accord, and she was grateful that Sansa was willing to help her as she had once done.
She would go to him, and tell him of her feelings, and then...only the gods could say.
"Tell me what you feel for me."
The command was blurted from within the darkness of his chambers, and Jaqen opened his eyes to see Arya standing beside his bed, her eyes wide and chest heaving.
He was silent for a moment. What he should have felt for her was nothing more than vague disinterest, the same thing he had felt for the women who had come before her. But instead, he was inexplicably drawn to her, and were she to ask anything of him, he would be helpless to resist.
Before he could answer, she had crawled into his bed, and her hands were in his hair as she kissed him, deeply and possessively. His body reacted urgently and insistently to her touch and his hands wandered to her back without thought, and then lower. She arched into him with a breathless sigh and his lips answered hers fervently, his mind blank but for thoughts of her.
When she pulled away, her pupils were wide and dark, and sorely tempting. "I love you," she murmured, and before his muddled brain could make sense of the confession, his mouth was forming a reply.
"I love you too."
She bent her head to kiss him again and whispered against his mouth. "Run away with me."
He knew that he should be ashamed of the way he felt about her, and that he was dishonoring Lord Frey in the worst way possible, but he couldn't find it in himself to protest, not with her lips on his neck and her soft body so close to his own.
"When?"
"Tomorrow night," Arya answered without hesitation. "At the banquet." A plan had formed swiftly in her mind, and she decided to run with it. "We'll slip a sleeping potion into the wine and run far from here."
He nodded in acceptance and kissed her once more. "Go then, and prepare what you must, but do not raise suspicion."
Her body ached for more of his touch, but she obeyed his command, giving him a final lingering kiss before hurrying away. That night, she did not sleep, and by morning, she had gathered what she needed, ready to begin her life anew.
"You need us to do what, girl?"
At the break of dawn, Arya had hurried once again to her sister's side, and Sansa sat up in her bed, listening to Arya's plan as Sandor lie still half-asleep in her lap, blearily trying to follow their conversation.
"Slip a sleeping potion into the wine at the banquet," Arya repeated impatiently. "Once everyone's asleep, we'll run."
"Where will you go?" Sansa asked quietly, tracing absent patterns across Sandor's bare shoulder.
Arya sighed and chewed on her lip. "I don't know," she replied honestly. "Wherever we can. We'll sleep in the woods if we must and run until we reach somewhere we're not recognized."
"You know Lord Frey will send his men after you."
Arya nodded, her face set in an expression of grim determination. "Aye. So we'll hide and pray to the gods that he doesn't find us."
Much to Arya's displeasure, Catelyn forced her into a gown for the betrothal banquet, and she eyed herself with distaste in her looking glass as her mother stood beside her.
After a moment, Catelyn sighed. "I know this isn't what you want. But we need to be able to pass through the Twins if we're to defend the North."
Arya nodded absently, hardly listening to her mother's words.
Catelyn smiled slightly and continued, though there was a chastisement hidden in her words. "Your father is grateful that you haven't acted as rashly as your sister, for once." Though Ned had respected Sandor Clegane in his capacity as the keep's kennel master, he had rather a hard time accepting him as his good-son and the man who shared his daughter's bed.
Arya struggled to keep her expression neutral. Come morning, Eddard would not be nearly as grateful.
Somehow, she had managed to keep herself from Jaqen's side as the day wore on, and when he appeared at the banquet in regalia befitting his position, she couldn't help the enticing warmth that spread throughout her body at the sight of him.
Walder sat to her right, his hand roaming the length of her thigh beneath the cloth draped over the table. She did not push him away, but sat tense and uncomfortable as she endured his touch. After all, it was the last and only time that she would be forced to do so.
Her parents sat beside Walder, and Sandor and Sansa sat to her left, the former well into a bottle of wine—one that he had ensured was not touched by the mixture Sansa had delivered at her sister's request. Though she had chosen not to imbibe her usual goblet of Arbor Gold, Sansa's face was flushed, and Sandor's smirk suggested that his free hand was similarly occupied beneath the tablecloth.
Across the length of the table, Jaqen sat with his eyes upon her, and she felt her gaze drawn to his, her heart pounding in her chest. What she was doing was impulsive and far from honorable, but she could not deny her feelings.
When the food was taken away and the bards began their music, Jaqen rose to his feet and walked toward her, his charming smile distracting from the intensity of his gaze.
"Might I take your betrothed for this dance?"
