Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/980403.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_-_George_R._R._Martin, Game_of_Thrones_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Syrio_Forel/Arya_Stark
  Character:
      Arya_Stark, Syrio_Forel
  Additional Tags:
      Age_Difference, First_Time, Oral_Sex, Teacher-Student_Relationship,
      Reunions, Future_Fic
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-09-25 Chapters: 1/2 Words: 7589
****** The Memory Still Holds True ******
by startwithsparks
Summary
     With the promise of having a sword in her hand again, Arya eagerly
     attends her new Braavosi swordsmaster, only to find that the House of
     Black and White know more about her than she'd anticipated.
"You are late, boy..."
The voice struck her like an arrow through the gut. For a moment, Arya stood
motionless in the doorway of the modest house, her hand lingering on the heavy
iron latch, as she tried to tell herself that it was only the thick Braavosi
accent that ran through her like a familiar tune. These bravos had a peculiar
turn of phrase, an accent and a language all their own, so it was no surprise
that it rang so familiar to her, that it reminded her of a voice she thought
she'd only ever hear in her dreams. It was a shock to her entire being, those
words bringing back the memory of a room and the sound of the capital below
them, her movements still so awkward and unsure. Though she quickly chastised
herself for the thought - those memories belonged to Arya Stark, and that girl
was dead now - it did little to soothe the pang of anxiety that welled up
inside of her as the voice lingered, fading, somewhere in the room with her.
Everything moved a bit slower then, overburdened with the weight of
anticipation, as she pulled the door closed behind her and stepped into the
room. The short, squat vestibule was empty, lit only by the sun streaking in
through the open windows on either side of her. The source of the rebuke was
nowhere to be found either, though an archway and an abrupt hallway across the
room seemed the only plausible place to find him. She wasn't entirely sure now
that she was ready to see his face. If it wasn't him, she felt very suddenly as
though her heart would burst, but she wasn't sure she could console herself any
better if it was him. She clenched her jaw, setting her face in the most
impassive expression she could, wiping all signs of her emotions or desires
from her body, and steadily pressed forward across the room.
"The god of death works in his own time," she answered casually, trying to
force any hint of how her mind reeled with futile hope out of her voice, "not
by the will of man."
She heard him chuckle, the sound twisting the bolt deeper inside of her. "Just
so," he replied, as he stepped around the corner and headed her off at the
archway.
Arya's shoes scuffed softly on the floor as she stopped, staring back at him.
It was a test in itself to not allow the look of surprise to slide onto her
features. She bit the tip of her tongue and took an easy step to the side,
letting him past into the room behind her, a lump in her throat and tears
stinging faintly at the back of her eyes. The years had put a few more lines
around his eyes and more gray in his dark curls, but it was the same face she
had eagerly rushed to see when she was a child. For his part, he seemed to pay
her no mind, but then... he knew she was coming, she hadn't known so much as
a name where it concerned the sword master taking her as an apprentice.
While she tried to pull herself back together, he made his way across the room.
The furnishings were sparse at best, a few low benches shoved against a far
wall and a long wooden chest against the other. It was the chest that he went
to, the latch clattering noisily as he lifted the lid and shifted though folds
of fabric to retrieve a pair of practice swords. He said nothing, gave her no
sign of any movement he was about to make, but her instinct slid easily to the
surface and a small smirk slipped across her lips and she squared her
shoulders, waiting. She was ready when he turned, and caught the sword easily
just below the hilt, giving it a faint flourish as she stepped easily into
stance. She stood sideface, slightly off her heels, her center of balance low
and grounded. His lessons all flooded back to her in an instant and her body
felt as though it had never missed a day with him.
"Good," he nodded, a smile finding its way onto his face as well. She had to
wonder if that smile was meant for her or for the novice that had found her way
to his home. But it was a smile either way; a note of something familiar,
comfortable, and safe.
He moved into stance opposite her, his limbs as effortless as they had ever
been, and extended his sword in front of him. His movements flowed, and she was
once again struck by the elegance that even the barest steps held. With another
soft smile, he lowered his head to her, and she lowered her own in return, a
bow of mutual respect between them, then he leaned forward on his right heel,
form elongating as he started his approach. Arya answered in turn by sliding
her sword against his, the wood murmuring a gentle glide along its length. His
smile widened and his dark eyes glittered with amusement as he stepped forward
into a strong advance.
