Tales From The House Of Black And White

As hands captured her waist and pulled her against a hard, warm chest. She bit back her pleasured gasp, mild as it was. “Clever girls go barefoot when trying not to be detected. A man will have to punish a girl, now.” He chuckled into her ear as one of his hands slid down her front, to cup and fondle for a moment while the other slipped upwards to massage. Her eyes fluttered, her body wanting to arch into him. But resisting the urge, she smirked. “And clever men will never allow themselves to become so distracted by a woman’s form, that they become unaware of the positioning of a leg.” She hummed teasingly in return before, like a flash, she took her leg that she had gotten between his without his notice and swiped his right one out from under him. She heard his curse before she felt him falling backwards as she danced away from him gracefully. But he didn’t crash to the floor; instead, as he fell, he turned like a cat and managed to catch himself with his hands and feet against the floor of the training room. It was the small hours of the morning, so the room was pitch black from the deepness of the night—the hour of the wolf, their preferred time of night to meet. “A man was always aware, but he was curious about what a woman would do. She didn’t disappoint. But she plays with fire, she has been gone from a man for many moons. Clever wives don’t test their husbands when they are as tensely coiled as a viper.” “Oh but it is such fun to test you.” She replied saccharinely, her voice purring through the darkness, as she silently moved this way and that, disorientating him by making it sound as though her voice was coming from everywhere and nowhere. Before she came up behind him, her hand reaching between his legs, where she took hold of the growing hardness there and began to play. “Especially when you are in such a mood as this. The great Jaqen H’ghar at the mercy of his tiny wife. It really is rather exhilarating for a woman.” “Wicked girl. A man truly must question his sanity to wed himself to such a torturous woman. But as usual, a girl has more courage than sense. She is also so caught up in her entertainment that she doesn’t realise…” She released a yelp of surprise as she was suddenly flipped over his shoulder and head to be tossed to her back on the cushioned mats that lined the floor of the training room. What in the seven hells? How had he managed that? But then, as she thought about it, she realised that she should have known it was coming. He had dropped his body lower, positioning his stance just so that his weight was steady against the ground and then his arms had come up to grip her, allowing him to toss her like he had, while she was too distracted with his manhood. Dammit! She had fallen to the very thing that she had jested him about a few minutes prior. Within moments, he was dropping down to drape over her, his knee driving between her legs to spread them for him. “...that a man had her right where he wanted her.” He added before lips crashed down over hers and his hips ground against her. He was fully hard now, thanks to her previous fondling and the tension their playtime had created on top of missing one another. She moaned into his kiss and pushed up against him, before her hand hurriedly reached to free him from his breeches. The skirt of her night slip had already bunched up about her hips when he’d tossed her, so she was already open for him, having deliberately gone without her small clothes. He was right about one thing: she had been away from him for moons, and she craved him as much as he craved her. Finally freeing him from his breeches after cursing the amount of lacings on them, she flipped them over and, without waiting, she rose and sank on top of him, both of them gasping as they were joined once more. Without pause, she began to ride him fast and deep and purred at the sensation of him within her and his fingers as they dug into her hips. Such sweet, sweet release when they moved together like this, both just as needy as the other. She couldn’t help but marvel, yet again, that he was now her husband even though they’d been bound together three years ago. It had been entirely unexpected, their gradual, unnoticed rise to romance and eventual marriage. Never would either of them have thought they would end up together in this way. They’d known they’d most likely be in one another’s lives forever, but not like this. No, never like this. -&- He had returned to Westeros two years after she had left Braavos, arriving with a contingent of faceless men. They had initially been tasked with setting up a secondary House of Black and White, with him at the head of it. But new orders had come from Braavos, asking that they assist in the destruction of the Night King and his White Walkers. It had been decided that the Night King was an affront to He of Many Faces; thus, it was their job to aid in his demise. So Jaqen had set his sights on Winterfell and her. The day he had arrived at the gates and asked for her, giving his name to the guards, she had almost fainted in shock. But controlling herself, she had made a beeline for the courtyard and sure enough, there he had been, leaning casually against a wall in much the way he had when he had told her that she owed three deaths to The Red God, all those years ago in Harrenhal. His armour this time, though, had been silver and black and had been emblazoned with the sigil of the House of Black