Walder allowed his guard to do as he wished, but as she moved to stand, he brushed his wrinkled lips against her neck, making her shudder in revulsion. When they had disappeared into the crowd of dancers, Jaqen rubbed the lingering moisture from her throat and bent his own lips to the spot, sending a pleasant shiver down her spine.
She could hardly bear waiting for the potion to do its work before she could be with him. He awakened a fire within her that burned bright and hot, and only his touch could satiate it.
"Soon, lovely girl," he murmured as he moved fluidly in time with the music. "Be patient."
She nodded against his shoulder and breathed in the scent of him, the sharp tang of cinnamon and clove, as exotic as the lilt to his voice.
It was after several hours, when the first cask of wine had been emptied and a second started into that the sleeping potion began to take effect. Thankfully, the gods had answered her prayers, and everyone had drank the mixture in some dosage. Those guests who didn't wander blearily back to their chambers fell snoring to the tabletop.
Sansa stood up swiftly as the last pair of eyes closed, and she moved to her sister's side. "Go, now, while there's time. I don't know how long it will be before they wake."
Jaqen nodded and Arya pulled Sansa into a quick embrace before retreating back to his side and taking his hand. Her sister smiled though there were tears in her eyes, and she leaned into Sandor as he made his way drunkenly to her side.
"May the gods be with you."
"And with you," Jaqen echoed.
They made their way to their chambers for their meager belongings and then to the gates. Arya cast only a brief glance over her shoulder before bracing herself and following Jaqen out of the keep, leaving her old life behind.
The sun had risen high in the sky by the time they first stopped, hidden in the depths of the Wolfswood beyond Winterfell. By now, there were surely men readying themselves for pursuit, and Arya couldn't help but be amused by the thought of Walder's face, purple with rage when he realized that he had been made the fool.
"We should go East," Jaqen said as he chewed thoughtfully on a piece of bread. He was leaned with his back against a tree, and Arya sat comfortably in his lap, her back against his chest.
"Cross the sea, perhaps, over to Essos."
"I don't care where we go," Arya replied honestly. "So long as we're together."
She turned to capture his lips and he responded in kind, one hand curling about her neck as she straddled his spread legs. When his mouth descended on her throat she let out a soft sigh, and an exquisite warmth pooled between her thighs at the feel of him against her.
Though she was not a maiden, she had certainly never felt this way, and she reveled in the desire that muddled her mind. His hands were cool against her flushed skin and she arched into his touch, desperate for more.
After a moment, he pulled away suddenly, and there was something in his eyes that she could not read as he moved to his feet.
"We should go," he said, clearing his throat. "While there's still light."
Confused and hurt, Arya nodded slowly in agreement, and it was only as he took her hand as they continued on that her heart stopped its nervous twisting.
As night began to fall, a thatched roof rose to view, and they stood for a moment looking at it from between the trees.
"Do you think it's safe?" Arya asked hesitantly.
Jaqen frowned. "I don't know."
He was sure that they were already being pursued, and his gut felt sour with guilt at the realization of what he had done. Though he loved the woman beside him and wanted nothing more than to be hers in every way, his stubborn loyalty to the Freys kept him from acting on his desires.
Slowly, they approached the door of the little home, and when they finally knocked, an old woman appeared to meet them.
Her surprise and recognition was immediate as she looked at Arya, and her voice dropped to a whisper as she hurriedly waved them in. "Lady Arya, come in. Quickly."
They did as they were bid, and it wasn't until the door had been shut and secured behind them that the woman spoke again.
"A courier's already come to every man, woman, and child in the North," she said gravely. "It tells of your abduction from your betrothed, the Lord Walder Frey." She eyed the young couple for a moment and then continued. "I didn't believe it when I read it and can certainly now see the truth of it."
Arya and Jaqen exchanged a glance and his arm moved possessively about her waist. Loyal or not, he would not allow her to become the next wife of Walder Frey. He had witnessed the short lives of the three who had come before her, and would not let her succumb to the same fate.
"I have a stable out back," the old woman said. "And a pot of stew over the fire. Stay here for the night, please."
As they accepted graciously, she smiled and handed them each a bowl of steaming broth. "I remember what it was like to be young and in love." Her lips curved into a scowl and her hands traveled to her hips. "And I never held much fondness for that Lord Frey."
When they thanked her for her hospitality, she allowed them to retire to the small stable at the back and they settled in the straw, their eyes on the stars that were visible through the roof.
"I love you, Jaqen," Arya murmured, and though he would not give her what she wanted, he responded without hesitation.
"I love you too."
And gods forgive them, they truly did.
They were awakened at dawn by the sound of hoofbeats, and they gathered their things quickly as the old woman stalled the men at her door. There were nearly a dozen in total, and Arya could hear Walder and her father among them.