At first he seemed to go easy on her, warming up her muscles with rhythmic
beats, footwork so precise that it truly felt like a dance at times. They moved
in measured paces, strike, block, strike, parry, back and forth, the clatter of
their practice swords resonating through the empty room like a steady
heartbeat. But the more he sensed the confidence in her steps, the quicker he
moved, adding small flourishes here and there. The first one came as a bit of a
surprise, but Arya managed to duck out of the way as he spun to her right side,
trying to strike at her vulnerable open flank. She brought her own sword up
just as he brought his down, feeling the vibration of wood striking all the way
up her arm. From then she watched his feet as much as she watched his eyes,
extending her reach as far as she was able in order to keep him a little
farther away. Even if he was just another step back, that was a step longer she
had to react.
But she was still his student, and he was still the master. Once he'd assured
himself that she remembered all he'd taught her already, he started pushing her
harder. Blows rang louder than before, and several times he nearly knocked the
sword out of her hand, but she blocked every strike he made and ventured a few
daring thrusts of her own, never so much as coming close to striking him. She
was proud enough of the fact that in one flurry of swings she'd backed him up
against the opposite wall, but he soon turned on her when he stepped swiftly to
the side and doubled back on her. In one brief turn, it was her against the
wall, the bench biting against the back of her knees while she hastened to
decide which was the wiser option: pressing forward or trying to get the high
ground on him. She battled off his strikes, her right hand braced against the
stone wall behind her, then quickly stepped back onto the bench.
The change in position left her legs vulnerable to attack, but the fact that he
was wielding a wooden sword made her much more daring than she would have been
if it were steel in his hand. As he struck low, to take advantage of the
opening, she blocked him with the sole of her shoe and slammed her foot down on
the bench, his sword trapped beneath it. She instantly knew that she would
never get another opportunity like this again, the mere surprise that she had
tricked him was all that had momentarily stalled Syrio's movements. But it gave
her just enough time to tumble down from the bench, rolling behind him and
pressing the tip of her sword to the base of his spine.
"Dead," she said.
He turned and started down at her, sitting on the floor at his feet, one leg
bent beneath her lithe body and the other bent, poised to pounce. Then he
laughed, a great, booming sound, filling the room with the sound of elation.
"Good," he chuckled, thrusting one gloved hand out to help her off the floor.
"Very good."
She clasped her hand in his, letting him pull her to her feet. Her cheeks were
flushed and her heart was racing hard, but the look on his face was everything
to her at that moment. She'd never had anyone give her such a look of pride,
but there he was, beaming at her, his own chest heaving from the fight.
"You fight like a true bravo, boy..." he said, tucking his sword under his arm
so he could smooth back slightly sweat-dampened hair. "You have been watching
the cats in their prowl?"
She shrugged, "I see lots of things."
"Just so," he nodded, winking at her.
He retreated across the room towards an alcove set deep in the wall, currently
serving as something of a makeshift table. She loosened her hold on her own
sword but didn't put it down, while she watched him pour water from a jug into
a simple silver cup. He took a long drink, refilled the cup, then turned to
extend it to her. It was only then that she balanced her sword against the
wall, leaning next to it, and drank deeply.
"Are you one of them," she asked, handing the cup back to him once she'd
emptied it.
He looked at her curiously for a moment, then shook his head. "No," he said.
"This is the face I was born with, as unfortunate as it is." A protest welled
up in her throat, but he cut her off with an elegant bow. "I am Syrio Forel-
" he began.
"First Sword of Braavos under the Sealord Itheo Eleryi." she replied.
His brows raised slightly and he nodded. "You know your history," he said,
sounding pleased.
Arya shrugged again, as simple an answer as the other. She knew a lot of things
now, but one of the first things she did when she had the history of the
Sealords in front of her was to search for Syrio's name. She read all the
others with the same focus and attention to detail, however, so when she got to
his name it wouldn't seem strange that she scoured the pages for even the
smallest hint of who he had been and what he had done before she met him. His
Sealord had died peacefully in his sleep, an enviable death for someone in his
position, and Syrio only stayed in Braavos long enough to see the next Sealord
elected. That was all she knew of him, and all she thought she would ever know
of him before today.
