@needlestark asked: Jaqen and Arya, Blue Jeans by Lana Del Rey
It was cold.
Not the cold that Arya had grown up in, not the chill that suffused her life every day nor the frost of her nights. It wasn’t the comforting snow or the beautiful dangerous ice that crept through her childhood.
It was cold, a blustery, depressing cold that crept under her skin and gripped her heart.
“There must always be a Stark in Winterfell.”
And Sansa couldn’t protect herself. Arya knew the Northern armies would defend their gentle Queen with all they had, but Arya knew she was better than a whole army.
Especially with the best of the best (Jon and that foolish Clegane and the brash Brienne and all their trusted and untrustworthy allies and the dragons) fighting undead armies that didn’t even bleed.
She shivered, and stared off into the dying sunset. No, Sansa and Bran were in Winterfell, and she would keep them safe.
It was burning, not the Kings Landing heat that was hot and muggy and caused sweat to drip down each and every awkward crevasse of her, nor was it the Braavos heat that gave her the first sunburn she had ever acquired.
It was a burning from the inside out, a rippling heat that seared her and caused her to twist in pain, would cause her to scream if she had any moisture left in her throat to create the noise.
Tender hands pressed to her side, her forehead, her arms. “Sh, lovely girl, shh.”
Maybe the hands were gentle to anyone else, but to Arya they were rough, pressing her overheated flesh to the breaking point as she was tilted and a cup pressed to her lips. As soon as the liquid hit her tongue and throat, she found the strength to scream, spewing the brew out, feeling it dribble down her cheeks.
“Foolish girl!” Someone hissed out, and a moment later cool lips were pressing against her own, begging her to just obey, to just listen.
For him, she would.
It was cold, the feel of the blade against her arm even as she twisted to avoid the impact, instead letting it slide across her skin, the impact frozen in time for a moment before a line of blood oozed out, not that she could feel it. Arya lunged, her remaining knife finding the skull of the enemy.
Assassin, traitor, it made no difference now. Her sister was bleeding but breathing, and the threat nothing more than a dead man soon to be consumed by flames. Her brother was on his way back, an army on his heels, and soon she would have plenty more wounds inflicted, and many would be cut down by her Needle. She wobbled towards her sister and the man tending to the bleeding Queen.
Her arm burned, and she wheezed out his name, seeing dread in his clear blue eyes as she shakily said, “I can feel the cut…”
It was hot. She snuggled closer, letting her warmth infused limbs trail slowly over the object next to her. Her fingers curled against skin, and she forced her uncooperating eyes to open.
The skin belonged to someone she had never expected to see again, let alone this far north. His red and white hair was resting against the wall, and what she had grabbed was his hand, the only part of him under the blanket with her. She was curled completely to his legs, and her face rested against his arm and thigh.
“Wh...What?”
“Easy, lovely girl. Let it come naturally.” He reacher his other hand across his body and gently moved her sweaty hair from her face. She sighed and laid her head back down.
They sat there in silence for a few moments, and eventually she remembered. The fight. The one who jumped from the shadows and took her sister aside as Arya fought. The cut on her arm from a poisoned blade. The fire under her skin.
Arya writhed her way up, shivering as the drafty room’s air hit her sweaty skin, and grasped Jaqen’s shoulder. “You’re here. Why are you here?”
He said nothing, just watched her silently, the hand he had used to brush her hair he now pressed against her forehead consideringly, and nodded to himself.
“Jaqen.” She squeezed his shoulder as hard as she could in her groggy state. “You’re at the end of the world. There’s a good chance of death, whether from freezing or bleeding, and you are here. Why?” She hissed the last word out desperately.
“Because, lovely girl, you are here, and therefore so am I.” His voice was hushed but strong, firm but gentle, and Arya felt the pressure in her heart roll down her face, and then she was moving again, clumsily throwing herself over him, his arms righting her and keeping her safe from falling, and then she pressed against him, cherishing this comfort born of love, as she traced her lips over his brow and down his face until she could return the kiss he gave to save her.