asoiaf fanfiction - numero dos
Fandom: A Song of Ice and Fire
Rating: M
Pairing: Jaqen H'ghar/older!Arya Stark; mentions of onesided Gendry/Arya
Title: death itself was undone: „Gendry understood her, but Jaqen... he solved her; like a riddle.”
I've a dream of you with half a face
And you take me to rooftop
And skin me, come on Abel
Are you going to skin me?
The Jezabels - Hurt me
blackmail (alliance)
Her heart hammers in her ribcage frantically, and she can almost taste victory in her mouth. Jaqen H'ghar's eyes shift and turn darker, his voice lower as he speaks.
”Evil child” it's not even a word, but a breath, a murmur, a plea.”Let the Red God take another name, not your friend's. Sweet child.” he adds, just to dress her into his flatteries.
It won't bend her will, though: she is strength and stone.
”No.”
”Please.” His voice is still the finest velvet, but there, there is an open threat now hanging between the two of them, like a dead men. She can almost hear the adrenaline beating in her ears and smell her own fear, and remembers (is reminded) that this man, this Lorathi has killed two people without any problems, without any trace, without a single effort shown. She wonders how many more withered at his touch and how many more will in the future.
Will I be one of his offering too? Arya Stark shudders at the thought, but remains standing tall and still. Fear cuts deeper than sword; and she already has her plans.
”You help me, I unname you.” The scheme is presented, and the deal is surely to be accepted.
His eyes darken even more, but this time, it is approval which rouses it.
knowledge (gift)
The girl is ridiculously scruffy: she could easily be overlooked as a boy-child judging by her height and the amount of dirt she is covered in. But her eyes...
They are two world-weary, heavy-hearted holes seeking hope and finding none. This child must be an anomalous, a vile sight before the gods: she is neither happy, nor contented; but hungry for vengeance and thirsty for rival, foreign blood.
It makes him wonder and puzzled, but most of all amazed and drowned in all that wilderness that is solely her.
There is no one -not a single man- in the entity of this crowd, in this patchwork mass full of hard-faced criminals and bastards who would dare to look at him or gods forbid speak to him. Even his cellmates seem to tremble at the fact that they are locked up with him.
Jaqen H'ghar smiles gently and emanates bloodshed and death while doing so.
And then this girl looks her dead in the eye; does not waver, does not break, and he laughs at this little package of lovely massacre. Oh, she has an aptitude for the art of killing and with a little guidance, she will surely find her way to the House of Black and White.
”A boy could make a friend” he insists. She spats as he shudders with anticipation.
”I have friends.”
jealousy (guilt)
Gendry didn't understand. How could he?
The worst thing, Arya thought sadly, was that he blamed himself and their - long-given; long-forgotten- titles. This status weapon had two ends, biting both his heart and her mind out and they halted, unsure of what should (of what could) happen to them.
She often caught him staring at her with unbelieving, unyielding eyes and it made her feel special, braver, and greater. But that did not diminish the line that was drawn wherever and whenever they were together: an infinite chasm that is hierarchy and falsity.
It makes her sick with loathing. Because what Gendry saw (always have seen) was a Lord's girl; and when he looked at himself saw nothing but a bastard boy who carried nothing but his helmet, his strength and his fury.
So much fury that it almost made Arya weep.
Almost.
”Did he...” that was a frequent question which was never finished and never answered. Neither of them had the willingness and ability to put raw emotions into proper words.
Because that what Gendry Waters was first and foremostly: raw in all things. Raw in anger, raw in love, raw in hate and raw in jealousy.
And it was only ever Arya who understood.
Arya, who did not care for golden facades and shimmering, honey-sweet lies.
Arya, the she-wolf with a trying personality, a hot-sweet temper.
Arya, with ice-cold courage and bitter eyes.
Arya, with flimsy limbs and dark-night hair.
Arya, a Lady of House Stark from Winterfell, true-born nobility.
It was a frightening, a terrible thing to endure.
But not as frightening as to watch her run off far, far away; giving her very life and soul and allthesevenshavemercy body; to this soft-speaking killing machine who stitched high-hopes into her cold heart; trying to pour life into her winter-harsh veins.
”I do not care who you came to be.” he says (he pleads). ”Can't you see that I would kill to make you safe?”
Arya Stark understands it, sees it, knows it, as she always has. Gendry's words echoes in her head.
(Can't you see that I would die a hundred death if you would love me?)
They both know she has no heart to offer.
kiss (kill)
She dies everytime he touches her.
Jaqen H'ghar knows her body much better than she does, and it seems natural, it seems destined.
He always knows where to touch her to make her melt and surrender completely. Later, he knows where to touch her to make her shiver with pleasure, to light fire in her gray-cold eyes, to make her whole again, even though she is fractured deep.
He gives, he deliveres, he bestowes, he grants her wishes and dreams and hidden desires, just like he always have.
(three names, sweet girl)
And she takes it, weeping blood and murmuring names in the meantime as he intimately reminds her who she is truly.
Who are you? - asks his heartbeat. The question lingers while his hands wanders over her body. It is there when he tastes her mouth and kisses her hair; it is present as he comes soundlessly, eyes fixated on her saddened ones.
And when she shatters (shamelessly, completely), the question is answered: head thrown back, hand gripping his shoulders with an unnatural force so she would not fall.
(aryahorsefaceunderfootshewolfsisterdaughterstarkwinterfellneedle)
He kisses her sweatened brows kindly as she collapses onto, into, inside him.
(yoursyoursyours)
end