"And you?" he continued. "What do I call you, boy?"
The words dangled off the tip of her tongue, but she couldn't quite bring
herself to make the ascertation. Instead, she shook her head. "Whatever you
please," she said. She had no name, but she still couldn't bring herself to
utter the words - No One - to him; she couldn't bring herself to lie.
He answered with another brief nod, "Just so." Syrio took his sword in hand
again and nodded towards the middle of the room. "If you have caught your
breath," he said, "let us continue."
There was something strained in the air between them then, Arya could feel it
weighing down heavy on her chest. She didn't know what it was or how to put the
feeling into a thought; all she could do was pick up her sword and join him.
Someone had told her a lifetime ago that the best time to practice was when she
was already troubled by something. If she could push the thought away and
concentrate on him instead, each step, each faint twitch of his gaze that gave
away where his sword would fall next, then she could brush aside any other
concern that plagued her.
He no longer underestimated her, however. His blows fell with more intent and
precision now that he knew she was more capable than she had been years ago.
She thought of the Hound, the clashing of steel and blur of flames that
eventually became his downfall. She thought of the fight in the inn, the feel
of a knife in her hand, sliding smoothly through flesh, the feel of Needle, so
perfectly balanced, steel stained deep red as she pulled it from some boy's
gut. She thought of Mycah, for a brief moment, though she couldn't remember his
face anymore. The clatter of their wooden swords echoed the clatter of tree
branches, the sun glimmering on the surface of a river, warm on her face, as
warm as the sun streaking in through the windows now. With each strike and
brace, she purged those memories, one after another, sending them somewhere far
away, until all she had left was the sun-drenched balcony in King's Landing,
wearing her brother's ill-fitting clothes, a whisper in her ear...
Quiet as a shadow. Quick as a snake. Calm as still water... The man who fears
losing has already lost.
She didn't know if it was sweat or tears that stung at the corner of her eyes
and streaked down her face, only that their movements became a blur in front of
her. She drew in a breath and tried to pull herself back together, but he drove
her harder, coming at her with relentless strikes, until the muscles of her
arms and legs burned from the exhaustion of trying to fight him off. For a
moment it felt as real as any fight she'd been in. Then as she lunged forward
to strike at him, he side-stepped her and sent her stumbling forward towards
the benches. She only just caught herself on her hands, the sword shuttering
against the floor, her toes scuffing painfully into the stone. Then he tapped
her lightly across the back with his sword.
"Dead," he pronounced.
Arya slumped down on the bench, turning to heave herself back against the wall.
Sweat rolled down her neck and the curve of her back and her lungs ached from
fighting so hard. He took pity on her then, and handed her his sword.
"We are done for the day," he said softly, offering a sharp nod that seemed
almost too harsh for the way his voice wrapped around his words. "Put these
away, then you are dismissed until tomorrow."
She grasped the hilt of his sword, hands still numb and ringing with the sting
of wood crashing against wood, and balanced both blades against the side of her
thigh. He watched her for a moment, her head back against the wall, gulping
down one harsh breath after another, then turned briskly on his heel. He seemed
in little better shape than her, his dark curls damp and hanging limply around
his face and his skin flushed darker than usual, but at least he could retreat
into the cool interior of the house. In contrast, she was left here with sweat
rolling down the side of her face and an ache much deeper than her muscles.
Arya dragged her hands through her hair, unsticking the sweat-damp tendrils
from her forehead and neck. It fell limply back in place around her flushed
face, but the momentary breeze that tickled under her collar was enough to wick
away some of the heat of a hard practice. Still, all the fire in her limbs
hadn't burned away the tension that overcame her; it only tamped it down
deeper, into a place a little more unreachable. It was still there, she could
still feel it worrying at the edge of her attention, tendrils of some unknown
urgency sliding up her spine and sinking into the base of her skull. She
slumped forward, swords shifting from their resting place as she dropped her
elbows onto her knees. She rubbed her hands across the back of her neck then
down her tight shoulders, dragging in a heavy breath. The exhale trembled out
of her as the swords clattered to the floor.
