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Chapter Text

"Over and over I'm here again

Far beyond the bruising

Something underneath

Feel me in the aftermath when

You learn the world has teeth"

 Tears. One by one drop they were tracing their way down the girl's cheeks and one by one they were falling to the ground, splashing against the wooden flooring not louder than the ticking of a clock. Her whole body was trembling, taken over by convulsive bursts of sorrow, which she desperately tried to suppress. Her hand covering her mouth. Teeth biting the knuckles so hard, she almost started to bleed. She didn't even notice the pain. And if she had, she wouldn't care. No physical pain could be compared to what she was feeling right now. Nothing could.

"Lorch, what the fuck?" The voices were muffled, but she could still hear them. She wished she hadn't. She wished she could end them. "He's dead, you idiot. Just leave him." Her tears tasted bittersweet, shouldn't they be salty?

"Aye, but his face annoys me." She heard the broken glass crunch under the man's heavy boots. "A rich cunt's expression." Something sharp swished through the air. Her body pressed harder against the wall. This very wall protected her and divided the space between the girl and those two cutthroats. Their merciless features, as she imagined them, danced before her eyes when she closed them, though she's never seen the men. Only their voices. She was lucky they didn't bother to speak so loud, otherwise she wouldn't have enough time to hide. But oh, how she despised the two already. How her hands itched to close around their throats, how her eyes longed to see their blood spilled. She wanted to feel life leave their bodies; one, then the other, until they both fell to her feet like the empty-headed sacks of muscles they were. Pain and anger truly are a deadly combination when it comes to keeping common sense. But somehow, she didn't move. She knew she didn't stand a chance with any of them. Had the situation turned out differently, she might've tried to fight them without having her skull crashed into a hundred pieces, but not right now. Not now, while the bodies were still sprawled on the floor. She was not stupid.

"Who got the target?" Asked one of them.

"Ilyn." Replied the other.

"Payne?" He spat. "Lucky bastard. Always gets the best part. And do we do? Fucking sit here and wait till we die out of boredom. It's not our damned fault they missed one."

Ilyn Payne - the first name she needed to remember.

"Walder got in shooting every moving thing like a fuckin' maniac. They couldn't have missed her. She just wasn't here."

Walder

"I don't give a fuck where she was. It was their job to make sure everyone was inside. That's what you do before you make a hit."

"Either way, if she doesn't show up we're screwed. If we don't capture the brat, we'll die choking up on our own guts. Oh, for fuck's sake Amory, leave the boy's face!"

Amory Lorch - that's the man's full name then. Good.

Grocery shopping. That was all she needed to do to find herself here, with her heart shattered to pieces and blazing with fury. That was all she needed to do to become the last living Stark in this house. And it wasn't even her home.

Though her whole family, all except Jon, moved here four years ago, Arya never wanted King's Landing to be her home.

The youngest Stark girl was supposed to be back in about fifteen minutes with the products her mother needed for today's dinner, and she was back in fifteen minutes exactly, but forgot all about the dinner as soon as she laid eyes on the front door. They had already broken in.

The lock was pulled out of the door's frame, hanging loosely on one bolt. A freezing shiver ran down the girl's spine, and she clenched her teeth when the door opened silently under her touch. All was silent and so was she, holding her breath not to make a sound. Blood pounding vigorously in her veins. Arya saw bullet holes and cracks everywhere. In the mahogany paneling, in the furniture, curtains, windows or marking the floor. Almost all doors in the hall kicked out of their hinges, and red smudges on the carpet. Lots of red. Small, almost subtle drops, or stains, or huge, long smears of metallic scent. And Arya at the center of it all, with eyes and mouth open wide.

It had taken a couple loud thuds of her panicked little heart before the brain managed to process just what might've happened, and she still didn't want to believe it. She refused to believe. Until she heard something to her right. A man's voice coming from the living room.

Like a scared little rabbit, Arya jumped into the nearest room at the opposite side of the hall, and shut the door behind her, hoping it didn't alarm whoever that was. She abandoned the shopping bag somewhere along the way, she had no idea when or where. Her mind's been cleared out. Flooded with emotions but empty. Nothing but white noise.

And here she was, pressed against the wall, with the brutes who butchered her family under the same roof. Every nerve in her body tightened. There was a solid, heavy lump in her throat and blunt pain behind her eyes, but still, she stood firmly in place. Arya did not collapse yet. Not yet.

The girl swallowed back her cries and ordered herself to be strong. Don't think about it. Don't think about them. Just don't think at all. Their bodies cold and motionless, drowning in pools of blood, the emptiness in their eyes...

Don't. Think.

As quietly as she could, Arya moved towards the closed door. She felt so numb, so hopelessly numb.

"So..." Amory went on. Every word that left his mouth sounded like a disgusted gurgle. "Ilyn got the old man, Walder, that asshole shot the lady and her cunt-faced son over here... What about the pretty red-head?"

Arya crouched, and ignoring all the warning sounds swirling in her mind she peeked through the key hole. She saw the living room, looking as if a tornado went through it, and two male silhouettes. She couldn't see much of their features, but Arya knew which one of them was Amory straight away. Large, pig-faced stout of a man. That son of a bitch was leaning over Robb... (don't think) over Robb... (don't. think.) over Robb's dead body with a clasp-knife in his hand. And she kept her gaze glued to him. If she focused on the corpse even for a split-second, it would break her.

"Clegane took care of her. Nearly pissed herself, that's how scared she was." The other man's low chuckle resounded through the hall. Arya's lips quivered. You're gonna pay for this you motherfuckers. "A man with Sandor's... looks is just made for strangling young girls."

Sandor Clegane - seems that the list will only grow.

"I pity her though." Arya's eyes finally darted to the second man. He was sprawled snugly on the sofa. It was a pity she couldn't have a closer look.

"Pity? Are you fucking kidding me?" Lorch stopped twisting the knife in Robb's livid cheek to look up at his partner. "I always knew you were a pussy, but you just can't be serious, Polly."

"Think about it. If the boss wanted her alive, what do you think will happen to her?" Alive! Sansa is alive! "Bet she'll be sent off to that prick, his grandson. And I'm telling you, slitting her throat before she gets there would be an act of mercy. Nothing is worse than one night with Joffrey."

Joffrey... Arya knew that name. She knew that name for sure, but couldn't place it yet.

"That kid's one sick fuck that's for sure." Amory shrugged. "But Eddard Stark has been warned. Should've played the game our way. There's no such thing as justice." The man stood up and walked over to the center of the room. "And I think we proved that to you, didn't we, Ned?" Arya gasped in terror as she saw him bend and harshly grab something up from the ground. It was a head. A head. Amory Lorch held it by the hair, and the girl hissed in utter shock. She turned away. Immediately. That was about all she could take. Her legs went limp like noodles and her chest grew too heavy for them to carry, making her fall to her knees.

Guessing by the hair's length, the head... the head was... her fathe- Don't think about it! Not here, not now! You can't let them have you, Arya Stark, you have to get away from here! You have to live!

She knew. She realized what's caused all this. As a lawyer's daughter she should've known better. Ned Stark never told her much about the cases he took. When the girl was just a child, the only thing she was aware of was that her father fought against bad men to bring justice to their victims. That he himself was a man of law, a good man, who defended the aggrieved and spoke for them at the court, before the judge. As Arya grew older, however, she learned things were far more complicated. That there were more unjust people than the just ones, and quite often they won.

At times, little Arya would (oh, so accidentally) hear the late night conversations between her mum and dad, and while the bits she heard were taken out of context, and, of course, she didn't understand all the fancy words related to the process of a trial, what she got out of it was that her patents were mainly talking about the thin line between being with the law and breaking it. How dad could do nothing even though his client's innocence was obvious. Or how unfair the sentences could be, letting a murderer be remanded on bail, while he should've stayed in prison for life.

Ned wouldn't ever talk about it while his children were around, for understandable reasons, but though his job brought him quite a fortune and also good renown, the cruelty and corruption he had to deal with on a daily basis was unbearable. He thought he's seen the worst... until his latest case. The case against Joffrey Baratheon. The juvenile sadist. A psychopath.

He should've known better. As a lawyer he should've known not to take this case. Eddard Stark thought justice would win this time. It didn't.

"How does she even look like, the kid?" Arya heard Amory's question echoing somewhere among the swirling storm of painful, sharp thoughts in her mind. "She anything like her sister?"

"Let's see..." Springs squeaked and then again that cracking sound could be heard. 'Polly' must've got his ass of the couch. "Some nice photos they've got here. There's the red-head, her prissy brother..." God, Arya was so glad her parents didn't keep any pictures of Jon. Not since he moved away. "You sure we're waiting for a girl, Lorch? 'Cause this little shit here does not fucking look like one to me." The man's laugh made Arya straighten up a bit. Her lips pressed together obstinately.

"You're bloody right, Polliver." Amory chuckled. "If not the hair I would've taken her for a boy. Hell, the boss won't be pleased with this horseface."

"Fuck that. We'll track her down if we have to."

"And what about the new guy? The convict. Wasn't he supposed to be the one for this kind of job? Boss didn't free his sorry ass for no reason, I hope."

That was about all Arya could take. She wouldn't get any more information without her chest being pierced again and again by an invisible blade.

Ilyn Payne

Amory Lorch

Walder

Sandor Clegane

Polliver

Joffrey Baratheon

That's enough for now. For now.

And Sansa was alive. That was something to hold onto. Do it for her Arya, you must save her. You must. Funny, that right now the girl couldn't bring back a single memory of Sansa being mean to her. The sisters didn't get along well, everybody knew that, but...

Arya closed her eyes, inhaled and exhaled deliberately, trying to make her hands stop shaking so restlessly.

Ilyn Payne

Amory Lorch

Walder

Sandor Clegane

Polliver

Joffrey Baratheon

Her mind was made up. After Arya had escaped through an open window, she made sure no one was following her. How ironic, those two morons were far too dense and self-centered to notice her at all. The girl sneaked out through the garden in the back yard, with eyes and ears wide open. Let the adrenaline take over her for that little while.

And she was right. No One followed her. With a smirk on his lips.

Yoren's been walking in circles around the kitchen table for about twenty minutes now, hissing and cursing and darting his gaze in multiple directions (occasionally returning it to Arya). His hands kept on clenching into fists, then stretching out repetitively, while a troublesome expression weighted heavy on his bleak features.

Knowing the man as her father's loyal friend, Yoren was the one who she'd turned to, considering he lived in the same neighborhood. She'd told him everything, or at least tried to do so, in between her spasmodic cries, her voice cracking up constantly. And as she'd went on with her story, Yoren's mouth went wider and wider agape until it closed, and the man turned back to properly lock the front door and rolled down the blinds of every window.

"Are you sure that's exactly what happened? Did anyone follow you? Are you sure they didn't see you? Are you sure..? Are you sure..?" He'd asked countless times. Eventually Arya just stopped answering and only sat there, at the kitchen table, wrapped up in a blanket Yoren'd given her, a mug of hot tea warming up her cold, torpid palms, and a blank expression. Fear. Anger. Hurt. Sorrow. For the past couple hours all the most dire emotions have been filling her in, like a foul liquid fills a cup, but now it all has spilled. The girl was an empty little cup. Dry and fallen. No tears left to then finally something changed. The agonizing rhythm of Yoren's nervous marching ceased. He stood in place, staring down at Arya. After a moment she flatly raised her eyes to meet his stern look. He sighed, easing up a little and crouched in front of the girl to get to her eye level. She suddenly seemed so tiny, in comparison to Yoren.

"Okay, I know... No, I mean I can imagine, I-" Whatever it was he tried to say just wouldn't form into a proper sentence. "Shit, I can't..." His gaze dropped and he clenched his jaws. The Stark girl's hollow stare was truly hard to hold. And when he looked up again Arya focused on all the crinkles marking the man's face. Some were deep, some shallow, but all perfectly visible. Though there was not a single strand of gray in his hair, Yoren was getting old. His eyes were tired.

"I can't even imagine how tough this must be for you. But if you want to live you need to be even tougher than that. Do you understand me, Arya?"

A single nod was her reply.

"Good. Now I want you to listen to me carefully. Here's what we're gonna do."

Kill the bastards one by one

Save Sansa from the criminals behind all this

Make them pay for what they did

Make them beg for their own death

"We're going to take you to Jon's."

"What?" Arya gulped at the man. Finally, something had drawn her attention.

"That's right. He lives far up North and besides, he was never a Stark so there's a bigger possibility that Tywin's people won't search for you there, since it's been made clear your whole family is the target."

"But Jon is my brother!" Her whole face reddened, which only emphasized the hopelessness in her eyes.

"By heart, I believe he is, but not by name nor law." Yoren spoke in a deep, serious tone. "Family names can mean a great deal in such situations, trust me."

Arya opened her mouth to counter, but then closed it again and lowered her head. It took her a while to admit to herself that there really was no point in opposing Yoren right now. His help was the only thing she could rely on. Plus, if they were to travel all the way to Castle Black, maybe they could stop off at Winterfell. Maybe she could stay there... That probably would be the best option, because the last thing Arya wanted to do was put her brother's life at risk for the sake of her own. She wouldn't dare to take a single action that would put him in danger. Not after what she's seen today...

But she had to flee King's landing, that was certain. So be it.

"Tywin's people you said. Who's Tywin?" Her voice was still dry.

"This is not the best time for explanation. The less you know, the better, and I think you're too young to-"

"This is the only time we'll have." Arya harshly interrupted him. Her hands squeezed the mug tightly. "I want to know. I need to know."

Seconds as long as eternities passed, with deep silence as an accompaniment to Yoren and Arya's little stare battle. The girl would not lose this one, oh no. She was definitely not too young to know. He wanted her to play tough, she'll play tough. At last, the old man sighed, frustrated, and stood up with both hands on his hips.

"Fine. The man responsible for... what happened today is Tywin Lannister, seven hells take me if I'm wrong. The most dangerous man you could ever get to know. I won't get into the details of the corrupted business he runs, don't blame me on that, I don't know much myself. The point is, he's a criminal. And he's got his people all around Westeros. Robbers. Murderers. Hitmen. Most of them he got out of prison by bribery or force... You recall Joffrey Baratheon, don't you? Well, he happened to be his grandson."

Arya tried to stay focused and didn't dare to intrude. And so, the man went on.

"And for Lannisters, the family has the biggest value. Nothing is more important. If Joffrey was to be proved guilty, which he was, what would happen to his persecutor was obvious. Let alone the witnesses speaking against him, and even the judge. I knew that. Your father knew that." Those last words made Arya shrug. Yoren's voice was trembling. "And yet he didn't restrain." There was a fair dose of admiration in the man's words, she was perfectly aware of that. "Ned fought for justice. But his way of fighting was not enough to defeat the Lannisters. Tywin's had his revenge, and I'm sure Joffrey hasn't spent one day in a cell."

These two names kept reverberating in Arya's mind.

Joffrey Baratheon

Tywin Lannister

But the girl said nothing, and still sat there silent as a grave. She wanted to feel angry, she really did. Anger would suit her just right, bringing the determination required to carry on. But there was only emptiness.

"How do you know all this?" She asked Yoren, her tone drained out of emotion.

"Because he's told me himself." The man admitted, seeming lost in thought for a moment. "But enough of that now. We've already wasted plenty of time. Come." He extended his hand to her, and the girl obediently took it, then followed him out of the kitchen and up the stairs.

"What are we gonna do now?"

Yoren was leading her towards the bathroom.

"First, we need to get rid of this ragged mess on your head."

Not once in her entire life has Arya thought her rather unladylike behavior or her way of clothing would be of use, but so now it seemed that it was. What is more, it could even be considered as beneficial, in her position. She didn't even need to borrow any clothes from Yoren, aside from a hoodie (which was more than oversized anyway). The cut of her jeans was far from the super-skinny type and it definitely did not flatter her silhouette. Same goes to her maroon t-shirt, which left her chest flat and waist covered. And with her hair cut short.

"No, Yoren, stop! What are you doing?!" She squealed as she tried to scramble away from the man, but his grip on her was strong. Not painful, but firm, keeping her in place. The scissors' blade glistened in the small, round mirror.

"I'm helping you to survive, now listen to me, boy." He spoke peremptorily, each word pronounced loud and clear, making sure she got the message. "From this day on your name is Arry, do you understand me, boy?"

(snip) A large, auburn curl fell from her shoulders, and brushed against her feet. (snip, snip) Another two.

And one by one, they continued to fall.

Like tears.

At first, there was only confusion running through her mind, but then she stopped tussling, as finally, she understood.

...Oh.

from afar, she did really look like a boy. Small and scraggy, but a boy nonetheless. She was now standing on a platform, acting as casual as she could, waiting for her train to arrive. The traveling bag slung over her shoulder was filled with her belongings, which didn't belong to her at all. Food, clothes (too big, but she would put them on, if desperate.) even some money; all from Yoren. It was a temporary baggage, but it had to be enough since it was all she had. If she were to be honest, Arya felt kind of guilty for being such a burden. This man was not related to her in any way, she didn't even know him that well, and yet he did everything to help her. Her situation was not his concern and yet, he was putting his own life at risk for her safety. It all must've been because of the man's immense respect for her father. It surely must have.

And where was Yoren right now? Standing good forty feet away from the girl, as he insisted they shouldn't be seen together, just in case. But of course he was going with her. He wouldn't let a young girl (boy) wander alone like that, especially while quite a journey was awaiting her, and from what he'd seen, her mental state was questionable. Meaning she was shattered to pieces.

But Arya was strong. Tremendously strong. And smart. She could make it. That's what Yoren'd told himself and that's what he believed in with all his heart, but was it true?

After a while the train arrived along with a cacophony of huffs and clunks, and Arya got on it without even a brief look back. King's Landing was the most beautiful and exciting city she's ever experienced. Lively, overflowed with sunlight, and rotten to the core. Stunning architecture and blood dripping from the walls, streaming down the sidewalks. That's how Arya'd remember it. A City of Murderers. She walked ahead with her chin lifted up.

I'm not weak. I am a fighter. I'm not broken. I am tough. The old Arya is gone. My name is Arry.

She focused on those thoughts.

And No One was already there.

Focusing on her.

Waiting

Chapter Text

She had been sat with just the oddest of trios; a scrawny, blond boy looking only a bit less gaunt than Arya herself, who, as the girl later found out, was called Lommy, or Lumpyface, but only according to his much bigger friend — Hot Pie. (Arya thought it very much inapposite, giving others nasty nicknames while your own was Hot Pie, but hey, what did she know about epithets. It's not that her whole life she's been mistaken for a boy or called a horseface or underfoot countless times.) Although his name seemed to suit the boy perfectly, with his large body and surprisingly mild features for a person so snide. Hot Pie and Lommy were occupying one side of the compartment, as apparently the first one needed not one, but two seats to make himself comfy, and opposite to them sat Arry (or so they believed), separated with one empty seat from Gendry — the oldest of his fellow striplings. And truth be told, he was the only one to seem... Normal. Better than that, actually. Tall and quite muscular, Gendry was just the kind of guy boys would look up to and girls would swoon over. Well, definitely some of them. There existed a possibility, that maybe maybe under different circumstances she might've seen him in that way as well... But these were the given circumstances, and they would not change, and besides, Arya was not the type to swoon over boys. She wasn't the type to swoon over anything, really. The very few crushes she had in the past never brought her any good (Arya Horseface. Arya Underfoot) and little did she care for them. The girl had enough problems of her own to corrupt her mind and spare even a single thought on some stupid boy. Currently, much heavier thoughts weighted her spirit down as if pinning it to the ground, making her other senses unable to function properly.

But the girl had to remember that now she was not Arya Stark. She was Arry, and Arya Stark's thoughts could not be displayed so evidently on her features. Arry should now think only about his trip and the new met trio supposed to accompany him all the way to Castle Black — the very last station the tracks the Kingsroad reached. What a fortunate coincidence!

"So, what makes you travel this far north anyway?" Arry wasn't a very talkative boy, that's been made clear to his companions, but then suddenly she-who-was-now-a-he spoke, sounding somewhat leery.

"Isn't that obvious?" Lommy asked, quite offended. "We're to be the new recruits to the Wall." The scrag added, proudly lifting his chin.

Arry's brows snapped up in disbelief. They couldn't be recruited to the Wall. It definitely was no place for bragging youths. How old could the two be? Fifteen? Sixteen? Not much older than her, Arya was sure.

"Well, technically" Hot Pie begun, eyeing the blond at his side. "only Gendry will be joining the forces." Ha! I knew it! The girl's mouth curled up slightly. "It's just military school at Eastwatch for us." The large boy added, only to further infuriate Lommy.

"That's what I thought." She smirked. "You wouldn't survive a day at the Wall." Her comment made Gendry snort, amused. The young man didn't say much, but seemed to be a better listener than any boy (or girl) in this compartment.

"Oh?" Lommy glared at the girl. "And how would you know? You wouldn't stand a chance against any of us, am I right?"

"Yeah." Hot Pie agreed, mockingly staring at Arya's frail posture. "I bet you fight like a girl."

That was supposed to be an insult? The girl's smirk widened, forming a sly smile. I can assure you I do fight like a girl.

"I could have you both knocked down and squirming on the floor if I wanted to." Her tone was dead-serious. "I've been training fencing and swordplay for four years now, and martial arts even longer so." Though she didn't rise her eyes at them, the boys gaped at her; Lommy with irritation, Hot Pie in unveiled admiration.

"Swordplay?" The boy's narrow eyes simply gleamed at her curiously. Fencing and other related forms of sport weren't so common anymore, but it didn't denigrate the girl's love for these activities. She was never particularly strong, as was known to everyone, but there was nothing to excite her more than the twinge of adrenaline, provided by a good fight. At first, she thought, that training was what would make her grow strong and put an end to all her insecurities she so fiercely denied, but, on the contrary, it brought her just the opposite. Syrio Forel, her first trainer had taught her that there was much more to the art of swordplay and sparring than strength. That you need to be swift as a deer, quiet as a shadow, quick as a snake, calm as still water. And Arya Stark had had all these qualities yet to perfect. Now, after all these years she was closer to mastering them than ever before. It was a real pity her practice could not continue. At least not for now.

These boys were just that — boys. Not two men broader than doorframes, back there in King's Landing, designed to kill. She said she could have them both knocked to the ground, and she meant it.

Having found his new subject of fascination, Hot Pie began questioning the new met travel companion about every possible aspect of his (her) training, throwing back an occasional "That s so cool!" or a surprised "Really?" during their conversation. After a while even Lommy joined in, ridding himself of that petulant expression, and eventually the girl stopped regretting finding herself bound to spend the whole journey with the three. And so the train passed the Rosby station and was soon to arrive in Duskendale, but throughout all this time Gendry hasn't said a word. He just observed. Of course, Arya wouldn't let the others notice, but feeling the good-looking soldier-to-be's gaze constantly inspecting her was making her rather uncomfortable.

Could it be that he was suspecting something? Surely Gendry was smarter and more aware than his friends... If his observation was to lead him to discovering something, Arya had to put it to an end.

"Gendry, was it?" She turned her full attention to him, putting on a subtly daring expression. The boy gave her a brief nod. "What is it?"

To her great irritation, Gendry only seemed confused, and kind of... distracted. As if he weren't sitting next to the girl at all.

"You're staring, you do realize that, right?" Arya had to suppress an inner groan. Was he deaf or what. "What is it?"

This finally made Gendry lose his train of thought, which had been occupying his mind.

"Oh, I'm... sorry, it's just" His eyes narrowed at her, but Arya had the feeling that he was still kind of dazed. Like he was desperately trying to figure something out, to solve some mind bending mystery in his head. Maybe he's smoking something... "you don't look like the kind of person to be so experienced in fighting and all that. It might even seem unlikely considering your, well, appearance."

"So you think I'm lying?" She glared at him.

"No, don't get me wrong, I believe you, I'm just impressed I guess."

Well, that was unexpected. Her jaw dropped, but only slightly. She had a whole resource of snappy retorts she could throw at him for doubting her abilities, but faced with an actual compliment, she had no idea what to say. It made her begin to examine him in exchange for his previous actions. This boy with a curious, blue gaze, this complete stranger with a furious bull's head on his t-shirt was impressed with her? No, you stupid. He's impressed with Arry. He wouldn't have even spared a second of his attention on you, had he known you're a girl. But still, Gendry's opinion was one of the very few compliments she's got for someone else than her father or Jon. For a girl like Sansa this wouldn't be a big deal at all, but for Arya it was.

Once she would leave this train their paths might never cross again, but she would remember him, that's for sure. But this moment could not just stay perfect now, could it? He just had to ask that one question, with her caught relatively off-guard.

"I don't think you ever mentioned what your destination is though. What's waiting for you in the North?"

"Uhh..." It was just a casual ask, and yet it caused her thoughts to become tangled and unsure. What should she say? What could she admit without exposing herself? She shouldn't trust anybody. Arya could think up just anything, but what if she gets confused with her own explaining and ruin everything? That was too risky. They would notice.

"Arry? Are you alright?" Asked Hot Pie, detecting her sudden panic.

"I think I'll-" The disguised teen blinked a couple times, trying to brush away the uneasiness. "yeah, I think I'll go catch some fresh air."

She stood up, rather clumsily, and walked out of their compartment, grabbing a water bottle from her bag, pretending she suddenly felt sick. It was such a typical excuse, but it would have to do. The sliding door closed behind her with a quiet thud, and the girl sighed, relieved.

You stupid little girl, you should've been prepared for this.

Disguising the fearless Stark girl and shushing her down under Arry's skin was not easy. The girl's never been good at pretending, there was still so much she had to learn... Ugh, everything would be so much easier if she were a boy! The situation has, in fact, made her head ache, and so she decided, that catching some fresh air wasn't actually a bad idea.

Arya was making her way through the passage, trying to appear as inconspicuous as she could, keeping her gaze glued to the floor, (her boyish walk was not a matter of pretending, more like embracing her natural attitude) when all of a sudden, one of the door to her right burst open, and she was shoved away by not one, but two broad silhouettes.

"Watch where you're going, swab." Growled the man, whose chest violently crushed her shoulders. The only thing her eyes managed to register, before the girl stumbled against the wall, were the heavy combat boots he wore. And just as she gained back her balance, the two gorillas were nowhere to be seen. Little did Arya know how lucky she was not to stand with them face to face. One of those faces was missing a nose, the other had no tongue behind a line of pointy teeth.

Swab? A voice in her head recalled. This swab would not hesitate while piercing your gut with the pointy end of her sword. She made an offended huff while massaging her forehead. One thing she had to admit, the huge man's torso felt like carved in stone.

Though the unpleasant collision left her short hair muffled and her pride nipped at, she didn't need to go further. Here she had her window.

And actually, Arya was lucky there was no one in the passage, for no matter how fierce and quick her little limbs were, still, opening it required a great struggle. Even thinking, that someone could see her desperate attempts (failing to open a window five times in a row brings shame on you, Arya Stark! Seven Hells!) got her cheeks flush red in embarrassment. The handle just wouldn't give in! Or were the hinges too old?

Yes, it was truly a luck, that No One's seen it all. And oh, how delighted were his eyes.

And then finally (finally!), just as the girl was about to let go and walk away, cursing at the damned rust on the metal frame, the small window bobbed open with a loud crackle.

I should've demanded tickets for first class from Yoren, not this battered tin can! But then again, it was Arya Stark, born to a wealthy family, who could afford first class, not Arry. Arry would stand right there, in his baggy jeans and oversized hood, demanding nothing but a possibly safe journey. The girl sighed, resigned, and ruled her expression to go mild.

"My name is Arry." The whisper was barely audible, but audible enough for a pair of ears eager to hear.

Though Arry had to raise up on his toes to reach it, because naturally only the small, upper section could be opened, the breeze on his cheeks was more than refreshing. The girl-gone-boy took in the sights passing quickly before her eyes and let her lungs be filled with the cool wind. The sun was setting, pouring a tinge of vibrant orange at everything still within its reach. All the city traffic, tower blocks and apartment-houses were long gone, leaving only endless rows of trees in their place. The dun branches blurred, before her eyes were able to pick one, and focus at it. The train must've already passed Duskendale... It was probably going to take a while before the green landscape would thin out. If she remembered correctly, the next station was Harrenhall.

Soon. Soon it will all be over. You won't have to hide like a little mouse before your own self. You'll be safe with your brother. He'll protect you.

Jon wasn't a soldier. Not anymore. Despite his young age his watch has ended not so long ago, and has been undoubtedly an eventful one, not quite like any other. It marked the young man with many scars. The last time he found himself under attack, a crucial night it was, seven times his enemies' bullets have found their way to his flesh; all to the chest. When they transported him back to Castle Black — the main base — everyone thought it was a corpse they carried in. Except it wasn't.

Jon spent several, excruciatingly long months in a coma, and for some reason, unknown to Arya, his family never visited him at the hospital. What is more, the girl's uncontrolled grief and anger did no good to convince her parents to go to their adopted son even when Jon came back to the living (for what Arya thanked all the gods ever since). And now he was back at Winterfell, a highly decorated veteran, and still a Snow. Not a Stark. Never a Stark.

Suddenly, Arya's eyes began to water, and there was a lump in her throat. Her teeth tugged at her lip bitterly. How she longed to see Jon. See him, then wrap her arms around his neck and just stay like that forever... Ironically, it was he, not Sansa, nor Robb but Jon Snow, that became the sibling closest to her heart. When he was around, little Arya never had to feel alone.

The girl closed her eyes shut and fought to hold back the tears. I will not cry, I will not cry, I will not cry, I will not...

Oh, but she's been feeling alone for such a long time now.

The almost painful dryness in her throat brought a sudden memory to her mind, along with a hint of confusion creeping up her features. Didn't she take a bottle of water with her? Her stare dropped to her hands. She did. But where was it? It must've... It must've slipped out of her hand, when that guy with combat boots pushed her to the side...

"Boy! Lovely boy!" someone called out, and Arya spun around surprised, but on full alert. There, from the furthest seat, she caught a pair of bright, unbelievably captivating eyes staring at her intently through the opened sliding door. The man, who they belonged to, was lean and dressed poorly, the many layers of ragged clothes hiding well his charming posture. His hair, red at one side and with a white streak at the other, fell on his shoulders unkempt and dirty. And Arya's lost belonging now rested on his lap. At the first glance the girl was prone to think the stranger was homeless or so, but there was a smoothness to his features that just seemed so out of place...

Arya caught herself peering, and quickly chased away the odd feeling, furrowing her eyebrows at him. How was that she didn't see him there before? Was he watching her all the time? And wait, did he just called her a 'lovely boy'?

"Hey, that's mine!"

"Indeed, it is." The stranger smirked playfully, having drawn her interest. "A man must ask forgiveness for this despicable act." His tone was most amused and, to Arya, quite vexing. "He had a thirst."

Arya watched distrustfully from the distance as he handed her the bottle, encouraging her to come and get it. It was almost empty. The girl didn't know what to make of this... perplexing person. She also didn't know what confused her more; his actions or his way of speaking. Either way she wasn't planning to fall for whatever game he was playing. She did not move an inch.

"Keep it." She folded her arms on her chest and straightened up. Arry would not feel at disadvantage even for a second. "You should've asked nicely."

"A man also apologizes" he continued, that sly expression never leaving his face "for his friends' behavior earlier in the passage."

"Wait..." Arry tried to process the information. "These two giants are your friends?" A walking pack of surprises - that's what the owner of those irresistible eyes was. How could that be? He might be lying. But why would he lie?

Glad, that he managed to get the reaction he had been aiming for, he moved in his seat, making himself more comfortable.

"A man chooses those, whose company he finds favorable at the moment, to be his friends. A boy could do the same and make a friend right now." Why won't he quit this whole third-person situation already? Is he even sane?

"Why would I?" She spat. "I already have friends."

That wasn't exactly true. Right now, apart from Yoren, she had no one. Well, except for the three boys she's just met. You can't call someone you've just met a 'friend', right?

"Good. A boy might find himself in need of them sooner than he expects." His voice was honey, but the meaning behind his words seemed to carry a message cold as steel.

What was his deal, Arya wondered. He can't be serious, can he? He can't be dangerous, this miserably looking man... She eyed him head to toe yet again, trying to apprise the number of days he spent in these worn-out rags, and not quite realizing what uncanny picture she was a part of. Two people disguised too well for their own good, treading their paths carefully, eagerly reciting their lines. One might think it was a scene of a predator and his prey, but in reality, it was just a lost, wounded wolf cub meeting an experienced hunter. How would their situation resolve? Well, there's only one way to find out.

By now, she really should just ignore him and be on her way back to Hot Pie and Lommy and Gendry, but the stranger was a riddle she wished to solve, and a very tempting one at that.

"I don't understand. What are you implying?" She stepped inside, watching him curiously. Was the white streak in his hair natural or dyed?

"A man implies nothing, sweet boy. Nothing more, but that a boy should trust no one." Could it be that the nickname was a reward for her approach, or was she just imagining the satisfaction in his ever-present smile? The man observed her narrow frame. "You call yourself Arry." That wasn't a question, but rather a statement.

Arya gave him a brief nod, and bit her lip, embarrassed. Gods, did she really have to mumble to herself so loudly?

"This man has the honor to be Jaqen H'ghar. Once of the Free City of Lorath."

"Oh." The girl smiled knowingly. So that's where the speech pattern came from. "But that's across the sea! What are you doing here in Westeros? How long have you been traveling?" The man's introduction made Arya ease up a little. With each question she inched closer to him, and there was just something in his face... Something that screamed "Don't! Don't trust me!" but at the same time, for a reason completely unknown to her, she was certain, that of all mysterious men in the world, the one who called himself Jaqen H'ghar was the only one she could trust. Maybe he's put a spell on her, for she certainly felt entranced. Just pulled towards him by some invisible force that tangled itself around a certain spot in her rib cage and clutched to her chest, never wanting to let go. It was almost painful. Almost.