and White, his cloak following the same colours. His hair had grown out too and had then brushed below his chest. She’d been overcome with many different emotions then, each more potent than the last. Anger that had still been left over from his betrayal of her, happiness, nervousness, a touch of fear and something else that had seized her chest. She had felt her eyes sting with the warning of tears, but she hadn’t let them fall. She had expected her fist to lift of its own volition and sail towards him, but that hadn’t happened. No, instead, she had found herself practically throwing herself at him in a hug. She had thought he would stop her or push her away, but he hadn’t done either; instead, his arms had wrapped around her too, and he’d squeezed her as tight as she’d squeezed him. Relief to see each other still healthy and still unhurt. Two friends meeting under impossible odds and simply wanting to take in the sweet moment of reunion. She’d heard the buzz in the courtyard kicking up at the display, people whispering about how they knew each other and why they held one another as they did. But neither of them had cared, content to allow themselves to luxuriate in the other's embrace for a little longer. But eventually they had parted, and he had requested somewhere quiet where they could speak openly. She nodded and led him into the keep and on into the small greeting room that was usually reserved for family meetings. But given the circumstances and the fact that he seemed to want privacy, it was the best room for that, as it was closed off with thick, wooden doors, and the walls were thicker here as well. It was built with the idea of making what was being talked about inside much harder to hear from the outside. So it was perfect. It was there that they had engaged in greetings of a more intimate sort, both sharing that it was so good to see one another again and that they were happy that each other was in good health. He’d then explained his presence in Westeros, what he had initially come for and how plans had changed and led him into Winterfell. She’d nodded and explained that, honestly, it was a good thing because they would definitely need all the help they could get. She had also shared with him how she had wondered if the House would get involved in the war against the White Walkers, given what the Night King represented and how he amassed his forces. She had known enough about He of Many Faces to know that raising the dead would go against the edicts of his tomes. Jaqen had nodded at this but had then changed the subject, bringing the topic to their separation. It was then that she had learned that if he hadn’t agreed to send the waif after her, the leaders would have sought to end her themselves. And if they had done so, they would have ensured that she would have died and not survived. So he had told the waif to do what was ‘needed’, knowing that the waif wouldn’t have stood a chance against her. Not by that point because Arya had surpassed her, and so he had trusted her to survive, and she had proved him right. For Arya, this admission had finally given her an understanding of his reactions at their parting. Reactions that she had questioned for the past two years. Why had he smiled when he had seen the waif’s face mounted in the hall? Why had he allowed her to leave so easily and declared her No One? Those questions had been answered with his explanations. But the one that it hadn’t answered was the one she had then asked him. Why had he stepped into her blade willingly? He had shaken his head at this and gave her his trademark half-smile. He had simply answered then with How can a man tell a girl this? If she doesn’t know, then perhaps she should ponder a bit longer? It hadn't been the answer she'd been looking for, but then, could she really expect anything less from him? No, truly, she couldn’t. It was an answer so typically ‘him’ that she'd simply shaken her own head with a chuckle and hugged him once more. An embrace that he had, again, returned wholeheartedly. They stayed like that for a little while, her breathing in the familiar and comforting scent of him and he revelling, relieved, in her acceptance of him once more. It had been like this that Sansa found them, her older sister slipping into the room carefully, preventing anyone else from seeing inside. Arya and Jaqen had pulled apart then and turned to Sansa, where Arya had explained who he was and everything that they'd just discussed. Sansa, content with the explanations, had nodded and welcomed Jaqen warmly. Thanking him for his aid and having promised to help him and his order with acquiring a space that would work for the Westerosi branch of the Faceless Men. And that had been that, a little while later, they had settled Jaqen’s men in the warm, comfortable barracks of Winterfell, and Jaqen had been given a room best suited to the General that he was. A room that had been close to hers, as she had claimed, one of the towers of the keep that overlooked the training courtyard, as her space. Having lived in the House of Black and White and sharing a corridor with so many other acolytes had made her want nothing but calm, quiet. So she had moved into one of the large turrets in the West Wing of the keep. Two bedrooms, two bathing chambers and a communal living area. Thus, she and Jaqen had settled down there and had begun to live together quite happily and calmly. With him, she hadn’t minded sharing the space; he craved