Arya cringed as the noise resonated through the room, and forced herself to her
feet to pick them up. Instead of bringing them back to the chest, however, she
laid them neatly on the bench behind her and turned her attention towards the
archway. He'd left her with so much yet to learn, and now he was here, alive,
with no explanation of what had happened. She wanted to demand answers from
him, she wanted to press her body against his and batter his chest with her
fists until he told her how he'd survived and why he'd never once tried to find
her again. Even though she knew the answers well enough, she still wanted to
hear it from him.
She gulped down another haggard breath and set her jaw tight with
determination. Then, at the very edge of her anger, she felt something else
brush through her awareness, more like a soft breeze than the racing storm that
barreled through her ahead of it. It burrowed its way through her chest, past
her heart and lungs, and curled tight in the pit of her stomach. Arya dragged
her bottom lip through her teeth, still staring towards the archway, but there
wasn't so much as a shuffle of footsteps beyond the pained thudding of her own
heart. The tension twist tighter, drawing a taut cord of unease through her
body, from the tight muscles between her shoulders to the tingle in her
fingertips, and all the way down to where the feeling made itself at home. She
didn't even know the words for this feeling anymore, once it stopped being
anger and started being something else entirely; she couldn't remember ever
feeling anything else. Maybe there weren't even words for this, maybe this was
just the way the gods occasionally struck men to remind them they were alive.
Whatever it was, she didn't like it. She wanted to banish it as far away from
her body as possible, and the only way she knew how to do that was to press
forward.
With that thought, her resolve finally snapped, her stubbornness giving way to
need. She remembered what another man had told her once, and leaned down to
slipped the laces of her shoes loose. The supple leather slid easily off her
feet and she nudged the shoes softly under the bench with her bare toes. Next
came her belt, a simple strip of leather looped over on itself, but it was one
more thing that kept her from moving as quietly as she needed to. Her tunic
sagged on her narrow shoulders as she let the belt fall next to her shoes, the
soft sigh of well-worn leather all the more noise it made. She was no mouse,
not this time, rather her body slunk quietly across the room like a cat on the
edge of bridge: each footstep soft and deliberate. While she may not have known
exactly what she was doing, she knew that further forward she moved, the more
that tension seemed to unfurl within her. If there was anything her training
had taught her so far, it was to heed that feeling; it had never betrayed her
before and she prayed it wouldn't betray her now.
The narrow archway gave way to a bare, stunted corridor, and just inside of
that she found a small room with a table and a pair of chairs, unrolled
parchment and an empty wine jug left forgotten on it. Ahead of her the corridor
continued to an open doorway, darker than the first two rooms had been. She
could imagine it flooded with warm light in the morning, but the sun had moved
to the other side of the lagoon, casting the room cool, dim shadows instead. As
she quietly approached the door, footsteps as light as possible, she saw him
standing at a small alcove in the far wall, his back turned towards her. He'd
already taken off his doublet, which lay over the back of a simple wooden chair
along with his gloves, and she watched as dragged his hands through his hair,
water from the basin in front of him trickling in fat droplets down the back of
his neck. If he'd heard her approach, he made no move to show it, and Arya
slipped a little further into the room, until she'd finally crossed the
threshold.
She dropped her hands loosely to her sides, fingers sliding under the folds of
her tunic to the front of her pants, dragging her fingers through thick laces.
They slipped free of the knot and her pants sagged across her hips, loose
enough that when she caught one cuff with her heel, her pants slipped down her
thighs and pooled easily at her feet. There was one benefit of never being able
to find clothes that fit her, and that was how easily she could rid herself of
them when she needed to. But the rustle of fabric as she nudged her pants to
the side was enough to finally catch Syrio's attention. He leaned his hands
against the lip of the alcove and Arya fidgeted slightly behind him, her
fingers curling and uncurling against her palms. For a moment she was more
aware of her body - gangly limbed and splotched in freckles - than she had ever
been before. She worried the edge of her lip between her teeth, gaze fixed on
him as he finally turned to face her.
For a moment it seemed like he was going to say something, but the words never
found their way to his tongue. Her heart beat harder with every moment under
his unmoving scrutiny, unsure of whether she should press forward or retreat.
But she had never run, not when she had another choice, and feeling that one of
them needed to make a move, Arya raised her hands to the front of her tunic and
started undoing the lacing there as well. His steps were swift, a few long
strides to close the distance between them and then his hands were on hers,
halting her movements. The knot in her gut twist again, but Syrio slid his deft
fingers between the laces and slowly pulled them free of the fabric.