"Unfortunately, these things are not for a boy to know, nor for a man to reveal." Jaquen finally stopped piercing her grey eyes with his own and gazed through the window, seeming sad all of a sudden. Sad, for a man who never stops smiling. The sky was getting darker and darker with each passing minute. Only a beamy, reddish glow was brightening the horizon. "But do not worry, child. Both our journeys are just about to come to an end."

The train began to slow down, while the girl remained silent, trying to unriddle the words, but was never allowed to, because just then it occurred to her what it was, that made the great facade of the man's disguise crumble and fall before her eyes, revealing a mystery even greater than the previous one. It was his scent. A homeless man, or a man, who's been in travel for days if not for weeks and looked as bad as the so said Jaqen H'ghar, would smell. Undoubtedly. But now as she stood a mere step away from him, Arya didn't sense sweat or anything unpleasant in the air around him, it was just the opposite. Ginger... and cloves. As abusrd as it sounds, it was true.

And if the stranger was not who he wanted to be taken for, who was he then?

And little time did the infuriated 'child' have to speak her mind and snap at him for being the worst, lying shit in Westeros, for the train instantly came to a halt. Harrenhall was the infamous station's name.

The jolt was so abrupt, it made the girl lose her ground, and fall forward straight onto Jaqen (that lying, smirking bastard, trying to fool her like that!). He caught her, of course, before her elbow could smash his throat; an action he didn't yet realize was purposeful. His grip on her was strong.

"It's such a pity a boy doesn't want to be friends." Was all the reply the disguised man had for the anger burning within her eyes, though only on the outside. Inwardly, Arya was more than worried. What has she just gotten herself into?

Ginger and cloves... The smell was delightful though she could see the dust on his coat, the ripped sleeve on his right arm and even the mud sticking to his shoes. It made her feel queasy. Ginger and cloves... And something else. Something dry and stifling, intoxicating the air.

Jaqen watched the girl flinch and cough, trying really hard to avoid looking at him. Though a Faceless Man never stopped playing, there was no point in keeping up the act right now. She'd noticed the spot where the lie ended and the truth began.

He was still grasping her arms, when the surrounding atmosphere suddenly began to feel warmer, and then she panicked, gazing around and struggling against him. He knew it might be expected of him to hold her there, captured but alive, and wait for Rorge and Biter's return, although that was not what he was hired for in the first place. He had been paid to be sly and observant. To track down a child. But was Arya Stark a child, really? Well, there definitely were many childish aspects to her, but if one were able to see past her inconspicuous figure, which she covered with that large hood of hers quite successfully, there was just such potential in those empty eyes... A fierce little thing she was, he could see that. And the hired man knew exactly what was to happen to her. That five men, including himself, were sent to search for her and bring her to be kept in one of Tywin's properties here in Harrenhall, before escorting her back to King's Landing. And the hired man was supposed to watch the flame burning in her die along the way.

Another, sharp cough brought him back to reality.

"Now, what could that be, lovely boy?"

Arya's thoughts were running wild in her mind. Smoke. The room is permeated with smoke! But why? How? Something horrible is happening here! How could I be so stupid and believe I'll get away so easily?!

"Let go! Let go of me!" She hissed at Jaqen, pushing him away (Yoren! I need to find Yoren!) and to her great surprise, he did let go of her. But before that, he'd pulled her even closer, forcing the tussling girl to look at him.

"Run. Don't look back under any circumstances, do you hear me? Just go!"

And she did. Quick as a snake, swift as a deer, breathing in the tainted air. The disguised hitman watched his target disappear before his eyes, and did completely nothing about it. Actually, he only waited, unmoved by the silent screams reverberating from the distant passageways and opened windows. The man drank the last sip from the bottle, then twisted it and put it neatly in the small bin next to his seat. Just because certain sections of the train are polluted with a poisonous gas doesn't mean we have to act like savages, does it? And besides, the Lorathi was well prepared. He pulled out the mask that he's been keeping under that worn-out, loose coat.

It didn't take long for Jaqen's two 'friends' to storm inside the compartment; Rorge sweaty and furious, Biter having the time of his life, apparently.

"...twice this day that annoying scum's stood in my way!" Snarled the noseless one, reaching for a sack crammed under one of the seats. "I swear to all the gods, if I come across him ever again I'll shove a stick up his little ass and fuck him with it." He added, finding the two gas masks, and handing one to his tongueless friend. Biter's maniacal grin was lost to loud bursts of laughter, or rather loud throaty hisses. Then another laugh joined in, this one a mocking chuckle. Rorge stopped tampering with the sack, and turned all stiffened, as if noticing the Lorathi's presence just now.

"What's so funny?" The heavy-clothed man asked, almost accusingly. Biter's gaze also fell upon the intruder viciously.

"A man is most amused by his partners' ignorance." Jaqen didn't seem to be in any way aware of the threat the two stood for. "Because this boy happens to be a girl."

A Faceless Man would do the dirty work, without questioning himself whether it was right or wrong. He wouldn't care for the safety of somebody other than himself as long as the contract is fulfilled and he is paid adequately. A true no one would've done just that, however, most recently, this man's become Jaqen H'ghar, and that was someone, wasn't it?

Chapter Text

"Such a loneliness in this place
All the raid are out, looking for, a kid that's not to far a (night)
What is loving with no heart to guide?
What is living with no hope inside?"

- Eric Serra, 'Hey Little Angel'

The smoke was growing thicker and thicker as she made her way down the passage, breathing through the material of her sleeve. The heart pounding in her chest was like a caged little bird, desperately trying to get out. The panicked passengers were slowing her down, pushing their way through, trying to get to the closest exit. And what the people did was reasonable, but Arya didn't follow their actions 'or' the disguised man's advice. I stead of running to save her own life, she was peeking into every compartment in a great haste, searching for Yoren. What would she do without him? How would she manage to carry on on her own? How was she supposed to continue her travel? This train was not going to leave Harrenhall anytime soon, that's for sure. Maybe that was the whole point of this madness.

The girl would not forgive herself if something happened to the man who's helped her so, even though he wasn't obliged to. And the time was running out fast.

She managed to get to her own compartment expecting to find it empty, for she thought the boys were smart enough to get off the train as quickly as possible, but surprisingly, one of them was still sprawled on his seat. Or rather his corpse was. Lommy was laying there, his one leg twisted at an abnormal angle, and blood oozing from a round wound on the boy's chest soaking the whole front of his shirt. Had the Stark girl searched his gaze, she wouldn't have found any sign of life in it. Any other girl would probably tear up or give a terrified scream, but not Arya. Arya moved along, rage building up within her. Who? Who would dare to kill an innocent boy!? What wrong has he done to anyone? It was only her they were searching for!

She clenched her fists and willed her legs to move forward. The passage started to sway before her eyes. There were only a couple minutes left before her body'd give up, but she was not aware of it. Would it kill her? The girl had no time to consider that. She had to steady herself against a wall, determined not to lose her focus even for a second. He had to be here somewhere. He wouldn't get off without her, would he? Arya's gotten close to the carriage's exit, she could see clearly the highlighted sign above the crowded bodies. As far as her squinting eyes could see, there was someone in a gas mask standing in the doorway like a human dam, letting pass only one person at a time. That's why it took the passengers so long to evacuate. It was like if the man needed to examine every panicked silhouette before letting them through. For a second, a thought, that the broad man should've already got pushed away and carried with the growing tide of so many people has crossed her mind, but then, a woman standing a few feet away, who clearly didn't manage to push through the flood of coughing people, just collapsed to the ground. Dealing with such weak inrush probably wasn't a problem for a man with a gas mask.

I don't... I don't understand... She still clutched her sleeve to her open mouth, but that could not protect her. Something as devoid as cotton wool filled in her skull, the blood pounding somewhere near her temple was deafening. Arya was short, so maybe she could crawl her way through the crowd, but that would mean certain suffocation and lack of air... The girl gazed around hopelessly, when all of a sudden, among the many buckling faces, she spotted a familiar one. Gruff, aged-up features and kind eyes.

"Yoren!" She cried out, and somehow the man did hear her and his head turned, just in time to see a stout, masked figure walk up to her from behind. "Yor-!" This time the girl's call was thrust back into her mouth by a huge hand, the other was armed, aiming directly in front of her. What happened then was only a matter of brief moments, only a few heartbeats, but it felt lime an eternity. Her eyes instinctively widened, agape, but she had to squeeze them back, almost shut, to stop the nipping pain. Yoren's move was immediate. But wrong, unfortunately. Before he could make a step in Ned's daughter's direction, a loud 'bang' made Arya's insides squeeze and shuffle mercilessly.

The bullet's flight was short and precise. It went in straight through the older man's forehead and out through the back of his skull, leaving a dark, crimson ring on his crinkled skin. And Arya's seen it all, wearing a thick mask of her own, painting on her face an expression of utter shock; almost terror. After a couple seconds, Yoren disappeared from her sight, his body falling face down to the floor. The lethal scent of gunpowder hit her nostrils, an unceasing, high-pitched sound cut through her ears like a sharp sword edge. In this very moment, her spirit broke. Slowly at first, as if she was made of porcelain, the split appeared somewhere in her ice-cold, grey eyes, then spread and she was not so sure what she was anymore.

Anything but a little girl.

Her teeth dug in her attacker's flesh aggressively, and the man winced with a racy curse on his lips, the sudden jolt of pain surprising him. The grip on her was lost, and she was free to jam her elbow in his lower abdomen, not wasting a split-second of his disorientation. She was quick and slick as a snake. The sole of Arya's converse found the large guy's knee; hitting just the right spot to make him lose his balance for a while. There was a holster with another pistol fastened around his thigh, and the girl took her chances and reached for it. It seemed she was in huge, huge luck, because a second later she was gripping the gun in her small palm. The aggressor lunged forward to grasp the wisp by the hair, but the wisp, with adrenaline running through her veins and hatred beaming in her eyes, would not allow herself get caught. Her body recoiled back, but he extended arm managed to tug at the gas mask. Using all the strength she had left, she jerked it off the tall man's face.

In an instant, the disguised girl went chalky pale, the nausea hitting her again like an agitated tide. Small, narrow eyes, full, reddened cheeks and pig's snout of a nose. This was one of the two burglars. Amory Lorch.

Arya's feet seemed to move at her own accord, leading her forcefully away and into the crowd, consisting only of those who were still able to stand. She could barely see. She could barely breathe. The girl did not know how she made it through the exit. Her polluted mind had only registered Amory's yell and a pair of hands failing to confine her yet again. "No! Don't let her through, you dumb fuck! It's her!"

"And you're telling me, that you've seen the brat pass by and you let her go? Just like that?!"

Moments after Arry'd left, Rorge was looming over our Faceless Man, rage leaking from his mouth like a foul liquid. The two oval, small holes instead of a nose, to Jaqen now more transparent than ever, making him appear like a particularly ugly version of the Grim Reaper.

"A man had already fulfilled his duty. What else was he to do?" That could not lower his spirits, of course. Or the corners of his mouth.

Biter bared a row of these unsettling, pointy teeth, showing his disapproval, before putting his mask on. If Jaqen was to speak his mind, he'd admit that the gas masks were approving both of the men's looks greatly. His own was still resting laid on the other seat. Rorge glared at the dirty man, then snorted viciously under his breath, averting his covered eyes. And to think that smirking bastard was dressed this way 'not to draw any unwanted attention or suspicions'. His tactic didn't deserve even to be laughed at. This wasn't a bloody theater.

"It doesn't matter anymore. She won't last long." His voice came barely understandable. "The same goes to you, apparently."

Jaqen laughed at that, putting the mask on and watching his two unbelievably polite companions exit through the sliding door. It had taken a couple of minutes for him and his pride to realize, that he was not breathing filtered oxygen, but the intoxicating gas, and actually started to cough.

What in the seven hells... He took a sharp inhale through his mouth again, only for his assumption to be confirmed. The mask was not enough. His throat began to feel sore, and he suddenly had to blink persistently to prevent his eyes from feeling so dry. This was the moment, when the man's smirk died on his lips, and his jaws clenched tightly.

No. No, no, no, no this was not how things were supposed to go!

The first sounds of evacuating passengers reverberated through the passage. Jaqen hastily pulled off the useless piece of silicone and ripped off the torn sleeve of his disguise completely, then knotted it on his nape, having tied the material around his face. Such temporary protection was probably not going to be of help for long, but hopefully long enough.

Damn you Rorge! You devious, brainless, venal... He needed to calm down. Cursing was not in manner of a faceless one. Neither was panicking. He had got carried with the flow, and forgot that even at the biggest advantage, a faceless man was never safe. No one could ever be truly safe. Perhaps he really had lost his touch after all... But no, he would get himself out of this. He's survived worse. Much, much worse.

The man stormed outside, trying to estimate just how bad the situation was. And it was terrible. It looked like as if a terrorist attack had taken place in an extremely long, contracted steam bath. Only the occupants were fully clothed. Attempting at getting through the squirming crowd was far below his dignity and would take too much time, which he had not much, because he's been breathing the toxins in as long as his occupied mind was prone to take the gas mask's effectivity for granted. Just what had he been thinking of?! A gunshot cut through the mass coughs and wails, and it made his blood run cold. There had to be a better option. An emergency plan, that he hasn't yet acknowledged. Or at least he hoped there was.

Jaqen's eyes peered outside through the window, upwardly ajar thanks to a certain owner of a particularly weak grip, and also particularly swift moves. A quick glint of amusement ran through the Lorathi's brow at the memory of her struggle. She couldn't have opened it wider, this was as wide as it got, and effectually it wasn't of much help, when it came to clearing out an entire passage swathed in smoke. Though these inscrutable eyes had lingered on its rusty frame only for a moment, they managed to see a crowd even larger, swarming on the platform. The whole area was lit up, as it should, but the sun had already set, leaving many darkened corners there for those who would seek them.

If she, by some lucky chance, manages to get off the train, she'll have a chance to live. She might make it. Just as the man's thoughts trailed off to a subject the faceless side of him did not want to contemplate, the other side of him was genuinely surprised, for suddenly there she was, slaloming through the gathered, passive spectators and occasionally the ones that actually cared. A glimpse of this muffled mess that was her unevenly cut hair made Jaqen come to a halt, then almost press his forehead against the cold windowpane. Arry could barely keep his balance and was being dragged by another, taller figure; a startled young man with a huffing bull on his shirt. They were closely followed by an ungraciously pattering boy, desperately trying to catch up. The subject of his most eager interest was clasping a pistol in her hand. Had she been the one to fire it, moments ago? He could only assume.

She'd told him she already had friends. It appeared that she hadn't been lying, though just then he could swear she had.

An idea enlightened Jaqen's mind. A sly little idea, that might not be going to work out at all. Maybe he wouldn't have to break his way through the passengers after all.

Arya felt like she's just jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire. As soon as her small frame got lost among the many others, the girl had to crouch down to at least partly regain her senses. All the colors blurred out before her eyes and little black holes were dancing across her vision. She was lucky for her complete loss of appetite, because had she managed to force a meal into herself, it would find its way out right now. Cowered like this, Arya was practically undetectable, so the tight strings of her nerves loosened up a bit. She ordered herself to take slow, deep breaths (finally she could breathe!) and just concentrate on not passing out. Her legs felt like noodles and her arms were stiff, wooden. She directed her attention to the sounds instead, trying to catch something else than useless whines.

"Yes. Yes, at Harrenhall station. This... This smoke is everywhere. Wha-I don't know! Just do something!"

"Mum, do you think daddy can make it out?" "Of, course, sweetheart. He'll be alright."

"Where in the seven hells is security?! Has everyone gone mad?!"

"Arry! Gods, Arry, you're here!"

What? Her eyes flickered. Could it be that someone was calling her? It was Gendry. All sweaty and heated up, he'd made his way to her and was now leaning over her crouched form, extending a hand. Arya gaped at the young man in disbelief, still feeling dazed.

"Why are you still here? What happened?! Lommy..." She let herself be lifted up both by Gendry's arms and by his determined stare, noticing Hot Pie was also there, and genuinely terrified.

"It's not the time for questions. We need to get out of here. Come!" The messed up strands of his dark hair fell on his forehead as he tugged at her arm, but then stopped, eyeing her left palm.

"What's this?" If they only could, his eyes would become two fluorescent warning signs, shining bright red.

"It's not the time for questions!" The girl-still-pretending-to-be-a-boy repeated her friend's words, and despite his urge to know where did Arry get a bloody gun, Gendry had to agree. As his harsh grasp on her right wrist leaded her and Hot Pie out of the human-made maze, the oldest of the group began to think, that what the boy had told them about his abilities was a great understatement.

Arya never wanted to be a lady, and her leader definitely wasn't treating her like one. She was close to passing out, yet her legs had to keep up with Gendry's, those considerably longer than her own. Or Hot Pie's. And by the way, if you care about how the race was for this boy of surprisingly mild character, it was even worse. If anyone asked his opinion, he'd say he's never, ever been so exhausted. It was probably caused by the thrilling events of this day and the suffocating agent they'd been breathing in. Many were not lucky enough to get off the train on time.

The girl just wanted it all to end. To erase the last twenty-four hours from her life and start over. Her father was dead, her mother was dead, her brother was dead, Sansa was being held captive somewhere in King's Landing, Jon was half a continent away, having no clue about all the above, and now even Yoren was dead, her last ray of hope. Arya Stark was left with nothing. She was nothing. With no life to erase anything from. Everything seemed so miserable now. So pointless.

Oh Gods, help me. Bring me salvation. She prayed in her thoughts to the Seven and to all the other, forgotten gods. Prayed for what would have to be a true miracle.

The answer came instantly.

"Boy!" A somewhat familiar voice hit her ears, hoarse, and followed by a few coughs. "Sweet boy!"

Risking her arm being jerked off from her torso, she came to an abrupt halt, almost making Gendry fall back on his seat. Her eyes darted up to the smokey carriage, which apparently had been the one her compartment was in, for she recognized one particular pain-in-the-ass window. And in the window a familiar pair of eyes was gazing back at her. Arya's jaw dropped. Even if he was still smiling, she could not see it, through the torn, thick material wrapped around his face.

Jaqen's clenched fists banged against the glass, and he wouldn't risk saying more than "Help!".

Of all people...

"What are you doing? We can't stop now!" Gendry exclaimed, but the girl just stared, having a serious problem deciding what to do. Just how was she supposed to help him? Should she even? The man himself was a lie, so why wouldn't this be? But the Lorathi was truly choking. Had Jaqen been the bad guy here, he would have a mask. And he didn't.

"What, this?" Gendry followed her troubled stare, and he too, was puzzled with this man with weird hair. But not for longer than a second. "The police will be here soon, they'll take care of that. Come on!"

That did not convince Arya. He did try to tell you something was going on. Maybe this was what that whole ridiculous conversation was for. And even if it wasn't, does this give you the right to leave him here?!

The thought left a bitter taste on her lips. She was probably going to regret this, but her armed gun lifted up and towards Jaqen H'ghar. A whole eternity seemed to pass during just an inhale, and the girl pulled the trigger.

The glass had shattered into a thousand pieces. The rusty frame stood bare, deprived of its windowpane, and all Jaqen had to do was jump through. And Arya had really hoped it was just what he did, back on the track of her murderous chase.

"I truly do appreciate what you guys did for me, but I can't stay." Arry's voice was cracking up a little. A couple hours had passed, and now it was almost midnight. The small, traumatized group's members found themselves on a completely isolated sidewalk, in front of a hostel.

"What?" Hot Pie snapped. "No, you can't leave, Arry! Where would you go? What would you do? It's not safe!" Interesting, how in a couple hours Arya's creation - the fierce boy Arry (which Yoren had named) - has gained someone's true compassion. She was grateful, but it mattered not. There was a long way ahead of her.

"I have to agree with Hot Pie." Gendry's look was boring holes in hers, as if trying to force the thought of departing out of her mind. "Don't be ridiculous. It's just one night, or maybe two. I can pay for us. And there's a phone at the lobby, so you could call your parents. Won't you do at least that?"

Arya had to suppress a bitter scoff. They had no idea... It was most fortunate, that Gendry carried his phone and wallet shoved into his pockets instead of in his baggage. That made things a lot easier, at least the boys could have some proper sleep, and someone to pick them up the next day.

"I can't. Seriously. I wish I could tell you why... But that's one hell of a story, and not a very believable one at that. I have to go."

"You think you'll be safer out there? All on your own in a place you don't know, in the middle of a night? I'm not letting this happen."

"Gendry, you don't understand." The words came out sour, and even a bit harsh. Her friend's persistence was understandable, but it annoyed her nonetheless, and Arya has not been feeling like herself lately. The pressure of time has wrapped itself around her core, like a barbed wire. "I think you'll be safer without me. I'll only bring you more trouble. Can't you see? Even after Lommy?"

"They were searching for a girl." Hot Pie had explained to Arya earlier on. "Two men looking like they've just escaped from a mental institution. I think we all knew there was something up with them. It happened like a few minutes after you'd left, and honestly, I wish I could've gone with you, 'cause they were scary. Just scary. The one that walked in first did't have a nose, no joke. The other didn't speak at all, just hissed through his teeth. They were as sharp as if the guy was supposed to be born a shark!" The boy explained in his expressive way, gesticulating wildly. "And they would leave us, I think, but Lommy... He just wouldn't shut up! I tried to tell him that he should, but he didn't listen, and I was not going to just shush him with my hand. He'd throw some nagging comments like 'Do we look like freaking girls to you?' And that might've been fine, but then he came up with 'Just because you can't sniff, does this make you blind too?"

The noseless guy boiled up like crazy. As soon as Lommy saw a gun, he raised to his feet, but then was flung back to his seat, with... with a bullet in his chest."

Gendry said nothing, and so did Hot Pie, swaying on his feet. Perhaps finally they could see a glimpse of the truth.

"I can't stay. I'm sorry." Arya felt kind of ashamed for her pathetic urge to take the words back. Deciding she was done here, the Stark girl grimly turned away to do as she'd avowed. She was never good at goodbyes. One tantalizing moment more, and she might've changed her mind.

"Is this why you're hiding? Because you are the one they were searching for?"

She froze. Her every nerve tightened.

"What?" Arry had no need to pretend to appear shocked. Gendry's arms were folded on his chest, accusing.

"Oh, quit it, I'm not that ignorant."

"Wait, wait guys, what's going on?" Hot Pie asked, concerned, but the older boy wasn't paying him any attention.

"I'm not-"

"Just because you've fooled them doesn't mean you've fooled everyone, Arry. If that is even your name." The accuser cut in, not giving her a chance to defend herself.

"How can you be saying such things Gendry? Leave Arry alone!"

The sidewalk remained empty, but Arya gazed around nervously. Crap, you're gonna drag this out now?

"Gods, Hot Pie." The brunet rolled his eyes. "This is not Arry you're staring at. She's a girl." Hot Pie froze, as Arry had before, and then laughed straight in his friend's frustrated face.

"Ha-ha, that was good, you almost got me there man! Ha-ha-ha you can't, you can't be serious! Wait. Are you serious?"

"Yes, Hot Pie, I'm serious." He sighed, losing his patience.

"Nah, I don'y believe you."

"I am!"

"Guys, guys just stop it! Seven hells!" Someone had to interrupt them, otherwise this might be going to go on forever. "It's true! It's all true, but it changes nothing! Lommy is dead because of me, and I don't deserve your help!" The words spilled out of her with the force of a burning fire. Lies had weighted heavily on her tongue, making it harder and harder to keep her jaws clenched. No wonder they'd demand to be released in a moment like this. Arya didn't know yet, that her future was going to be overfilled with all kinds of lies.

An uncomfortable silence fell between them. Unfortunately, no words could brush off a mood like this. But actions could. Hot Pie came up to the girl, confusion still written all over his round face, and simply hugged her. The Stark girl gasped, speechless.

"Don't blame yourself, Arry. You can't. This was not all your fault." For a while, Arya just stood there, stiff as a stick in the embrace, but eventually gave in and returned the gesture.

"Arry is gone. My name is Arya. Arya Stark." She directed the explanation to Hot Pie, but was looking apologetically at Gendry, who did not join them.

"Whatever you say, Arry, whatever you say." Was the answer she got, and she just couldn't stop herself from giggling. The younger boy's persistence kind of cute. Maybe he was just tired.

The embrace broke, and Arya gently stepped away. Her mind had been made up. She was going, and nothing would stop her no matter how bad had she wished for such opportunity.

"I can handle myself, you know that. I'll be fine."

"I know." Gendry tried to sound distanced, but it clearly wasn't working out. "Good luck."

These were the last words they spoke to each other, fortunately, because neither of them was good at goodbyes.

During the next day's late afternoon Gendry's mother was there to pick up the two boys. A different railroad would have to transport them to the Wall since the yesterday's incident. Harrenhall station had been partially closed and secured for further inspection, the two found bodies making even a greater fuss than the local authorities would expect.

When the boy with bull's head on his t shirt approached the black-haired woman, she did not greet him with tears in her eyes, asking if he was okay. His mother was never essentially the caregiver type, and always treated him like the grown man he was soon to become.

She was reading a newspaper, sat behind the wheel.

"It's today's." She said simply, and headed it to her son.

'A Stark Massacre' proclaimed the head title. Gendry's jaw dropped in horror as he began to read the article, with eyes lingering on the enclosed photos.

"...three members of the Stark family, including the father and mother of three children, were brutally murdered at their home in the wealthiest city in Westeros..."

No. No, no, no. She said her name was Arya Stark.

"...the two remaining daughters, girls of fifteen and eighteen, are missing..."

Gods, help her.

Gendry didn't know what happened to her after he'd last seen her on that darkened sidewalk. He didn't see the shock in her eyes mere seconds before she got a solid hit on the back of her head and suddenly everything went black. Black like the van he unconscious body was carried into.

But Gendry didn't know about any of this.

Chapter Text

She was waking up slowly, her body inch by inch regaining its senses. First, there was this paralyzing ache in the back of her head; it was pulsating like if her aorta had clung to her nape and stayed there. All her limbs felt numb, simply exhausted, and her eyes were shut, not yet ready for the surrounding brightness. She didn't hear any sounds aside from the ones of her own breathing and the atmosphere was still. The air filling in her lungs was cold and smelled of sterility so intensive, it was almost sour.

Arya tried to recall what it was that put her in this state. She remembered the boys, yes she'd said goodbye to Gendry and Hot Pie in the dark of the night after Gendry's revelation. But what happened next? Well, she took off and then... And then... Nothing. The Stark girl really didn't know what was next. Blackness. Emptiness. Fading memory of sudden, blunt pain that lasted not longer than a single frame in this weird, fragmentary record of her stitched up memories.

thud

A sudden prod of something hard against her shinbone dragged her violently out of her daze and into the nightmare the real world's recently become.

"Wakey, wakey!" Growled someone sleazily from above. "Rise and shine you filthy little squirt. You stink."

The girl refused. She didn't want to wake up. Not yet. Nor ever. She'd rather just stay where she was, in a state somewhere between unconsciousness and reality, for ending it would mean marching back to a battlefield to fight in a war in which she was just a little girl, abandoned by all her allies. But there it was; another hit, but stronger this time, and Arya forced her grey eyes to open.

...and regretted it instantly.

A significantly ugly version of the Grim Reaper was looming above her. Rorge (whose name was yet to be revealed to her in proper time) in all his spiteful glory. And what did the girl see as her eyes managed to dart away from the two little holes, that were supposed to be a nose? Well, the place was breathtaking. As far as she could see it was a rancher house, a really luxury one. Only someone of great wealth could afford such minimalist decor with predominance of large open spaces, all in the contrasting hues of red and gold. The living room created a capacious area combined with the dining hall and kitchen, all flooded with daylight, for the accommodation's western wall was made entirely of glass. The outside consisted only of rich greens of the leaves and deep browns of tree trunks. Taking the sight in, the girl's eyes might've widened in awe, if only not a few simple details that could not be erased from this pretty picture. One: This all belonged to a man, who butchered most of the Stark family. Two: There were two gangsters sitting at the large, blood red sofa, one of them she knew to be Polliver, the other she did not recall, and a pack of marked cards splayed on the coffee table between them. Three: The third one was apparently bidding her to hurry with the head of his shoe. Four: Arya was sat on the mahogany, wooden floor (still a shade of red), with her back pressed to the grand table's leg, and her arms tied up behind it. Just now she realized, that the gun she stole from Amory and tucked it around the belt of her jeans on her way with the two boys, was now nowhere to be seen.

"Didn't you hear me? I hate to repeat myself."

He was about to strike the third time, but Arya made an attempt to lift herself up to her knees, soon realizing something. How was she supposed to stand? With her arms locked behind her back like that?

"What, is there something wrong, m'lady?" Rorge spat at her, mockery evident in his tone. Arya was quick to recognize his game, and the fact, that the time to pick her survival tactic had been cut short. There was that ever-present little voice in her head that demanded reckless behavior. It wanted her to spit back at the man's disgusting face and not let herself be mocked. No, she wanted to do so. But at the same time, would that really be the smartest thing to do? Arya didn't have many options left. She was on her own, tied up, and surrounded by cutthroats, who all probably wanted her dead.

She had no other choice but to play weak. To put their vigilance into sleep. You never know when a chance to break free comes by. Sometimes it is better to be underestimated than overestimated.

"I can't stand." She said simply, plainly, voice rid of any emotions.

Rorge laughed, sounding like a croaking frog. "Did you hear her lads? She can't stand!" His lads paid the Grim Reaper little attention, focused at their game, and enveloped by a thick coat of cigar smoke. "I'm bloody sure you could stand when you sneaked out, leaving us only your fellow half-wits to play with. Should've sat right on your little ass back then, and it all would've ended way sooner." She got that third hit eventually. She's seen it coming sooner or later anyway, so...

The girl barely winced, lifting her eyes to him again, letting her own dig right into his sharply, expressing all the hate and sense of injustice they managed to hold within. The awful laugh ceased at once, and the hovering man returned her gaze, but said nothing, then bent down to loosen the rope around her wrists.

"Move." The noseless man ordered as the frazzled, hurting all-over teenager stood up, gripping the table behind her to tight, that all her small knuckles went white.

She felt like a thin, filthy bruise on the perfect body of this place. But that's what she's always been, isn't it? Always unfitting, always wishing to be somewhere else, to be someone else. Arya always used to tell herself that she just hasn't quite become herself. That one day she'll finally feel whole and everything will click into place when she's figured out how to connect the pieces her soul seemed to be divided into, and solved the great puzzle.

But just now, it occurred to her, that maybe this is her. Maybe she was born to be incomplete. Maybe she'll die not knowing what the final piece is, or where to search for it. Plain, little, weak Arya Stark.

Oh, what is happening to you! Look around! It's this place that's filthy, not you! Don't you dare think otherwise. This will not be the end of you, no matter who you take yourself for.

Ilyn Payne

Amory Lorch

Walder

Sandor Clegane

Polliver

Joffrey Baratheon

Tywin Lannister

The names echoed inside her mind, and all her troubled thoughts resolved in one second. She would not rest until the last name is crossed out of her list with a blood trail. There was much work to be done, and if she wasn't mistaken, two of the men listed above were in her reach right now.

"I said. Move." The warning in Rorge's tone brought her thoughts back to the present. "And don't try anything, I'm tired of chasing an ugly brat."

Arya did as she was ordered, without even a scowl, trying to take in all her surroundings, as she went on, directed by her captor past the large kitchen isle, and towards one of four closed doors, threeon the right, one to the left, in a hall with a golden lion pattern embellishing its walls. What appeared odd about these doors, was that although each did have a heavy lock, none had a handle. The girl didn't have much time to consider what purpose that served, because just then, she heard the lock of another door she wasn't able to see, assumingly the front door, being opened, and more than one person come in.

"Fuckin' finally!" Called Polliver. "What took you so long?"

Someone laughed in reply and it was a laugh, that sent the creeps along Arya's spine.

"Missed us, have ya?" Lorch's gurgle filled the room, and the girl froze to turn her head and just have a good look at a man that would soon die by her hand, but the situation changed completely, when she saw the second man. Seven Hells and the Heavens above, it was no one else but Jaqen H'ghar. It felt like a hard, stinging slap on her cheek, seeing him standing tall and proud, smiling as always. Had she not taken a closer loom at him before, she might've thought this was an entirely different man. Dressed in all black, he was wearing a long coat (probably leather, but he stood to far for her to see) and heavily tinted glasses, those one wears not because it's sunny outside but to intimidate and have the mental advantage over one's interlocutor. His clothes made those red-and-white hair stand out even more, now all made up and fresh.

And at this moment, Arya Stark hated all those things. The smirk, the floor he stood on, the air he breathed in. She's made a mistake. A huge mistake.

"The fuck you lookin' at, keep walkin. You're dragging on like a bloody snail."

Cursing herself under her breath, she walked in to the bathroom, or rather was almost pushed inside by her lovely, noseless guide.

He knows I'm here. He knows, and still he did not show any sign that he does. He didn't even look in my direction, he didn't... Ugh! Son of a bitch!

It could not get any worse now, could it? Basically there wasn't a thing in this world that would not eventually turn against her, that's the impression she got. Just how was she supposed to stay determined, when even the tiniest gleam of hope had to be put out before it's started to actually burn?

She sighed, sounding both angry and hopeless. Maybe a shower would help scrub if only just one layer of that awful feeling off her body. The feeling of being betrayed.

Honestly, what were you thinking, Arya Stark. Oh, that's right. You weren't. You were too busy trying to figure out what color were his eyes. Stupid. Stupid little girl.

"Just be quick about it. I ain't got all day." Barked Rorge, and she was forced to gaze around. The bathroom was huge. Having that said, it did match the kitchen-dining-living room precisely.