"We're looking for Lady Arya Stark," Ned said patiently, and Walder interrupted with a hateful sneer. "And a Lorathi man called Jaqen H'ghar. A traitor and a thief."
"They certainly aren't here," the old woman replied, and Arya was almost convinced by the sincerity in her tone. "I would know the lady Arya if I saw her, even if my eyes aren't what they used to be."
Before she could hear the rest, Jaqen was urging her back into the forest, and they ran for several miles before finally slowing their pace. Arya struggled to catch her breath and Jaqen frowned as he settled into a brisk walk.
"I didn't think they would be so close," he confessed, his brow furrowed with worry. "We may have more trouble reaching the Narrow Sea than we anticipated."
Arya nodded wearily and pulled him to a stop, taking his face in her hands and kissing him soundly. She was already tired of being forced to run and hide, and she simply wanted to be with him.
When she pulled away, his expression had softened and he ran a thumb over her cheek gently. "We'll be free someday, my lovely girl," he promised. "But until then, this is to be our life together."
In the first small town they reached, they purchased two horses, for Jaqen had decided that riding their own from Winterfell would make them far easier to find. With their pace dramatically quickened, they rode south, from Torrhen's Square to Moat Cailin.
White Harbor would grant them passage across the Narrow Sea, but almost every man, woman, and child there would know Arya, and recognize her by sight. Instead, they would go south through the Twins, and east from there to King's Landing.
Arya worried about being seen in the capital city, but Jaqen assured her that with so many people in its streets, no one would cast them a second glance, nor would the people so far south know her face.
They spent many of their nights in the woods, when they weren't hidden and harbored by the local farmers. There was little love for the Freys amongst the locals, even as they drew closer to the Twins, and so they remained safe as they continued, just ahead of the men who pursued them.
Each night, Arya hoped that Jaqen would let his guard down and simply love her. He held and kissed her freely, but when she tried to initiate more, he would pull away, intent on maintaining her purity. She told him shyly that she was not a maiden, but still he would not give in. Once Walder abandoned the search in favor of another young girl to bear his children, Jaqen's guilt would fade, and then, he would feel free to love her as he wished.
The stalwart towers that marked the Twins rose above the horizon to meet them nearly a moon into their journey, and they slowed, hesitant to continue. They had been riding cautiously along the road for several days now, hoods drawn low to conceal their features, and Arya stiffened when they heard a rider approaching from behind.
Jaqen readied the sword at his hip lest they need to flee, but it was an old man in the robes of a brother from the Quiet Isle who met them, his sturdy draft horse pulling a wagon along behind it.
"Good morrow," he called out in greeting. "What brings you to the South?"
Arya looked nervously to the man at her side, and he hesitated for a moment before replying. "We're going to King's Landing, on a pilgrimage to the Great Sept of Baelor."
The priest raised his eyebrows, and there was a slight twinkle to his friendly eyes that made Arya think he knew much more of them than he let on.
"A noble journey, that," he said musingly. "Mayhap our paths were meant to cross." He eyed them for a long moment, and Jaqen's nervous look suggested that his mind had followed the same path as Arya's. When neither of them spoke, he continued. "Those horses of yours look as though they could use a bit of rest. What say you to leaving them here and riding with me through the Freys' lands? My cart has enough room for the two of you."
Their suspicions were confirmed when the priest withdrew several blankets from the boxes in his wagon for them to cover themselves with, and when they rode up toward the guards at the bridge, he flashed them a wink and lifted a finger to his lips.
They lie silently, barely daring to breathe, and Jaqen's hand found Arya's in the darkness, twining their fingers together. In only a few more moons they would be to King's Landing, and from there, across the Narrow Sea, and far from Walder Frey.
"Halt," one of the guards commanded, and the brother obediently drew his horse to a stop. "Have you seen the fugitive Jaqen H'ghar or the Lady Arya Stark?"
"Fugitive?" the priest asked innocently. "Most certainly not. I would have noticed a young lady being taken against her will had I passed them on my way."
There was a brief silence as the guards exchanged a glance, and then he was waved on brusquely. "Very well then. Move along. If you see or hear anything, send word to Lord Frey. The man responsible for the lady's rescue has been promised a hefty sum of gold."
They hesitated for a moment to see if the priest would change his tale at the mention of a reward, but he merely smiled at them and offered a parting wave as he nudged his horse forward again. When they were far enough for the towers to fade from view, he tapped the edge of the cart and Arya threw off the blanket, eagerly filling her lungs with the cool autumn air.