Unease and anxiety rushed from her body so fast that it left her face pale and
her skin tingling where his calloused fingers brushed over her skin. He traced
the neckline of her tunic, up over her jutting collarbones and the soft hollow
of her throat, then cupped her face in his hands to draw her in. She went to
him far more eagerly than she wanted to admit, rising up onto the tips of her
toes in order to rest her cheek against his shoulder. He cradled her head
there, tense and still against her. She could feel the battle raging inside of
him, in the way his muscles strained taut and his breath came uncertain and
shallow. She held as still as she could, though she wanted nothing more than to
unleash her own tension, letting him fight through whatever conflict he was
hosting in his mind. Though it may have only taken a few seconds for him to
finally react, to her it felt like an eternity.
"Arya," he murmured, his fingers sliding through her hair. She nodded against
him, fingers clenched in the back of his shirt. The subtle movement only made
him hold her tighter, his hands dragging up the long curve of her spine then
back down again. "Arya..." he said again, his voice exposed and strained.
She felt her heart jump, and bit down on her lower lip until the sting of pain
registered through the sudden daze. "I know," she replied softly, though she
wasn't sure what she knew, only that the sound of his voice resonated somewhere
so deep inside of her that she hadn't even realized it existed before.
Syrio slowly pulled back and trailed his fingertips down her jaw, the movement
almost hesitant with how gentle his fingers skimmed over her skin. Then his
lips were on hers, a heady feeling settling between them as he drew her close
again. He captured her lower lip between his own, a hint of teeth and the
scratch of his stubble against her skin as he kissed her. His fingertips
dragged softly along the curve of her neck, lingering at the hollows and tender
slips of flesh while he drank her in. Arya clutched at his forearms, feeling
the muscle under her hands clench with the ongoing struggle to control himself;
even though he had given into the first subtle murmurings of desire, he'd yet
to let go completely. While she didn't want him to hold back, there was
something about knowing he struggled so hard to control himself that caused a
shiver to slither up her spine.
She managed to draw in another sharp breath as he trailed away from her lips,
mouth still pressed against her skin, and his breath warm on her throat. She
thought she may have heard him murmur her name again, muffled against the side
of her neck as his lips chased and caught her pulse, but it was all drowned out
by the sound of her heart thrumming in a heavy, steady rhythm. He trailed
lower, across the valley of her collarbones and down the middle of her chest,
and Arya's eyes lidded as his fingers slipped beneath the edge of her tunic.
With each slip of self-control, the fabric dropped a little farther off her
shoulders, until she had no other choice but to free her arms and let the
fabric flit past her hips to puddle at her feet. His hands grazed up the slight
curve of her waist, lingering briefly at the torn strip of fabric that bound
her chest. He said nothing of it, and made no move to unravel her, but instead
slid his hands around to her back, kneading aching muscles on his way down.
He had a way of making her forget her own awkward, gangly limbs, his hands firm
against her body, drawing her forward. She went easily, stepping out of the
ring of fabric at her feet. He led her slowly towards the bed - a thick
mattress sitting on the floor of a recessed platform - drawing away from her
only when he needed to kneel on the edge of the niche. Arya slid up next to
him, the stone cool against her bare knees, and answered eagerly when he
reached out for her again. She felt like she kept chasing the next touch, the
next kiss, but whether it was his hands in her hair or on her waist, or his
lips brushing soft against her skin, whenever she compelled her body towards
his, he drew her against his body with all the warmth and reassurance that she
had once known from him.
She settled easily in his lap, her knees pressed into the plush mattress on
either side of his hips and her arms wound around his broad shoulders. He
teased another kiss against her lips, the tip of his tongue brushing faintly
across her bottom lip. He coaxed her mouth open and drew a soft groan from deep
in her throat, which only made him grin against her mouth. She nipped playfully
at him, her own gentle revenge, and put her hands against his chest to urge him
onto his back. His hands were at her hips again then, pulling her along with
him, and further still.