The tub, right at the center of the room was round like a Jacuzzi, it's bottom made in a way that gave the impression that the water filling it in was red. Arya didn't know if she wanted to bathe in a liquid that resembled blood, so she decided to pick the shower behind a beautiful, golden folding screen. Didn't rich people just use usual shower cabins? The only sign of actual 'people' living here from time to time were a couple sanitary products standing in front of the folding screen. So that's where the smell came from. Arya could see there a bottle of bleach and a strong detergent. Did this place need cleaning recently? And what could possibly have happened that the scent was present in the whole house?

Most of the wall directly in front of the girl was taken up by a row of wash-basins and a gigantic, perfectly polished mirror. In this way, avoiding meeting her own reflection in it was simply an impossible task. And she looked just horrible. Like a boy, who decided to go camping for two weeks and has not once taken a bath during that time. The top of her head looked like a hedgehog's back. Maybe a shower was not a bad idea after all... But wait, wouldn't she have to be left alone?

Arya turned to face Rorge, glancing at him, unsure. If he was going to stand right there, leaning against the door frame, this would be a nightmare.

Rorge needed a while to get what her look meant, and not yell at her again, but when he did realize what she was all about, the man just snorted.

"Oh, please." He rolled his eyes, and continued staring blankly at the wall. "I couldn't care less for what's in your pants, now hurry up or I'll have you boiled in this tub."

Despite the discomforting circumstances, it felt really nice to be enveloped by the heat of running water and let it gather in tiny, wet drops on Arya's face. Along with sweat, that made the top of her head look like a dirty bird's nest, she got rid of all the remaining bits and pieces of Arry, that were still transparent in her appearance. There was a certain sensation of freedom the girl was given in this action, but there was not much she could do about it. She had only a bar of soap to her disposition. No towels, no sharp objects, nor anything she could make use of. There was, in fact, a window, that she would perhaps be able to reach before Rorge could get to her, but, just like the doors in the hallway, it had no handle.

Hot Pie was right. It really is a mental institution. She mused with great frustration, waiting till her skin dries up a bit. Will they wrap me up in a straitjacket? How does one get out of here?

The hallway carried the sounds of men's chatter (more than a few fanciful swearwords involved, naturally) and Arya's captor shifted impatiently in his spot.

"You done there? I ain't got more time to waste!"

The girl stepped out obediently, water still dripping from her damp hair. She had to wear the same clothes, which were not in the best condition, but the only ones she owned anyway. She stuck to just her t shirt and jeans, deciding to go barefoot too. Soaking up her shoes as well would not be the best idea.

Rorge let her out like a prisoner, pushing her froward and cursing under his breath, when she tried to steal a glance at the men gathered around the table, with piling bottles of alcohol along with other stimulants laid out before them. Whatever card game they were playing (probably some modified version of poker) seemed to be going splendidly, but the Stark gird did not give a damn about their stupid game. The only thing she wanted to achieve was to look one of them in the eye once again. The one, who gave the impression as if he was purposefully ignoring the other three, and didn't participate in their ways of spending the time.

She caught a half-glimpse of the slight glow of white in his hair (look at me you smirking devil! This is your fault too!), but not more than that. One could think Jaqen was not even aware of her presence, let alone that she was being kept hostage under the same roof. And Arya was sure she would see no more of him in a while, because right after her shower, the girl was led into one of the closed rooms. The noseless man pushed the handleless door, they were a perfect match really, and it gave in, just like that, revealing a room that to someone else might look like a five-star hotel room. To Arya it was nothing else, but a cell. Rorge sat her on the floor, or rather pushed her to the ground at the foot of a massive king-sized bed, and proceeded on tying her wrists behind her back, then the other end of the rope to the bed's leg. And so she landed in a position very similar to the one she woke up in.

"All quiet and cowering now, aren't we?" The only thing the little prisoner could think of as her jailer spoke, looming over her was that he not only looked like an asshole, was an asshole, but his breath stunk like an asshole's as well. "So much fuss about catching that lawyer's little scum of a daughter. You have no idea what deep shit you've just gotten yourself into." He finished the knot with one sharp pull, and the girl almost hissed at him.

"Don't be a whiny little brat, an' make me come back 'ere to silence you. 'Cause I will." With that, the brute left just as they came in, just pushing the door open, accompanied by the girl's intense glare, her lips pressed in a thin, hard line.

The time was passing so tantalizingly slow, that soon very passing hour, minute, second, became unbearable. Arya's been sitting like that literally all day, watching the bright glow that got inside through the broad window languidly turn orange, then pink, then red until it was gone almost entirely. During the first few hours she's been trying to loosen her binds, unsuccessfully, then for the next hour she's been thinking and figuring out the whole 'no handles' situation. The thought that in a place like this anyone could get wherever they pleased and whenever they pleased, was ridiculous. She would expect a man who wanted to keep his dirty secrets from the rest of the world, would surely invest in security and privacy, not in large windows and doors that never really close. But she'd heard the crank of the front door's lock, right? She'd have to solve this puzzle, if she intended on ever breaking free.

Then, she began counting all the little lions on the carpet under her bare feet, but eventually gave up, hitting it to 394. Around fifth hour her back was hurting so bad, she had to try and twist like a snake and shuffle her legs to ease out the itch of numbness. About seven hours passed before her body refused to carry on with this agony, and that's where she must've passed out. She hasn't eaten anything since she saw blood spilled in her family's house.

When a short, low sound awoke her, the room was dark like a dungeon. But as her tired eyes adjusted to their surrounding, Arya saw a thin, bright line. The door opened... On its own. Sounds of a conversation somewhere past the hall found their way to her ears.

"Lorch was lucky to be leaving this shithole so soon." It was a voice she didn't recognize. If she had to describe it, she'd say it belonged to a person particularly gruff.

"Lorch was lucky I was the only one to see his ugly ass kicked by a little girl." That was Polliver, if she wasn't mistaken. So he must've been the masked, human-dam at one of the train exits, back when Amory tried to capture her. Wait... Are they saying he's... left? Damn it!

"You're right about that, Polly." The other man chuckled. "She must be a real beast, that one."

"You'd be surprised."

The narrow, illuminating line widened, letting two shady silhouettes in, one notably taller and broader than the other.

"Whoa, what the fuck is this kid doing in my fuckin' room?!" His features blurred out lit up like that, but that was the taller, unfamiliar one.

"That, my friend, is this very same 'beast', as you've just named her."

"Oh, you've got to be shitting me!" Honestly, the way this man spoke was like one, continuous annoyed groan. "Why here? I've had enough of playing a nursemaid in King's Landing!"

"You're sayin' you can't handle a little girl, Clegane?" Clegane. Sandor Clegane? "She hasn't caused any problems since we brought her here." That's Sandor, bloody, Clegane! "Besides, just look at her." He took Sansa! Arya felt the wall of stillness and envy, that kept her temper tamed, crumble.

The grumpy man began to oppose, but Polliver was having none of it.

"Don't fuckin' test my patience, San. Sleep well." The shorter man walked out and the door behind him closed, making the room (cell) fade back into black.

"Cunt." Sandor gnarled quietly after him. Now it was actually easier for Arya to make out the looks of her sister's kidnapper. A cold shiver ran along her aching spine as nothing but utter consternation and disgust took over her face.

Did everybody here need to look like a freak? First, pig snouts as noses, then no noses at all, pointy teeth, red-white hair, and now this? Half of Sandor's face was covered with a layer of skin, that simply melted away. Red with crusts, and just impossible to look at for more than two seconds. Sandor did look like a dangerous man. Arya didn't even want to imagine Sansa's terror. From her hunched position at the foot of the bed, she sent him the most hateful look her face could produce. And he seemed to be looking at her too, simply disbelieving it all.

That this little scrag here escaped from the great ambush, that was yesterday's action was hard to believe to Sandor, but that she was Sansa's biological sister, that he would not believe.

"You..." Whispered the abandoned wolf cub, nestled at the ground in front of him in the coldest of northern tones. "You monster. You're gonna pay for what you did. To us. To her! You heartless son of a bitch! You're the worst shit in Westeros! You-!" The words she's been keeping in, spilled out like a spiteful river, that just happened to be directed at him.

"Okay, let's get a few things straight, kid." The man shushed her, circling the bed, and kicking his shoes off. "First, I'm not a monster, I'm only Tywin's Hound. Second, there's plenty worse than me. And last, I didn't do anything to your sister."

"Is that so?" She spat. "Is kidnapping her from her home nothing?"

He really didn't have to bother with answering and fall right into snoring slumber with her rambling along, as only a man like the Hound was able to, but the young Stark has hit the soft spot. If the accusation was relative to the truth, he'd leave it, but it wasn't, and so he couldn't. She could locate the core of her anger in any of the gang members, but not in him.

"I've done everything I could to protect her, you loudmouthed wench."

Arya felt the bed's mattress bounce with Sandor's weight, and once again tugged at the ties around her wrists.

"Liar! Protect her? Oh, I'm sure you did! By delivering her to Joffrey Baratheon like if she were his property! There's nothing that would convince me-"

"Will you just shut up and listen!?" His roar fell upon the girl like two large hands closing around her throat, and the rage boiling within her got suffocated. Somehow she didn't feel as devastated as moments ago. Those damned ropes!

"I know who you are. And if you're lookin' for a punching bag you can throw your angry little gabble at, you've found the wrong guy. I hate those fuckers, just like you."

"Bullshit." The hostage hissed, still tussling. "You're a big, sadistic scumbag!"

"I'm a dog, girl." She couldn't see his face, but her sister's abductor seemed unmoved by her attempts to offend him. "I follow orders. And I've done a lot of nasty shit, I ain't ashamed of that, but I did not. Hurt. Your sister."

"How the hell am I supposed to believe that!?"

"Well, you can ask her, when you're back in King's Landing. Ask her who's been keeping watch at her door every night, or helping her clean her wounds."

Silence fell between the two. Arya was chewing on her lower lip, doubtful.

This can't be true, this can't be true, this can't...

But she'd found not even a hint of sarcasm or mock in the Hound's tone. And there was this deep need in Arya's core. A need to know...

"Is Joffrey..." She began, sounding like a scared little mouse. "...hurting her?"

Sandor lifted himself up on his elbows, so he could at least see the back of this kid's head. She was everything that Sansa wasn't. Lacked the beauty of her sister's flowing red hair, tall graceful silhouette, and most of all her naivete. This one here was like a hurt little animal, but perhaps there was a sense of beauty in that too. But the man couldn't see it. Although he wished the rascal no harm.

"He's definitely tried. More than once. But she's getting everything she wants in return, pretty outfits and all that shit. I think he wants to marry her, that fuckin' bastard."

A giant tide of shock and hopelessness hit Arya so suddenly, she didn't even know how to react. What was worse; dying by the hand of a criminal, or living with one? The girl was too stunned to notice the sadness luring in the Hound's voice.

"She's a caged pretty bird, that sings no more. Now, stop tugging at the bed and let me fuckin' sleep."

She did. And while loud snores filled in the room, she prayed to the Gods once again.

Don't make me sit here and wait for everything I love to be destroyed. Don't leave me here. Don't leave me alone. Bring me salvation.

Ilyn Payne

Amory Lorch

Walder

Sandor Clegane

Polliver

Joffrey Baratheon

Tywin Lannister

Then the little wolf fell asleep with the names still on her lips. And the Gods listened to her prayer. This night was not yet over for Arya Stark.

Her exhausted dreams were empty, hollow and comfortless. Full of soundless echoes that reached for her with their spider-like fingers and dug deep into her brain, poisoning her thoughts. Nightmarish sensations, no more, no less. Trapped inside her own mind, for a while the girl thought they would last forever... But then someone's touch, firm and warm against her mouth, ended them.

Arya drew in a breath so abrupt, she almost choked on it. When she saw the bright irises of his eyes just mere inches from her own, she would've gasped, but his hand made her unable to. She tried to back away, startled, but her spine was already pressed against the bed frame.

"Shhh..." Jaqen hushed her like a baby, narrowing his brows mischievously. "A girl doesn't want to wake the Hound, does she?" He whispered, and it was the first sound since their previous separation, that actually 'soothed' her nerves. It did not placate her anger though.

She shook her head, with eyes wide open, since it was the only answer she was able to give. Crouching in front of her, the man still had to bend quite a bit, not to be hovering over the girl. Arya could feel the long tendrils of his red-white hair brush against her collarbone.

"A girl keeps quiet, calm as still water, so that friends can talk in secret, yes?" How did he even get here? I'm sure I would've heard him enter...

The answer was a nod this time, however Jaqen gave her a look of slight distrust and regard, before his palm left her face.

"What do you want, you creep?" She asked bitterly, her head still heavy with the weight of her dreams. "Did you sneak here to taunt me? Is that what it is?" The hostage, almost shrunk in her spot, searched for the answer in his moonlit face before he gave her one. The shadows made Jaqen's features sharper, the deep circles under his lower lids even darker. Gods, what has she done to deserve this torment? A very strange feeling made something in Arya's chest squeeze painfully as her gaze lingered on the man she hated, and she assumed it was the strange pull again. She did not like this feeling at all.

"That's not the way to greet an old friend, lovely girl." He spoke in the sweetest of tones, almost caring. It was just as if he weren't the most cunning of all her enemies here. Honestly, his riddles were the last thing she wanted to hear right now, they would only further confuse her. Just what the hell, Jaqen?! If that's even your real name.

"A friend? Are you joking?" If a malevolent scowl could be a whisper, this would be it. "You're not a friend. You're a shameless poser. You're a criminal. You're one of them! I helped you! I thought..." No, she would not finish this sentence. I thought I could trust you. Arya forced her mouth to shut, and try just not to look at him. Stupid little girl, who gets easily lured in by a pair of pretty eyes. "I should've left you there to suffocate."

"These same words a man could use against a girl. We were both not the ones we passed for. A homeless traveler becomes a criminal. A boy becomes a girl. How can this be wrong for one and right for the other?" A witty gleam ran across his features, as if he were the smartest man in the world. Arya would be more than glad to erase it once and for good, but he did have a point.

"I was always a girl. I thought you wouldn't notice. How did you know who I was anyway?"

"A man sees. A man... knows." There was just something else in his voice for that little moment of hesitation, when his hands itched to be wrapped around this crumbling little frame, but never made it there. Something more than just well-preserved smoothness and a fair dose of foreign accent, that made the small space between them suddenly feel oddly intimate, as if there were things only their minds could contain. "He also pays his debts. Now, one is owed to an imprisoned, lovely girl."

"What... What are you talking about?"

"The Many-Faced God demanded this man's life. And now, a life must be returned to him. A girl saved a man, and so the choice is hers. Speak a name, and a man will pay his due." Arya watched his lips move with consternation, not really sure what the words, that left them, meant.

"So, you're saying, that because you didn't die, someone else has to?" These same lips extinguished in a guileful smile. The Lorathi was fairly amused by her point-blank summation. He noted, each time she was troubled with something or just lost in thought, the girl involuntarily bit her lower lip.

"Just so, sweet girl."

He leaned in closer, encircling his arms around her, and felt her whole body stiffen, with each muscle tight as an instrument's string. His fingers traced their way in the dark to the rope tying her wrists, while his nose got dangerously close to her ear.

"A girl has a big decision to make." The man she was still trying to hate did not untie her, oh no. He only loosened the knots a bit, so they would not graze her skin. "But her time is short." His mouth brushed her hair as the man backed away, and then...

He just disappeared into the thick darkness, leaving an echo of a deadly vow still reverberating in Arya's ears. Her head was spinning. Just then, she realized, that for a long while her lungs seemed to have forgotten how to breathe.

Chapter Text

Stop. Arya Stark, I order you to stop thinking about it! Things like that just don't happen. Not ever. There are no magical fairy-grandmothers, there are no genies, no guardian angels, and definitely no altruistic, handsome assassins, who visit you in the dark of the night to offer their services for free. This is pure folly! You must've dreamt it all up.

That's what the imprisoned girl kept on telling herself as the memories of last night flashed before her eyes the morning after. So much has happened. She had to go through all the information once again, reconstruct them, sort, divide and put into separate imaginary boxes to know just what the hell could it all mean.

First of all, Armory Lorch, the asshole who fought all his way up to the top of her sacred kill list, had decided it would be best to retreat back to his precious contractor, the one completely obsessed with golden lions and murdering entire families, who also was on her list. In Amory's place appeared Sandor Clegane; a man Arya hasn't exactly figured out yet, but would gladly punch his messed up face, if only because of his annoying I-don't-give-a-fuck attitude. He was also still on her list. And when Arya thought about it, the word 'still' resounded in her mind as well. The Hound... He... Confused her. If what he told her was true, then Sansa'd been under his protection back in her golden cage, and it might sound alien, but in his gruff, boorish way, maybe he even cared for the red-head. It appeared so to Arya, and no matter how hard she tried, she just couldn't cast off the idea. He wouldn't waste his time and energy on fooling a little girl, she assumed, so perhaps she could trust him at that matter. As to all the rest, the girl still hated him. Did she want him dead? Yes and no.

Apart from the Hound and Arya's new friend there were three men, which she hated equally, including Polliver, the man who killed Lommy, and that other, creepy guy with pointy teeth, that never talked.

How was she supposed to choose? Could she pick only those who were available right now, or maybe... simply anyone? Would Jaq- Woah, waoh, wait a second, I told you to get rid of these thoughts! That is not possible! You were tired and hungry, probably hallucinated because of all the stress. It happens. It was a dream... Only a dream.

But when you woke up the rope wasn't tied so painfully tight around your wrists, was it? See? You can't deny it.

True, she could not deny it. But the Jaqen she knew was a performer, a pretender. So, if he had visited last night, this could be just another one of his little games. But what purpose would it serve? As far as Arya knew, she wasn't supposed to be staying here for long, then what was the point of plotting something against her? Just to mock her? It didn't seem likely. The Stark girl had no value to her captors, right? She was only a hostage.

On the other hand, if the Lorathi was true about his promise, then it was the very miracle the girl'd prayed for. So many possibilities. Such power in her little, vengeful hands. She could name Amory, or Illyn Payne, Polliver, just any of them. Hells, she could name Tywin or Joffrey! But how long does it take to kill a big fish such as Tywin Lannister? And what consequences would it bring upon her?

Arya had countless questions. All unanswered. She really must've been only half-conscious yesterday, since she hasn't bothered to ask any of them when she had the chance.

However, today was different. She's been fed this morning, and spending a lot of time doing completely nothing provided her with much unused energy she could allocate in intensive thinking. Only, after a while it became as progressive as running in circles. One moment alone with Jaqen - that's all she needed to get al least some of her uncertainties resolved, but the great problem was; she didn't get many opportunities to see the red-white haired man. Truth be told, she nearly didn't get to see him at all. The other members of the Freak Gang here probably preferred to have her kept on a leash and away from them. Like a little beastly demon.

But when a favorable moment occurred, Arya dug her tiny claws right in it, not letting it pass fruitlessly.

"No! And you know what? Fuck it!" The girl heard someone's yell through closed door. There was no doubt as to who's gotten a little angry this time. Only a hound could bark so loud. "That's right, fuck this place! Fuck the boss! And fuck you!"

Perched on the softest, red carpet, Arya could feel the wooden panels under it creak, as Sandor got nearer and nearer. Walking in, the tall man shoved the door so hard, as if intending to break its hinges, and stormed towards the small desk tucked in the corner of the room, a giant mess of offensive gestures and equally offensive mumbling. He grabbed one of his guns rested on the nightstand, and started cleaning the pistol in harsh, forceful motions, like it could be punished for whatever made him angry.

Arya let a couple minutes pass, give the Hound some time to cool down (my, was he a tempered man), frantically searching for a way to start a conversation that would lead to a direction of her choosing. With him, it might not be going to be easy, but definitely easier than with another of her enemies.

"What was the fuss about?" The hostage started off, carefully, eyes glued to the man's impossibly wide back.

"Not your damned business." He hissed through clenched teeth, his hands never ceasing to move frantically. Arya waited out a while more.

"You don't have to bother with them, you know. You won't be staying here for long..." She tried to more gently this time. "...will you?"

At first nothing changed. The sound of cloth being rubbed against metal continued, and the Stark girl cursed herself in thought, beginning to think she just made him choose to ignore her, but then it abruptly stopped. The Hound sighed.

"Tomorrow. We leave tomorrow night, if that's what you're askin'." What a surprise, not only did he answer, he played along.

But tomorrow night!? That can't be! Too soon! Way too soon.

'Her time is short' Jaqen'd said, but he did not mention just how short it was.

"King's Landing?" Her tone was just slightly terrorized.

"Aye."

"What-" A sudden lump in her throat wasn't making it easier. Tick-tock, tick-tock... "What's going to happen to me?"

"I don't know, and I don't care."

No time for playing then. It was now or never. Arya forced a dose of air in and out of her lungs, and lifted her chin up. Let's start with something easy.

"What's up with all the doors here? Why no handles? How does it work?"

Silence. He hawked, stood, grabbed his chair by the backrest and dragged it to rest vis-vis her spot on the floor, then positioned himself in it, bending forward with his elbows on his knees, narrowing his eyes at her.

"Now, why would I tell you that?" The way the chair seemed to cave in under the man's weight made him appear huge, especially from Arya's point of view, overpowering even. Her eyes lingered on the fairly 'destroyed' half of his face, the one he miserably failed at covering with the loose strands of his unkempt hair.

"Why wouldn't you? As far as I know, I'm a dead girl walking. Well, dead girl sitting. It's not like I could do anything with the information." This was some top-shelf acting on the girl's part, but Sandor didn't seem convinced. "I'm locked up here all day with no distractions whatsoever. I'm curious."

"Nah. I don't think you are." The Hound mused darkly, leaning back. "Questions like this don't just pop up from thin air. You're up to somethin', kid. I don't like it."

"If I were, why would I be asking you so openly? So you could turn down my artful escape plan?"

That made him chuckle in genuine amusement, and perhaps a hint of actual interest flashed through his furrowed brow. A huge improvement, dare she say.

"I could gag you as well, you know that?" Said Mr. Fuck-You-All without really meaning it.

"Why no handles?" Arya repeated her question, now more confident about it. It did take a while, but the answer was revealed to her, eventually.

"All the locks here are managed electrically from a separate security room. Well, all but the front door's. Like cells. It's easy to be made a prisoner, living here. Usually, they're left open during the day, but for the night every door is closed automatically, even of the rooms we sleep in."

"Who has access to this security room?"

The hound shook his head grimly. "I ain't answering that, kid." Well, of course, she shouldn't even expect him to. Okay, now it's time to get to the risky part. A sharp nib of anxiety cut through her. Arya bit her lip.

"What can you tell me about... Jaqen H'ghar?"

"Who?" For the first time she saw the annoyance imprinted on his features get replaced by confusion. I knew it wasn't really his name!

"Umm... Red-white hair, speaks in third person, always smirks..."

"Ah, this freaky son of a bitch. So that's his real name? Shit, I could've guessed I would sound weird-Wait, how the heck would you know that?" He was gazing at her like if her very existence offended reason.

"What can you tell me about him?" She only smiled.

"What could you possibly want to know?" The Hound tried to conceal it, but clearly, he was lost.

"Who is he?"

"He's a smirking bitch, but I guess you already know that." Arya rolled her eyes, pleading the gods for patience.

"How did he end up working for Tywin?" She tried again, and the man opposite her just stared, entirely taken over by disbelief, thinking Something's very wrong with this girl. I have no idea what she thinks she's doing, but she's fucking good at it. Hells! This is more entertaining than all the drudgery I've been through lately. Her eyes were so desperate for answers, he was tempted to banter her just a little longer, but abandoned the idea eventually.

"Like most of us. He was a convict, on his way straight to the darkest shithole of a prison in King's Landing, but our lord and savior Tywin Fucking-King-of-All-Kings Lannister was against the idea of wasting such a talent." Arya's informant spat mockingly.

"Talent? Why? What was he, before?"

"A big deal. One of the most expensive hitmen in both Essos and Westeros, if not the most expensive." The captive's eyes opened wider and wider with a feeling Sandor could not find a name for, and so he continued, answering the questions she had not put to words. "No one knew his identity, or the location of his hideout. Secrecy has always been the fucker's specialization, ironically, because every man from Braavos knows about him, so I assume he comes from there. They say he's taken so many false identities over the years, no one can recognize his face anymore, and so he became known as the Faceless Man or No One, which is really a pain-in-the-ass nickname when you think about it. And now Ned Stark's little daughter comes up to me, asking about this many-faced cunt, and apparently knowing his name. Ain't nothing odd about that. I must be going crazy."

"Wait..." A quick, cunning smirk danced on the girl's lips. "If what you're saying is true, how did he get caught then?"

"Good fuckin' question. I wish I knew, kid, I really do."

Amazing. Just splendid! Thought Arya in awe, slowly starting to believe Jaqen meant what he promised. Maybe sometimes miracles could happen. Maybe it was just what her miserable self deserved after all life's put her through. Maybe it came in the form of a man. Maybe.

She had yet to discover that.

Brace yourselves, suckers! Arya Stark has made a friend. But to have such power... Whose name should the girl give?

"Do you think he could kill anyone, if he wanted to?"

"Perhaps. But I doubt he would. He's picky. And he does not make contracts just with anyone. His clients tend to say that he doesn't kill just for the sake of killing. That there's some mysterious God he believes in..." The Hound trailed off for a second, as images unknown to Arya flickered somewhere in his mind, like flames. "...But that's not something I'd know much about."

A God, you say...

In silence, that followed all that's been revealed to her, the girl tried to gather the facts, arranging them like dominoes, that would lead her to finding a way to make as much use of the power the Faceless Man gave her, as possible. Considering every of the choices she could make, only brought her to thinking, she'd end up dead anyway. Killing off just one of her enemies would hardly bring something else than satisfaction. Her revenge would not be complete. Lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. her father used to say. Only these were not wolves. They were lions. She would be the happiest if she could just assassinate all of them, and get away with it.

Oh.

Maybe there was a way... An idea shone like a golden coin before her eyes. A mad, slightly dishonorable idea, but it might be worth it.

"Now, you're gonna tell me what was the point of this bloody interrogation, girl." Dead-serious and kind of annoyed, that's how he sounded, and Arya hated him just a bit less now.

She nodded when she'd caught his gaze and did just as the man ordered. Truth for the truth. He deserved it.

"Tomorrow night I'm going to leave this place. But you won't have anything to do with it. I've put you on my list, you know."

"What list?" Their places had switched, although Sandor was still confused.

"Of the people I want to kill."

The Hound opened his mouth, but no words came. There was a darkness in her eyes, a stubborn certainty. He did think of really gagging her just then, but he had no courage to do it, though he'd rather be skinned than admit that.

He left her, and she waited for the sun to burn out and give the moon it's sky. Before the night stole her consciousness away, it's not sheep she'd been counting, but tiny golden lions.

It wasn't completely dark, but dark enough to make the surroundings appear unclear, blending with the shadows. The wide room with walls of stone smelled of moisture, burned-out candles and dried-out paper. Wherever her eyes decided to lay, a pair would be staring back at her blankly. Countless, endless rows of faces put in little frames and exhibited only for her to see. No one's been here for a long time. She felt the weight of a thousand stares on her body, as if with each a new chain appeared attached to one of her limbs, making it very difficult to move or even breathe.

The girl recognized some of them. There was her father, looking uncommonly calm (Ned Stark never looked calm. Always troubled. Always.) with eyes closed, and a red thin line circling his neck, and when she realized this was where this part of him ended, she looked away hastily. Her mother was also there, and her neck had been marked as well. Arya shuffled away from her parents, but another face awaited her as she turned. Robb only seemed sad as blood oozed from the chaotic gash on his cheek. Yoren stared at her too, with his usually half squinting, now open wide nd round like the crimson bullet hole right at the center of his forehead. Arya was panting. They were everywhere. All around. No escape.

The girl was close to screaming as a young boy's face filled in her view. Lommy's glare was old and horribly pale. She buried her cheeks in her shaking palms, hopeless, helpless. Guilty.

Murderer. Selfish murderer. We are dead because of you. And what gives you the right to be still alive?

No! Leave me alone!

She ran. She ran as if her so said 'life' was at steak. She ran forward, blindly, until she bumped into something cold and firm as the very stone walls. He was stood with his back turned on her. Red hair fell to his shoulders in neatly cut curls, along with the white ones. A sigh of relief. The girl didn't notice, that a similar redness was transparent on both his hands, as though he had dipped them in it. Arya clung to him, yearning for comfort, wanting to call him by his name, but it died on her lips as soon as she saw his front. Among all these expressions around them, the one peering 'through' Arya, was simply deprived of emotion. It was not a face at all. No eyes, no nose, no mouth, no cheekbones, no chin, no eye sockets. Nothing. Blankness. Empty.

Horror enveloped her mouth like a gag, but she heard herself ask:

"Who are you?"

"No one." Was the mourning, woeful reply, though there was no mouth that would speak it.

He's been watching her for quite some time now. Long enough to see her fall asleep, and even long enough to catch a part of her conversation with the Hound. If Jaqen was to speculate about her next move, he would expect her to just throw at him the name of her choosing (Joffrey or Tywin was his guess), as she was surely completely lost in this whole situation, but no. Arya Stark didn't let her temper take over, and traced a very thoughtful, conscientious path, trying to know the ground she stood on first. And that was... Impressive, for a young girl in her situation. She's seen the butchered bodies of her dead family members mere days ago! But there is pride in her posture and strength in her gaze... She's managed to get the roughest man in this world to tell her whatever she wanted with these inconceivable qualities of hers, though she probably wasn't even aware of it.

It seemed that a lovely girl was even more noteworthy than he'd thought she was. And though Jaqen had only the ability to see it through the small screen, showing the present camera view from the room she shared with Sandor, Arya had a plan. At least that's what the Lorathi made out of her recent statement, when her list was brought up. Ah, yes, the list. He heard her chant the names before her eyelids closed, heavy with sleep. Killing all those men would be an unreachable goal for any teenage girl from Westeros, but as to Arya, Jaqen wasn't so sure anymore. She was just... something else. Somewhere deep inside, under the many masks he wore, there was a part of him that was counting on her, wishing her to take her vengeance and feast on the sweet taste of victory, as the ones that've done her harm squirm below her feet, but he shushed the thought abruptly, not letting it bloom. A shame.

No one does not have his own desires.

No one does only what must be done.

Valar Morghulis.

The man rubbed at his eyelids, reminding himself to stay concentrated. How come he's developed such fondness of this little rascal of a girl so fast? They only spoke a couple times, literally! Alright, he might've spied on her, and watched her from the other side of a flashing screen more than a couple times, and she did manage to save his life after just one talk they shared, knowing completely nothing of him, while he knew every practical piece of information there was to know about her. But still, the Faceless Man had grown accustomed to indifference, and seeing the people around him come and go, and for what seemed like a lifetime he did not feel, what he was feeling right now. How odd. He had to be careful with that. Especially after the incident with bloody Rorge and his halfwit friend. Avoiding her completely during the day definitely helped.

"No! Leave me alone!" A small speaker to his right drew the man's attention in an instant. It was her. That's impossible. The door's been closed, no one could've gotten in. The rational thought was correct. There was no one there, but a lovely girl and her much less lovely roommate. Jaqen snorted. Roommate.

But something did startle Arya, and Jaqen was eager to check what it was. He was supposed to be visiting her tonight anyway. He opened the lock to her door, using the panel set before him. In a while, a man would find out what a girl was up to, he just didn't know how much of a surprise she's planned for him.

Waking up was like being struck with an electric shock, straight against her chest. The darkness was spinning all around her as her eyes flew open, and the memory of a dream faded away. She had a sensation, that it had been something horrible she experienced, but had no idea what it was. Arya remembered nothing, but the phrase 'No One' still running around her mind like a clinking little coin in a shaking piggy bank. She hated when that happened - forgetting what you've just dreamed of. When she was smaller, she'd often think that that's how werewolves felt like waking up after a long, moonlit night out. So frustrating.

"A bad dream?" She heard someone ask from beneath the shadows, and instinctively jolted her head towards the sound, as if it was a needle stung into her. She saw no one. It's taken her a couple quick-paced heartbeats to realize that a slender, tall frame in the corner was actually not just a fancy piece of furniture, that's how still he was standing in his spot. Again, Arya had not heard him enter, and it frustrated her. She had a strong feeling that if she had, it would give her indescribable satisfaction.

But he is here, Arya, get a grip! This is the moment that will make you either keep your life or lose it.

"Why do you come to me only at night?" The girl's voice was still a bit hoarse.

"What did a girl dream of?" Jaqen asked in return, shifting against the wall. His hair were caught in the dim moonlight. It gave them a subtle silver glow. Why was he whispering again? Oooh, right. The captive somehow forgot all about her giant lodger. Luckily, the bastard slept like a log.

"Can't remember." Jaqen seemed to be considering that, but eventually just nodded. Was he trying to detect a lie there?

"Has a girl made up her mind?"

"Yes." Oh yes, she has. Her ass has been hurting from all the sitting too. Arya was in a haste to put this to an end.

"Good. Speak the name, and a man will do the rest." He remained distant and serious. So much unlike the last time... The girl cleared her throat as quietly as was possible, and willed herself to be brave.

"Aside from you, there are four other men, whose names a girl would gladly speak."

"But she cannot. Only one was promised, and only one she will have." Is that so?

"One is not enough." It came out a bit harsher than Arya intended, making the assassin's stare suddenly cold as ice. "I saved you. You were trapped inside that carriage, as I am trapped here, and I ask you to return the favor. Help me escape." She said, confident about her logic. So I can come back to have 'em all later. she did not add.

"That can't be done." He was a bit nervous, she could tell. He was hiding it well, but she heard the slight shift in his voice. But had someone asked Arya how she'd sensed it, she wouldn't know how to explain it. And her assumptions were right. It's a real pity she wasn't born with the gift of reading others' minds. She'd hear something like: Help her escape? No. She does not realize... And what would happen once I help her escape, huh? That would not be saving her, but only delaying her end, and setting it in a place and time I might not know of. No. Just send me off to kill Joffrey, please! I'll be back in no time!