the peace and the quiet as much as she did, so they were careful to respect one another's sleeping spaces and their closed doors. But the communal living area was for them both, and they spent a fair bit of time there together. Over the days and nights that they shared the towered turret, they had spoken on levels they had never reached before. He had shared more about himself as a person, where he’d come from. How he’d grown up, stories of his family before they had all been taken from him in a successful overthrow attempt. He hadn’t shared just what the perpetrators were overthrowing them for or what was being overthrown. And although curious, she hadn’t pried. Because if he’d wanted her to know, then he would have told her. She learned so much about the man who had always been such a mystery to her. But somehow, even when she’d learned all of his intimate details that he had chosen to share. She had found that he was still very much a mystery to her. Something that had made her smile and her heart jump. She didn’t know why, but she had liked that air about him, and she was glad that it hadn’t taken it away. It was like getting to have her cake and eat it too. She had shared a lot more about herself with him as well during this time, and he had been surprised to realise that he hadn’t known as much about her as he’d originally thought. She had joked with him then about how she felt victorious in surprising him. The great Jaqen H’ghar, the one who knows all. Felled. By his own protegee and his ‘lovely girl’. He had chuckled deeply at this and nodded that she may feel victorious now, but the student had not become the master just yet, and she had better be careful with that cockiness. Lest it be her undoing and downfall. Their days had been spent talking, musing, laughing and joking. Each being the other's favourite company and way to pass the time. They would also work together during training, blending both their contingents of warriors into one large group. The Faceless Men benefitting from the brutal, shield-breaking tactics of the Winterfell soldiers. And the Winterfell soldiers benefitting from the stealth and sneak attacks of the faceless. Together, they had trained an elite fighting force that could handle almost any situation, and they had led them with strength and compassion. Trust and faith. But still, no matter how close they became. How solid their foundations and relationship had become. Still, they slept separately with closed bedroom doors. The end of the night was made clear that it was time for solitude, rest and space for themselves away from all else, as well as one another. Eventually, though, with time, their bedroom doors began to remain open. Here and there at first, and never at the same time. But while open, it was a non-verbal invitation to join one another in them if they so wished for whatever reason. Then they would stay open more and more, until eventually they stayed that way all of the time. Both of them were happy to still sleep separately, but allow the other access whenever they wished, no matter the time of day or night. And soon Arya would find herself in his room on the particularly difficult nights when her memories would chase her like demons in the deep of the night. Jaqen never pried into her thoughts; he would simply wake, nod and then lift the covers of his bedding for her. He knew what her nightmares contained. Had been privy to them when she was his trainee at the House. So no words were needed; there was simply understanding and consideration. He knew he was her port in a storm, the thing that grounded and settled her. As those weeks slipped past, soon Jaqen would make his way into her room in the dead of night as well. Never for any nefarious or inappropriate reasons, simply because he wanted her close. But she had quickly learned that it wasn’t so much that he wanted her close, although he did. It was more that he needed her close. It was then that she had learned what haunted Jaqen in his sleep at night. Horrors of his life before the House, and then all the acts he had committed in the name of it. It was then that she learned that even no one felt guilt, remorse and pain at the taking of lives. But understood that for the House it was a necessary thing in service to his God. But it didn’t mean that he needed to be stone-cold and heartless about it. And Arya had found her thoughts turning to how he killed when he had a name. Always quick. Always painless. Even the guards that he had pinned against the walls of Harrenhal to make it look as though they were still on guard, had had their necks broken first, before he had pinned them. Merciful in how he killed, never anything gratuitously violent, unlike the waif. She had loved to make it as grizzly as possible. But Jaqen? Never. And Arya began to wonder then, if that had been part of the reason that Jaqen had held such disdain and aloofness for the waif. She didn’t know, and she wouldn’t ask. There was no point. She didn’t need to know the particulars. But still his actions haunted him in the night, just like her own did. And so she would do for him as he would do for her. She never pried. Never tried to get him to talk about it. She would simply nod and open her bed to him as he did for her. Because like him with her, she knew that if he wanted to talk to her about any of it, he would. It was as simple as that. Until then, she’d be his silent comfort, as he had always been for her. Even when she had