Arya had to brace herself against the wall to keep from tumbling forward into
it, or on him, grappling at the stone for purchase as he slid down between her
legs. His shoulders jut up against the back of her knees, hands at her upper
thighs, and in a breath his mouth was on her again. Another heavy moan dragged
out of her with the first deft sweep of his tongue, a soft swear tumbling out
after it. She arched her fingers and futilely tried to grip at the wall before
giving in and sliding her hand down into his hair. She twist her fingers
through the thick curls, still slightly damp from sweat, and arched towards him
until she felt the warmth of his mouth close in on her. He held just as tight,
allowing only the barest twist of movement as he teased, his tongue every bit
as agile as the rest of him.
It drove her mad, which may have been what he aimed for, leaving her panting
and swearing above him with her body heaved forward against the wall. It was
everything she could do to keep from crumbling, and he was relentless. All the
tension that had wound tight in her gut, spurring her forward as their swords
clashed against each other, unfurled only to clench again into an entirely new
formation. She bit down hard on her lip, trying to muffle her whimpers, but
that only made him more determined to drive her to the edge of her self-
control. It was a sweet revenge for him, to fray her nerves in a way that she
must have frayed his, casting away every desire to withhold anything. And maybe
it was as much for his own benefit as it was for hers, because there could be
no mistake that she wanted him with the way her body arched and twitched above
him.
But the tension had been building for too long now, and all he had to do was
coax her towards the edge before her body took her the rest of the way over on
its own. She shuddered, her breath caught hard in her throat, unsure whether
she was pushing him away or pulling him closer. He knew the tremble in her
limbs, could feel her body shake, and kept pushing her. It was only then, once
she was reduced to helpless trembling, that he took mercy on her and slowly
helped lower her onto the bed.
She didn't let him get far, though - she snatched the edge of his shirt and
dragged him towards her. "You-" she panted, "-are a terrible man."
Syrio chuckled softly and nipped at the curve of her throat. "Just so."
He wasn't keen on proving her wrong, either; his hands kept roaming along her
body, flushed and slick with sweat all over again. They danced along the inside
of her thighs, around the back of her knees, and down the long curve of her
calves where they stalled, only for a moment, to take her foot in his hands and
gently run his fingers from heel to toe. Arya gave a soft groan as he dragged
his knuckles along the arch of her foot, her toes curling. She wasn't sure if
her body was trying to protest the touch or not, but the constant touch kept
her on edge, overwhelmingly, blissfully so. She didn't want to lose this
feeling, in case she never got to feel it again. But then, there was one way
that he could make it even better...
"Why are you still dressed?" she murmured, curling one of the laces of his
shirt around her toe. "That doesn't seem fair."
"You are the one who walked in and took off your clothes," he replied, clicking
his tongue teasingly.
Arya rolled her eyes and pushed herself up on her elbows. "I thought you'd get
the idea..." she retorted.
"There were ideas, yes..." he trailed a line of soft kisses along the arch of
her foot. "But perhaps that one was not the most pressing at the time."
"And now?" she cocked her head to the side, "Can I impress the idea on you
now?"
There seemed to be a hint of something uncertain on his face, and though it was
gone in a blink, it still hadn't escaped Arya's attention. She slowly drew her
foot out of his grasp and pushed herself up on her knees, crawling the short
distance between them. She pressed her body against his back, limbs draped
languidly over his shoulders, and softly brushed her lips against his neck.
Syrio brought his hands up to cover hers, his thumbs trailing across her palms
and down each finger, kissing her fingertips, her palms, then her wrists, each
one in turn. Her soft persistence urged him forward, and he slid from the edge
of the platform to stand.
Nakedness itself didn't excite her, she'd long since stopped being curious
about what naked bodies looked like. But there had been enough of a thrill in
feeling his un-gloved hands against her skin for the first time that seeing him
completely undone only promised more of a flush. He had always looked so
expertly put together when he was around her, with an air of mystery and
elegance wrapped around him, that she wanted to see him down to his last
stitches. That was what enticed her, not the idea of seeing something
supposedly forbidden to her, but knowing that she could have him exposed: a
side of himself that wouldn't give anyone to else. Maybe that was even part of
what drove her to shed her clothes and steal into his room; the subtle, barely-
conscious thought of having something that no one could take away from her.