"Help. Me. Escape." She tried once more. Jaqen huffed, running a hand through his hair, and finally crossed invisible wall that's been put between them, kneeling before her.

"Does a girl not realize what power she obtains? That her word could make a man across the country or even across the seas to cease at his existence?" He spoke as if admonishing a careless child. "Is that not enough? Give a man a name. Any name."

Very well. We'll have to go through it the hard way. Arya hesitated, biting her lip sullenly.

"So I can name anyone? And you'll kill them?"

"Yes, lovely girl. What's promised is promised."

"Swear it. Swear it by the Gods." The girl wondered if he perhaps would see the real cause of this demand through the thin curtain of her uncertainty, but it looked like he didn't. And sounded like he didn't."

"I swear it by the old Gods and the new. By all that one holds sacred, I swear it."

The cowering girl's lip was bleeding inwardly beneath her teeth. That was it then. She was going to try to outsmart the Faceless Man. Her throat went dry as she thought about the name. But what if it really can't be done? And you'll only turn him against you? What if he actually... does it?

"A girl can whisper to a man's ear if she dares not say it out loud. He listens." He came closer, crouching next to her, until his cheek nearly touched hers, but he did not look her in the eye. Like if this would make things easier. "Is it a Lannister? Or a Baratheon?"

"It's Jaqen H'ghar."

He was still. She was still. The room was still, the air was still and the shadows were still, as Arya waited like a wrongdoer awaits a judge's sentence.

"A girl... is joking." When Jaqen finally looked at her, his expression was dead and hard as a stone, but fear was vibrantly apparent in his gaze.

"I'm not."

"She shouldn't mock the Gods."

"I didn't mock any of the Gods. And they heard you, even your Many-Faced one. If he'd demanded your life, it might as well be taken."

"You will regret this, evil child. Unname me." The man hissed, but Arya was not afraid.

"No."

"Please."

"No! A man is free to go kill himself. There's a gun on the desk, polished and ready for him."

The Lorathi saw that it was true, and gritted his teeth.

"A girl has more courage than sense. When a man is gone, who will she turn to? She'll be left alone with her enemies, and there will be no one to help her. A girl will weep after loosing her only friend."

"You're not a friend. I would never kill a friend. And you weren't going to help me anyway." Please, just agree to play the game my way, I need this. I need you. Jaqen took a deep inhale and stood. What? No. He took one step towards the desk, then another. No, no, no, you can't be serious! Then stopped. Arya held her breath. His fists clenched, stare darted to the Hounds sleeping (how the heck was he still sleeping?!), broad frame.

"If her friend does the girl a favor of helping her flee, will he be unnamed?"

"Yes!" Dear Gods, yes! The girl thought in pure glee, then cursed herself for giving away so much emotion all in one word. She was supposed to be collected and firm in her talk, and now it all went to one of the Seven Hells. She might've as well laid out the intention of this little act in front of him. Arya saw his lips were struggling to suppress a growing smile. And it was a smile one wears in a situation so hopeless, it becomes amusing.

"Do it then." Jaqen's tone was not so cold anymore. Arya did not hesitate for a second.

"I unname you."

"Thank you." There was a pause, full of consideration on his part, then, he asked: "Is a girl ready to do all that is required for her devious plan to work? To do all a man tells her?"

"All. And more."

"Good. Tomorrow night she's going to leave this place. And this man here will have something to do with it." The Lorathi pointed at Sandor, and Arya gawked.

Wait, did he just use my own words?

Chapter Text

The plan seemed simple. Way too simple. As if for the first time the world wasn't turned completely against her. It was an all-in-one package. Perhaps it was the magic of being friends with Jaqen H'ghar, or perhaps her desire for vengeance was strong enough to finally bring her some luck 'or' none of the above were true and all would soon go to hell, the girl couldn't really tell.

When The Hound came for her, Arya put on a face made of chagrin, as if she were sure of her condemnation to failure, sitting with her back hunched anxiously, and with a small paper box in the right pocket of her jeans, which had not been there before the Lorathi's last visit.

"Come on. It's time." He did not push her nor raised his voice, just bent down and undid her ties. He was heavily armed though. It was the time indeed. As the girl watched him, she couldn't help but think. He really is a Hound. And a very hurt one too. But he wasn't born a dog, but made into a dog, that wears proudly his menacing looks, fooling everyone into believing he has no dignity, nor a care in the world, when in fact he cares. He cares too much for a dog, and he's been following orders for far too long.

"And put your shoes on. The parking lot's quite a walk from here."

Arya did so, obediently, then let herself be led out, slightly weak-legged, saying goodbye to her luxury cell. Sandor stood still before the handleless door for a second, waited for its lock to click, then opened it for the hostage. Now she knew, that as it was night, they would not go through, unless a man on his shift in the security room had allowed them. This same man was watching them right now, through one of the small screens, knowing their every step.

"This is something that perhaps the others wouldn't fall for, but the Hound will. A girl can ask away. When she and the man are in, that's when a girl must act." Jaqen had instructed her, sitting cross-legged, face-to-face with the girl. Poor Sandor. They'd been plotting all this against him, while he slept. A thought, that the assassin might've actually had something to do with it has crossed Arya's mind. But she knew better than to bring it up just then, and insisted on forcing herself to believing The Hound secretly becomes a bear in his sleep, and slips right into hibernation.

"How do you know this will work? There's plenty of water there!" Arya objected, conflicted.

"It will work, sweet girl, believe a man, it will." Jaqen gave her a devilish smile.

"I have to use the bathroom." She blurted out as they were just about to pass the right spot in the hallway, sounding as unsure and shaky as possible. "Before we set off. Please?"

"I don't think so, girl. No such thing was planned. They won't ope-" Oh but the door was already opened. A barely visible slit between the door and it's frame, but the Hound noticed it.

"Damn, our bloody master criminal has forgotten to close it, a real fuckin' genius, that one." The man's mumble was barely audible, but Arya managed to understand most of it, and fought to keep a straight face. "Alright, you go in, kid. I give you five minutes. Hurry up!"

"Could you do one little thing for me then? Arya'd asked, not quite believing the words were her own. Jaqen had given her a look that said something like: 'And what do you think I'm doing right now?' or in his case 'And what does a girl think a man is doing right now?'

"I know, I know." Had she had her arms boundless, she would've raised them defensively. "But it's only a matter of a single buttonpress for you, no more than that. And it will make things much easier for me."

The Stark girl walked into the bathroom, and Sandor stood in the doorframe, just as Rorge had done. It was relieving, that she actually didn't have a need to use the bathroom. That's when the part of her own invention kicked in. The large, heavy blind of a tall, but narrow window across the room began to roll up, one might think; on its own. A slight noise of the machinery. A crack of bolts giving in. The way out into the night was revealed.

"There should be a purple solvent bottle along with other sanitary products, the men use it when blood is spilled in the house."

"Has it been uh-used many times?"

"More than a girl could count."

"What the..?" The Hound groaned and quickly left his spot, rushing to check why in the world would such thing happen, and when he came close enough to the window, Arya grabbed the bottle of solvent, standing in the corner between the shower's folding screen and the tiled wall.

A sudden splash just behind him hit Sandor's ears. He turned around just quickly enough to see a flash of purple in shape of a bottle being put away, while Arya held a box of matches in her palm.

Combustible. The liquid was combustible.

"No. No, no, no stop it!" Two gruff, sad eyes went wide. Two young, hungry eyes went sharp. A tall frame lunged forward, but the flicker was faster. A single match, burning faintly, fell to the cold, wet, golden tiles, awakening a flood of brightness. The flames danced between a dog and a she-wolf, dividing them in an uneven circle. Arya observed her captor grunt and clench his teeth in horror, as he backed away desperately, practically melting with the wall behind his back, and fascination flashed in her face.

"What the fuck?! Why did you do that?! Fire! You evil bitch!" Sandor Clegane was terrified. It made the girl feel in charge, feel powerful. She stood straight, when he was shrinking against the wall, panting. Oh, but it seemed so logical now. His face... This man must've went through trauma, and this trauma involved nothing else but fire, but never would she expect to see him so affected by it. Paralyzed. The Hound could do something about the consuming, burning heat, but he just wouldn't.

"I did tell you about my list, remember?"

Ilyn Payne

Amory Lorch

Walder

Sandor Clegane

Polliver

Joffrey Baratheon

Tywin Lannister

She was ice among fire. The man was at her mercy. "I put you off it. You told me the truth when I needed it. You've brought me no harm, and wished me none." Sandor cursed her, but she was sure even if he didn't get the message yet, he soon would. "You said you've been helping my sister, Sansa, and I believed you." His scalp was covered in sweat, but at the mention of Joffrey's-bride-to-be's name, it turned to Arya. The flames rose higher. "Prove you're not what they think you are. Save. My. Sister." The window stood open right beside him, but it appeared the Hound had completely forgotten about it. Understanding mixed with dread on the two mismatching halves of his face. "Do it" the firestarter voiced her last line, making sure to look him in the eye "or burn in hell."

Arya turned on her heel, with a purple bottle in one hand, and a box of matches in the other. She left the rope that's been holding her grounded all this time, and fire was quick to consume it. Sandor's decision was unknown to her when she closed the handleless door behind. She would bear to look at him no more.

"A girl will be alone, and the men will scream, but she must not hesitate." Yes, she must not hesitate. "Valar Morghulis."

"Wha-what does that mean?" She'd asked as the use of an ancient-sounding phrase left Jaqen's lips like a deep murmur.

"All men must die."

A muffled lumber could be heard from behind both closed doors.

"The heck's going on?! Let me out! Let me the fuck out!" It was Polliver. Minutes ago he'd been snoring into the abyss, sleeping calm and sound, Arya was sure.

A vigorous pounding fell uopn the other door, one heavy thrust after the other, accompanied by a cacophony of hisses and gurgles. It was the one with no tongue behind the row of his pointy teeth; Biter. They knew something was coming, but it mattered not. Arya had them inprisoned and helpless, as she left a wet trail of the fetid liquid behind her, ruining the rich, soft carpet and the mahogany flooring, then spilled some more in front of the two cells. The solvent ran out just in time. She was just about to ignite it, when suddenly BANG! Something swished through the air, and she felt a sharp jolt of pain in her temple. Arya collapsed, shocked, pressing a hand to her right ear. She could only hear the frantic pounding of her heart there. It went deaf.

"I knew you'd come up with something, sadistic cunt!" Rorge. The man Arya knew only as Lommy's Killer. He stood infuriated, outside the hall, enlightened by the flames creeping up and down the bathroom's entrance. Now, he was fully a Grim Reaper, with a gun aimed at the girl, the very same pistol she'd stolen from Amory Lorch. Jaqen didn't mention one of them would be keeping watch! What the hell?!

"But you're not going anywhere! I'll skin you alive!" He roared, but before he managed to pull the trigger, a purple missile reached his forehead, cracking into a hundred little pieces. The giant lurched backward, the world splitting into fragments before his very eyes, and Arya used her opportunity to bolt upright and rush to hide behind the kitchen isle.

"Ah, fuck!" Rorge spat bright red. The girl felt something warm and sticky drip down the side of her neck. She struggled to collect her thoughts. She had to rid him of that gun, otherwise this would be just playing cat and mouse. And she would not be a mouse any longer.

Close contact. She'd have to get near to him. As long as the isle still covered her, Arya began rifling through the drawers behind her back. A knife, a chopper, a spatula, just anything! She thought desperately, digging through the cutlery. Only spoons, forks and butter knives. Useless! Bang! Another shot sent slivers darting in every direction, though she had no idea what it hit.

"No, no, no more running around! Come out!" Ha! Haven't you seen enough action movies to know that never works? A bold thought, given the circumstances, but right in time, yes!, her palms stumbled upon a knife! Not mentioning, that the girl nearly cut herself, while grabbing the sharp blade and clenching to it for dear life. The armed man was getting near. She heard his heavy steps. Where the fuck are you Jaqen?! Shut up! You don't need him! It was now or never. Arya jumped from behind the isle, the knife high up in her raised hand. Quick as a snake. To know that fear cuts deeper than swords was a very valuable lesson to be taught, because just for a second, Rorge thought it was a demon he saw lunging at him, for no little girl could hold as much fierceness in her body, and for a second he was afraid. It delayed the next rumbling bang! just enough for it to miss Arya's ribs by no more than an inch. She saw small, bloody gashes all around his head, before thrusting the pointy end of her kitchen knife in its direction. It never grazed the flesh. The aggressor caught her left wrist right in time to save his eye, but had to drop the gun to catch the other. She struggled against him with all the strength she had, but Rorge was nearly two feet taller and three times broader. Her shoe jerked up to hit him just where such a dick deserved to be kicked, but the man dodged it, twisting her hand so hard she had to drop her temporary weapon as well. Arya saw his maniacal, terrifying expression, and flames behind it, that spread as fast as rays of rising sun, reaching the wet trail she'd left for them to follow. It wasn't fast enough to save her. All air was forced out the fierce girl's lungs as her opponent's knee struck her in the gut. Once, then again. She was bent in half, and close to vomiting. First screams of the two entrapped men reached one of her ears, though her head was spinning. Muffled, distant cries, and water boiling somewhere near. Wait... boiling water?

Rorge yanked her by the hair, and threw her to the kitchen table. Her hip thudded hard against the tabletop, but she kept her balance. The large piece of furniture shook, making the bottles of alcohol clink, the empty ones fall to the side. The noseless man threw a solid punch at her, but she managed to duck, and then pull away, grasping the table's edges on her sides, and push him back with her heel.

"Argh, I'll kill you, little bitch!"

And then, suddenly, the man was thrust violently to the side, with a loud 'smack' of metal against flesh. He fell to the floor with a large red stain across his face. Jaqen H'ghar had knocked him down with a red-hot kettle. That's right. With a red-hot kettle.

"That's no way to call a young girl, don't you know that?" He spoke in his usual tone, deep and mild, but rage burned in his look as he towered over the whining Rorge, who was more than shocked to find himself in a position like this. The scattered burn just below his scalp started to swell, and he only laid there on his back, completely dazed. Jaqen wore his long coat, and was again all dressed in black, and if Arya had thought before that Lommy's Killer looked like the Grim Reaper, she'd been terribly wrong. The Lorathi has always been the only dealer of death in this house, she saw that now, frozen in her spot.

"Only the foul-mouthed insult their opponents so sleazily. Their mouths need to be washed out." Said the Faceless Man, pouring the boiling water straight into Rorge's throat. He tussled and spat, and was suddenly all red, but Jaqen was unmoved.

Arya turned away, gazing into the flames. The other two were still alive, and the flames burned high, but not high enough to lick the high ceiling. 'This is hell. That's how it looks and sounds like. The sooner the thing is done, the better.' And then an idea popped into her head, as Rorge made loud choking sounds. The girl quickly gathered as much of the still full bottles as she could carry, and at first, threw one of them (vodka) to the fiery wall. It spread out beautifully. Three bottles after, a thick coat of sweat covered the skin on her whole body. She didn't even notice as the huge room began to heat up. Her right ear was still useless and numb, though she didn't really need it to tell the sounds coming from the hall had ceased.

Polliver 

Had the name been written on a piece of paper, there would only remain a burned out hole in its place. It was a pity Arya didn't know the second man's name.

"Jaqen, we have to go!" She exclaimed, afraid of the fire herself now. To her great surprise, the girl saw the red, noseless man was still alive.

"Wait. Has this man found himself on Arya Stark's list?" Her eyes widened. How did he know? She searched an explanation in the assassins icy eyes, but saw only understanding, and... encouragment. Like if he was only giving back what had belonged to her.

"Can't have. I don't know his name."

Jaqen then gestured towards her enemy, the last one remaining in this house, stepping away from him, making space for her. Arya hesitated, but the man splayed on the floor would not dare to make even the tiniest move. His rugged hands fisted around his throat, shaking. The girl remembered the haunting image of her friend laying dead in the train compartment, and her hesitation was cut short. She came closer, grabbing the pistol he'd been forced to drop from the ground.

"What's your name?" She asked, mere steps away, but there was no reply.

"Miss Stark has asked you a question." So calm. So soothing. The sharpest of blades wrapped up in the softest satin.

"R-r-r" The man's throat must've been hurting bad. "Rorge."

"Thank you." Of course Arya had to thank him first. She like the way it rolled off her tongue. Sounding just a little bit like him. "You remember Lommy, don't you? The big mouthed boy you killed." She loomed over him, aiming at Rorge's chest. "You will share his fate."

bang! One, lethal, red hole in the man's core. 

Rorge

"Valar Morghulis." Arya whispered. He heard it, she was sure he had, but Jaqen was quick to appear next to her soundlessly, like a ghost, eyeing the side of her head in worry.

"A girl is hurt." The assassin's palm has already started climbing its way up to touch the wound, but Arya brushed it away.

"Later." She spoke sharply, just a bit too defensive. But she was just desperate to leave this flaming disaster behind, now that all men were dead. Jaqen seemed to understand, and quickly turned back to crouch next to the body, hastily going through his pockets. The corpse was undoubtedly lifeless, but the blood was warm and traveled all across the man's torso, dripping in slow, but generous floods. Jaqen's hands became painted red.

He pulled out a key from the dead man's jeans, and paced towards the front door, ordering the girl to follow, and she did so, gratefully. The heat prickled her eyes and face. The air smelled of cinders and burned flesh. She's just killed three men. Weak little Arya Stark, who never wanted to be a proper, obedient child, or a primping teen. And she did not feel even a bit heavy with guilt or regret. Justice tasted sweetly on her mouth, and she thrived on it. She also admired her new friend. Jaqen made her brave and strong again. He gave her hope.

She walked out of Hell, with Death at her side.

It was the first time Arya saw the house from outside, and it was spectacular. A giant, caged fire, that would not be set free unless the walls melted. The large windows were all bulletproof, and would not shatter, giving the girl a full view of the red melting with the gold, enlightening the trees that were crowded all around it, like people gathered to warm up near a fireplace. The forest splayed in every direction, further than Arya's eyes could see; a darkened ravel lit up by a single torch.

The girl, who was a captive no more, stood just where the thick line of trees begun, divided by a narrow path, and faced the flames.

Jaqen was there too, right next to her, however not staring ahead, but down at her profile. What was she feeling, gazing at the destruction of her own making? He did not know that, but surely she was not upset about it. The assassin tried to think, just imagine what could become of this wolf child, but he failed. This girl grew beyond any scheme in his eyes. It was impossible even to assume.

She must've felt the intensity of his thoughts or gaze, because her head turned to the side, returning it. How did fate gift such a vindictive soul with eyes so wide and innocent? The man reached for her hand, entwining it with both his own, marking her delicate skin with wet, red smears. Arya felt the sticky substance between her fingers.

"A girl should be bloody too. This is her design."

She'd never spilled anyone's blood before. The sight if it on her own hands was alien, but it did not repulse her. It fascinated her. There was always a thirst of blood running in her veins, but it took a great tragedy for her to discover it. But that was a desire one was ought to shut down, hide it, never speak of. A forbidden desire she should be punished for. However, Jaqen did no such thing. He knew what she was, and what she was not. He didn't see her as a monster, did he? He's a killer, you stupid.

"What's going to happen now?" It occurred to Arya, that now when she earned her freedom, she didn't know what to do with it. Would she have to carry on on her own? She had no one.

"What does a girl plan to do now?" He replied her with a question, his hair resembling the distant flames, his features lit up gently by a slight golden glow. The Faceless Man never let go of her palm.

"Um, " She considered her options. None seemed good enough. "I could do what I was supposed to from the very beginning, and try to find Jon." He's half the country away. "I could take my chances and try to find Sansa." You've already sent the Hound to do that. But what if he doesn't? "I could return to King's Landing to try to avenge my family." And those are the words of a fifteen-year-old, who doesn't have the slightest idea just how would she survive that. "But, I don't think... I mean I couldn't... I..." She was torn, but Jaqen didn't rush her. Just listened, putting on an inscrutable expression.

"Sandor's told me about you. About who you were before all this. To fulfill my list I'd have to be like you. I wish that was possible." The last part was barely a whisper. She didn't even mean to actually voice this wish.

Arya withdrew with a grimace of self-doubt, her gray eyes dropping, but he would not free her just yet. The girl still felt the warmth of his grip on her skin.

"If you would learn, you must travel not north, nor south, but across the Narrow Sea." Arya had to throw him a questioning look, for his face gave away nothing. "To Braavos. With me." He explained. The girl was too stunned to notice his use of the words 'you' and 'me'. Was it still No One talking? Or maybe someone else entirely? "A man could teach a girl the ways of a Faceless one." Doesn't matter. The oddity was gone as soon as it appeared.
Arya's jaw dropped.

Does he... Does he truly mean that? But how? Why? I... I want to. She thought. I really do.

What stops you, then? You've got nothing to come back to, nothing to lose. But you have much to gain.

'But that's so far away! You've never left Westeros. Not once. And... and you don't even know him that well!

Oh, come on, he's just become your partner in crime, that's closer than any friendship would ever bring you to him.

But he's dangerous!

Exactly.

Arya bit her lip. Ah, inner conflicts can really be troublesome at times.

You've been through hell, Arya Stark. It can only get better now, right? Right?

The Stark girl inched closer to the assassin, who waited for her decision in stillness. She raised her other hand, then put it on top of the both of his. She was as much a killer now as he, with both palms vibrantly red, and blood on her name. The girl closed her eyes.

Ilyn Payne

Amory Lorch

Walder

Joffrey Baratheon

Tywin Lannister

She counted the names in silence. That's how her oath went. Silent. Passionate. "Valar Morghulis." was the sealing phrase.

Jaqen smiled, and it was a smile she could easily get lost in. A truly disarming one. For a moment he had been silent too, and when he spoke, he spoke with nothing else than passion. "Valar Morghulis."

Having gone through all the good and bad aspects of her decision, Arya still had no idea why she agreed. The same went to Jaqen, who (wouldn't let it be noticed, of course) would never think he'd be abandoning his new position so fast, killing off his contractor's people, and with an apprentice at his side. Especially the last part. He always worked alone. Always. It was a huge responsibility on his part to bend the rules he's set up for himself ages ago. But leaving the girl... He hadn't even seen it as a possibility, let alone condemning her to certain death wherever it was she wanted to go. Abandoning her seemed surreal. Taking her with him seemed so as well, but an oath is an oath, and it was as real as the air, that gave life, and as flames, that took it. Even while unspoken. She had her list, and he had one too, but the Lorathi'd rather keep it to himself.

"Come, lovely girl." Their hold broke, as Arya followed her partner in crime into the dark, leaving the crackling fire behind.

"Deep inside me, I'm fading to black

I'm fading

Took an oath by the blood on my hand

Won't break it

I can taste it, the end is upon us, I swear

I'm gonna make it"

Chapter Text

"She never said nothing, there was nothing she wrote

She gone with the man

In the long black coat"

-  Bob Dylan

Her name was Arya Stark, and a couple days ago she was just a girl, living the life of an average teen. She had a loving family, a home in the wealthiest city in Westeros, she had her passions and quiet plans for the future, her own problems and frustrations, hopes and dreams. But she soon came to realize these things were just as undependable and fragile as the dust left by the burned out embers. They could warm her no more.

Her name was Arya Stark, and now she had only her list, and a hitman's promise, sealed by blood oath. The other things belonged to her only momentarily, like the feathery carpet of moss under her sneakers, the walls of twisted tree trunks, and the ceiling of branches and their leaves, rustling gently far above her head. She'd rather be a child of the forest than an apartment's hostage.

The girl's mind wandered off the wide, grassy path, as she walked alongside Jaqen H'ghar in silence. At night our brains work a bit differently than throughout the day, and so was Arya's. The senses sharpen, the nerves ease. After such a long time of sitting in one place, seeing only red and gold, hearing almost nothing at all, now she felt 'everything'. Well, apart from her right ear, to which every sound was a deadbeat, she felt alive. She was happy. No, no she wasn't 'happy' yet, but she let a bit of the happiness slip into her heart, and it was just the sweetest sensation. She did also let her eyes linger on the assassins black coat. It looked marvelous in the dim moonlight, or at least 'she' thought so. Maybe it was because 'he' was wearing it. Maybe.

Oh, Seven Hells, Arya stop it! Just that he's got good looks doesn't automatically make him a God. Don't you dare even think about worshiping Jaqen H'ghar.

Oh, but her mood was just blissful. She's played that little game, and for the first time she wasn't only a stupid pawn, but the board's queen. She mattered. Shaped her own destiny at that part, and succeeded, and got more out of it than she could ever expect. For the first time she's gotten out of her safe family circle, and was not alone. But it's not like this man was the center of her life now, oh no, there were still many uncertain areas to him, so he didn't have her absolute trust yet. Although it was so, she was capable of setting a house on fire if he told her to do so, so...

Arya went ahead, taking deep breaths of cool, a bit humid, night air, and couldn't help it, but think about their destination. From here; Harrenhal's whereabouts, to Braavos, was a long, long journey, definitely much longer than from King's Landing to Harrenhal, considering the crossing of the Narrow Sea. Arya's never set a foot abroad, so that was something she could look forward to, she hoped. Essos would be like a whole new world to her, a world, that is said to be more exotic and ancient than Westeros, with its deep-rooted history and the Free Cities, Braavos being the most exquisite of them all. When she thought about it, it did sound kind of cheesy, and a bit too much like a summer holiday trip advertisement, but even if only a part of what her imagination set for her to dream of was true, then she would be more than happy. The girl wondered how much of the world have Jaqen's eyes seen. Has he been traveling a lot, in this lethal profession of his?

"So, is it Braavos or Lorath you're from?" Asked Arya curiously. "I mean, you do talk like a Lorathi, but you're better known in Braavos, I've heard." She might've been just a little proud of her beforehand research. Just a little. Jaqen chuckled so lightly, the sound could easily pass as a delicate wind blow.

"A man does not speak of his past, sweet girl." She still saw only the back of his head, which frustrated her greatly. Be did walk fast, and her legs were not as long. "And so shouldn't a girl. It keeps the secrets not meant to be spoiled safe." Arya chewed on her lip to suppress her one-sided smirk.

"Then, you won't tell me if your name really is Jaqen H'ghar or not?"

He slowed down just then to be able to look at her as he spoke, his face still as stone.

"A man is not Jaqen H'ghar." Ouch. It did hurt, but she kind of expected it. Was there a hint of regret in his tone, or has she just imagined it? A man might not be, but who are you?

"How do I call you, then?"

"A girl may call a man however she likes." Arya pondered the idea, and came to a conclusion, that 'Smirking Devil' would be the most accurate, as there it was, the infamous expression extinguishing the line of his lips. This man will be the death of me one day. She almost sighed. Almost.

"How does a man call himself?"

Unexpectedly, the smirk disappeared.

"No One." And these were the last words that fell between them for the next half an hour of their walk. It made the girl suddenly remember something, but the image was not whole. Just a flicker of a memory, more of a sensation than anything else. She's heard the words said similarly, in a darkness, that smelled of burned-out candles. But the thought was gone before she could make something of it.

The Hound was right. It really was quite a walk. Any other, legal, property would be located near a road, even at the outskirts of town, and that, which became one huge flame, seemed to be situated in the middle of nowhere. A smart move, if one wanted it to be an undetectable hideout, but a pitiful idea when it came to getting a fire brigade to save the day. Not that anyone cared. All men were dead. At some point Arya started to wonder (she was wondering about a lot of things this night, apparently) where did Jaqen get the whole image of 'Faceless Man', for it suited him so perfectly, she would not believe it just stuck to him throughout the years. Just as she was about to ask, luckily, because it would not bring her the desired answer anyway, her round, gray eyes detected a swift change in the landscape ahead of them. The tree line gave in to a large, open space. She saw a flat, glass-like surface of deep blackness tinted green and blue, and silver moonlight reflecting in it. A giant lake. Arya's feet came to a sudden halt.

"This is... This is Gods Eye, right?" She breathed out, amazed.

"Just so. It's too dark to see the lone island, but it is there." Jaqen didn't bother to wait for her, so she paced up to keep up. What the man said was entirely true. Arya squinted her eyes and tried to make out if only a shape, but the blackness was too thick. "And there's our transport." He pointed to two vehicles near the closest gravel downhill ride; one of them a black van, the other a white pick-up.

"Which one?" Asked the girl.

"Well, we would not want to appear suspicious, would we? Someone might take a lovely girl and a man as criminals, in a car such as this, with tinted windows and other proof within." The assassin mused knowingly, cocking his head at her. They both stopped by the water to scrub off the dry blood off their hands and sweat from their faces. "Wait here." Jaqen said to her, getting up to his feet.

Arya's eyes followed him as he reached the pick-up, and began to rummage through the trunk, as if in search of something. She was told to wait, and so she waited, finding a suitable spot for herself near the brink, hugging her knees and resting her chin on top of them. The air was cold and motionless, co she didn't feel the unpleasantness of it as she would've if it was windy, and the water, which was a lake of flowing ink o her eyes, emanated warmth. Everything around smelled of life put into sleep and isolation. The little wolf got lost in the glistening dances of light crowning the smooth waves in front of her, until she heard the stones rattle under No One's steps. He positioned himself on the ground to her right, turning towards the girl intently, with a clean handkerchief and a sanitizer.

"Wait, no, no, no, there's no need-"

"A girl said later. A man considers this a perfect time."

She still hasn't dared to check how her ear was. It's not like she had many opportunities to actually see the damage, but she didn't even touch the numb area. She moved away like a scared little cat, and Jaqen's features lit up slightly with amusement. And to think this frail, startled thing here has just shot a man in the chest and burned the other two. Was the Lorathi's thought. She kept her defensive position, and he had to send her a regarding look in order to make her yield.

"Is it bad?" Arya furrowed her brows in worry. Jaqen took hold of her chin, turning it to have a close look.

"As to the ear, it's barely scratched, but there's a deep wound above it." Some of the anger, the Faceless Man showed tonight earlier on, still burned somewhere behind the ice of his irises. "A man has to clean it, unless this ruthless girl wants to get an infection." Did he really think her ruthless, or was this just a joke, she had no idea. It can be hard with someone, who constantly puts on a mask of no expression.

"Mhm... Okay." Mumbled the girl, biting her lip again. Parents tend to tell their child, that it won't hurt, and the feeling will be gone before they know it, but Jaqen was far from being her parent, and so he did not lie to her. The sting of pain was sharp, like a dozen needles piercing her injured skin, and she felt it in her skull. Her temple did hurt pretty bad before that, but now she had to clench her jaws not to jerk away from the tried to focus on something else. On the other touch. On his fingers on her chin, that kept her head in place firmly, and yet tenderly, she tried to feel only that. And surprisingly, it did help. And what's unusual, Arya noticed just what an anomaly it was. These hands, that must've killed a hundred times, these very same hands were now so precise and careful... No, now she almost did not feel the sting at all, and a couple seconds after that, the wound had been already swathed.

"There." The touch was gone, and Arya'd felt the lack of it clearly. "A girl should regain her hearing in a couple days."

Arya turned to him, surprised.

"How did you know I lost it in the first place?"

"A man knows, lovely girl." She 'heard' the man's smile in his tone. "The way a girl turns her head when he speaks, the way she glances to the side, when she thinks there was something to be heard there, which she didn't..."

"I didn't do that!"

"How would a man know if she didn't?" Arya opened her mouth to say something, but unluckily, Jaqen did have a point. She just huffed and pinned her gaze to the dirty heads of her shoes.

"Thanks." It sounded as if she truly regretted, that it was proper to thank him.

"Ah, lovely girl, don't be mad." Yes, it was ridiculous to get mad now, but this was just vexing to her.

"Is there anything you don't know?"

"A man is no clairvoyant, but he observes." Was the only answer Arya got, and it didn't make her any less annoyed. She gazed into the distance. It seemed that nothing could be hidden from Jaqen H'ghar, but apparently 'everything' was trying to hide from her, including the island. The Isle of Faces, as wondrous as it surely was, Arya could not discern it no matter for how long she stared.

"Oh, I wish I could be here during the day. I can't see a thing in this darkness." She mumbled, fumbling with the small inshore rocks, with her shoes. The man eyed her, amused, then turned towards the endless blackness as well.

"A girl has yet to learn, that darkness can be as sweet as light to her eyes. Sweeter even." He told her he was no clairvoyant, but he surely did speak like one.

"How so?"

"When she looks ahead, what does she see?" What a dumb question. What's he all about again?

"Nothing."

"Is a girl sure?"

"Well... yes. I see completely nothing."

"Then her vision of the Isle of Faces can be more extraordinary than a man's ever will."

"Wait, what?" Arya gulped at his profile, thinking: Is he joking or something? I don't get it.

"A girl can see the trees' crowns so rich, their leaves barely let a ray of sunlight through. Fingers of their roots reaching and twisting above the ground, curling around the paths unused for so many years. She can see each and every face carved all the crinkled thee trunks, and shape them with features of her own choosing. It can be truly magical to a girl, as an image she sees with the eyes of her imagination. A man can't do the same, because his own imagination is limited. He's already seen the sight from the very same spot." When Jaqen finished his monologue, the girl found herself speechless. For a second she did see it all. The fairytale-like Isle of Faces, much more resembling a legendary land than a usual landscape element. All the faces, some deep in thought, some gleeful, some hurt or angry, and some of blank expressions. Wide-mouthed and empty-eyed. Young and beautiful, old and grim. Arya could just walk along the grassy paths, only observing, and listening. She almost felt the peaceful desolation, the stillness in the air...

"Come. We shouldn't be staying here so long." And then the vision sank back into the night, light and elusive like a pattern on butterfly's wings. The assassin, whose presence was completely forgotten by Arya for this brief while, stood up, and headed towards the white vehicle. Arya had to blink forcefully a good couple times to regain her focus, but then followed the Faceless Man. Her steps were somewhat lighter now, and she couldn't recall what it was that frustrated her moments ago.