been a member of the House. As weeks turned into months, their relationship with one another grew with each passing day. They became closer and closer, their nights increasingly spent in one another's bed. Until eventually, Jaqen left his room entirely and began to share hers with her permanently after a silent agreement from her. But still, his hands never wandered. Still, he was always a gentleman and only slept next to her. Even when she would wake crying and he would hold her close, his touch always remained respectful, his hands never landing too low or too high on her form. He simply held her against him and coached her to breathe steadily and deeply, allowing her body time to release itself from its survival instinct and panic. And each time she settled down quicker than the last, his wonderful, spicy scent was a soothing balm to her senses as she breathed him in slowly and deeply. And when it was his turn to be tormented by dreams and memories, and he would wake a shaking, suffocating mess. She would slip her arms around his shoulders and pull him back down. Where she would gently encourage him to rest his head on her chest, and she would shift his arms so that they rested comfortably around her waist. She would then tell him to close his eyes, breathe deep and listen to the steady beat of her heart, as her fingers ran through his unusually coloured hair. A trick her mother Catelyn had used on Arya when she had been a small girl with childish nightmares and fear of the imaginary shadow-monsters in the dark. A trick that seemed always to work wonders on Jaqen as he would hold her tighter and press his ear against her chest a little more firmly than before. She would hum to him sometimes as well, a sweet, lulling Braavosi tune that was one of his favourites. And like her, each time she did this, he would settle down and fall asleep faster than before. Progressively, more and more, their nights became subtly heated, filled with teasing anticipation. Where they would never overstep or end up lying together, or even coming close, their hands would, however, wander to more intimate placements and rest there. Hips, thighs, low on the waist or gently rest at the base of one another’s throats, more protective than threatening. Arya had even found herself, more than once, slipping over Jaqen’s form and lying halfway on top of him. He never questioned this or complained; he would simply adjust so that he was as comfortable as she was and then entangle their legs carefully. More than once, she had felt his masculinity stir a little with the closeness or the touches, but she was never offended or annoyed. Why would she be? After all, not only was it natural in more intimate moments, but she was also guilty of the same reactions, feeling as between her legs would warm and her lower belly would erupt in tantalising butterflies. Especially when he would move his hands from one intimate place to another, by way of ghosting his fingers along her skin in a gentle but teasing caress. And he would tense just a little more when she would glide her hand from his hip, up over his abdomen and chest to come to a stop at the base of his throat or rest in that space between it and his shoulder. The heat of these moments had continued to build for them over time. Stacking atop each other, with each passing night. The increasing urges, marked only by the heavier breaths with each touch, caress or graze. The moments of almost kissing as they would shift to turn their heads simultaneously, and their lips would brush against the corners of their mouths, jawlines or cheeks. Both pausing, time suspended between them as they decided whether tonight would be the night when something equally unexpected and expected would happen. But constantly they would shift again, the moment slipping by without incident. Then came two nights before they were due to go to war. Jaqen had approached her and shared his fears for what was to come next. But in that sharing, he had also revealed his feelings for her by admitting how scared he was about the possibility of losing her. The emotions that had been swimming in his eyes as he spoke had made it clear to her just how much and how strongly he felt about her. And she recognised what that feeling had meant. Because it’s what she had felt for him. Love. She had kissed him then, hard and deep, pouring all of her emotions into it for him to feel. He had been taken aback at first, but it hadn’t lasted long before he was kissing her back with equal measure and passion. When they finally broke apart to breathe, she had murmured those three words against his lips and confessed that she was also terrified for what was to come and losing him as well. He had repeated them back to her without hesitation before he kissed her once more. But that kiss had been different. Much different. That night, after they had lain together for the first time, Jaqen loving her for what had felt like hours, they had sought out Melisandre. The Red Woman had looked between them both and, without speaking, seeing something that only she could see, she had slipped free a pair of binding cords. That night under a full moon, in total privacy, Melisandre had wed them. Gilly and Samwell had been called from their beds as witnesses to the union. A union that was to be kept secret at all costs. Arya was still Princess of Winterfell after all and technically needed permission from the eldest male in her family to wed. And Jaqen, as a