She didn't think long on it; there was no point in trying to figure out the
machinations of her thoughts when the result was just as good regardless. It
was much more interesting for her to watch him shed his clothes. His boots were
first, they dropped unceremoniously to the floor next to her own forgotten
tunic, before he propped his foot up on the edge of the platform to loosen the
laces around the ankles of his pants. Arya sat back on her heels, her gaze
following his hands as they went to the collar of his shirt. In one swift
movement he had it off, letting it fall to the platform next to her. She
greedily gathered it up, pressing the still-warm fabric to her chest in a fit
of faux-modesty (not that anyone had ever accused her of having so much as hint
of modesty in her entire being), the end of his shirt trailing between her
knees. The playful movement drew his attention away from his clothes, and Syrio
leaned over the bed and snatched the shirt from her hands, dropping it to the
floor. Part of her stubbornly wanted to go after it, to drape herself over the
edge of the bed and steal the shirt back, for no other reason than he had taken
it from her. Instead, she tipped her head gently to one side as his hands
dropped to the front of his pants. Though she thought her own fumbling had been
awkward and ungainly, his by contrast was as precise and effortless as every
move he made. The laces slipped loose and he shuffed the fabric down his hips,
bending again to free his thick legs.
Arya rose onto her knees again and reached out for him, her fingers sliding
against his rough jawline as he made his way back to the bed. "Better," she
said, tipping her head up as he pressed in for another kiss.
He met her at the edge of the mattress, kneeling on the floor just beside it,
his hands settling on her hips. His thumbs pressed against the subtle ridges of
her hipbones and dragged along the hollows and up the faint curve of her
stomach. She arched forward as his hands drew along her ribs, and finally found
the end of her binding. His gaze met hers for a moment, a silent request for
permission, and Arya nodded - lifting her arms enough that he could slip the
end of scrap loose and unfurl the fabric. Her exposed skin prickled against the
cool air as he unbound her, the linen falling loose in his hands.
Once he dropped the fabric into the heap of shed clothes on the floor, he drew
an arm tight around her waist and pulled her body against his again. Her hands
braced against his chest, curling slowly in coarse, dark curls. She traced over
a jagged scar that cut across the left side of his chest, the marred skin knit
roughly back together. The scar looked enough like a sword had put it there
that she almost asked what had put it there, but then his lips were on the
hollow of her throat and she forgot all about the momentary desire. She slipped
her hands over his shoulders, then around to the back of his neck where she
tangled her fingers in his hair. He paved a path of kisses down the middle of
her chest and lower yet, leaving her clinging to him, once again holding onto
whatever she could find. He wrapped both his arms, warm and thick, around her
waist and lifted her to settle on top of him again.
They were all flesh against heated flesh this time, and while she had felt his
body's response to her before, it was so much more apparent now that their
bodies were exposed and pressed tightly to one another. But even now she spared
only the barest thought for the weight of this moment. It was only the brief
hesitance in Syrio's movements, the breath before he slid his hands between her
legs, that reminded her there was anything to think about at all. Her hips
arched willingly towards the slick slip of his fingers, her breath a steady
rhythm. While he may have given a moment's pause, an unasked question, she
merely pressed against him, her body willing him to say nothing of it. His
hesitance didn't bother her though, only the tenuous chance that he might make
something out of what was, in her opinion, very little. It was only for the
sake of his own crumbling self-control that she indulged those second-thoughts.
Whatever sense of honor he had begun this encounter with was now long gone - a
fact which pleased Arya nearly as much as the feel of his fingers sliding into
her.
Enough sleepless nights had driven her own fingers between her legs, searching
for the kind of elation that would leech the anger and tension from her body,
but his hands were nothing at all like her own. She could feel the calluses on
his fingers, hands worn and beaten from years of handling a sword, but it just
made her hips stutter against his palm and her breath catch in her chest. She
hadn't thought that he body could respond again so quickly, but between his
fingers dipping deeper inside her and his mouth poised at the hollow of her
throat, her body was flushed and quivering.
She dragged her hands down from his shoulders, nails scraping along his skin,
and lower still until they fell between her legs. She wrapped her hand around
him, a smirk twitching at the corner of her mouth as he dragged in a harsh
breath of his own. He reluctantly trailed his hand away from her, fingers
dancing slick along the inside of her thigh, and nudged her hand away. A beat
passed between them, just long enough for him to adjust himself, then he pulled
her in for a harsh kiss as she slowly slid down onto him. She inhaled sharp,
his breath in her lungs, then pressed harder to his mouth. She could taste his
groan, a sound that sent a slow coil of heat down her spine. At first, her body
protested, and feverishly, but the more she moved the less those protests
seemed to matter. The ache turned into a faint throb, then slowly melted into
the urgency surging through her before it tucked down, buried under layers of
need.