Trying to make herself possibly comfortable at the passenger seat, Arya expected the road to be a never-ending one. But just as her eyelids began to feel really heavy, and the car's cockpit started to blur out along with the road ahead, everything suddenly stopped. The engine was shut down.

"Wha-what is it?" She asked, rubbing her eyes with the back of her palm.

"A man can't have a lovely girl carry on in this state. Don't fall asleep yet, it will only take a while." She heard the side door being opened and shut, then after a several muffled steps, Jaqen opened her own to be greeted by her half-conscious gaze.

"Where are we?" She asked him, narrowing her eyes like a drunk.

"Far enough." The assassin said simply, helping her out of the pick-up. Not only did she speak like drunk, but also moved around like one. You can't blame her for that, Jaqen, this girl's been up for three nights in a row. And so he let his arm support her weak posture, and he could tell she really needed it, and forced himself to shush the warning sign's noise resounding all around his brain. Did he just call himself by the name he was supposed to abandon as fast as possible?

'How does a man call himself?'

The Lorathi felt sharp shivers running along Arya's spine, and now when he thought about it, the weather really was a bit chilly. Not a problem for him, of course, in that leather coat of his. She only had her worn-out t-shirt on. Well, it's not exactly her t-shirt. It came as so natural to him, that he didn't even think about what he was doing, as the thick piece of clothing slipped down his shoulders, and landed wrapping around hers. The girl seemed to sober up just then, straightening up a bit, and sending him a look of disbelief. Unfortunately, Jaqen was not eager to start a conversation about it, especially here, at the center of a (not the neatest one, really) parking lot.

The yellow neon sign shone above their heads, as if chiming a crescendo was a cheap, roadside hostel, no more than that, but these places tend to be the safest ones when it comes to minimizing the possibility of being tracked down. Although Jaqen didn't expect anyone to be coming after them any time soon. It's not like anyone has been alarmed about their fiery sabotage.

When the duo walked in, Arya enfolded herself in the coat tightly, as it brushed the floor with her every step.

"Can I help you?" A very displeased, blonde woman welcomed them. Her hair looked like a sheaf of hay, and she had a tag on her shirt, that said: Amabel.

"A man would like a double room, with separate beds and a bathroom." Though his tone was most polite, the receptionist eyed the man in front of her as if he was a straight-up freak. Her shadeless eyes might've lingered on his hair a while longer than was proper, but then she noticed the teen next to him, and one of her overly made-up eyebrows quirked. She was probably trying to guess if it was a boy or a girl, when Jaqen cleared his throat intently.

"Can I have your ID?" She turned to the Faceless Man, appearing entirely indifferent, it would seem, and he handed her the card so fast, Arya didn't manage to even catch a glimpse of the name. A pity, because the girl really wanted to see it. For some reason she was more than certain, it did not say 'Jaqen H'ghar'. Amabel accepted it, not bothering to check it twice, and kept shooting brief glances between the two, though she clearly wanted to give the impression, that she couldn't care less.

"And how long will you be staying?" She asked, searching for the right key for the two.

"Just one night." Jaqen smiled disarmingly at the woman, as he passed her the cash, and took the key straight from her hand. Arya didn't think Amabel actually counted the money, because her eyes never left the man's silhouette. Even when he turned his back to her, and leaded Arya out of the temporary reception, she'd been staring. Am I missing something? What a nosy woman. Didn't anyone teach her it's rude to stare like that? Thought the girl, while entering the room hall. The assassin was of the same mind exactly.

Their room, of course, was not even one third as fancy as the gang's property, but honestly, who cared? Though it wasn't perfectly clean, or fresh, focusing on that was the last thing the Stark girl would do. As soon as she saw a bed, she rushed towards it on swaying feet. The mattress' springs squeaked painfully under her weight, when she threw herself onto it as if it were the softest bed in Westeros.

"Ah, praise the Gods, I needed this." She groaned into her pillow, delighted. She'd been forced to spent days with her back pressed to the foot of the most luxury bed, not allowed to do any more than that, for far too long. The girl didn't care even to kick off her shoes, and 'that' was freedom, 'that' was comfort. She even forgot all about the man who made the effort to stop off for the night, so she could rest like a normal person, and not with her forehead bumping against the car's windowpane. But when her sneakers' soles landed on the sheets, Arya couldn't help thinking; Oh, Sansa wouldn't like it. She'd say I behave like a little boy. and that hurt. Not as much as other things have, not so long ago, but it hurt her to the point where any sign joy disappeared from her face, and she had to tighten the black material around herself like a safety cocoon. It was warm, like a coverlet, and that helped, if only just a little. Ginger and cloves.

Arya tried to force the flooding memories and, what's worse, worries out of her head, You're okay now. And Sansa will be okay too, when The Hound gets to her. but her attempts were not pacifying enough. You did everything you could. You're just a girl, and it was not easy for you either. Keep focusing on what you still have, on what you have to learn. She heard Jaqen's footfall pacing through the room from time to time, and she was not sure what he was doing, but suddenly his presence alone became calming to the girl. And so she lay there, nestled in the sheets and her new black coverlet, like a scrawny, northern bird, listening in stillness to the sounds he made.

Jaqen just had to search the place, an acquired habit of his. First, every cupboard and shelf, then all the corners where the ceiling connected with the gray walls (they'd been white, but that was many visitors ago), including the bathroom. And when the Faceless Man was satisfied with finding nothing suspicious, he rolled down all the blinds, and finally headed to his own bed, that stood against the wall opposite from Arya's spot. He glanced in her direction, and just had to smile, satisfied, seeing her wrapped up in the black and white covers with eyes closed. There. I could spend six hours talking to that pragmatic receptionist just to see this. He thought, taking off his trousers. But she could at least take off her shoes.

Just as the man was supposed to turn off the lamp at the head of his bed, he heard a small voice speak up behind him.

"Jaqen?" He froze. Jaqen. He should tell her, this was not correct, that he expected her never to use that name ever again. It'd been necessary before, but now it was useless. He was no one.

"Yes, lovely girl?"

"I..." A long pause. A really long pause. And the Lorathi had no idea why all of a sudden he felt fragile like a dry leaf, mere seconds before the wind makes it fall. Though he didn't see her face he was convinced she was biting her lip. "Thank you." So simple. Just two words, but said by her; a motherless, fatherless girl, seeming so alone now, so helpless and small, it was... it was... He wanted to punch the wall, he wanted to scream, something inside of him suddenly became a caged, tussling animal, and he wanted someone to grab him by the arms and shake it out of his body. It awoke all sorts of different emotions in him, but they were not in the manner of a faceless one, and so Jaqen remained silent, though the pain it caused was almost physical.

When the feeling had passed, and he laid in his bed, listening to the girl's deep breaths, a certain bitterness took over the hitman. But it was not only bitter, something else was there too, and it was warm and soothing. The two shaky, uncertain words kept echoing in his mind, like a chant, or a prayer.

Thank you, thank, you, thank you, thank you...

When was the last time someone'd thanked him? He didn't recall. Something was happening. Something he was obviously not prepared for at all. He should have prevented it from happening, but now it was too late. And, what's more than worrisome, the man didn't feel bad about it.

You'll set off tomorrow, and everything will be back to how it ought to. Back in Braavos everything will click right int its proper place, you've got your own duties here, many customers you've kept waiting long enough. You will be just as you were before. But oh, that was just a bunch of lies. Nothing would be the same back in Braavos. This was a point of no return, and Jaqen could not solve this situation with the dagger's blade or a bullet to the heart, as he did at most times.

He shut his eyes, and tried to bury all the thoughts in his pillow.

Ah, Jaqen... What in the Seven Hells are you doing?

Chapter Text

The breeze was a mix of prickling salty scent and gentle freshness as Arya exposed her face to it. She felt the touch of freedom sweeping past her cheeks and a certain dose of new hope awakening behind her eyes. Her body was swaying, though her feet stood on a firm floor, and her palms closed around the edge of a wooden barrier at the level of her waist, which separated the girl from the open. She was standing at the very beak of the Titan's Daughter; its purple sails rumbling somewhere up behind her back, the sound mild in comparison to the blows of wind in her ears. Yes, both her ears were functioning properly now, thanks to the Faceless Man. The ship itself was grand, and the deck quite impressive, considering it was not a usual boat or ferry, but a merchant's ship. It was Arya's first time traveling like this, and as odd as this way of transport seemed to her, how she and Jaqen came to be ones of the very few passengers on and below the deck was even more interesting.

"That one. Does a girl see?" The Lorathi'd asked her, pointing to a certain wealthy man, while the two were still in Maidenpool harbor. They abandoned the white pick-up as soon as they arrived, and Arya expected they would be traveling along with other tourists, who wanted to see Braavos of the Hundred Isles, but apparently she was wrong. There were no wide-eyed, excited people awaiting their boarding, only fishers, mariners, merchants, and trenchant businessmen, who knew exactly what they wanted and wore resolute expressions. It made Arya feel like a four-year-old all over again. She felt unfitting and small. She had no idea what her business here was, while all the busy men carried on with their work, like if all of them were parts of some clockwork mechanism.

The man Jaqen encouraged the girl to examine was short, probably in his forties, of skin like honey and hair in the deepest shade of ebony. He was one of those rich ones, Arya could tell. And the Rich Guy was standing in his navy blue (so dark, one might mistake it for black) suit, and flipping through some papers another man, surely a member of his deck crew, handed him.

"What about him?" She asked, voice brought down to an almost-whisper.

"That man's a Braavosi." Jaqen stated, as if this would make everything clear.

"How can you tell? Do you know him?" It didn't.

"No, of course not. But that man's ship's sails are purple. It's the most common braavosi trademark. Merchants and salesmen of the famous Free City are known worldwide, so it makes them easier to spot."

"Oh." Arya tried to sound enlightened, but she still had no idea what that had to do with them. "And what is our deal with him?"

"Well, it depends." Just as the words left the assassins lips, the Stark girl knew he was up to something. She just felt it in her gut, when he stood beside her like that, in his tinted glasses, taking a nonchalant pose. "A man could easily get a pass to one-way journey on this ship, for himself and for a girl... But only if her answer to his question satisfies him."

"And what question would that be?" Arya asked, not daring to gaze up at him. Oh, she knew exactly what it was.

"Can a man get his coat back?"

The girl bit her lip, not to let even the slightest curl of her mouth betray her. It was ridiculous, this little stubborn idea of hers, and she was perfectly aware of it. There was probably no rational explanation as to why she kept on stealing the piece of garment, but that's just what she did. What she'd been telling herself was that her motif was simply the cold, or the lack of any other 'more presentable' clothes at her part, which she'd rather just cover underneath the thick material. But to tell the truth, she has grown attached to it since the memorable night, when it had the honor of becoming her safety cocoon. She felt safer in it. More secure. But okay, it would be unfair not to admit, that teasing Jaqen about it was the purest form of joy. And he wouldn't just forcefully wrench it from her, which only made Arya's sympathy for the mysterious 'No One' grow. And why would he even need it? He was wearing a long-sleeved shirt underneath, so there's no way he was cold. Maybe she should give it back already, but she wouldn't have been Arya Stark if she had.

"Not ever." Was her answer. Was it satisfactory? Ha! What do you think? It most certainly was an expected one.

"Wrong, little rascal." Hey! What happened to 'lovely girl'? "So, a girl will have to do it herself then."

"But... You mean the Rich Guy?" The confused she-wolf voiced her uncertainty.

"Just so." A winning smile raised up on Jaqens face, as Arya's went down in parallel.

"How? I'm just a girl, I don't think he'll-"

"Not 'just a girl', but a girl who is to become faceless soon. Stand straight. Be confident. A girl knows the words." His tone was directing, but also firm and certain. Something told her, that even if she'd given the bloody coat back, he would make her do that anyway. But she would not even consider such an option, because again, she was Arya Stark. No retreating. She didn't see his eyes behind the black, mirror-like glasses as she started walking down the harbor, towards the wealthy man in a navy blue suit.

Stand straight. Be confident. A girl knows the words.

Did she, though? Did she know the words? What does one say to make their way onto a salesman's ship?

Arya approached the man, and her steps were firm, though she was still not sure if this would work. The girl had to make her way shifting past the porters carrying large, wooden boxes onto the Titan's Daughter. As she got closer and began to see the merchant's features more clearly, she was surprised by the mildness of them, though he was narrowing his small eyes on the papers in his hands sternly.

"Excuse me, sir." The older man's eyes darted to her in the manner of a man, who doesn't wish to be disturbed, but then his eyebrows quirked, surprised by the appearance of the girl in front of him. Everything about her was wrong. Her hair was wrong; not proper for a young lady like her. The size of her eyes was wrong; way too big for a heart-shaped face so small, and above all — her clothing was wrong. And yet, she was standing there, asking: "Who does this ship belong to?"

"The very man standing before you." He answered, not really paying her much attention. He might've been kind-featured, but he was busy nonetheless. The ship was to set off in half an hour.

"And where does it sail?" Her tone was slightly more demanding now. Seeing the older man's behavior did make her feel even littler, but it determined her as well. I will not fail at this. I'll threaten the man if I have to.

"Home." The curt answer was followed by a few commands spoken in a language Arya didn't know which he directed at the two porters, who struggled with a particularly big load.

"Where is 'home'?" The foreigner was clearly trying to ignore her, but Arya was persistent. "Where?"

"Why would you ask, girl?" The man in a suit sighed. "Where are your parents?"

The girl clenched her teeth, and her stare was sharp all of a sudden. The braavosi really needn't ask her that. He had no idea.

"I want you to take me and my friend to Braavos with you." She spoke as if she was the grown-up here. Voiced by someone else, the words might sound rude, but in her mouth they were an order of a northern princess to her servant. And that could not be considered rude, could it? The man gawked at her for a second, not quite understanding the position he's just found himself in, then glanced around.

"What friend?" Not even a glimpse of white-red hair could be seen among the crowd. Jaqen'd vanished into thin air, probably to appear in just the right moment, as he always did.

"Doesn't matter. We'll need a cabin."

"What are you talking about, child?" He simply did not believe the blunt certainty the short girl spoke with. Who in the Seven Hells was she? "I will agree on no such thing, only the crew travels where the ship takes them, and no stowaway passengers are welcome." The man turned on his heel, and as she saw the dark curls on the back of his head, Arya thought; Oh, no sir, I won't let you just walk away like that.

"...every man from Braavos knows about him, so I assume he comes from there." The Hound's words echoed quietly in her mind. Well, if the so said Faceless Man is so 'famous' abroad, then maybe she could make some use of it. But it would definitely be better if she would keep the straight-forward comments to herself. Think. Think! What could you say so that this man gets the message? And then she was enlightened.

A girl knows the words.

"Valar Morghulis." The faceless-girl-to-be said just loud enough for the phrase to hit the Rich Guy's ears. And then suddenly he came to a halt, letting a couple heartbeats pass before he finally faced her again. It was his turn to approach the girl, who seemed taller and way less miserable to him now, as the braavosi walked towards her with a look of utter shock changing into a mix of sympathy and bewilderment by the time they stood face-to-face.

"Valar dohaeris." He greeted her as one worthy of all attention in the world, with a respectful bow of his head. The dark curls swayed like little springs. Arya didn't know the meaning of his reply, but she understood all she needed to understand, and it seemed ridiculous to her. Just how the behavior of others can change, when you use the right ways of persuasion. "Of course, you shall have a cabin." She wanted to laugh straight into his kind face, and had she done just that, it would not be a mocking laugh but a genuine one, however, the girl felt someone's shadow brush her ancles, and so she remained collected. It was No One, showing his approval.

And in this way, Arya Stark found herself on deck of the Titan's Daughter, with the City of the Hundred Isles slowly rising from within the Shivering Sea right before her eyes. And Jaqen was there too, just as eager to come back as she was to arrive, though he did not show it. The girl struggled to keep her unevenly cut hair out of her eyes as the wind made the brown strands stick out in every direction. She saw the two lines of mountains and the great statue standing infrangible over the gap in between. Was it really made of bronze and stone? It must've been hundreds of years old! Unbelievable. Of course, she's read about the monument fortress in history books, but that could not be compared to the real experience. Now that she thought about it, no wonder Braavos remained a Free City until now, with such a powerful way of defense. The question was; did it still work? Like id did back when it was built? Was it only of historical and visual value, or...?

But there was not much time to consider that. The ship sailed underneath the Titan, and into the famous lagoon, where countless other wonders awaited our little wolf. There wasn't a man in Westeros, that hasn't heard about the city, where people of many cultures and faiths have found their home. It was known for its diversity, both ethical and architectural, the buildings packed tight and peeking over one another, from ages old, but beautifully renovated tenement houses to grand, medieval temples, to modern skyscrapers, probably the biggest of them being the Iron Bank. Arya saw small fishing boats, ships alike the one which carried her across the sea, luxury yachts and large ferries as the Daughter sailed past them, and into the more industrialized part of the Purple Harbor. It was a port for braavosi ships only, and those didn't need to submit to inspection before mooring in. It was a sly little idea of Jaqen's, the girl had to admit now that she was aware of it. Secrecy really was specialty of his.

Arya struggled to take in the sight of it all, darting her eyes from one direction to another with a dreamy smile glued to her lips. Now she was happy. So happy, she could dance and sing into the abyss. No one will find me here! Never, ever! I'm free. It was a true miracle she didn't start jumping excitedly in place from all this wonder. A few days ago, she wouldn't believe her body could contain such amounts of positive emotions and pure awe.

"A man thinks this is the very first time he sees a lovely girl smile." Jaqen mused as they savored their last minutes on the deck. She had no reply for his notice, but only looked up at his face with so much joy and 'warmth' that there was nothing left to add. For a second, the assassins mind went completely blank, suddenly he forgot all about what he was going to say then. He was taken aback by the girl's expression to the point, where everything else simply faded into nothingness. Nothing else mattered, but only for a while. After a few seconds the world gained its colors back as her eyes left his to continue their travel along the roofs and windows of buildings ahead, and the Lorathi was able to think straight again. What was that? That should not have happened. You can't allow that be, ever again. (Oh, but) No! (she looked) don't you dare (so beautiful) think of it like that! (when she smiled...)

It was a true rarity; seeing the afternoon sun shining above the lagoon, bright and undisturbed, but that's just how Arya was seeing it as the ship reached the port, and when she stepped off the Daughter's deck, receiving another respectful bow from the wealthy merchant, who was trying really hard to appear as if he wasn't throwing inquisitive little peeks at her dark-clothed, coatless companion, the sky remained bright and clear. The girl walked alongside the Faceless Man, dazed, like a child in a candy store. The Purple Harbor was particularly busy, and Jaqen had to keep the girl close, not to lose her somewhere in the crowd. Arya' s never seen so many smiling people pass before her eyes, but when they got to the nearest market, she found out just how wrong she'd been. It was a vibrant pattern of colors, sounds and scents. Stalls big and small, rich and poor were splayed out wherever she looked, creating a great labyrinth of all kinds of goods. An old lady, with eyes covered up entirely with an ornamented band selling clams and oysters to the right, an almost six feet tall man of skin as dark coffee beans, offering the rarest antiques, mirrors with golden frames, cutlery shining silver, breathtaking vintage gowns, then a tanned, handsome gentleman selling exclusive Dornish wine and other liquors... It was as if the time had stopped, enclosing the surroundings in a medieval bubble, and the experience was simply out of this world. And to think the Stark girl spent all her life unaware, that such places still existed. Arya kept on forgetting that her left foot needed to move forward in front of the right in order to move forward on the stone paving, trying to catch a glimpse of everything. Obviously, that was not possible, plus it was slowing the duo down, and Jaqen wasn't happy about it at all. He was eager to get them both to reach their actual destination as soon as possible, though he could't quite tell why that was. The sun wouldn't set for hours, and the lovely girl clearly fancied the place, so why couldn't he keep calm? They were safe now, weren't they? No. The one without a face is never safe, and now he also has others to care about. Maybe it was all the people, all the sounds one could easily get lost in. Maybe he was afraid that because of all the distractions, he'd lose the sight of her, and in the blink of an eye she will disappear into thin air, not to be ever found again.

And just then, just in the exact moment the thought crossed the Lorathi's mind, it struck him that in fact that was exactly what happened. He spun around, not percisely calm as still water, but more like a whirlpool, panic rising within him like a tsunami ready to strike. The man felt every nerve in his body tighten, as his sharp eyes searched for a familiar face in the crowd. No! No, Arya, why... how... And then he saw a glint of black leather from in between the passersby's colorful outfits, not more than fifteen feet away. A relieved sigh so deep left his mouth, one might think the man was going to faint. It's allright. She's alright. Get a grip, Jaqen. The girl stood near one of the less impressive stalls, belonging to a westerosi lady of hair as white as snow. The man rushed towards the glint of black, and saw piles of furs surrounding the woman and the girl. No wonder the stall was poor. Nobody needed clothes that warm in Braavos. As Jaqen got closer, he noticed, that the lady was even shorter than his lost companion, and her skin was dry like a fallen leaf. They were talking. Arya's round eyes lingered on something that he couldn't see yet, and he saw her reach for it, though the leather sleeve was too long for her, and covered her whole palm.

It was a necklace. Thin, silver chain, and a matching pendant shaped like a wolf's head. No, it wasn't just a wolf, but a direwolf, and for some reason, even Jaqen knew it for granted as he laid eyes on it.

"...wolf child. Blood child. I thought it was the-" A piece of their conversation hit the assassin's ears when apparently, he interrupted it, appearing next to Arya, quiet as a shadow. "-lord who smelled of death." The old woman finished, her eyes now piercing their way through Jaqen's skull. She did not look sane at all.

"Don't do that ever again, careless child. A man has feared the worst." He let all his vexation be expressed, and Arya shrugged slightly, pulled out of her dreamy state.

"Jaqen! I-I'm sorry! It's just..." The girls narrow shoulders spun from one side to the other as the sent him an apologetic reply, then gazed back at the piece of jewelry. Silence took over the three, and the girl soon noticed the hateful stares the white-haired lady was throwing at the Faceless Man. The seller said nothing, just stared, and had she stared longer at the man, her eyes might've started glowing red, but Jaqen would have none of it and dragged Arya away.

"There will be no more departments, does a girl hear?" He demanded, holding her by the shoulders, making sure she'd acknowledge his words. The girl nodded her heart-shaped face, not exactly happy about the situation, and still a bit confused, but it was about time to go back into focus, and so she did. Jaqen took her hand this time, just in case. He really didn't want a lovely girl to become a lost girl, or a found girl, but by someone else than himself. No, that would not happen.

"Are there really a hundred isles here?" Asked the girl, as they passed about the third bridge crossing the Long Canal.

"Would a girl like to believe that there are?" He asked quizzically, as he did quite often. That's not even an answer, but I'll forgive you just because you're you. Was Arya's thought.

"I'd like to believe it's all just a huge lie, and there are actually only ninety-nine." Se replied, trying to sound dramatic, and it made Jaqen chuckle, and add:

"A girl may count them one day, and if there truly are hundred, a man will drown one for her, yes?"

"That would be..." She said with a smile. "That would be something." Her smile widened hugely, when she imagined Jaqen's attempts on drowning an actual island, and Arya promised herself, she'd remember his offer and bring it up one day. Oh, I will count them, you can be sure of that.

They moved to the suburbs, or simply the part of the city where nothing seemed particularly out of place. The most usual area, as Arya'd called it, if anything in Braavos could be called usual.

"If we'd turn left now, a girl could see the Moon Pool. It's where the Sweetwater river ends, and a girl must not be seen there during the night, especially while armed." Her guide told her sounding more than a bit serious.

"What? Why?"

"The braavosi are kind people overall, but they respect even the eldest townsfolk's traditions, and the also enjoy watching a good fight from time to time. If someone seeks trouble, or wants to get even with his wrongdoer, they go to the Moon Pool. It's how it's always been, and a man thought it important to warn a girl since she likes to wander so."

Arya just rolled her eyes.

"So, basically you can fight anyone there and get away with it? Is that even legal?"

"Is being a hitman legal?" No actual response yet again. She'd have to go through a reeeal struggle to get one.

"No?"

"And here we are."

They haven't gone to the Moon Pool, however, but crossed the Long Canal, and headed towards its junction with the Canal of Heroes, stopping for a little while on the painted bridge, all covered in eyes of all size and color, mainly because it fascinated Arya, but Jaqen didn't mind, the crowd was notably thinner in this area, and to speak the truth those large eyeballs freaked him out too sometimes. The silver dome of the largest, probably the most beautiful monument, and touristic attraction — Temple of the Moonsingers — shone lit up by the sun inching slowly down to the horizon, as they walked surrounded by tall apartment houses, renovated in a rich, old-fashioned way to suit the medieval aura. Certainly, many sightseers or visitors paid good money to get a room in one of the hotels in this part of the city. It was worth it. All the way worth it. All of a sudden, Arya was sure they were getting near. The Hound had told her, that no one knew the real location of her companion's hideout, and now she was supposed to arrive there. A she-wolf, who bit her way through the bars of her cage, was soon to find her new den, and anticipation took over her like hunger. Her eyes tried to scan the area, hoping to detect something, just anything, but never succeeded. A safeplace never meant to be found out required good disguise. Just as the man who owned it. Where is it, Jaqen? Where?

There were many temples and cathedrals in this area. That's what the Isle of the Gods and its whereabouts were known for. But never would The Stark girl notice, swathed in the splendor of it all, a large, but painfully plain building, standing on a rocky knoll, separated from the city's general outlook, like a mismatched piece of puzzle. And not for a second would she consider its purpose or origin, for it looked abandoned and could as well be waiting for its demolition, and a common passerby would probably think that would be a favor to the town. That common passerby couldn't be more mistaken.

A man and a girl approached the old temple, and she still would have no idea, had she not noticed the way the assassin's hand squeezed her arm subconsciously, and seemed to be moving faster now, just as does a man who has not seen his home for a long time. The doors, about three times as tall as Arya herself, loomed above the two; left door white, right door black, and somehow it didn't look misplaced at all. It looked as if these very door stood in their hinges the moment Braavos was founded. Only the remains of great stone stairs could be seen from beneath the scattered rocks, and the world became less colorful, as Arya made her way up, behind the Faceless Man in silence, with shivers running along every inch of her skin as if they had, little panicked minds of their own. The breeze was cool once again, and she felt an odd, metallic scent hit her nostrils. Candles and dried-out paper. Her mind recalled the sensation. But where did it come from? She couldn't tell.

This was it. Finally. The girl bit her lip, as her gaze went up to meet Jaqen's. The man went to the weirwood part of the entrance, and held it open before his new inmate, giving her a free hand in making this choice. Like a valet inviting the lady inside. Something deep inside her told her she should feel small, even smaller than she usually was, but no, no one else but she was in favor of this very moment. How have you come to this, Arya Stark? The darkness behind the white door wing was not as inviting, but just as much alluring, and she stepped in, her decision made clear.

The air inside was cold, making her congratulate herself for keeping Jaqen's coat. It was really dark, because as perfectly visible from the outside; there were no windows. Only walls of stone. If there was one temple left completely untouched throughout the decades in whole Braavos, the House of Black and White (as Arya would soon learn to call it in her thoughts) was just that. At least this part of it. The sanctuary was in ruin; thirty crumbling statues circled the room, the floor and walls made of large stony blocks stitched together with patchwork of cobwebs, dust, and dry wax spilled around in shallow puddles. Well, it wasn't exactly 'untouched', for new candles framed the round pool at the room's center, burning dim, but bright enough so that Arya could see a girl from behind the thick coat of shadows, sweeping the floor. And if the little wolf were to be honest, she'd say the sight of that stranger there surprised her the most.

The large door gave a loud creak, as the man whom she called Jaqen H'ghar closed them behind, disturbing the everpresent silence. Dead silence. The girl turned on her heel, quick as if an electric shock took control of her petite frame, and was caught gripping her broomstick harder than any broomstick should ever be gripped. But wait, it wasn't a girl, but a grown woman; Arya saw it as soon as her face was revealed. No girl could have features so sharp, or a look so obstinate. Her black apron suddenly hung loose over the whit dress as her shoulders dropped, along with her jaw as she recognized one of the two new faces, but the woman Arya would never learn the name of (unfortunately) immediately collected herself, standing straight as a string.

"You came back." The sanctuary carried the echo of her voice, And Arya did not like it at all. It felt artificial, not really expressing any emotions.

"This is where a man belongs. He will always come back." And Jaqen seemed to have changed, even if it was barely audible. That was not what the Stark girl's been expecting at all.

"And who is she?" It sounded like a head-on accusation, when the woman-girl stared at the newcommer as if it was a punishment. Was it just the bad lightning or did she really grimace at the sight of the assassin's coat hanging on a lovely girl's shoulders?

"A man has made quite a few new friends while he was away. This is his new apprentice." The Lorathi appeared completely unmoved, or simply unaware of his interlocutor's rude behavior, walking over to stand by Arya and place a hand on her back. Arya, on the other hand felt taken aback by the way he'd called her. Apprentice? Well, yes, technically she was an apprentice, but until now she wouldn't think of her new position using this phrase. It was a funny word to her, but... Apprentice. I think I... I kinda like it.

The woman with a broom obviously had nothing to add, and had she thought about it, Arya would've called it the coldest greeting ever, the one Jaqen received from her. And so, feeling her new teacher's (Teacher? Shouldn't I call him 'master' or something? Since we're all using those fancy words here...) gentle press just beneath her shoulders, announcing it was the right time to go. But where? We're in a crumbling, old temple! And she let him lead her towards what seemed to be the eastern nave, when his particularly unfriendly friend spoke:

"I thought you were dead." Oh, so she 'had' emotion. Good to know. Jaqen did not share her bitter state, and even smiled mysteriously, stopping before another, way less conspicuous door that practically melted with the grey wall.

"Valar Morghulis." He murmured, deepening his smile, though it was not for a woman to see. But for a lovely girl, yes.

"Valar Dohaeris." She answered him again in that shallow way of hers.

Jaqen led Arya through a darkened passageway, as her head was physically aching from the flood of unanswered questions scattered around her brain. Would this be the good time to ask? What the hell was she supposed to make of this place? Who was that strange woman? Wasn't Jaqen supposed to be working alone? Ad why is he hiding in these ruins? But the day was not over yet, and this day was full of surprises. The girl hasn't even noticed, but her surroundings were changing. The passage was clod and dusty no longer, nor paved with stone. It was a hallway. With a real, wooden flooring, and walls painted white. No joke. Had someone showed it to her before, she could easily take it for a hallway in one of the downtown hotels. And soon enough the lights went on, the space became wider, and then there she was; standing in front of a large staircase leading to other passages and rooms.

White walls. Black floor, polished and stainless, as if made of marble. White, thin carpet. Black doors with white doorknobs, and a giant skylight in the ceiling. All kept clean and without the smallest spot. Sharp angles, and no curves at all. Simplified, but with style.

The House of Black and White.

"For now, a girl is only allowed on the first floor." The instruction was voiced low and rough, like if one if the statues in the sanctuary pronounced it. "On other levels she's not allowed, and a man would not repeat himself on this matter."

But how? How was she supposed to restrict herself like that? Her legs already itched to explore every inch of this disguised manse. But they itched also to rest, after treading their way so restlessly through the labyrinth of alleys.

"A girl must be tired. Come." It was about time.

The first door to the left, that was her room. Does anybody else live here? There's so many rooms... That cleaning lady, maybe? The whole area was lifeless and still. Did she expect that? She wasn't sure.

They stood in front of the entrance to her lodging, when the girl finally decided to give back what she has taken. "Here. I shouldn't be keeping it for so long." She unwrapped herself from the coat and handed it to her teacher. He took it, not saying a thing, clearly waiting for her to go inside. Did he want to get rid of her? No. He didn't look annoyed, just troubled. Maybe he was tired himself, or maybe he had other duties awaiting him upon his return. It was really hard to tell. Arya hoped that was all, but this silence was overwhelming to her nonetheless. The girl needed to show him he needed not worry. That she'll be the best apprentice this house ever welcomed.

She smiled at him; a determined, hopeful smile, and really, really looked at him. Not just shot him a sideways glance or a brief stare as she's tended to since their first union. With anybody else, she wouldn't care that her curious staring might be taken as inappropriate, but with Jaqen it was different. The Stark girl still got the sensation that he was glamoured or something, and she was perfectly aware just how ridiculous it would sound, but there was that certain aura surrounding him, that made her think something bad would happen if she didn't look away. Like in all those fairytales her father used to read to her as bedtime stories... But we've been through that already. That's nonsense. There's no such thing as magic. Perhaps it was simply because Jaqen was a really handsome man. Just admit it Arya. Hells, don't behave like a five-year-old. This is a fact, no matter if it affects you or not.

But still, he was just a man as she was just a girl.

While the strange, new conflict was born behind Arya's smiling features, the assassin's mask fell, releasing his face from its impassivity. The sharp, dark circles outlining his eyes, became mild, lips stopped persistently pressing into a thin line and relaxed. She was examining him, and he did the same to her, but she did not look away. Instead, she focused on every little detail she could; the slightly curved bridge of his nose, the angular line of his cheekbones, the lower lip fuller than the other. It was a face she'd be seeing daily for quite some time from now on. And now it was smiling back at her, but not with the same kind of smile. It was husky, and the girl couldn't really tell if it was tender or sad. She did not see how Jaqen's hands tightened around the coat to prevent them from doing something entirely else.

"So, when shall we begin?" Asked Arya, seeing his approving reaction.

"Soon enough, sweet girl. Soon enough."