faceless man, was never supposed to have a spouse because that would make him someone, in a way that would make it impossible for him to be no one. But still, they had turned their backs in defiance of these rules. Things were different for them. None of them were guaranteed to see many more days with what was to come their way. So she and Jaqen had wed and then returned to their rooms, where they had lain together once more to consummate their union. Gilly and Samwell were standing outside the closed bedroom door for the duration. Silent sentinels to guard the beauty that was happening within the chambers behind them. Any embarrassment or discomfort at hearing something so intimate and so deeply, deeply personal being washed away in the face of honour at being the ones chosen to safeguard her and Jaqen’s marriage, being trusted with such dangerous information and being the ones that were the first to see her and Jaqen’s love be born. Willing witnesses once more, for should she and Jaqen be found to be now married, having witnesses for both the marriage itself, plus the consummation of it, meant that their bond could not be dissolved or broken. No matter how badly others may want to see it destroyed. Then, when she and Jaqen finally crashed with pleasured shouts of love, Sam and Gilly waited for a few minutes before, through the door, they congratulated them on their marriage and wished them a good and peaceful night before both returned to their own room at the Keep. Later, on the day when they were all setting out for what would become a battlefield and for some a grave, Melisandre had approached her and Jaqen on the ramparts they had been standing on, watching over their troops as they prepared to head out. She had slipped between them both and took their hands in hers surreptitiously and spoke quietly. She had informed them that she had sent their marriage certificate off to the citadel as well as to the registrar of Braavos. In just a few short days, their union would be legally sealed and listed in the confidential archives of both places. She had then wished them well after they had thanked her for her help and discretion. Once she was gone, Jaqen had pulled Arya into a shadowed alcove where they couldn’t be seen and kissed her deeply, almost desperately. When they broke apart, he had used her new name and told her how much he loved her, before he devoured her mouth with his once more. But it hadn’t stopped there, as soon her legs had been around his waist and he’d been piercing her body with his in quick order. Reckless. Stupid. Honestly, it had been a surprise that they hadn’t been caught. Because even though that alcove had been shadowed and they wouldn’t have been seen for the most part, they could have been, if someone had passed by close enough. Not to mention her moans and gasps as he claimed her so ravenously, although muffled by his hand over her mouth, would have still been heard if someone had come closer than expected. But they hadn’t been caught, and later, when she and Jaqen had inevitably been separated amid the battle. Arya had been glad that they had joined together one last time before they had left. Because over many days, she hadn’t seen him again. Her heart screaming in fear and anguish, wondering what had happened to her Lorathi. Her assassin. Her husband. Wondering if he had survived or been felled. She hadn’t seen him again until the penultimate night at the Weirwood tree, when she had found the Night King and had been sneaking up on him. A hand had clasped over her mouth, and she’d been dragged down into the snow. She had been ready to send her dagger through the person who had dared grab her, fearing that it had been a White Walker. But then the scent, muted as it was because of days battling, of Ginger, Clove, and sandalwood reached her nose and she almost wept in relief. Jaqen. He had lived. He had survived. He had found her. They had shared a short but deep kiss in greeting, holding each other close for a few moments before Jaqen’s eyes had hardened and he looked towards where they could hear Bran and the Night King speaking. He'd looked back at her then, reading her plans on her face and even though his fear for her was evident. He nodded, knowing that she needed to do this. But it didn’t mean that he couldn’t help her. She didn't have to do it alone. They had taken up their positions then, and with a steadying breath and Jaqen’s nod of faith in her, she bolted forward. Her footfalls kept light, just like he had taught her. Then, with a leap, Jaqen’s hands caught her feet, and driving her up and forward, he gave her the extra leverage she needed to clear the rise. Silently, she had soared through the air towards the Night King's back, the being turning at the last moment, clearly shocked. But he'd caught her about her throat. She didn't struggle, though; she simply smiled. With a one-two move of her dagger, she dropped it, caught it in her other hand, and drove it through the place she had been told to. The place where that same dagger had been speared to give him life. The move, again taught to her by her husband, during his time as her tutor, was the thing that ensured she would succeed. And as the Night King collapsed into nothing but shards of ice, Arya dropped to her knees. She realised just how much her husband had made her who she was—realised that she owed her life to him in so many ways. Her blood-soaked, sarcastic, deadly saviour. And all at once she felt her