He grasped tight to her hips, holding her body close to his, but allowing her
to move as she would. His breath came sharp and heavy - against her mouth, her
throat, the space between her breasts - his body heated, slick in a faint sheen
of sweat again. Arya slid her hands over his shoulders and down his back, nails
scraping, fingers digging into his flesh. Her muscles felt eager to tighten,
though she couldn't seem to find relief, no matter how she clung or how hard
she pressed herself against him. It was a rush, like the burn of a hard fight,
setting alight parts of her that nothing else could. The ache was still there,
reminding her not to get too hasty, but instead of causing her to recoil as it
did at first, it only sent another blush to her cheeks and made her heart beat
faster.
It caught her by surprise when Syrio wrapped his arms tight around her and
turned her over onto her back, but his weight on top of her was well worth the
sudden change in position. She pressed her knees against his waist, legs hooked
over his hips, and pulled him in for another kiss. His mouth was over-eager,
verging on uncontrolled, trying desperately to kiss her between harsh, uneven
breaths. His hips snapped forward, and she winced faintly, but the twitch was
enough to drag him away from her mouth, uncertainty passing across his
features.
"Don't stop..." she hissed, her fingers tightening in his hair.
It was enough to reassure him, and though his movements were a little less
abrupt afterwards, she could still feel the tension shuddering through his
body, pleading to uncoil. She dug her heels into the back of his thighs, their
skin sticky with sweat, and urged him on. She wanted to feel him lose that last
suggestion of self-control, the way he'd already made her do the same. She
didn't have to wait long, either; Syrio buried his face against the curve of
her neck and shoulder, biting back a deep groan. She would have had him let
that loose as well, but there was no time to tell him before his hips jerked
and his body trembled on top of her. Arya felt a blush slither down her neck
and across her chest, a murmured groan escaping her lips. Syrio pressed a few
exhausted kissed along her collarbone, and then slowly started to peel himself
away from her.
She reached for him, uttering a faint whine as he drew away from her, but it
was only a moment before he lowered himself to the bed again. He dropped down
between her legs, his mouth pressed against her again, and Arya's hips
shuddered suddenly in response. She gripped the blankets under her head, back
arched up off the mattress, and pressed against him, his tongue sliding easily
against her already wet flesh. There was no use in trying to hold back, nor in
pretending that she was the one in control at that moment, the only thing she
could do was allow herself to cascade over the edge again, unable to even
stifle the moan that followed.
Only after her body stopped throbbing, her heart beat returning to her chest
where it belonged instead of consuming every inch of her body, did he return to
her side, draped lazily across the length of the bed. Still panting slightly,
he reached out to trail his fingertips along the jutting curve of her hipbone.
"Fuck," Arya breathed.
He laughed, the sound still rich and warm even though he sounded exhausted.
Syrio rolled over to his side and pressed a warm kiss to the corner of her
mouth, then slowly started to get out of bed.
Arya frowned at him, "Where are you going?"
"To get cleaned up, girl," he replied softly, reaching out to stroke her cheek.
"Then you should as well."
"I'm not sure I can move," she grimaced, slowly rolling onto her side then
heaving her body against a pillow.
His fingers danced along the curve of her spine, over her backside and teased
the backs of her thighs. "What better time to put a sword in your hand again?"
he winked.
Arya paled. "You've got to be joking..."
"No," he shook his head, "there will be scores of wild young bravos roaming the
streets who need to be taught a lesson, and a girl who needs to learn how to
teach it." He grinned as her expression brightened, "But first, there will be
food. And I am thinking you will need to put clothes on again, sadly."
She snorted and buried her face in the pillow, peering mischievously at him as
he made his way to the basin of water again. The ache was starting to come
back, settling in the muscles of her thighs and back, but she'd felt much worse
than this, and without the elation that wrapped around her now. Arya folded her
arms across the pillow and rested her chin on top, content to watch him
silently.
Syrio glanced over his shoulder at her, a brief glimpse of curiosity. "It was
the first?" he asked, as casually as such a question could be asked.
Arya shrugged.
"Just so," he nodded.
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