Chapter Text

"Isn't it lovely, all alone

Heart made of glass, my mind of stone

Tear me to pieces, skin to bone

Hello, welcome home"

- Billie Eilish, Khalid 'lovely'

She had no idea. Not even the tiniest clue how much she affected him. He saw it in the genuineness of her smile. He saw it in the sparkles that lit up the gray sky of her eyes right before entering his house. Her lungs breathed in all the new experiences, while her soul was busy getting lost in the moment, and that was all that mattered to her. Which he did not blame her for, of course, that's how a young person like herself should be; with eyes full of wonder, not a heavy chain of woe restraining her spirit. It could be that way, Jaqen reminded himself, still standing outside the closed door to her room, clutching his coat tightly. With no one reaching out to her, his lovely girl could be trapped in her misery, probably in King's Landing right now and God only knows what would happen to her there. Until now, the distractions that drew her thoughts away along with the memories, good or bad, were temporary. They allowed her to carry on, they gave her a reason to stay focused, something to yearn for, something to chase after. All of them were provided by him so far, though the assassin couldn't feel less worthy of the credit. But now? She's got to her safeplace. She's fled from her captors (quite gloriously so) and spread her wings that carried her to the House of Black and White. Arya Stark was an exile no more, but she's become something else entirely. No, she wasn't faceless just yet, but she was an arsonist. And a killer. She's brought this on herself, one could say, she demanded it by taking her chances at tricking the most expensive hitman known in Westeros. One could also say, that beneath the little girl's skin there was a little demon prying, and she got what was coming for her sooner or later. But that someone was definitely not Jaqen H'ghar. He couldn't blame her for the words and doings, which set her on the path to fulfilling the darkest wants of her heart. It was what she deserved, just as much as the world and life that's been taken from her.

Taken from her.

By the people he used to work for. He had a part in her tragedy, no matter how small. The Lorathi had not only owed her one life, but so much more... And the debt carried on, didn't it?

And yet somehow, and that's the most bizarre part of it, she managed to trust him. To gladly hide in his shelter after sailing across the seas with no protection other than his. Jaqen couldn't brush off the sensation that she even... liked him. It sounds like a particularly infant confession, but that's how it was. Her actions convinced the man she wasn't just a confused, desperate child, but a clever girl aware of her choices.

The only problem was, it should not be like that. At all.

Jaqen unfolded the piece of clothing in his hands and threw it a look as if he was seeing it for the very first time. It wasn't his anymore, oh no. Not after he's seen it hang down from her shoulders. Not while it smelled of her. Arya Stark's left a piece of herself wherever her mice feet carried her, and the man was perfectly aware of that. A sound of floor creaking gently under her footfall at the other side of the closed door could be heard. He imagined her exploration in stillness, harshly holding himself back from clutching the thick, black material to his chest. The man could picture her, as he closed his eyes, going around her private space, leaving invisible traces behind, that only the icy stare of No One could detect. Soon enough she would leave them all around his house, and his city, and his life, and his heart. For that was where she'd started, but Jaqen had noticed it too late to be able to act. And what would you do, huh? It's not like being aware of it even from the very beginning would change anything. She's not the problem. No, of course she wasn't. She was his lovely girl.

Jaqen let his head hang down loosely, and chuckled under his breath, feeling completely powerless. Since when do you get to call her yours? Is that because she's here? Is that it? Does inviting her to your hideout make her yours to keep? Again, no. No such thing was reasonable. His whole life he had no one. He was no one. And that's how it was ought to remain. Everything else was just an illusion that would fade away after a month, a year, or a decade. Sooner or later it would be no more, but Jaqen H'ghar was supposed to stay invariable. This was the way of a Faceless Man.

Oh, but... His fingers trembled slightly.

But what? Whatever this ruthless voice in his head was, he utterly hated it at the moment. See? She's not the problem.

You are.

He didn't want to brush off the feeling.

He didn't want things to be as they were.

He craved a little chaos.

You're a fool.

You're No One.

You'll always be No One. To yourself, to others, and to her. That was his design, that was how he got by, and there was no way of changing it now. And why should he involve her in this madness of his? Why should he burden her with it? That's right; he shouldn't.

But the dice have been thrown, and their story had to carry on, and so it would. Jaqen would do his best for her. His sweet girl came here for a reason, and she would get her prize if she worked hard enough. Let that be another distraction. Another lesson for both the student and the teacher. Don't go easy on her. She's strong, but she needs to be even stronger. Easy to say, hard to actually fulfill such a plan, but that's what must be done.

A tall figure topped with red-white hair falling to the shoulders went down the corridor, and opened the third door to the left. It was no different from all the others, no significance betraying the secrets, which could be found only by those who enter through. And no lock guarding these same mysteries. Jaqen opened them, and darkness thick as smoke welcomed him. Through all the years, the man wasn't able to befriend it or even get used to it, but luckily, it is known one should keep his friends close, and enemies even closer. He needed no light's guidance, for even if goosebumps made their way up his spine as shadows enveloped him, it was a darkness he knew. Disappearing into it, the hitman went down the steep, stone stairs.

There were quite a few matters awaiting his attention. A Faceless Man does not come back from the dead and into the place most think to be his home, without the news spreading immediately. It was time to get back to work.

The sound of the door being slammed shut, notably louder than they should was what woke Arya up. Then, the room was suddenly flooded with light, and she squeezed her eyes in attempt to chase the brightness away. A weak 'Please, five more minutes, mum.' almost left her mouth, but was prevented by a voice the girl didn't recognize at first.

"Get up." A single command. Said in a way that brought up the image of a particularly bored Sansa; as when she was supposed to take care of little Arya instead of going to a party, where that boy she liked would be. But no, wait, words always rolled off Sansa's tongue, and these left this someone's mouth dryly. That wasn't Sansa. Who then?

The youngest Stark girl opened her eyes with a groan, that got muffled into her pillow, when suddenly, the fact she was not at home struck her with its pointy end quite painfully. She thought... White walls, black floor, ebony bed frame, snowy sheets, plainly cut desk and shelves above it hanging empty. Ooh, okay, a faint outline of yesterday's memories flashed through her mind. House of Black and White. Not Wnterfell. It must've been the coziness she felt wrapped around her frame. The feeling of security. She hasn't had that for a long time.

The confusion slowly left her face, as the girl ran her fingers through her hair, now shiny and fresh. Finally she'd been able to take a proper shower. Yesterday, as soon as she was done examining every inch of her perfectly tidy room, and the mind's had some time to cool down after all that... well, all that, Arya'd kicked her shoes off unceremoniously, stripped off those awful clothes and went for nearly an hour-long, big-time shower. She'd been singing and laughing, and even felt like crying a couple times, though no real tears were spilled. An hour was a long time, while using someone else's bathroom (which it was, technically) and Arya did feel a bit guilty of it, but what could she do, when her head was swirling with all kinds of life reflections. It is known, that the only right place for mental problem-solving is nowhere else but in a shower. Only id didn't bring her much salvation this time.

"Get up." The voice was even more austere now, and having gained her sense back, Arya knew who it belonged to. The girl lifted herself up on her elbows to see a petite woman, gazing down at her with a certain pride in her features. She wore the same outfit as for swiping floors, while Arya on the other hand was only in her underwear. She sat up, dragging the covers up with her, and rubbed at her heavy eyelids.

"Hi." The greeting left her mouth along with a loud yawn. "Who are you, actually?"

Yes, who was she, a great question indeed. And why was she the one to wake her up. Maybe the dawdler of a woman did live here after all. Wait. Could it be possible, that she was... No. No, no, of course not. She'd been so cold towards Jaqen, that would not be possible. Just no.

The Dawdler walked up to the foot of Arya's bed, laying a heap of neatly folded clothes next to her feet.

"Who are you?" She asked, without honoring the girl even with a brief glance. Gods, is everyone in Braavos unable to give a simple answer? This is a serious question.

"Arya." Answered the half-naked girl, with frustration. The woman only smiled, and it was the least convincing smile Arya's ever seen. If smiles could be compared to animals, this one would be a reptile. Did she say something wrong?

Eager to be done with the unpleasant interloper, the girl reached for her clothes, and found a white tank top with black leggings. At the floor near the foot of her bed she saw a pair of black boots laced almost all the way up to the knees. While dressing up, in front of her extremely kind companion, Arya was wondering just what was in stock for her today. The clothes were comfortable enough so that even stretching would not be a problem, so she expected something chiefly physical, but what did she know. You can't be certain of anything in a place like this. Very recently, she believed it was no more, but a medieval ruin, and now it was a grand manse.

When the girl was done, her waker just turned on her heel and proceeded to walk away, and a while had to pass before Arya figured out she was supposed to follow. They walked through the hall in silence, only the rhythmic click of the apprentice's heels accompanying the two. Was this suspiciously looking woman like that? But well, if she preferred it this way, be it. Arya did not speak, and walked a few steps behind to spare her leader a couple hateful stares.

They passed the main hall, the large stairs flooded with dim light from above. The sun was just about to rise. When she thought about it, the huge, square skylight was the only natural light source she's seen in the entire building. It must be hard not losing the sense of time with no windows around. She'd have to invest in an alarm clock to avoid more unpleasant morning meetings with the wench, because starting each new day like today was definitely not a good idea.

Arya was led to the western wing, where apparently the kitchens were located, though the entrance was no different from all the others in the hall paralleling the eastern one impeccably. Was that done on purpose? Designed to confuse the newcomers? Because the girl could easily see herself getting lost in the plain black-and-whiteness of the passageways. There were no uncommon surprises awaiting the little wolf there, for the kitchen was just a kitchen, no need to mention the lack of color dominating its space. Arya wasn't given much time to have her breakfast, considering she'd have to shuffle through all the cupboards to find what she needed, but ended up just grabbing an apple anyway.

I'll show you one day. The girl thought, chewing the fruit aggressively. This is not funny at all. One day I'll be the one standing over you and watching you struggle.

Jaqen was waiting for them, where the hallway transfigured into a cave-like corridor which Arya entered through yesterday. The man scanned her head to toe, and Arya tried not to think this was the first time she wasn't wearing clothes twice her size in his presence. Suddenly, the tank top felt tighter than it had been, and she wanted those awful rags back. For a hundredth time the girl reminded herself how much easier her life would've been, had she been a boy. She wouldn't feel that anxious nudge in her middle. But no, she had to get a grip. Hells take her if she were to become the kind of girl who blushed at the sight of her crush passing by.

She lifted her chin up, and walked towards her teacher, noticing just now that his hair, significant as always, had been tied up. He's never worn it like that, and the girl wondered if there was a purpose behind it. Also, he didn't have his coat, and Arya felt slightly let down by that, but the familiar, tinted glasses partly made it up for her. And the smirk. It was barely there, but Arya could easily detect it creeping in the corner of his mouth.

He nodded at the Dawdler approvingly and dismissed her, and it made the apprentice bite her lip thoughtfully. There was no other case she wanted to unriddle more than the woman's relation with the Faceless Man. The way he ordered her around... Well, obviously, she wasn't a servant, they were not in the Middle Ages, and she definitely had a higher position in Jaqen's eyes than Arya herself, but still...

Is there a chance the wench is Faceless as well?

The woman turned, and left Arya with the assassin in an almost machine-like manner. The teacher was leaning against the stony wall, still gazing at the girl.

"Today, and every day from now on a girl will be able to choose her tool." The man gestured to both his sides. On one, there was a broom and a bucket, looking conspicuously similar to the one the cleaning lady had been using, at the other — a large gun. Arya could not believe her eyes. She didn't know much about guns, or weapons other than her fencing sword, but this looked very much like a sniper rifle to her. She gulped at the man in front of her with wide eyes. Was he really making her choose between a broom and a deadly rifle?

"I..." She hesitated.

"A girl must not ponder. Only two options are in store for her this day. Two options and much work to be done."

What was this charade for? Was Jaqen of mind she'd panic like a scared little girl and quit her training? How could she? Arya Stark didn't come here to sweep floors. She came here to become like Jaqen H'ghar.

She chose the gun.

"Isn't it a bit too much for the first time?" Slowly, the realization as to what she's just agreed on started to make its way into her brain. They were at the very roof of one of the taller buildings near the House of Black and White. It was colder up here, and shivers crawled up and down the girl's arms, but not due to the weather or the height. A thousand warning signs appeared out of thin air right before her eyes as soon as she saw this part of the City from above. She really was about to use that gun.

When she'd picked her tool, the girl was far from picturing herself actually putting it to work, and all the emotions cumulating inside her drove her towards this decision, 'and' Jaqen seemed like a guy reasonable enough not to make her do something stupid, which she obviously was going to.

"No, lovely girl, it's perfect for the first time." He said, as the cello case swung on the leather strap around his shoulder. It was a good disguise. A really good disguise. Had she not known him, Jaqen might've passed for a musician in her eyes, with that long, unusual hair of his and preciseness of every movement. It was funny, how no one apart from the girl knew what really was in that case when they'd been crossing the nearly empty streets, but it also made Arya feel uncomfortable. Really uncomfortable, and unfortunately she wasn't that good at pretending. Okay, she's been traveling alongside a hitman for quite some time, but Seven Hells, throughout this entire time not once had he been wearing a damned sniper rifle on his back! If the Stark girl was bothered with her acting abilities now, surely she had no idea what the future had prepared for her.

"The closer you get to your target, the closer you are to becoming Faceless and you, child of chaos, are very far from both." The assassin explained, kneeling close to the roof's edge, and setting the large case at his feet.

Oh. Well... maybe that was reasonable. And yet she still thought it wasn't. But who was she to judge? He was the professional here, and she was just a mere student. Two light clicks, and the case revealed its true content. Jaqen proceeded to arrange the shooting position for both of them, while Arya sat opposite to him to observe. The sun was rising slowly behind his back, making the loosely tied strands of his hair glow orange as he fixed the silencer on the rifle. He must've done it a thousand times before...

"Jaqen I've been meaning to ask you something." She began, eyebrows burrowed slightly.

"Hm?" He did acknowledge her question. That's good. Although his hands never stopped working on the heavy gun. Arya was free to scan his face, which seemed to be focused on the weapon, and on the weapon only. She liked the way his eyes narrowed when he was busy, but that's entirely beside the point, you stupid girl! The pint was maybe if he was focused on something else, perhaps the man would spare her the speaking in riddles part. Would she get an answer this time?

"Who's that lady? The one who came for me today." She felt stupid for laying out the obvious before him, for what other lady was there, but the girl got the sensation she'd have to force her question into his brain for him to get the point.

"A man thought a girl already got to know. She is No One." The assassin stated impassively, pulling a box of large bullets from the open case beside him. So she is Faceless... It was a huge disappointment, and yet Arya did not know why.

"But... Who is she to you? What does she do?" Why did she remain in the temple while you were gone? That's what Arya did not add. Jaqen finished off with attaching the telescopic sight, and now all was prepared. The man looked up at his apprentice and sighed.

"If a girl must give the other a name, she may call her a waif. The rest is not for a girl to know." He spoke as he would've to an eight-year-old. Why, Jaqen? Why is the rest not for a girl to know? She thought things would change now, as she officially became his pupil, but again, what did she, an inexperienced youth, could possibly know about that. "Now lie down. A girl can't shoot from a sitting position."

Arya had to bite back her temper, and lied down on her stomach, crawling closer to the rifle's stock. "No, not on this side." Came Jaqen's slightly amused instruction. Arya huffed. Not enough, that her recent conflictions made it really hard to keep it cool, she was at the complete disadvantage right now. It was a true miracle her cheeks weren't glowing red by now.

"Is this funny to you? I've never even come close to a gun like this in my entire life. I have no idea how to use it." Her tone might've been a bit too defensive. Just a bit. And yet it managed to make him smile, but only momentarily, before he went utterly collected and focused again.

"A girl is left-handed, so the stock should rest right here." The man tapped the area where the girl's collarbone connected with the shoulder with two fingers. "And her left hand should support the rifle, while the right one's ought to rest beneath the trigger. And bend one leg." The teacher made sure she's got it right, and further directed her if needed, before finally saying: "Good." and leaning down to lie down next to her. "Now, here's the aiming device. A girl should do just fine on her own now. The shooting is the simplest part if one starts with a steady target, close enough for them not to miss."

Arya gazed around through the visor, marked with small dots and lines that directed her aim. She saw all the buildings and nearly-empty streets, and not even a spot of green. There was no such thing as a park in Braavos — a fact, which she acknowledged just now. They were here at just the perfect time. The day was just about to begin, meaning it was bright enough to see everything perfectly clear through the round sight, and, at the same time not many would notice her making a hit. But she still doubted it would come to that. With a sniper gun in her own hands, she still doubted it.

"How do I know the target's close enough?"

"Well, if a girl can see each finger in their palm, that's about a hundred and sixty feet. If she only sees the hands, it's nearly twice as far. And if she can distinguish the arm from the body, that's as far as the target can get, otherwise she does not shoot at all. Too much of a risk. If the target gets away, a girl has just lost her contractor." The girl nodded, her fingers as stiff as thin little sticks gripping the rifle. The man was so close now, she could feel the vibrations each syllable made while leaving his throat. She was sure they'd never been this close. But Arya needed to shush the part of her brain that was screaming that Jaqen was actually laying next to her (she could feel his shoulder brushing against hers, the warmth of his breath on her extinguished arm), and will her eyes to keep focusing at the limited vision.

"So who do I shoot?"

"Whoever."

The girl froze. What? Did he really say that? What did he mean whoever? So this wasn't something planned, this wasn't a hit, but just wild improvisation? How crazy do you have to be to invent such a plan?! Whoever, yeah, right. That's just bonkers! People aren't like lifeless punching bags! You don't just shoot anyone that comes to your vision, otherwise you're a psychopath.

"Are you kidding me?!"

"A man would not dare to make fun of his apprentice. She's holding a lethal weapon. This is no joking matter." He seemed perfectly calm. Just undisturbed by the fact she might actually kill someone. Anyone. Whoever. A man, a woman, a child, an elder. Guilty or innocent. Whoever.

She didn't believe him. It surely was just a test. She's seen him pull out the bullets, but not loading the gun. That's right. Jaqen could not be that crazy. He wasn't a psychopath, or at least she was convinced he wasn't.

Her vision went up the nearest street, then up an alley, leading her aim to a bench, which some unlucky wretch decided to serve him as a bed. The guy was old, and probably homeless. At least three empty bottles hid below the temporary, wooden bed. You say whoever, you shall have whoever. I'm not scared of your little games.

The little dots conjoined at the older man's middle before Arya's eyes, and her grip was steady. The gun is not loaded, it can't be. If you think I'm gonna cower, you're mistaken. The girl let a couple heartbeats pass, then took a deep breath in, and placed her index finger slowly on the trigger. This is not rel danger, in a couple seconds the curtain will fall, and I'll show you I'm not afraid.

A gentle click, a silent swish, and the bullet was sent flying, and cutting through the air until it struck. Arya let out a hiss so sharp, she almost made the gun fall to the side. Shock replaced the blood running through her veins as she shot her master a disbelieving stare.

"It was real." Her voice was shaky. Yes, it was real. Only, she missed. Instead of spilled blood, there was a pool of wine on the paving beneath the sleeping man. He didn't even shrug at the sound of shattering glass.

"As a man had said." Jaqen's voice gave off no emotion, as his face became a mask. He did not look at her, but ahead. "The weapon was of a girl's choosing, and her every choice will have its consequences as long as a man teaches her. Today she's the one to choose her targets, but in the future she might not." The assassin reached to pull the bolt and reload the gun. The shiny hull jumped out of it like a shooting star. He replaced it with another, equally deadly one. "Now, again. Practice. Next time, a girl reloads her weapon herself."

Arya's body had become kind of lump, but she got the message. With all the confusion in her mind sprawled around in scattered parts of thoughts, she understood. Playtime was over. She's marked her hands with blood before, and she'd do it again, tomorrow if not today. Killing. That was the profession of the man, who had introduced himself to her as Jaqen H'ghar. The man, whose icy stare had a special place in her heart. The man, who gave her a chance, and opened a new door in her life, but the path it led to was never going to be easy. But she chose him just as much as he chose her. She's become a hitman's apprentice, and she was ought to behave like one. The girl waited a while in stillness until her pulse was steady again, and her eyes returned to the small sight, scanning the area in search of other targets.

Chapter Text

Pull the bolt. Load. Aim. Shoot. Pull the bolt. Reload. Aim. Shoot. The abrupt jolt of the rifle's butt plate just below her collarbone. The tingling in her palms, the numbness in her index finger, and the silent swish followed by the vibrating heat of the silencer.

She'd been repeating the sequence all morning, hunting down every possible target her eyes could detect. Flowerpots and bottles, tin cans and other small objects; those were her victims, because in this way the possibility of causing any harm was practically non-existent, though at the beginning she'd been missing them as if she were completely blind. But Arya tried over and over again, until the first red pot exploded, its pieces falling on the sidewalk three floors down, along with the earth and a single nasturtium rooted to it. It was a pretty flower, this one. A shame it had to fall, because she just had to fulfill today's task. She was supposed to learn how to use a sniper rifle, and there's no simpler way of doing that than by practice, which might sound easy, but it certainly was not. And if some of you thought Arya would aim her weapon at the braavosi, you could not be more mistaken. None of the people occasionally walking down the street has ever done her any harm. The girl wasn't the type to kill just for the sake of killing. Had one of the people been marked on her list, she would do it without hesitation, but this... No, she could not shoot an innocent.

And Jaqen didn't regard her for that, surprisingly. The man just watched her progress silently through pocket binoculars, so silently in fact, that after some time she'd forgotten all about him, seeing only the microscopic lines she aimed with. For a brief moment, the girl pictured herself as Jon at the edge of a battlefield. Her brother wasn't a sniper, and would probably never be because of his insane skill directly on the battlefront, but just visualizing it gave Arya a boost of confidence. Jon was always so calm, prepared for anything. He had a spirit of a fighter, and she had the spirit of a survivor. Though not related by blood, they were so much alike, they were always alike. The apprentice's breathing came to a slow, constant pace, and her grip on the rifle loosened a bit. She held it as if she were holding a sword, just with that kind of poise.

It was a clean, precise shot. For the first time the bullet reached its destination at first try, and it made Arya's heart flutter with pride. She wanted to try again, but it seemed her time has just run out.

"That's good." Said Jaqen, narrowing his eyes approvingly behind his glasses. "We should pack up, the streets are getting crowded." The man lifted himself up to sit, depriving Arya of his warmth on her side, which the girl regarded herself for wishing to never disappear. Pleased, or displeased, she followed him, getting up to her knees. The girl thought she'd be relieved to let go of the gun and be done with this part of the training, but she wasn't. She got accustomed to the thrill quite quickly, and though her elbows were all red and numb from resting heavily on the concrete surface, she did not feel the urge to leave their shooting spot. She could stay there a little longer to keep her inner sniper alive, but she had to let it go, eventually.

"So what are we gonna do now?" The she-wolf asked casually wiping the dust from her leggings.

"Hmm..." The hitman murmured, faking his pondering quite skillfully. "Right now there is no 'we', lovely girl." His moves were quick and precise while he was taking the gun apart to fit it to the case, as if he were a machine. Arya's eyebrows furrowed. "A girl will go and clean the mess she's made, and a man will... have a lot of free time as he waits for her." The black lid was closed, two shiny latches clasped together locking the weapon inside.

Confusion swept over the girl's features. A strand of her unevenly cut hair fell and brushed against her cheek when she cocked her head to the side. "Mess? What do you mean? I haven't done anything."

"Does a girl think broken pots and bottles can pick themselves up from the ground? A man has told her, her every move has consequences, and so does her every shot." Never, ever would Arya expect this. Well, he did make that clear, but... really? The winning smile on his lips convinced her he had been very serious.

"Oh, but that would take forever." She groaned. "Please, Jaqen, I've learned my lesson. Am I supposed to run around and search for every little piece until it gets dark?"

"Even longer so if that is required." He stretched idly, like a cat. "But a lazy girl must hurry, a man will not be waiting that long."

Arya rolled her eyes, and did everything to express her annoyance, but seeing it only amused her teacher the more, she stood up. "I'm not lazy." She might've sounded just a bit conceited then. "And what will you be doing, huh?" If the task made sense or brought them any profit, she wouldn't be so frustrated. But it was just a waste of time!

"A man is not sure yet. Sunbathing, maybe?" Another flamboyant smile. "Such good weather is a rarity in Braavos, a girl will soon learn that as well. It is a day truly made for relaxation."

"Ha-ha. Funny." She scowled at down at him, and turned on her heel.

"A girl should be grateful." Jaqen chuckled at her.

"Oh, really? For what?"

"That those are only pieces of plastic and glass she's ought to clean, not corpses."

He did have a point.

It took her at least a couple hours to figure out which windows she'd aimed at, to then search for the spot where her lifeless little victims laid out scattered, or with a giant hole in them. Collecting and throwing the remains to trash took her a fourthfold of the time she'd normally spent at throwing away a garbage liner back when her mother would order her, as the youngest of her children, to do so, all because she didn't really have a liner. It wasn't easy not to cut her hands, while she tried to carry as many pieces of broken glass as she could, so she wouldn't have to go through the distance up and down the street over and over again. The girl knew her time was limited, and the last thing she wanted to do was arrive back at the top of that building to find no one there, (no one. Ha! Sandor had warned her that was a tricky nickname. Arya understood that now.) so she did try not to take too long, but the time seemed to be acting against her. Some people stared at the tomboyish teen cleaning up the areas underneath the balconys of her choosing, some did not, some even tried to offer her their help, but she always refused as kindly as she could, still trying to keep up her pace. The braavosi were kind people, really, and in those moments Arya was most glad she did not get tempted to target even one of them. And even that older man sleeping on that bench. It truly lifted her spirit up. And driven by those feelings, when she found the flower, that single nasturtium she'd so cold heartedly shot down, Arya picked it up carefully, and planted it near the sidewalk. It wasn't granted that the plant would survive long there, but at least the girl did all she could to keep it alive.

By the time she arrived back where today's training started, it was already noon. And then, for a second her heart froze, as she actually saw no one in their previous spot, but when she gazed around, her eyes stumbled at a dark figure at the other side of the flat roof, staring at the distance through his binos. It was a great relief for the apprentice to see her teacher there, waiting as he said he would. She sighed, relieved, then walked up to him, hoping she would not meet his regard.

"Done."

Jaqen shoved the binoculars down to his pocket, and eyed the girl in front of him, paying attention especially to her hands. They were dirty, true, but she didn't cut herself and for some unknown reason it made his features go mild. It wasn't like a couple little cuts would make any difference, but still... Those were the hands of a lovely girl. The assassin gave her a nod of approval.

"Then our task here is done. A girl's had a proper warm up." The man bent down for the infamous cello case, and the girl stared at him with eyes widening with disbelief.

"Excuse me? Are you saying this was just a warm up? Then what in the Seven Hells was I warming up for?"

The training room was huge. Well, at least it was huge for a place where a maximum of three people lived, and huge for a building with dozens of empty rooms. The collection of cold steel displayed on the whole wall before her, made Arya's jaw drop to her feet. There were all kinds of blades, from small pocket knives to fencing epees, to real swords, some new and shiny, some old and lined with rust. There was even a machete along with a knuckle duster, which to Arya's opinion was a bit over the top, but still, how could she complain? For a girl who grew up fencing this was heaven!

"Woah..." The light reflected on the sharp surface cleaved into gentle rays of brightness, and some of them were dancing across her cheeks. "This is incredible." Some of those swords had to be at least a few decades old. No one buys them or uses them anymore, so one did not see such marvelous designs someplace other than a museum's exhibition. Where did Jaqen get them? Or maybe he didn't. Maybe they were always there. Someone made sure they would last, very much like the temple with black and white doors."Do you collect them?"

"A man only does his duty as a Faceless Man. The art of sword fighting's always been a key element in the braavosi culture, and the folk respects the old traditions like nothing else. Plus, fencing is a really popular hobby here, not only among teenagers. It runs in their blood." Arya heard him from behind as she inched closer to the sword that caught her attention immediately, thinking Heavens above, at last I have found my place in this world. It was thin and not long at all, as if made for a very young person, but at the same time very sharp. Its lightness and the room for maneuver it gave the one bearing it could definitely give them advantage over another, heavy sword of deathly length. Oh how lucky must've been the young fighter, how his movement must've been graceful as a dance... The girl couldn't help it, but imagine no one else but herself in that position, quick as a snake, swift as a deer, with this thin sword in her hand.

"But today a girl will not be fighting with a sword." Jaqen brought her back to reality, even though she wanted to hold onto the dream so bad.

"Why not? You said I can choose my weapon."

"A girl is greedy. She already made her choices today. First, the basics must be learned, but who knows, if not today then maybe tomorrow, if only she proves herself capable." Now that was interesting. Oh, Arya felt capable. She felt very capable.

"Alright. So, what are we doing here?" She turned around with her hands resting on her hips confidently, and saw him standing at the center of the room with clenched fists. He didn't have the glasses on, nor his shoes. Arya took hers off too, right before walking in.

"A girl will not be kept hidden within these walls forever, and so her protector must test her strength. He must know she can defend herself when she's out of his sight."

The Stark girl headed towards him, nodding her head, determined as never before.

"What do I do?"

"Attack a man." Although he sounded sure of his words, Jaqen didn't put on a guard or changed his position in any way. He stood straight, waiting for her reaction.

She has been training martial arts, but that was usually with someone relatively her size and age. Only during her fencing classes she'd been regularly stood against an adult, because the skills if her peers couldn't be compared to hers. It would be easier if Jaqen was holding a sword in his hand, but with bare fists? The girl's lower lip found its place in between her teeth.

"Pf, I won't do that." She defied him quite recklessly, but at the back of her mind she knew that she had to do it.

"Why, stubborn child?" A sly smirk ran through the line of his lips, but disappeared as quickly as it showed. He never runs out of nicknames, does he?

"Cause you're... You."

Jaqen raised a brow at her, but that was only a part of his devilish look. "Is that so?" The blow to her right was so sudden she could barely detect where it came from. She dodged the hit a split-second before it could strike her, stumbling backwards. Her attacker used the element of surprise and cut her down. Arya's feet lost their contact with the ground, and she landed ungraciously on her bottom with a jolt of pain in her lower back.

"Ah, damnit!" She cussed under her breath trying to get back to her feet as soon as the swirling in her head stopped.

"The excuse is entirely beside the point, and a day might come when a girl won't be certain even of that." He towered over her, quite proud of himself it would seem, and a fiery temptation to wipe the expression off his handsome face awoke in the girl. She straightened up, light as a shadow, and aimed her clutched fist at his nose. Unfortunately, but predictably, she missed. Due to her height, and the assassin's reflex, he ducked her punch before it made half its distance.

"No, a girl is fast, but has limited range." He tried to instruct her, blocking another punch that paralleled her last. "And she doesn't have the strength to overpower her enemy." In an answer to that, the apprentice tried to dig her knuckles underneath his ribs, but failed yet again. He was always a couple inches out of her reach, and it came to him as naturally as biting her lip for Arya. "She shouldn't aim for the chest or the head." An angry low kick flew to his shinbone, but his body swayed away like a dancer's. Jaqen wasn't even trying to fight back. "She should aim for the throat."

This time she listened to his advice eagerly, attacking his neck with the outer edge of her outstretched palm, as a karate learner would, and though she still was not given a chance to strike her opponent, there was a glint of satisfaction in his eyes. It determined her all the more.

"Again." He ordered, and she observed the sharp movement of his muscles when Jaqen blocked her again. Her 'protector' as he called himself, was lean, but it didn't lessen his strength. "Faster." And she did strike faster, but this time he caught her wrist, and spun her around, pressing her forearm to the girl's back painfully. She hissed through her teeth as Jaqen's free arm closed around her neck, pressing her body back to his chest.

"A girl is too easily distracted, and that simply cannot be." Arya heard him all too well, for his mouth found itself right next to her ear. Ah crap, so he had noticed! She panicked. Her knees would probably go weak if her arm wasn't being arched so harshly right now. No, he couldn't have! I did nothing any other student wouldn't! The assassin's grip was steel against her flesh, and she tussled in the small space she had left. Gods, he could break her arm right then and there if he wanted to. He could also choke her out.

"If someone has a girl locked like this, how does she react?" It was tantalizing. The unfamiliar, electric feeling of being pressed against Jaqen H'ghar, and the growing pain. Concentrate! It's ridiculous! The girl tried to struggle away from the scent of ginger and cloves and from the grip on her, but it only tightened. "Hurry up, normally a girl would have a few broken bones by now." The man's breath prickled the skin at her nape.

Concentrate! What can you do? There wasn't much room for fighting back, even as her other hand remained free, so Arya tried to stomp on his feet, but his steps were ahead of her, dancing away. She felt the blood pulsating in the area of her strangled elbow so vigorously that it might've been her second heart, and when her wrist was twisted behind her, and she had to bite back a small shriek, her instinct took over, and the back of her head crashed against the man's jaw. She wasn't sure if the crack that hit her ears was the breaking of a bone or not, but he released her, and the girl jumped at least a few paces away. Her breathing was heavy, and the joint still ached when she saw him bent down with one hand rested against his knee for support, the other touching the lower side of his face.

Arya tried to shake off the shivers from her skin, when finally it occurred to her, that this final hit might've been too strong.

"Oh, no, are you okay?" A flood of guilt swept over her immediately. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-" The apprentice was already next to him, attempting to get to see the damage she'd caused, but when his icy stare met hers there was no pain in either of them.

"It wasn't that hard, was it, lovely girl?" Her teacher asked, smirking at her irritated little huff.

"Ah, screw you, Jaqen! I thought I hurt you!"

"Nonsense. A girl cannot hurt a man. Only his feelings." The man winked at her, and Arya just shook her head in disbelief. I can't with this man. I just can't.

"You're a jerk, you know that, right?"

She waited for a response, but she got a laugh instead. The sound filled her in, and it filled the corridors outside the training room, where only those nosy enough to pry would hear, to then come back to Arya along with the realization she liked it. She admired him sly and mysterious, impossible to read, but she also liked it when he smiled. And it made her smile as well, with a pleasant, warm feeling inside of her, which later on she tried to explain only as the effect of a dose of endorphins after the training.

