Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/392989.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/F
  Fandom:
      A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_-_George_R._R._Martin, Game_of_Thrones_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Arya_Stark/OFC
  Character:
      Arya_Stark
  Additional Tags:
      Post_-_A_Dance_With_Dragons, Post_-_ADWD, Canon_Compliant, Prostitution,
      Future_Fic, Genderswap, Queer_Themes
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-04-28 Words: 1585
****** out on the streets of stars ******
by eternal_elenea
Summary
     He is called Ryso, but he is no one, least of all a girl from
     Winterfell whose memories are still buried inside of his mind. He is
     called Ryso, but he remembers Robb and Theon visiting whorehouses;
     now, in this identity, he will do the same.
     Written for A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_Kink_Meme. For the prompt: "Arya/
     OFC; Arya's been watching men visit brothels all her life; she's
     decided to see what all the fuss is about."
Notes
     This is a fill for a kink-meme prompt that turned into a bit of a
     character-exploration monster, primarily dealing with Arya's crisis
     of identity. There is a decent amount of gender play and, for a large
     chunk of this fic, Arya exists within a male identity.
     Canon-compliant, takes place a few years after the end of ADWD
     (meaning Arya is sixteen), and assumes that Arya completes her
     training as a Faceless Man. No other spoilers.
     Title from "The Immortals" by Kings of Leon.
The moon is a sliver in the sky and it has not yet reached his peak when Ryso
walks towards the Happy Port, heavy-footed. His hand trembles as he reaches
towards the door and he pushes back his yellow hair from his forehead and he
has a sudden vision of a memory that is not his own, of Theon laughing and
dragging Robb along into the town and Robb’s blush and Theon’s smirk. There is
a blush that stains his cheeks, too, already ruddy and, as Merry greets him,
the whores titter like little court birds.
 
 
He is called Ryso, but that is not who he is – he is no one. He is one of many
faces and this is only the latest; is slight and high-voiced and more of a boy
than a man, but neither, truly. He is a girl who has become a shadow who has
become man-faced, who looks three-and-twenty, but feels eleven-and-ninety, but
has lived for only six-and-ten years. He dreams through the eyes of a direwolf
and knows places that he has never before seen.
He is no one, but, still, at night, he whispers his prayer from a life that is
no longer his: “Ser Gregor, Dunsen, Raff the sweetling, Ser Ilyn, Ser Meryn,
Queen Cersei.”
“Valar morghulis,” he says.
 
 
It is his first time at the Happy Port, at any whorehouse, and it is only the
jingle of silver in his pockets that gets Merry’s attention. He is neither
comely nor well-dressed nor highborn, and he has only just learned how a man
acts around women, for he was never taught as a child, had only learned
needlework and courtly words. He fumbles with the coins in his hand and allows
a fringe of hair to cover his eyes and watches Merry swaddle over, offering up
her girls in a voice made husky with tavern smoke and warm intent.
There are girls of all looks, dark-skinned girls of the Summer Islands and
Dothraki girls and even one with hair so red that it looks Tully. There is
Lana, who Ryso had met, once, back when he was called “Cat” and remembers the
way that men used to speak of her, sweet-faced and plump-lipped; there is a
girl in the shadows that is grey-eyed and dark-haired and has a smiling razor
in her eyes that reminds Ryso of someone that he surely does not remember.  
He has never been allowed to look at girls, much less whores, and, as his eyes
sweep over them, he feels himself warm in the pit of his belly, feels himself
dampen underneath his breeches. He allows his eyes to wander over their hips,
their breasts, in the candlelight and he does not allow himself to bite his
lip, only blushes, too quick.
 
 
He has never properly looked at women, but on the docks, he pretends that he
has lain with several, laughing crudely with the tales of sailors and of
merchants and of fishermen. He hears of the first women that they’d lain with
at thirteen, at twelve, at fifteen, and thinks of how it reminds him of the men
back in Westeros, back in Winterfell. He hears of how they have lain with women
and thinks of how they have been taught so differently than he:
“Your maidenhead,” a Septa had told a little girl, “is the most precious gift
of a highborn woman.”
Ryso remembers the life that was never his and he remembers thinking that was
silly, that that any girl should much rather have a good sword than a stupid
maidenhead. He remembers the lord father that the little girl had told, with
crossed arms and stormy eyes, and the laugh that had sprung from him and the
ruffling of the girl’s hair; remembers, too, the words that neither agreed nor
disagreed: “that may be so, sweet child, but you will want one day to marry, as
well.”
The girl never did, Ryso remembers.
 