love for him fill her almost to bursting. But as she moved to speak to and check on Bran, she heard the near-silent catch of feet on ice. A sound soon followed by Jaqen landing equally quietly in the snow beside her. She blushed a bit when he checked her over from head to toe for any injuries. More than conscious of Bran watching them closely. His concern was more than a simple friend and old mentor. Something Bran would pick up on immediately. She shrugged him off gently, assuring that, aside from a sore neck from where she'd been held, she was fine. She then walked over to check on Bran, Jaqen following, clearly not wanting to let her out of his sight again. This, of course, was also taken note of by Bran as he looked between them both knowingly. But he didn’t say anything beyond; Yes. I see it all now. And Arya hadn’t imagined that she would ever hear a more ominous sentence in her life. But rather than comment on it, she simply smiled and went about checking on her brother to make sure he was ok. They then left the clearing of the Weirwood tree, Jaqen pausing to pick up Theon, who somehow was still clinging onto life. But she was thankful for it. Provided they kept pressure on Theon’s savage wound? He may yet live, provided he has enough willpower to hold on. And although they had all survived the Night King and his armies, they knew the battles were far from over. Because now, they needed to focus on King's Landing and Daenerys' crusade. They would have some time for their wounded to heal and to bury their dead. But the respite would be short-lived. They all knew that Cersei’s eyes were on them, knowing that they had just fought the battle for the North. She would look to strike quickly, while they were all still weak. So they couldn’t allow her to get a foothold. They needed to be sure that they hit first or, at the very least, met her head on when she least expected it. But for now, they could breathe and regroup. Which is precisely what they did. Arya had expected that Jaqen and the Faceless would bow out of the battle for King's Landing. And in some aspects they were readying too, Sansa having made good on her promise at the very beginning, of helping them find a new place for the Faceless Order’s Westerosi branch. And she had. A few weeks after the Night King's demise, she had called Arya and Jaqen to her. When they had gotten to the family room, where all of this had begun, she handed Jaqen a heavy, iron key. The key to the newly reconstructed gates of Harrenhal. She had had the stonemasons go and help with the rebuilding of the Keep. Months ago now. As the keep had been abandoned after the last Lannister occupation. But she had read up as much as she could about the Braavosi temple and had concluded that Harrenhal, if rebuilt and refitted, would be more than enough to accommodate the Faceless. So she had claimed the place in the Stark name, then she had handed the key to Jaqen and told him that he should find everything in place and that the Keep should be ready for use immediately. He had bitten back a chuckle of dark amusement, given what the Keep meant to him and Arya. But he had bowed low and thanked Sansa for her kindness and generosity. Then he gave her an Iron coin. A coin so very similar to the one that he had handed Arya all those years ago. Except this one was proof that she could avail of their services anytime she wished, as many times as she wanted. He then told her not to lose it, just in case he wasn’t the one who would eventually run the new branch. Arya had known that it was not thanks to the Keep. After all, it was part of their deal, should the faceless help them with the Night King? So for all intents and purposes, their deal was now complete fully and wholly. No, Jaqen had given the coin to Sansa because she was now as much his sister as she was Arya’s. However, Sansa was unaware that she was speaking with and in the presence of her new brother-in-law. This was Jaqen’s way of protecting her family. His family. Any threats that needed to be handled, all Sansa needed to do was go to him, and he would see it done because that’s what one did for their family. Unbeknownst to them or not. Sansa had thanked him and assured him that she would take great care of it and not lose it. After that meeting, Arya and Jaqen left the room and made their way back to their chambers, choosing to spend the rest of their day hidden away from everyone else. Jaqen and his men would be leaving soon, and so they wanted to spend as much time together as they could before then. They had talked, eaten and bathed together. Then, when night fell, they spent the whole night making love, sleeping in short bursts, before waking and claiming each other once more. The next morning, exhausted and heartsore, they embraced at the gates of Winterfell. He told her, in Lorathi, that he loved her and to stay safe and return to him from King's Landing. She'd promised she would and expressed how much she would miss him and how much she loved him as well. Also speaking in his native tongue so that no one else could understand them. Then they'd parted. He for Harrenhal and she back into the Keep to prepare for heading towards King's Landing. -&- Arya was brought from her thoughts when Jaqen suddenly flipped her so that he was above her. Then rising on his arms above her, he laid a devastating siege to her body. Quickly covering her mouth with her hand to muffle her scream of pleasure, she could do nothing except take