Though he offered to take them all the way to King's Landing they refused any further help, and as they turned to go, Arya hesitated, looking back to the man once more.
"Why did you help us?" she asked quietly.
He smiled softly. "I seek only to follow the will of the Seven, and sometimes they guide us in ways that we do not understand. If you have made it this far without being captured, then surely they are watching over the two of you."
With a nod, Arya thanked him again, and she returned to where Jaqen waited for her, her heart light as she sent a short prayer of thanks to the gods. Perhaps they would escape after all, if it was their will.
In an attempt at caution, they steered off of the Kingsroad after securing another horse and another two moons passed as they continued on their journey.
Though Arya did not regret her decision, she had begun to miss her home, and as she lie awake at night with Jaqen's arms around her, she thought of her family, and of the keep she knew so well. By now, Sansa's condition would be evident, she was sure. She knew her sister well enough to sense the changes when they had come, and she wondered absently how long it had taken Sandor to realize that he was going to be a father. She hoped someday she could return home to meet their child, if ever her parents forgave her.
With each day that passed, Jaqen's touches grew more insistent, but still he held himself back, and she could see guilt and desire warring in his gaze when he looked at her. She supposed she understood his loyalty, but still she longed for him, desperately and urgently.
On the outskirts of Maidenpool, they had stopped to rest and bathe, and with a smirk she had splashed water up the length of her thighs. "Even this water is more adventurous than you," she teased, and he had regarded her with a look of such absolute want that she thought he would finally succumb. In the end, he still refused, ever the gentleman, and she pushed down the disappointment that rose in her chest.
From Maidenpool it was only a few days ride to King's Landing, and they spent the night in an inn within the city's walls before rising the next morning and securing their passage across the Narrow Sea.
They left the harbor after the sun had set, and that night, Arya dreamed of their future. She imagined a modest home, and a child with dark hair and blue eyes. She imagined a life in which they could live as they saw fit, and would never again have to watch their backs for fear of being caught. It was everything that she had never realized she wanted, and above all, it was a life of freedom.
When Arya woke, it was to the sun that filtered in from the small window of their cabin. She stretched the tightness from her limbs and Jaqen reacted instinctively to the movement, his arm tightening its hold on her waist as she pressed against him.
Carefully, she escaped from his grip and moved to the window, looking out over the sea. She had never seen it before, and it took her breath away. The waves rocked the boat gently and their caps rolled with white foam, glittering in the light of the sun. Distant and still invisible beyond the horizon lay the lands of Essos.
She heard his soft footsteps behind her before his arms encircled her waist, and she spoke in a whisper that was full of awe. "It's so beautiful."
Jaqen nodded in agreement, but she could feel his gaze on her face, and not on the waves that surrounded them. Her skin shone in the glimmering sunlight, and his heart tightened in his chest. Far away, in the North, Walder Frey departed Winterfell at last, and it was when they reached the shores of Lorath that they heard news of what would be his final betrothal. Somehow, he knew that he was free to be with her at last, and he saw the realization mirrored in her eyes when she turned to face him.
She met his gaze for a long moment, hesitation evident across her features, but he had always known he would do anything that she asked of him, and it was there, in their cabin on the Narrow Sea, that she asked at last.
"Make love to me, Jaqen."
His fingers freed the laces of her shift with ease, and when it fell to pool at her feet, he stopped and admired her beauty. Perhaps she wasn't the type of woman bards wrote songs about, but to him, she was everything. Her fierce determination, her rebellious nature, her cunning mind; they were all a part of the woman he had fallen for without hesitation or resistance, and by the gods, he was the man lucky enough to have her.
He fell to his knees to worship her, drowning in her scent, and the exquisite taste of her. Her every sigh spurred him on, and she trembled at the touch of his hands and lips. She had never imagined she could feel such bliss, and she was merciless against the storm of desire that burned in his eyes.
When she cried his name and reached the height of her passion, he lifted her and set her on their bed, his lips marking her throat with wild and unrestrained possession. Her body felt as though it were on fire, and every brush of his fingers on her skin stoked the flames, higher and higher until she felt as though she would burn away beneath his touch.
She begged him to make her whole, her voice a sob of pleasure, torn from her throat as he obeyed her command. He fit within her as though they had been sculpted by the Seven with the other in mind, and Arya moaned her desperate supplication to them as his hips moved against hers.
"Oh, gods...Mother have mercy..."
With the sea below them and the sky above, they consummated their love at last. And when they reached the shores of Lorath, they were wed in the eyes of men. It was a marriage not of duty, nor of honor, but one of love.