But the moment was soon gone, and throughout this afternoon, Arya was sent to the ground landing on her butt many, many times.

The clicking of her heels and the silent thuds of his footfall echoed in the hall. Would the sounds be labeled as black or white? If everything in this place had to... And what about feelings? Were feelings supposed to be kept free of any conflict and clear for others to read? And people? Could one be described as black or white? What was Arya? What was Jaqen, she wondered. Could it all be really that simple when you're Faceless?

Jaqen was taking her back to her room, since Arya still wasn't confident enough to move around this maze on her own, showing her the more interesting parts of the house.

"And here's what used to be called a bathing chamber, by the ones who built the temple." Said the man opening the door, which led to the biggest bathroom Arya's ever seen. It was almost like a small pool, encircled by a collage of black and white tiles. There was even a bench with some towels piled on top of it, and a single mirror. "This is the only mirror a girl can find in the House, and if by any unfortunate chance she finds herself in need of an aid kit, she can find what she need in the other room over there." He pointed to the open entrance to the said room, but little did Arya care for it. The girl was already imagining herself soaked in this giant bath. Yes, that would be all she's going to need, especially after a tiring day like this one.

"I think I'll be using this place veeery often. Don't get me wrong, showers are nice, but this, this is just heaven."

"We shall see if a girl will be able to find it without a man's assistance." Jaqen let himself tease her a little.

"I's not my fault every corridor here looks exactly the same. You could make some signs or something. It would be way easier to move around. Like pointing arrows for example."

"A man can make his apprentice do that, since she's so imaginative."

"Me? Why me?"

"Because she's gotten quite talkative of late. A man needs to remember to set more demanding tasks before her next time, she's clearly a lot of energy left."

"Okay, okay, easy. No need for that. I'll be silent as a grave."

And so she said nothing when they were back on their way, though it was hard. Arya always enjoyed activity, plus the adrenaline boosted up her mood. And though something told her tomorrow she would be aching all over, the girl tried not to care about that right now. She was tired, yes, but in the healthy kind of way.

They came to a halt, so she supposed this was where they parted. Again, in front of her door. However this time, it was Jaqen who broke the silence.

"It is known to a man, that a girl's response to this question was not the one of a Faceless Man earlier on, so he will ask again." There was a certain, deadly stillness between the two, when he looked down at her expectantly. "Who are you?"

Oh. So that was it. Arya remembered the waif's pious expression after she introduced herself. Then... how was she ought to reply? The girl bit her lip, unsure. Who am I? Arya Stark, the youngest daughter of Eddard and Catelyn Stark, sister to Robb Stark, and- no. That's who she was. That's the life she's left behind. Her past was no longer. It was dead and buried deep under the ground, burned into the night.

She sighed, enlightened, then looked up at the Faceless Man, saying: "No One."

He watched her lips as they moved, pronouncing her new name, and he had this old, emotionless mask mas on then. She saw it. After a few seconds, which seemed pretty much like a whole eternity, when the tension in the air got almost too strong, he nodded, and the girl thought she was free to go. She reached for the handle, but was surprised when Jaqen's hand landed gently on her shoulder.

"One more thing." She turned her head, wide-eyed, examining the way the light coming from she-had-no-idea-where shaped the shadows on his features. How magnetizing was his stare, and felt guilty for having those feelings twice as much as she would've anytime else. "Today a girl chose not to kill. But if she was ordered to, would she? If the name of someone walking down the street had been demanded by The Many-Faced God? If a man told her so?" Doubt spoke through him in this very moment, and it pained the girl. How was she supposed to have any sort of faith in a God she knew nothing of? How could he expect that of her? It's been made clear to Arya that her training was no game, but still, that's what it was. A training. And though she wanted nothing as much as to finish it, it was just the beginning. However, the doubt in his voice did not reflect in her expression. She didn't shy away before the truth when she answered.

"I burned an entire mansion along with three men inside, because you told me this was the only way. I trust you." What happened then, was not what she intended at all. It was an impulse, like when she fought him back in the training room, though a random observer would not even think of comparing the two situations. The girl placed her palm on top of his, still looking him in the eye, and watched as his lips parted and eyes filled with an unusual mix of feelings she could not find the name for. Arya found they weighted her down, as if they were her own, and suddenly she could not move. Very much the opposite applied to the man, who felt the familiar pull towards his lovely girl, but this time her touch weakened his will to restrain himself, and now he was inching closer to her. The frozen girl noticed it, and with her breath caught in her throat waited for what was to come next. For some reason she felt even closer to him now than she'd been with his arm swung around her neck, and his face was now so close... Another second and her heart would jump out of her chest. What's happening? This kind of closeness was different, unlike anything Arya's felt ever before, and she did't even have the time to think...

And then it stopped. Just when she thought she could see every little sliver of color in his eyes they suddenly changed their course, and wandered up.

His lips rested just below her hairline.

Though this was not what the girl expected (feared?) would happen, the contact made her heart skip a beat more than once. Just the innocent tenderness of this moment was completely new to her. It comforted her in a way nothing ever had. But all that was gone a few seconds later, and the Lorathi moved away, and carefully freed his hand of her hold, breaking the eye contact. Arya wanted to say something, but found herself speechless, and could do not much more than wait for him to do that.

"Goodnight, sweet girl." Were the assassin's last words to her before he turned to disappear, fade into black and white. Arya stood there even a couple deep breaths later trying to figure what the hell just happened. She was still feeling the touch of his lips on her skin.

Chapter Text

"I am a victim of my time
A product of my age
There's no choosing my direction
I was a holy man but now
With all my trials behind me
I am weak in my conviction"

- Santana, 'Nothing At All'

Maybe it would be easier to collect her thoughts wrapped up in warm covers, closed in the four colorless walls, where she could not be interrupted. But there was only one problem. Someone was in her room. And Arya didn't know this because she heard their sneaky steps like whispers among the silence, but straight up saw the intruder as she walked in.

The waif stood with her back to the girl, leaning over the chair stood next to the plain white desk in the corner. When the door creaked open she didn't even flinch, but kept digging her fingers into the black material swung over the chair's backrest. Arya would recognize the coat anywhere, but why was it here? And why was the waif in her room? There were no physical boundaries to that since there were no locks blocking one's way in the House of Black and White, but did that mean there was no respect for someone's privacy? Oh, Hells no, Arya would not allow that, and especially she would not allow the Waif to do that.

"What are you doing? You shouldn't be here." The girl scowled, sending a relatively careful warning.

"No." Was the reply, pronounced dryly. One could think the woman was entirely indifferent to all the rest of the world, but that was obviously not true. Plus, she's been soaking in all the girl's antipathy like a sponge lately. "I'm not the one that shouldn't be here, Arya Stark." Her pose was calm as still water, but when she turned around her eyes threw daggers. She slowly removed her claws from Jaqen's belonging. "He hasn't played the game with you yet, has he?"

Arya stood her ground firmly. What was she talking about? The game? What game? The girl could not voice these questions, so she remained silent as a grave, observing the uninvited guest, trying to appear sure of herself.

"Of course he hasn't." This fact seemed to give the waif's face a glint of calculated joy. "You don't belong here. No one does." As she strolled towards Arya, for some reason the girl felt like a prey in a hunter's lair. Though it hasn't been made clear yet what the waif was capable of, the ruthlessness in her eye foreshadowed at least a part of her character. Or so Arya thought. There was a small chance that the woman was just trying to scare her off, test her. But why? No one wasn't supposed to have a character of their own.

But Jaqen does... doesn't he? Sometimes he did, and sometimes he didn't. It was like watching a landscape through a cracked windowpane. When you can see something it is either because some of the pieces connect, or because the split between them is big enough.

Before the waif passed her and walked out, she'd stopped to took at the girl like if she was the most pitiful of world's creations, then said:

"He's not what you think he is."

And then she was gone, leaving Arya to the darkness prowling in the corners of her room. Now the girl regretted there were no bolts, because if there was one at her door she'd turn back to close it. And since there wasn't one, what she'd left to do was to throw herself on the bed that wasn't her own. Or maybe not. That's exactly what she'd done yesterday, out of exhaustion and excitement. Yesterday she did it to let everything settle down. Has it?

The girl walked up to the spot where the intruder had stood, as her gray eyes lingered on yet another thing that was not hers. Did Jaqen leave it here? No, that's not possible, she's spent the whole day with him, she'd notice. It must've been the waif, though surely the woman didn't act on her own will doing so. But where were her clothes? The faceless-girl-in-training spun around, quickly scanning the bed where she'd left them, the floor, her nightstand, then noticed a chest of drawers beside it. (See? That's what you get for mindless throwing yourself into the land of sweet dreams, without having explored anything yet.) However, unfortunately the t shirt was nowhere to be seen just as the jeans, even as Arya'd turned on the night stand lamp. There was only a white nightdress.

Well then... She'd wished for those rags to vanish, and by some magical force they did. But something else's appeared in their place.

Her eyes scanned the surroundings. She couldn't have hoped for a place more secure, safety was nowhere if not there to be found in those empty shelves and bare walls. Lingering on the dustless surfaces, the girl tried to invent a way to give a room that was her own at the moment, a bit of character. She could definitely think of quite a few examples, and she planted them like seeds in her brain, then came back to wondering about the infamous coat she fancied so.

For now Arya dared not touch it. Perhaps it was because of what happened earlier on — no, it was most certainly because of what happened. It made the girl feel all tangled up and sour inside, because she didn't know what to make of it. Has she been appreciated or ...rejected?

Oh, get a grip Arya, you're overthinking. It's not a big deal. Nothing happened.

But she still felt the warmth of his lips on her skin. It was only an innocent kiss, one a brother could give his sister or a father his daughter, and she should treat it as nothing more, right? Though for a moment she thought the situation might have evolved differently. Did she want it to? Right now, she wasn't sure, even when her thoughts went on a dangerous path of wondering how would it feel with her teacher's lips not only on her forehead... The girl was aware how stupid that was of her, developing such feelings for the assassin, but she just couldn't shush her imagination down. If that simple act could be considered as friendly or usual, Arya had a feeling that she could never get used to it.

Seven Hells, stop fantasizing! Imagine, just imagine how would he react if he knew... If he only knew...

Arya bit her lip, ashamed. He'd probably just laugh at her. No, no he wouldn't. Kids in middle school laugh at such things, but not Jaqen. There would be a long silence, and then the atmosphere would soak with a disapproving stillness and it would make Arya feel sick to the gut. That would be the end either of her training or her dignity. No, no she must not let that happen.

Though Jaqen's behavior at that matter, wasn't helpful at all. Those cocky smiles and mysterious looks, the moments when he actually seemed to care for her, letting his mask slip when he got protectively close, or when his touch was tender. Maybe there was a glint of hope as long as the girl was going to keep her impulses on a leash, as long as what he gave her was enough. It had to be enough. Seriously, what more could she expect? A girl is greedy. Yes, Arya Stark was greedy. She'd have all, or she'd have none, she wouldn't be able to contain herself otherwise, but a girl was Arya Stark no longer. She was No One, whatever that meant.

The nightdress was very smooth and pleasant against her skin as the girl slipped in it like a fish slips into a pool of clear, refreshing water. She was eager to get as much rest as she'd be allowed, because the prediction of how sore her muscles will be tomorrow still lingered at the back of her mind. And what will tomorrow bring? No one could know. Quite literally.

The air here was colder, and the man breathed it in and out, letting his lungs fill with dust. What's the point of swiping floors if the remains born from stillness are never thrown away? There is none, maybe that's why she does it so willingly. This time, however no swooshes were there to interrupt his prayer as candles continued to use up the wax. The hot substance dripped down to the stone floor while lazy flame dancers only exposed more shadows hiding in the corners. They were like small sandglasses splayed in a circle round the pool, and even though they did not measure minutes or hours, while he looked at them, Jaqen knew it was about time.

When he took his place at one of the old, wooden kneelers, the hitman had been telling himself that the prayer was only to set him on his way, to bless the gift he was about to give tonight, but it wasn't. The man wasn't bending before The Many-Faced God as a faithful, accomplished servant, but as a sinner pleading for strength. For self-restraint and stoicism, because he lacked both today. His head was bent, but his eyes rose up to focus at all thirty stone faces, one by one. They were always the same, unmoved by the passing time. Hundreds if not thousands of people have come to serve and nearly all of them had been consumed by time, yet He of Many Faces had remained the same, under all the faces and neither of them. A true ideal.

The Lorathi searched all the faces carefully, but even if he squinted, he couldn't see Arya Stark's among them. If she's not there, then why did he come to appear out of his senses when those wide, northern eyes turned upon him? Why did the sound of the name she chose to still call him by, was awaking an unfamiliar yearning each time these delicate lips pronounced it? Why did the one she should call him by leave a dry bitterness in his throat as she addressed it to herself for the first time tonight? His lovely girl made him feel like a someone. What's even worse; she made him want to feel like a someone. And that was nothing else, but shameless defiance in the House. His hand moved up to massage the aching spot on the line of his jaw, then dropped to his outer palm recreating the memory of her gentle fingers resting there. He did not worry about his face half as much as about the affect physical contact with Arya had on him. This contact however, might eventually be rewarded with a bruise. Speaking of physical contact... the man could hardly remember when was the last time someone had touched him like that. It does sound oddly ambiguous, but that's entirely not the case. As his apprentice had said, that was a touch of trust, of comfort, of attachment. It was pure and it was precious, almost tempting, but no, this objectionable train of thought has to stop. Right. Now. Haven't you had enough? Haven't you seen what reactions it causes of you?

Jaqen's thoughts betrayed his God three times this very evening, and his prayer was chaotic, defying the way of a Faceless One. The assassin felt as if his head became a balloon stuffed with helium, its jumpy molecules attacking his skull from the inside. He hasn't felt like that in... Actually he couldn't recall being in a similar mind state at all. His faith had always been unbreakable. Everything has always been successfully simplified in the lifestyle he led. Used to lead. Had to keep on leading. The faces are for No One, and that's what Jaqen H'ghar needed tonight to put on another skin.

The door somewhere in the southern aisle opened with a rough clank, and the Waif entered, carrying a broomstick as usual, and with a furious expression, also as usual. She was surprised to find the assassin still there.

"What is this act?" Her hiss was a true storm of swords aimed at the hitman. He's learned a long time ago to take her episodes as nothing personal. Though this time he had a feeling it was most personal matter.

"Don't you like a man's disguise, sister?" The man asked, pretending to be transcendentally lost in prayer. He was disguised indeed. His hair was not of the usual two colors, now tied up loosely, falling to his nape black as night. The assassin did use wigs sometimes, but hair dyes were much easier to use, and one didn't have to worry about attaching them well enough. He was also to wear a hat today, though it now rested at his side, elegant, deep purple matching the suit. While throughout the day his skin was of its natural tone, now it was intensively tanned, the dark circles under his eyes didn't stand out as much anymore.

"Quit it. That's not what I mean and you know it." The woman aimed her broomstick at him from the distance, and the man was afraid he knew what she meant.

"What troubles a Waif, then?" But that didn't mean he had to show it.

"What's your business with that girl? Haven't you got enough entertainments? Not enough things to take care about? Not enough duties?"

"A man has a feeling, that his well being is the thing his sister is concerned the least about."

Her mouth opened as to say something, but then closed in irritation. "Ugh! Can't you see? You cannot be doing this, you can't just bring a kid under this roof and feed her with false hopes. This is not a part of what we are. She distracts you." The waif was skilled in the art of arguing, he had to give her that. She almost managed to strike the soft spot. Almost. And she made sure the word 'kid' was accented distinctly enough.

"Is a man not on his way to give the gift? How does his distraction show? Has he not gained a contractor the first day after his arrival?" Jaqen at the other hand, was even better at using questions as arguments. "Can his sister give him one reason not to continue training a girl, who already killed for him?"

There it was. The surprise splayed on the Waif's features was compensating every second of this conversation. He won this round. He always wined.

"He won't be happy about this when he finds out."

Jaqen shifted in his seat, trying not to clench jaws. That was the weak area of his plan, and the Waif has just found it without even realizing.

"If he finds out." Innocent as the darkest of angels, that's how the man sounded. There was a silence filled with itching disbelief, until the woman finally broke it, simply asking:

"What?"

Their stares met. Jaqen could almost see a flash of emotion in her face.

"You haven't told him. Is that how you intend to keep this going? Thought you were a professional, not an amateur. But if you say so, he probably knows already."

"Is that so? A man has not heard much of him lately, even though they share this House. He doesn't stick his nose outside anymore, and it should be known especially to the one who visits him thrice a day."

"No wonder you haven't heard of him. You've been away for nearly two years!"

The wood screeched lightly as the assassin stood up. He'd have none of this choir of complaints.

"His sister has still not learned to control her temper, a man hears." He took his hat and headed out and turned to leave the temple. His tone was indifferent. "This conversation is over."

And having said that as a goodbye, the man walked on, not turning back, into the night.

Little did his young apprentice know that their little trip to the rooftop had another, hidden purpose linked with his most recent contract. He wasn't just admiring the view when she came back from fulfilling the profitless task, he was observing his newest target, who liked to take long walks around that particular area just before noon. The hitman needn't search long, as he spotted a short, middle-aged man with more than a couple pounds overweight, looking colorful like a dandy. One could think he worked as a pimp, but no, apparently the old man was the owner of one of the most luxurious hotel chains in Braavos - the Satin Palace. As his contractor had said, not directly to the assassin of course, the big fish would be easy to point out, and that was right. Even the way he held his cigarette while leaning against the barrier at one of the bridges was making his position obvious. He thought the City simply belonged to him.

But where's the hatch? Well, no one achieves this kind of attitude by using just means only. So many things can happen during one night in a hotel room when't you're guaranteed secrecy... At an adequate price of course, which surely was the reason Glendon Hewett was a host to those who would not find shelter anywhere else. The Satin Palace hotel rooms have also been rented by the very same people to perform all the undignified activities of their choosing, again; at an adequate price. Rape. Torture. Obscure photoshoots even.

But Jaqen wasn't supposed to kill the man just then and there, during his morning walk, oh no. Far more spectacular execution was reserved for the fat Glendon, as his name has been promised to the Many-Faced God. At an adequate price.

Yup, she was screwed. The exact moment she opened her eyes because of the light that filled gem like a flood of hot water, she could feel the efforts of yesterday in each and every muscle. Man, the feeling was awful. It didn't disable her though, that would be too easy, she had to be able to move because that was expected of her, but there was a certain heaviness in her posture. Not to mention the girl almost tripped while putting on her left boot.

The same clod greeting, the same course around the House, then a different choice.

"Your hair!" Said Arya, spotting her teacher from the distance as she set her foot in the training room. Though it wasn't that transparent, she was quite taken aback by the change. The red side of his hair was like a dark, faded brown, and the other was gray. Black hair dye doesn't come off after one washing, no matter how many times you scrub.

"Lovely girl, a man is afraid his hair is not an option here. It's not even a weapon." He said trying to drag her gaze down with his own. Somewhere deep inside him he still hoped she wouldn't bring that up. Apparently he was wrong.

"I mean... your hair, it's different. Like... A couple shades darker. Why?" A thin little line appeared between her eyebrows as she tried to process that. She might as well come with a magnifying glass to study him like a little scientist, but he waved her attempts off.

"A mere change of lightning. A girl would be surprised how much it can affect the things we see." Well, it didn't convince Arya in the least, but she had to let it go. For now. "So, what does a girl say?"

There was a wide table separating them with more than a few carry handguns laid out before her invitingly. They were all relatively handy and not too big, chosen to suit her. Though the girl didn't know their names, a reader's vision of the pistols might be clearer if they are described as something resembling two Smith & Wessons, a Springfield with an extended magazine, a nine-millimeter Taurus, and a lightweight Ruger. Arya had to suppress a burst of laughter when she noticed the mop was there too. Seriously, what was the point of this? It was ridiculous, but hey, as long as the choice was hers to make, it made no difference. She picked the nine-millie.

"Very well." Jaqen put the remaining ones aside to make free space on the wooden surface, and gestured Arya to sit beside him. "This one's very portable and easy to hide, so suitable for a girl to carry around."

The girl joined him and watched as he took the gun apart, explaining everything he did and checking if she was listening from time to time. "In usage it is simpler than a rifle. There's no chamber so a girl doesn't have to reload that often." He pressed a button on its grip and the magazine fell off. The man handed her a packet of bullets."Here. Load it."

The girl turned the container in her palm. Should be easy enough. Jaqen continued his instructions with a sound of latching little spring accompanying him. "But when it comes to targeting, the handgun is more tricky, because no precise aiming device comes with it. A girl will have to trust her eyes, and her gut. See, here's the thumb safety. When a girl is not using her gun she must keep the safety on, and that's the most important thing. A shot that is uncalled-for can make a lot more damage than a precisely aimed one. And that's the ejection port, which releases the used bullet case. Here's the rear sight, here's the hammer, the slide release, the muzzle..." And so on. Arya was sure she noticed something slightly off about him today. He tried to keep his mind put only in the present, focusing on the small, metal objects in his hands, but the girl could tell his mind was partly drifting away. To a place she would never see. Probably.

"Jaqen, what have you been doing yesterday after we parted?"

He lifted his gaze. Yes, he was a bit lost, slightly off-guard, but why? What was that he's been doing? Arya really wanted to know.

.

The fatman walked in. He was ready for striking a deal of his life. When he was told a foreign client wanted to meet him to arrange some private negotiations, the man's eyes glinted like shining coins of cold, as if he'd reached the seventh heaven. He's been thinking about the long row of zeroes the payment would include so restlessly, his cigar burned two times faster in his mouth, and he had to wipe the sweat from his forehead every ten meeting was to take place nowhere but in one of his hotels in the central part of the City. "He's waiting in the room 394" was what the receptionist had told him, having received the right instructions first. It was a room on the top floor, at the end of the hall, that one simply dripping with riches, baroque style. Who was this mysterious foreigner? And what could his conditions be? Ah, this made Glendon Hewett very excited. Throughout the years he's learned to see only the transaction and not the horror they left behind. The old man enjoyed being the boss of bosses, the man with the key to all doors. As he entered the room, he was ready for everything, and he's fulfill his client's every deranged need in an exchange for a sum that would be half of the Iron Bank's treasury, but he was not ready to find out that he himself was a client of a completely different sort.

No one was there, but Glendon did not see him with his narrow eyes. Instead, he glanced around, slightly confused, probably thinking; What is the meaning of this? He was supposed to be waiting here for me, not otherwise. There was a TV so large it almost covered up half of the western wall, which contrasted with the vintage design of the room. Choosing from a giant, king-sized bed and several sofas, the fatman chose to sit in an armchair with beautifully carved legs, that seemed to be placed there at the center just for him. Alright, he would wait, but only for a little while.

But then, suddenly the lights went off. Chandeliers hanging high, weaved with jewels, lampshades with golden stitchings — all useless. The man froze, alarmed, and he had no time even to wipe his forehead with a silken kerchief, for a swoosh of cold steel hit his ears and landed at his neck. He started to redden and whinge llike a pig for slaughter, but his movement was very limited, because of the dagger pressing to his skin. He could not see his attacker, only his gloved hand.

"S-sir, what's the haste?" He attempted to speak, voice shaky. "I'm sure we could reach an agreement." But the other man was silent as the god of Death himself, lot loosening his press against the fatman's neck even for a second. The TV screen lit up. What was Glendon to do but to watch? It was a camera recording. At first not much could be seen other than a young woman tied to a chair, but when three men walked into the picture, the trapped man started to panic. He knew at least one of them. They met about a month ago, and dear Gods, the room from that recording was exactly the one he found himself in right now. He could remember now. The client was a man who's just got out of prison (for what he'd been sentenced the Satin Palace's owner did not care then), and asked for a big accommodation far from others.

The recording kept on going, and every fifteen minutes into the torture, Glen found himself wishing the woman would be dead at last. Her body looked like one giant wound, and the more she screamed the more the men laughed. After an hour, Glen wished for his own death. His vision began to blur, and in a few seconds he'd puke all over himself. Oh, but the alternative was right there, wasn't it? It came in shape of an icy blade, patiently waiting for him to come to the right conclusion.'''

.

"Oh, nothing very interesting." was the assassin's reply. "Come now, we should get to the practical part." He and his apprentice got up from their seats, and he led her to stand in front of a few targets prepared before. They were like the ones at a shooting-gallery, but stationary, with many marks of previous usage on them.

"A girl should take her shooting position. Does she know how?"

"Umm..." Arya tried to think of all the movies with police officers she's seen, and added to it the skills she's learned yesterday, taking an overall satisfactory stand, with legs spread wide enough to keep her balance stronger on the left side, since it was the left hand bearing the gun, and the other only supported it. Jaqen circled the girl, nodding at her posture. Of course, he wouldn't be Jaqen H'ghat if he didn't make a couple changes by, for example, lifting her extended arm a few inches higher and ordering her to stand more straight with a few taps on her upper back. Arya noticed, with a dose of disappointment, that the contact he made with her just then was brief, almost... wary. As if every little touch could result by sending an electric shock through his nerves. How odd. In order not to put the blame for that on herself, the girl tried to convince herself it had something to do with last night. And partly, it was true.

But Jaqen tried not to think of the way he was ought to leave Glendon Hewett after his suicide. Avenge the suffering of my daughter. Make the man responsible for this beg for his own death. Make him realize his own cruelty. He's been a murderer of many, never bearing a weapon himself. That was a mourning father's request, and his wish has been fulfilled. The hitman could still see the fatman's blood on his hands, though he wore gloves all the time. How could these very same hands have the audacity to even brush past this lovely girl's skin?

"A girl already knows how to aim. Take a deep breath and hold it as the trigger is pulled. Remember it's just a small movement, keep the rest of your body still. And both eyes open."

Arya stood firm in her place, willing her shallow breaths to turn into deep and calm ones. The thick board made of she-had-no-idea-what shaped like a simplified human form did nothing to awake her anger. And for some reason the girl believed that it wouldn't go well this way. She imagined what looked like steamrollered Amory Lorch's head topping her target, marked with a tiny '10'. Now, that's better. bang! The girl felt the vibration run up and down her forearms, but surprisingly, she stood her ground.

"A shot in the thigh." The thigh? Damn you Amory, she was aiming for the head! "Not bad, the enemy's artery might be injured, but a man has dealt with quite a few delinquents who managed to chase him even then." Jaqen stood behind her, sounding like if he was passing the final judgment on her. But his voice was pleasant to her ear nonetheless. She wanted to turn her head. "If a girl wants only to disable her opponent that's where she shoots, but if not, then that won't do."

The girl tried to collect all the concentration her brain was capable of and imagined her arms were made of steel. bang! A pretty little drift of smoke flew out of the muzzle.

"Better." She wanted to look at him so bad. But, Seven Hells, why? He felt distant, that's why. "A shot in the stomach is usually enough, but with quick medical care or by good fortune it might not be lethal. A girl should perform a security shot then, meaning she should aim higher at the chest — heart or lungs."

bang! This one was clean. Amory would not have his right lung anymore if he were really there. Arya smiled briefly a wicked little smile, knowing it wouldn't be noticed. It was noticed, only she didn't know about it.

"Can we try with moving targets now?"

"No, evil child, not today. The future however, is filled with moving targets for a young assassin to take down. Try with another board. Again."

Today, after a couple shooting sessions more, the Faceless Man gave his apprentice a homework. A real homework. No joke. When Arya saw him desperately trying to hold back a yawn, she understood that he's been up literally all night. And he wanted to give her a task that would not require hiss assistance, because he simply had to take a nap. Or at least that's what she was convinced it was and Gods take her if she was wrong.

He wanted her to count all the doors on the first floor, and find her own knowing it was the twentieth to the right. Good to know that pointless tasks were given at least daily to young apprentices, really good to know. Twentieth to the right, okay, but starting from where? The corridor made a full rectangle, while the only characteristic point that divided its one side were the huge stairs leading to upper floors. The first logical thing Arya did, and thought she was supposed to, was to choose the southern hallway starting at that spot, and then count the doors on her right. It didn't work. The room was locked.

The second logical thing that popped into her mind was to move all the way back and start from the other side. It did not work. That's when she started to get frustrated, and it is known just how fast frustration can take over Arya Stark. She walked in circles, cussing under her breath, she was lost, so, so lost. With no one there to help her, and when only shaking each handle with hope it would give in was left, the girl was of mind she'd be grateful even if the Waif showed up. One door after another, she didn't even know if she'd tried these ones or not. Minutes turned into hours, and she was hopeless, lost in a maze of doors. When the black and white started to blend before her, she decided it would be the best moment to stop. But it wasn't really a decision, since she had nothing else to do.

She sat in the main hall, watching the sky turn orange, and then red through the skylight. Well, why the heck not, she thought and came down to lay directly underneath it on the comfy carpet. She didn't care for the cold, or for anything to be specific. She simply watched the square sky above her, trying to put her mind to rest. Arya's never tried meditation before. Maybe it was really as good as the ads said? Even if not, a calm little moment like that never hurt nobody, right? Besides, what other choice did she have?

Calm as still water...

Quiet as a shadow...

You're No One...

You're Nothing...

"Who are you?" Asked someone from a place she could not locate as her eyelids were shut. He sounded ancient. Maybe the force has answered her, who knows.

"No One." She replied, kind of freaked out by how empty her voice was just then.

"Hm, just so." Wait. It was actually a someone. A person! But not Jaqen nor the Waif! Arya lifted herself up in an instant, scanning her surroundings for the source of that unknown voice. "Who is this?"

"Up here, child." There was a man hidden in the shadows. Arya could see the shade of his hunched silhouette watching her from the second floor. Guessing by the gruff tone he was old. Really old. The girl was frozen in her spot. Was this supposed to happen? "Come up now, we need to talk. Do not be afraid."

Usually when someone says that it means a girl should be afraid. Maybe she should be afraid indeed.

Chapter Text

The old man at the top of the stairs continued to gaze at Arya, but it wasn't a hastening stare or a vicious one. It was calm and warm, and really just... kind. Just the kind of stare that made the girl think He has a kindly face. And a kindly face must belong to a kindly man. Can you fake such manner? She didn't think that possible. As she got closer, she saw he was leaning heavily on a cane, and (careful, cause this one's a shocker) he was dressed all in white. Normally, there wouldn't be anything that weird about it, but it just suited him in a way she couldn't describe. Perhaps she got the impression because his hair was so hoary it might easily pass for white, and his complexion was also really pale. It looked kind of like he's been left to swim in a pool of bleach until all the color got drained out of him. But even in dim light the Kindly Man seemed more like a good angel rather than someone to be afraid of. Arya did not fear him. However, she feared breaking the promise given to Jaqen.

"I'm not supposed to be wandering up there on my own." When she looked up at the Kindly Man, she felt smaller and even more childish than usual. Just this first impression he made on her granted that there were so many secrets and experiences known only to him, that they could be neatly arranged in his mind like books at the Citadel. For some reason the girl knew this man was to be treated with respect.

"Oh, but you are left on your own entirely, is that not so?"

Something in the way he shaped his words reminded her of Jaqen... Perhaps that was one of the reasons she didn't throw some defensive remark on him straight away. He lived here, she supposed, but how come she's spent so much time here without acknowledging it?

"It shall be no more." He continued. "Come, lost one. I believe there are matters we need to discus."

"We?" Arya blurted out, surprised. Who was she to discuss anything with this ghostly stranger? This same one, who looked down at her as if she found herself in just the right place at the right time, which Arya doubted. Well, at least he did not speak in third person.

"Just so." The old man replied, turning to go, and the girl felt obliged to follow. Though as she placed her feet at the soft, white carpet splayed on the great black stairs, her steps were unsure. What will Jaqen think of this? Will there be any... unpleasant consequences? No matter whether there would be or not, Arya reached the second floor keeping up with the repetitive sound of the bottom of a cane clicking against the floor. Oddly so, the Kindly Man's steps made no sound at all, and now she knew he was actually shorter than her. Who knows, maybe he was in fact a ghost. The thought made the apprentice shiver if only slightly.

"Who are you?" She asked, hoping the reply would not be the one expected of her. Maybe she'd find some answers where the stranger led her. He stopped, considering her question, his colorless eyes focusing at something deeper into the corridor. Arya did so as well, and it took her a while to figure out what she was looking at.

"I could tell you, I suppose. But as far as I'm concerned you didn't come here to gather information, but to serve."

A thin, confused line appeared between Arya's brows.

"I came here to learn to be a Faceless Man." When Jaqen spoke about it, or Sandor, or the Waif, the term seemed normal to her, but now it appeared to the girl just how weird that sentence sounded. Had someone from the life she left behind heard her, they'd surely think she's gone crazy. The Kindly man smiled.

"All the same."

The main difference Arya noticed in this part of the House was that the walls weren't bare. It was just the opposite actually, because anywhere she looked, her eyes met with the most beautiful creations. Ancient cities in refined detail, gardens and trees with faces of hollows like open mouths, castles so majestic and grand, of towers reaching up to the sky, all displayed like properties of an art gallery. The artworks looked like windows until Arya got so close her nose almost touched the paper, and she could distinguish the artist's skillful strokes. The girl was amazed by how like fantasy concepts they were, but also seemed oddly familiar.

She got so lost in admiration, she hasn't noticed when the Kindly Man got far ahead of her.

"Where are all these from? They're mesmerizing." Arya wanted to know, keeping up with her soundless-walking guide.

"You flatter me child, but know those are pieces long forgotten and useless. The dreams of my youth... Elusive and fragile like a dream of spring. I have simply no place to keep them in."

"Wait. So these are... These are yours? Wow, I mean..." She scanned the works of art again. Why in the Seven Hells was she not allowed here? Her gray eyes've never seen something quite like it. "Just wow. It must've taken you ages to finish all of them."

"Not longer spending a lifetime within these walls."