what her husband gave her. The bliss of him and his movements was almost too much to bear. When they had parted, they didn’t see each other again until four moons later, when Arya had finally been able to visit Harrenhal. Visit the new branch. Visit him. That first visit after being parted, she had watched as his eyes had alighted on her with a feral air that had stolen her breath. She had explained to the acolyte who had opened the gates to her that she was here to see Jaqen. But she didn’t want him to know it was her. She wanted it to be a surprise. The acolyte had just smiled and nodded. Every Faceless Man in Westeros knew who she was. Knew to treat her as though she was one of their own, even though technically she wasn’t. She had been led to his office, where the acolyte had simply said that Jaqen had a visitor and then walked away, leaving Arya to step into the office and allow the heavy door to close behind her. Jaqen had looked up, ready to give a tongue-lashing until he realised that it was her. Then he wanted to give her a tongue lashing of an entirely different sort. The look in his eyes had been burning. Burning with desire, need and possession. He’d taken her there and then on his desk, telling her how much he had missed her. How much he needed her. Loved her. All things that had gone straight to her head and sent her over the edge, once, twice and a third time before he finally found his end. She’d never been able to look at that desk in the same way again. Knew he hadn’t been able to either. But still, their relationship with one another had been kept hidden. When she stayed at Harrenhal with Jaqen, she was in a separate room. A room that wasn’t far from his, so that if he needed to, he could get to her quickly. But it was distanced just enough not to raise suspicions. As for why she was allowed into the temple as and when she saw fit, as had been the question inevitably asked by others in the order, Jaqen had simply said she was the slayer of the Night King. The one who had ensured the affront to their God had been wiped out, and the restorer of the natural order of things. A hero. One who deserved to walk these halls whenever she wished and seek his company, not only as that hero. But as his ‘good and old friend’ as well. No one had questioned her presence since. Rather, they had all gotten quite used to her. Some had even become her friends. But as Jaqen moved in such a way as to send her crashing over the edge, his hand slamming over hers to further muffle her cries, her thoughts fled and her mind shattered. The bliss that surged through her was enough to steal her breath and make her back bow sharply. As her walls spasmed around him in desperate, demanding pulses, Jaqen made it through two more thrusts before he was flung over the edge as well. Her free hand came up to cover his mouth as well, as he released a deep, pleasure-filled call of her name, as his seed flooded her. Seed that would not get far, as he would soon spill a different liquid within her to take care of that. They collapsed then in a tangle of limbs and gasping breaths, both just trying to make sense of reality again. But as she held him close, her hand buried within his hair, she felt a new pang within her chest. A pang that was as dangerous as it was heartbreaking. She would never know what it was like to have her belly grow with their legacy. It couldn’t happen, not while he was still with the order. And for the first time since their relationship began? She felt pain within it. Pain that they may never know what it was like to look down into a small, adorable face as it babbled up at them happily. A face that would be a lovely blend of her and of him. Pain that she had to hide just who her husband was. She wanted them to live in the light for once, rather than in the shadows, old and familiar things as they were, that had become their home. “Jaqen…” She breathed, but before she could finish what she was about to say, he cut her off gently. “A man sent his resignation to Braavos, today…” He said, and Arya felt the shock slam into her as she pulled his head from her chest to look at him. “Resigned?” She queried, her eyes swimming with the confusion that she felt. He nodded slowly at this and hummed in affirmation. “A man loves you, Arya H’ghar, and he wishes for them to be together properly. He wants to be her husband openly and be able to watch her grow their children within her.” He further explained, his gaze falling to her lower abdomen. Where his thumb was running over the space above her womb thoughtfully and with a soft smile, before he met her eyes again. “That cannot happen while a man is still with the order. So, he sent the raven today.” He added, and Arya’s mouth fell open at this as her eyes stung with her unshed tears. But she didn’t say anything, she simply pulled him up, and she kissed him deeply and lovingly, her arms wrapping around him tightly. When they broke apart, she cradled his face in her palm and smiled before giving him a nod. “Your wife would very much like such a thing as well. She loves you more than life itself, Jaqen H’ghar.” And then they were kissing again, a desperate, needful and all-consuming thing this time. One that had him stirring against her again. Finally, she thought, they could step into the light as the spouses that they were. It would only be a matter of weeks, now she thought as she spread her legs a little more in invitation. An invitation that he readily accepted.