 
He is led into a separate room by a green-eyed girl with a wicked smile and
bowed legs. “What’s your name?” he asks, his palms pressed against the sides of
his legs and his eyes wide and she grins at him, looks up from under her
lashes, says, “Rhea, if it please milord.” He almost thinks, “Don’t call me
milady,” but it is only another stray memory that doesn’t belong; instead, he
nods at her, reaches up to press his too-slender hand against her arm.
She’s the one that moves to him, graceful like the summer tide, and she grasps
his hands with hers, brings them up to her waist, brings his face to hers. They
kiss, soft, chaste, at first and when she pulls away, he thinks he sees
surprise in her gaze that he hasn’t pushed farther, but it is soon gone,
replaced by a smile, almost-genuine, bright like the pool in the godswood and
the light off of the silvered bark of the heart tree.
He kisses her again, tilting his head to fit to hers, and she slips her tongue
into his mouth and he chases after it, carefully grasping the side of her face
and opening her lips to him. He kisses her, again, again, and Ryso has nothing
to which he can compare, except for the viscous flood of memories hidden in the
back of his mind that aren’t his.
It is only playful like chasing Bran around the yard, only warm like the fires
in their stone hearths, only beautiful like the twisting braid of Sansa’s hair
and the sparkle in Jon’s eyes. It is only wonderful like the weight of Needle
in her palm for the first time.
Once they have stopped kissing, Rhea looks up and asks, still smiling, “You’ve
never done this before, have you, milord?” and when she receives no reply, her
smile turns cheeky, and she says, “So, what shall I call you, sweetling?”
 
 
There is a pause, for only a moment and still it feels much longer, hanging in
the air like a weight, suspended, before:
“A—Arya,” Arya says, shivering even though it’s warm as summer, looking at
Rhea’s collarbone and not her eyes.
Rhea’s gaze is confused, but Arya does not mind, for she has spent too long
hiding behind false names and faces; brings Rhea’s mouth to hers and nips at
Rhea’s lip and presses her body flush against Rhea’s and changes the mask that
she wears one more time.
“My name is Arya,” she says, stepping away until Rhea can see her true face,
can see the messy, long, brown hair and her Stark eyes. Rhea’s skin is warm
under her palms and Arya watches her, half-lidded, wondering if she’ll run. She
slips a hand under the laces of Rhea’s dress and she thinks, laughing, how
unladylike she is being, presses her mouth to the joint of Rhea’s shoulder and
looks up at Rhea’s warm-again gaze.
“Is this alright?” she asks, remembering barely not to deepen her voice,
feeling once more vulnerable as a young girl, and Rhea answers only with a
quirked smile and hands reaching towards the hem of Arya’s tunic.
“Arya,” she says, “lovely Arya,” and lifts the tunic from Arya’s body, until
the heat of the room is upon her stomach and shoulders and all that remains are
the bandages wrapped tightly around her breasts. They’re white, stark against
the bright silk sheets of the bed, and Arya blooms red, even as Rhea reaches
for them, unperturbed.
She’s gentler than Arya expects, unwinds the wrappings and kisses the skin
where the bandages have bitten into her sides, marking them with crimson
stripes. She presses one hand to Arya’s bare hip and brings the other up to her
uncovered breasts. They’re not fully grown, but the nipples are dark and when
Rhea palms one of them, she makes a faint humming sound, joins her hand with
her mouth, teasing the bud to a peak.
Arya gasps softly and she lets herself be lowered onto the bed, grasps at
Rhea’s dark, coarse hair and she bites her lip, lets herself say, “More, Rhea,
more, more” like Ryso never would have. Together, they remove Arya’s breeches
and Rhea’s dress until Rhea’s breasts are pressed to Arya’s stomach and her
hands to Arya’s thighs and her mouth to the curve of Arya’s breast; until
they’re slotted together like the swords that make the Iron Throne.
Together, they remove the rest of coherency from their mouths: Rhea presses
kisses to Arya’s ribs and to her belly and to the arches of her feet, teases
Arya’s nipples with a hand until Arya’s head is tilted backward and her mouth
is open, saying, “Oh, oh.”
Rhea’s fingers wander over the seam of Arya’s thigh and press into the wetness
between her legs, moving in slight circles until Arya cries out Rhea’s name.
Rhea opens her, flits her thumb over the slit of Arya’s cunt, strokes her
harder, sparking across something inside of Arya that turns the warmth in her
belly white-hot and makes the words on her lips dissolve.
She does not know the noise that she makes, only that her hips roll, harder,
into Rhea’s palm and that Rhea’s lips are against hers and that Rhea’s skin is
like molten copper under her fingertips.
She does not know when she comes, ruthless and blinding and smooth as gossamer,
only that she is Arya Stark of Winterfell and that she is a woman and Rhea is
still, still, still smiling.
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