The theme started to change. Bright landscapes gave place to battle scenes. Knights in armors jeweled with red shiny gemstones, bearing long silver swords and missiles with emblems Arya's mind struggled to describe, because not much could be seen among all the fire and blood. But for a while she focused at another piece, which seemed slightly out of place. It showed three cloaked men standing above a patchwork of endless, stone passageways arranged in an enormous maze. The men wore their hoods low, and they covered their eyes entirely with straps of thick material. It drew Arya's attention immediately, and she just had to get a closer look. At the bottom she noticed a tiny inscription, saying: 'Priests of the Blind God among the mazes of Lorath'.

Wait, Lorath? Arya let out a silent disbelieving gasp as her fingers wandered up to trace an invisible underline below these words.

"Jaqen told me he was from Lorath." She voiced her thoughts, not quite purposefully.

"Jaqen?" The Kindly man sounded surprised somewhere deeper in the hallway. The girl quickly jumped away from the picture as if having woken up from a daze, and looked ahead to meet the old man's stare with worry, fearing she's just said something she shouldn't. But the eyes that stared back at her were as kind as before, a little curious even.

"Um..." The faceless-girl-in-training hesitated. She kept forgetting that the name she called her teacher by was not his actual name. Was there a way to explain this without it being awkward? Fortunately, the Kindly Man didn't need an explanation. He pointed towards the artwork with his cane.

"It is not something you learn about at history classes, but it is true. The same goes to all." The cane's end moved, gesturing at its owner's works. Feeling no need for further expanding the topic, the man finally stood before two-winged, large doors and opened them, inviting Arya in.

The place wasn't just a single room like Arya's, but it was a whole apartment with a small kitchen and living room. The girl could also see what appeared to be a workshop tucked in the corner, and that was the only part of the entire house she's noticed that wasn't impeccably neat. White walls surrounding the easel, placed there in a way that prevented anyone who came in from seeing the piece in progress, were marked with gray traces all over them, and the floor beneath it showed dry drips of paint, which obviously was not going to come off. It felt really nice seeing some imperfection in the House. Arya appreciated the fact that actual humans lived here as well, not only faceless shadows. And there was one more thing the girl adored about this house within a house. A TV! The Kindly Man had a bloody TV! It was left turned on when they entered, and a pang of frustration pricked her little greedy brain. Why didn't she have a TV?

"Make yourself at home. Tea? Coffee?" Alright, you're kind I get it. But this? This is too much!

"Uh, I'll have some tea. Thank you." Maybe this was as close to getting a magical fairy godmother as one could get?

When a steaming cup of a particularly aromatic tea was laid on the glass coffee table before her, and the old man took his seat opposite the girl, practically sinking in the coziest sofa in Essos then it was the time to finally get into the matter.

"Now, pray tell, how did you find your way to the House of Black and White?" Arya felt interrogated but at the same time she didn't. It was... strange.

"A... a man led me in."

"This I assume. But I also wonder if it wasn't just the way around. That day, when I heard your steps as you entered, those to come in first weren't familiar. They were yours I believe, followed by the ones I know far too well. It was you, who brought our assassin home and what I want to know is how."

The girl was impressed. This question was way more complex than she'd expect.

"You heard our steps?"

"I've spent my entire life here, child. I've learned each and every little sound this house makes, so yes, I did hear you, but the time for your questions is not now. Tell me."

"What?"

"Everything."

And so she told him everything. How she attempted to escape the horrors that crept into her life, and how she met a very charming homeless man on the train, who was later saved by her. How she was held hostage and tied to a bed in a place where she could see nothing but red and gold and faces of the men she hated. She told the old man about the negotiations she had with Death itself in the dark of the night and how they escaped before the manse melted to the ground. The only thing Arya decided not to bring up was her list, which she recited every night before sleep ever since. Something told her it would be better to keep it for herself. By the time she was finished, her tea's already lost its warmth.

Usually the Stark girl wasn't the one to babble mindlessly about everything that happened recently, or the one to simply talk things out of herself to feel better, but now she was surprised by how relieved her confessions made her feel.

The Kindly Man listened to everything she said eagerly, not missing even the smallest detail, and when she was done, he leaned forward with his elbows resting against his knees and willed his voice into a more serious tone.

"Does anyone from the outside know about this? About the House of Black and White? About your companion? Not even about the destination of the ship that took you here?"

Arya shook her head.

"Is there anyone, who'd search for you had they known you're alive?"

The little she-wolf bent her head down like a ridiculed child mindlessly. Was there anyone who still cared? Well, most of her relatives were slaughtered, no doubt about that. But there was still Jon and Sansa. Her half-brother might've actually come after her, but the two haven't heard from each other for ages. She couldn't contact him, and he couldn't contact her. There was no way they could find one another. And Sansa? Arya was of mind that her sister was busy with her own survival right now.

"I... I don't think so."

"Hm." The man mused, his limpid features easing up a bit, his thoughts making his tight lips press into a hard line.

"Well, I can definitely see why my pupil has developed such faith in your... abilities, but to decide on bringing you here was the most unusual of him. What were his motivations, I wonder."

"His help means so much to me, I owe him a lot." Suddenly her voice became smaller, more vulnerable. "You see, I had no one to turn to, nowhere else to go."

"You had everywhere else to go. And the risk he took to do what he thought was keeping you safe was irresponsible and unprofessional. This is not how one becomes Faceless. And the House is no place for a girl with such an eventful history as yours."

Arya was shocked by the change in him. This man of kind features was now saying things that the girl's been trying to deny all this thought she's just found an ally, but apparently everyone here had to have the same opinion as the Waif. Was following him even a good idea? Maybe she was not allowed to do so for a good reason. Crap!

"Don't get me wrong, child, you're not my guest but his, and so I won't interfere." He continued. "It is not my desire to cast you off, I wish you no harm. But if there is one thing I want you to keep in mind it's this;" With that, the old man leaned even further over the coffee table, his almost-white eyes piercing her gray ones. "Obedience is a choice. Remember this. Always. And choose wisely."

A long silence followed the Kindly Man's advice, as Arya tried to figure out what he actually meant by it. Was this a suggestion that she should defy her teacher at some point? Or was this an encouragement to complete her training no matter what? No. This sounded just like what the girl intended to do, and what the old man was clearly against.

"You said this is not the way one becomes Faceless. What is then?" She was bold enough to break the stillness between the two, to which the man in front of her answered by shrugging almost unnoticeably as if dusting off the heavy atmosphere that's grown thick around them. Even his features went mild, as if they had always been that way. But when he spoke it wasn't just an equivocal reply.

"You know the name one takes while deciding to live under this roof, I'm convinced."

She did, of course.

"No One."

"Just so." His lips broke into a smile. "And that is what you have yet to become. What you are not. And what makes your case such an oddity is that everyone that came before you were that already. They were No One, so they came here to serve. You're serving because you want to become No One. Which is practically impossible. If that's truly what you want, then there is a long road ahead of you, but only if you're strong enough to tread it."

It's practically impossible because everyone here doubts me! I'm sick of being told what I am and what I'm not, or where I do not belong...

"How does that work? Was..." She had to bite back the name she almost pronounced again. "...was the assassin No One as well? Why did he come here? Where did he come from? Did you train him?" The hope of getting at least some of her questions answered burned within her with a bright flame, which chased her doubts away to a distant shelf in her mind, for later.

"You are a curious little thing, aren't you?" The girl saw the three little lines that appeared in the corners of his colorless eyes when he smiled. "Well, to most of your questions I cannot give you the answers, I'm afraid."

Well, at least I tried.

"It is a delicate matter for your teacher, or 'Jaqen' as you'd called him, and I don't think he'd be glad if I revealed them to you."

A man does not speak of his past. Yeah, she was probably wishing for too much.

"But what I can tell you is that no, I didn't train him. Not in the way he trains you at least. The education I gave him was less... deadly. But had a deadly aftermath nonetheless. I taught him all that the braavosi forgot about; this temple, the acolytes of the House of Black and White, the Faceless Men and the cult of Him of Many Faces. I always preferred devotion to the history that's already been made to making it. And to my very delight, he was fascinated by my tales. Truly, utterly fascinated to the point, where he wanted to continue the ancient practices of this House. I remember the times when the air was soaked with the smell of rot, and rats thrived on it, that was before he became what he is now. I remember the look on his face when on crucial day he walked into my room, and said 'I just killed a man.'"

Those few last words made Arya's neck and arms shake from the flood of icy shivers. And that was just a glimpse, a mere flicker of the story. Her desire to learn more increased immensely in that little moment, but she knew she shouldn't push the Kindly Man. She tried something different instead.

"And the Waif? Can you tell me more about her?"

"Well... yes. There is no reason of keeping her story from you. It is no secret, despite all, and your ears have already heard way more than they should."

Finally! Gods, don't let this moment be interrupted!

"So, where do I begin?"

"At the beginning, I'd suggest." Arya said with a little smile of victory on her lips, careful not to urge the old man. He hesitated for a while, picking his words deliberately.

"When I first saw her, she was no more but a girl playing at the temple's doorstep. I took little notice of her, thinking she'd be gone before the sun sets as kids do, but that's not what happened. That girl of age eight or maybe nine has been in this very same spot for over a week ever since she arrived, and each day as I went for a walk I passed her by, never saying a word. I decided to give her time to reconsider her choosing of playground. Children are very prone to peeking into places they shouldn't be, and the temple was just as much a crumbling mess as it is now. I waited. And truth is I didn't really know what to do with her. Day and night she would be there waiting as well, Gods only know what for, and she was all alone. As the days went on I noticed she's been talking to our assassin, who was younger than her and already lived under my roof." Wait, what? She's actually older than him? What? "I always advised him about the risk of talking to strangers, but I couldn't keep him on a leash and eventually he and the girl grew quite fond of each other. I knew how lonely the boy was, and for this reason only I let myself tolerate their meetings. That is, until he came to me, asking if we could keep the girl. If we could take her in.

I have to admit my reaction was harsher than I'd like it to be. I threw her out myself, ordering her not to ever come back. You must think me heartless, don't you, child?"

Arya looked up, suddenly driven away from her thoughts. She's been trying to figure out how old were the two now. The fact that the Waif was older than her teacher didn't quite settle in her brain yet.

"Why, no. You surely had your reasons. I know how... unsympathetic she can be."

"Just so. But she is also persistent. Very persistent. The morning after I gladly returned to the House seeing no sign of the girl near the temple, I was simply taken aback by what I saw as I entered the main hall. She was sitting at the House's roof, staring down at me through the skylight. I still don't know how she did it, but she's discovered our hideout. I had no other choice but to let her in. And as much as I felt frustrated by then, the boy was delighted. After some time he even started calling her 'sister' and she returned the gesture by calling him 'brother'. That is what they became, in fact, they grew up together, here. They used to be very close, and always argued twice as eagerly as real siblings would. But now it changed, they are children no more. Though they still argue like ones.

A couple years had to pass before I learned the truth abut this peculiar, doe-eyed girl.

She was an orphan living in a children's home for most of her childhood. Not particularly liked, let alone cared for. But there came a day when a newlywed couple, unable of having children of their own decided to cut her woe short. They adopted her. I imagine there is no greater happiness for a child in her position. But after a month or so they changed their mind. The couple didn't want a doe-eyed girl no more. They wanted a boy.

Having learned about her new parents' plan, that nine-year-old girl served them a poison of her own making in their morning coffee right before they managed to drag her to the car that was supposed to take her back to the orphanage. Again, I have no clue how she did it.

When she came to us, she had no idea who she was anymore. There wasn't a place she belonged to. She was No One."

Arya was speechless. Shocked. Impressed. Bitter. But nonetheless glad she's learned something about the gloomy woman. That at least she's gained a sense of understanding for her. But this... She would've never guessed what the Waif had to go through to get here.

Throughout the Kindly Man's tale she's shrunk, tucked in the corner of the sofa. No wonder Jaqen loved his tales. The man had a gift, the Stark girl had to admit. For a moment she forgot all about the rest of the world. What time was it? Probably late, but she couldn't really tell because of the lack of windows. Before she spoke, she needed time to let all the information settle in her mind, the flickering of the light-bulbs and the TV, which was on all this time were the only sounds that filled the room.

"Thank you." She managed to speak up at last. "Thank you, I really mean it. I wouldn't have learned any of this if you haven't invited me in. And I wouldn't have seen your art."

"Despite everything, you do have a kind soul child. And kind souls should support one another, correct?" The Kindly Man asked, sending her a look of sympathy. But why did he seem sad? The girl nodded briefly in reply, returning his look.

"And I have to admit it is a nice thing to see a new, young face in a place so hollow. Since we've been speaking of the Waif, I think she should arrive soon with dinn-"

A knock on the door interrupted him.

"Oh, there she is. Please, do come in!"

The door creaked open, but the person who walked in was not the Waif. The apprentice let out a silent hiss as her lungs took a brief, sharp breath in. Throughout the time they spent together, Arya has learned to sense him around, to know how the steps he makes differ from others'. She didn't need to turn her head to know it was Jaqen.

"A man apologizes to interrupt, but the-" The Faceless Man never finished his sentence. He just stared at the profile of the girl he's managed to have lost, the girl who was just as still as him now, caught on act of disobeying his orders.

She waited for his reaction, frozen.

"You... What is the meaning of this? What has a man told a girl? Has she not listened?!" It was the first time he raised a voice at her, and with each word she seemed to become smaller. She didn't know what to say. She has acted against him, that was the truth, but she didn't do it at her own will completely. The Kindly Man should answer for this charge as well.

"There's no need for anger. Have I not taught you control?" The old man tried to ease Jaqen's nerves with the calmness of his own, but it didn't do much good.

"A man has given a girl a warning. And here she is, right where she should not be! She chose to disobey!"

'Obedience is a choice' While she tried not to focus at the hopelessness of her current situation, the girl managed to distinguish a thin layer of fear in her teacher's voice. She still dared not look him in the eye, but she knew that anger was not the only factor here.

"The girl has done nothing wrong. It was I who convinced her to come here, though she did try to shy away and fend me off. I take the full responsibility of her presence here." The Kindly Man spoke mildly, as if to a fretful child. "And what were the causes of your order, I wonder. You wanted to keep your apprentice hidden from my eyes and ears, but that is not likely, this you should know."

Now the Faceless Man was the one to remain silent, and it made Arya confident enough to raise her eyes at him. His jaw was tense, and he kept his stare glued to some distant place unknown to her. The positions have switched. He couldn't win with the Kindly Man just as Arya couldn't win with him. It was an unusual thing to see, and it made the Stark girl want to show her teacher that she sympathised with what he felt at the moment, but there was not much she could do.

"Your silence proves my assumptions right. I'm very eager to hear all your explanations."

Jaqen made a displeased face, as if he was trying to swallow something particularly sour, but then he surrendered and nodded.

"Wait here, child." The old man told her, standing up. He took his cane in hand and headed to limp into another room, taking the girl's teacher with him. And that is how the poor thing was left alone again, nervously biting her nails. Something told her that things would be different from now on, and she didn't like that at all. And what vexed her the more was that there was nothing she could do about it. She could only wait for the verdict. Surely, Jaqen's position here was not an easy one either. Well, life can't be all fun and games when crime is a big part of it, and in both their cases it was. Arya was aware, that to be as successful as the assassin was you had to follow certain rules, and that the Lorathi has broken them for her sake. Should she feel guilty? Hells, no! He was a merciless killer, he wouldn't have taken her with him had he not wanted to... Right?

The girl-that-tried-not-to-be-Arya could partly hear their conversation from behind closed door.

"...this is not rescue, this is kidnapping... ...you think I don't watch the news... ...are looking for her... ...putting us all in danger..."

"... knows, but it doesn't matter... ...have to understand, a man can't... ...the girl is more, than just..."

"...worried about you... ...managed to keep it a secret, and now..."

Maybe she did not want to hear it at all? It made the knot in her stomach tighten almost painfully. No, she's had enough of feeling misplaced, always a piece of different puzzle, put into a reality she didn't belong in.

She tried to focus on the TV instead. She always hated it when her father would switch the canal where her favorite show aired just to watch the evening news, but she didn't think of it as she watched the local news right now, focusing stubbornly on the screen without really watching the program. It was only when a particularly disturbing image flashed before her eyes, that she finally decided to actually get what the news lady was talking about.

"...took place yesterday night. Glendon Hewett, the owner himself was murdered in one of the hotel rooms."

The pictures that appeared before Arya's eyes showed an overweight man in an overly colorful suit, with his throat slit, and the inscription written in bloody letters on the wall, directly above the armchair his corpse was left in. MURDERER. Wait, did she say last night? The girl quickly grabbed the pilot and turned the volume up.

"The case of that disturbing recording remains unsolved, and the suspect unknown due to the lack of evidence. Since the feral night, the police's frequently been receiving anonymous denunciations, providing information about the illegal operations of the assassinated man..."

The scattered pieces of information began to connect with the right assumptions in Arya's head, and then finally it all clicked into place. The riddle of her teacher's night escapade was solved.

The next morning, the apprentice got up earlier than was expected of her. She didn't know if she was allowed to leave the House in her flee time if she pleased, but she didn't care. Especially after the conversation she had with Jaqen after they left the second floor yesterday. If that was how things were supposed to be, then she should stop being an indecisive little pawn in this game and finally start acting on her own will. And where did she go as she left through the giant doors of black and white? She went to the very same spot she visited on the first day of her training. Not the rooftop of course, but the streets. She searched for that single flower, that pretty little nasturtium she planted near the sidewalk to keep it alive.

And she found it untouched, waiting for her return and resting safely under the unfortunate balcony. It didn't brighten her mood though. Her lips continued to mumble under her breath, letting her frustration be voiced as her fingers dug in the ground.

"Why didn't you tell me about last night? I know what you've done. How can you go to make a hit without telling me?"

"It is not a man's duty to report to the girl about everything he does. This is his work, and his work is not a girl's concern." Cold as stone, still bitter after the talk with the Kindly Man.

"But I could help you! I thought we were supposed to be training! I thought..."

"What? What did a girl think?"

"I thought we could be like... partners in crime."

"Ah, foolish child, that we are not. You're not ready."

"What do you mean I'm not ready? The best way to train is to practice, you said so yourself. I proved my abilities a good couple of times, I can handle myself. I would not disappoint you."

"Oh, but a girl already has. This very evening."

"Don't say that. It wasn't my fault! You should've told me what I was dealing with in the first place! Am I unworthy of an explanation?"

"A girl is not unworthy. She's not ready."

"When will she be ready?"

"When the time comes."

"Ugh, bullshit! Admit that you keep me in the dark not because you have to, but because you don't really want me to know! You've changed your mind, haven't you? You don't want me to be Faceless! This act is just stalling for time!"

Yes, she has lost control of her words then. But what pained her the most was that after she laid out her emotions before him, her fear of being rejected, of ending up alone... He said nothing. Completely nothing. He just kept his mask on. Emotionless.

And before she went to sleep, before she began reciting the names from her list, Arya felt empty again. And it was an awful feeling. She was trying to tell herself that this would pass, that this was just this one time, and soon Jaqen will be Jaqen again... But how could she be sure?

The earth was leaving dark, wet smears on her palms and wrists, as the flower's roots began to give in. This was her first idea for decorating her room. She wanted this very flower to be standing on her desk, to at least please her eye and lift her spirits up in this hopeless situation she's managed to throw herself into. Adding something of color to the decor of her room would be a fairly innocent act of defiance, the one she would not give up.

And so she dug deeper and deeper until she was sure her fingers wouldn't damage the plant in any way by pulling it out, and placed it in a pot she's stolen from the nearest parapet in her reach on her way here. Happy to have accomplished her little task, Arya got up from her knees and turned to head back to the temple.

But then, Seven Hells and the Heavens above, she nearly dropped the pot as she looked up.

A large pig snout of a nose. Small, narrow eyes. Bald, and with the expression of the biggest son of a bitch that's ever existed. Amory Lorch. Standing on the balcony right above her head, with an ugly grimace on his face.

The girl's blood boiled up, her hands started to shake. Not once in her life has she ducked to hide so quickly. He has not noticed her. It was very early in the morning and he probably just woke up and went out for a cigarette. Arya could hear his heavy footfall above her head.

That bastard. That prick. That damned motherfucker!

She shrugged, suppressing her anger as much as she could and snuck alongside the building until she could disappear quickly behind the corner. Her heart was a furious, thumping drum as she picked up at her pace, desperate to get away and not let malice take over. Amory Lorch was in Braavos. Right here. Right now. Did he know she was here as well? Did he bring any of his friends with him?

These things Arya didn't know. But she did know what she had to do. What honor demanded of her.

Chapter Text

There was a change in her, he noticed it. It wasn't really that obvious, and anyone other than Jaqen H'ghar would probably pay it no mind. But Jaqen's been paying as much mind to her as never before, now that guilt prowled in his mind. He didn't let her notice it, of course, but he observed her every little change of mood, every look, every grimace and smile, though there weren't many smiles that would brighten up her heart-shaped face lately. And it was all because of the Kindly Man. Well, not all, the old artist was just a reminder in this case. A reminder, that the assassin has already chosen his path and there was no going back now, no straying, or he'd get completely lost. A reminder that the danger didn't disappear as she was invited to stay in the House, that if he was to teach her to become Faceless, he should teach her right. And that meant no attachments, no new bonds between the two should come into the picture. Attachment is weakness, and besides, No One does not get attached to anyone. No One does not hate, and No One does not love. There is only service and death, nothing else. And this way she would be safe, just as he was, having no identity, having no one and nothing to lose. It might seem a miserable life to a commoner, but it actually provided possibilities a normal citizen couldn't even dream of. In a world of binding titles and positions, social roles assigned to one without their willful agreement, getting rid of all those liabilities was true freedom. And Arya Stark still could have that freedom, right? He was ought to give it to her, and that was the only right thing to do.

However, the temptation to do just the opposite was strong. Stronger than ever. Especially when the quiet voice in his head kept on sayingIt's too late, it's too late, too late for changes. The damage's already been done, and there's nothing you can do.

But the Lorathi was stubborn. He managed to convince himself there was still hope, that he's not stepped off his path yet, and that he'd do what is best for both the girl and for him.

The contumacious, part of him was most amused by this decision. For how could he think this was best for her?

Jaqen did everything to keep her training a stern challenge, and nothing more than that. Practice always kept her busy, but she never complained, not even when the dark circles underlining her eyes were close to resembling bruises. As to why they appeared, it truly puzzled the man. The girl was given enough time for rest, and yet she was constantly tired. Maybe he wasn't the only one who hasn't been sleeping well lately... He was sure that when he'll have his apprentice work with his sister on certain methods of poisoning, which was a very useful skill by the way, that this would be the critical point. That this fierce little embodiment of chaos that was Arya Stark would finally burst and give him a piece of her mind.

It did not happen. She was obedient as a puppy and took every command with stillness worthy of a Faceless Man, to his very disappointment.It's happening. he thought. She has a mask of her own now. It was obvious that he should feel proud, happy even, because of the partial success of the undertaking, but in fact the only thing the assassin could feel was worry crawling all over his brain and body with its spidery legs. He was losing her. But it isn't about you, it's about her. She is supposed to lose herself, that is rather the point. This was it, wasn't it? This was what they'd been aiming for from the very start, is that not right?

If the years spent in the shadows, hiding behind a face that was not his own at all had taught him anything, it had nothing to do with knowing what feels right and what doesn't.

Today he stood before her with a new weapon, a handful of them actually. And he chose it for a reason, hoping she would as well. Today was meant to be a test of his own invention, designed to verify if her new mask of no emotion was volatile or settled.

His lovely girl arrived with the Waif as usual, announced by the echo of her heels clacking against the floor. Her face was perfectly clear of emotion, her gray eyes looking confidently ahead but not connecting with his. She even moved differently now, ridding herself of almost all the carelessness her attitude used to be so overtaken with, though Jaqen seemed to notice it just now, when it was no more. It looked as if her each step was calculated, and it was just... unfitting.

This is not right.

He tried to catch her gaze, but he couldn't.

"Today a girl is given the chance to train with knives." The man began, while nodding dismissively at the Waif. "Does she take it?"

"She does." Said the apprentice without hesitation. They've also been addressing each other as 'a man' and 'a girl' both now. After the feral evening spent at the second floor she stopped using his name. ...He missed the sound of it.

She picked one of the knives laid out before her on the very same table that was used to display hand guns before, and began to twist it in her palm, her fingers gently brushing the shining blade. For a few seconds Jaqen expected her to ask questions as she used to, but she only stood there and waited for instructions. How very un-Arya-like.

This is not right.

"Before we start, a man would ask one thing of a girl."

"Anything." She replied, still not quite looking him in the eye. No questioning stares, no lip-biting, no nervous fidgeting, no curiosity. He still hasn't gotten used to that kind of attitude from her, but can he be blamed? This wasn't her. She might've taken his words about her not being ready a bit too serious just as he might've been a total ass for saying it just then. Just you wait. That invisible shield she carries will break in a minute. The facade will fall. Arya will be Arya...

This is not right.

"Stand there, with your back against the board." The man pointed to one of the human-shaped shooting targets across the training room. Arya's eyebrows furrowed slightly, but that was all that happened before she followed her teacher's command and headed towards the riddled board two times her size. On the contrary, it was Jaqen who hesitated. He thought that would be enough to receive at least a confused look, but maybe his plan wasn't going to work out as he presumed.

The assassin took three long knives in hand, walking up to stand opposite the girl that's just made herself into a living target. His icy stare scanned her as he tested one of the knives' weight by flipping it a couple times.

"Do not move an inch." She was already still when he said it, but after the first strike it was very possible that she might change her mind. Only No One wouldn't. But this is still Arya. It has got to be. One can't become Faceless in a matter of a couple weeks.

The man took his position, clenching the handle so hard his knuckles went white. He focused at her body, choosing the right place to strike, and she was still so calm...

An abrupt movement. A flicker of light reflecting on the cold, sharp surface. A breath sucked in.

Thud! About five inches away from her arm. Jaqen's pulse quickened, teeth gritted. No reaction from Arya whatsoever. She didn't even flinch.

This is not right.

Again. He ran his free hand through his hair trying to keep the loose strands away from his view, before reaching for another knife. This time had to be closer, measured more carefully. If stares could be expressed in words, Jaqen's would say "Do you really trust a man as much, lovely girl? Or is that not a matter of trust at all?" He wanted her to look at him, he really did. But Arya didn't have the ability to read his thoughts, and did just the opposite by closing her eyes. The assassin's question has already been answered before. 'I trust you.'

Thud! Thud! One after another the blades pierced the target, one landing just above the girl's head, cutting the few hairs in its reach, the other at the side of her neck. Too close. The apprentice opened her eyes and touched the spot where the clod nib kissed her skin. It was barely a scratch, but her fingertips were red when she examined them as if they weren't her own. As if the blood wasn't hers. No anger, no shock, no reproach. Just stillness.

Jaqen felt defeated as he stood there with empty hands hanging hopelessly at his sides.

She managed to suffocate her instincts and did as she was told. This is a quality of a Faceless one, which means she's closer to fulfilling her training. It means that the time has come for you to make a step further. To teach her the art of becoming someone else. Everything finally starts to work out right.

No, it wasn't right. But it was the only way to keep her at his side, the only way to keep her safe. There were oaths and debts made, but above all Jaqen just didn't want to lose her, and that's the reason she now stood nearly pinned to the target board with red fingertips.

But then why did the man feel as if he were losing her right now? If the whole process was for the greater good, why was he so full of regret?

Arya's hand was caught in movement and squeezed at the wrist at an angle that made her drop her weapon and bend forward with an arched back and a brief curse on her lips.

"And now a girl is dead." She felt the tip of the longest knife they've tried yet press against her stomach and stop just in time not to cause any harm. Her teacher deprived her of it and used it to his advantage. A brilliant technique, but she wasn't sure she had enough skill to perform it herself. "She's bleeding inside and the blade's been dug so deep, only its handle sticks out of her stomach." Had she rushed forward with enough pressure this might just be true. "Bearing a weapon does not grant her advantage, she should remember that." Arya recoiled back, and he let her, returning her the knife and putting back on his guard.

A few weeks ago the girl might have feared her attacks would hurt him, but now none of that fear was left in her. She charged at him with all the strength and reflex her body could contain, slicing the air with the knife, knowing he'll block it or dodge it a split-second before she strikes. Over time, it became quite clear to her that Jaqen was completely out of her range, and truth be told it did make things easier. She didn't have to hold back anymore. They moved for a while in a dance of attack and defense until she got bored with the chase and decided to try to outsmart him.

Arya aimed the pointy extension of her left hand high at his throat as he'd advised her the other day, and the assassin even managed to send her a one-sided smirk, letting her know just how predictable were her moves before he ducked, quick as a snake. But what he didn't expect was a spirited kick aimed at his lower abdomen. The element of surprise was Arya's favorite tool in a duel, and it seemed to finally work. Plus, the advantage of wearing heels is inestimable. Jaqen stumbled back and for the first time he was sent to the ground right on his backside. The girl didn't hesitate for a second and lunged forward with her weapon leading the way. She was sure she had him, finally! had him, but he merely smiled before her hopes were turned down by a single swing of his leg. Arya's lost her balance and her victorious lunge turned into an ungraceful fall. Her knees bumped against his, and the tip of the blade nearly went through her teachers eye socket as he gripped both her forearms. The apprentice couldn't really tell when did the world make a sudden turn by about a hundred and eighty degrees, it happened too quickly, but she did definitely feel her back hitting the training mattress on which she was standing a couple heartbeats ago, and a blunt jolt pain at the back of her skull. How many times has she hit the ground since she started her training? Too many, probably. She did also feel something weighting her down quite powerfully as each of her wrists got pinned to the ground at her sides.

Jaqen H'ghar was leaning over her with an inscrutable expression, not letting himself be outsmarted at all. Ah, at least she tried. But she still hasn't dropped her knife. The girl attempted to struggle away, but it was of no use for her hips were successfully jammed in between his thighs. A sudden realization hit her probably harder than a fist would, as the adrenaline started wearing off.

"That won't do." His murmur made her drag her eyes to his face looming over hers, and their eyes finally met. Damnit, Arya! After all this time... You stood still as he was literary throwing daggers at you, and you can't keep a straight face because of a moment of closeness! This cannot be! She's been succeeding at her act of emotionlessness for quite some time now, a task she's set up for herself after Jaqen had told her she disappointed him, and pointed out her not being ready. So she's been observing him, his habit of putting on a blank mask, and tried to mimic the manner, which came out pretty well. Better than she'd expected actually, and she'd do anything to prove him wrong. So all this could not be ruined just because he had her caged under him! No, sir, not today. "Perhaps a girl didn't notice, but she's clearly in a losing position."

It was particularly hard willing her face to be indifferent while his was so dominantly amused. And there were also things she could not control like the strange feeling awakening in her core, or her pupils going wide, which he noticed for sure, because since he's caught her gaze he never let it go.

"And what could a man possibly do?" Her voice was steady. Good. "Both his hands are occupied, and a girl's knife is ready to strike once a chance appears."

Just as the words left her mouth, the grip on her forearms tightened, and Arya had to grit her teeth not to bite her lip. Jaqen cocked his head, deliberately taking his time to consider the right answer to her question. It was almost like... like if he was doing that on purpose. So many days of impassive treatment, dismissive looks and punishing tasks, and now this? Something wasn't right.

"What could he do?" Words rolled off his tongue like liquid honey, and now she was certain this was done indeed on purpose. He was testing her again, he had to be, otherwise what would be the meaning behind the husky smile splayed out on his lips, or his wandering stare that burned holes everywhere it went.

"Hm." The expression lingered on his face a while more, and just when Arya thought she was too weak to win this battle, that she'd give in to the feeling that caused almost physical pain while withheld like that, just then it disappeared replaced by a brief look of sadness or regret.

"A girl has a point." Said the assassin moving away and releasing the girl's aching wrists. He was as quick to leave her as he was quick to capture her, and she was left on the ground with heart thudding two times faster than it should. I was right... She was disappointed, but why?

Arya followed the man getting to her feet and putting the knife aside to massage the slightly red spots on her arms, trying to get rid of the perniciously pleasant feeling of his skin against hers.

"We are done for today. A girl is free to go. She did well today." Here we go again. A Faceless Man has spoken, cold and sharp as if made of ice. Oh, how I miss the old Jaqen...

"Actually, a girl would want to stay if a man allows. She'd like to continue training. By herself." It was the ask she's been arranging and reconstructing in her head multiple times throughout this day. How she should pick her words for it to sound as inconspicuous as possible. He was surprised by her demand, she's never asked for more time for training, but this kind of reaction she expected. She even expected him to ask questions, to notice the insidious undertone, but he didn't. Jaqen's face was as blank as never before, kind of resigned, powerless even, and he simply nodded before walking out of the training room in silence.

Left alone at last, Arya let out a long, relieved exhale, delighted to be able to finally relax her features. So this was it. Today was the day. Plotting the whole process took her probably more time than it should, considering how simple it seemed when she thought about it now. All those sleepless nights...

The time spent with the Waif came out as worthy of the unpleasant conditions, silent hours occasionally interrupted by uncalled-for questions and irritated replies, but the woman has spilled just the information Arya needed. Today Jaqen was leaving again, as he's been doing very often lately, setting off at dusk and arriving back at dawn. The Waif had told her that he had a very special client under observation, but no matter whether that was true or not, one thing was certain. It would keep him busy for the night. And the Stark girl needed him busy, especially tonight. She had a business of her own to fulfill, to gift a certain pig-faced man with what he deserved.

She'd be leaving soon enough, and she was just in the right place to pick the right tools...

The Ragman's Harbor was rowdy and alive even at such a late hour. At first, she was afraid to go out alone into the unknown as she followed the bastard during her first recon, but she's been observing him for days now. Or rather; nights. Each night her teacher left the House of Black and White she did so as well, as risky as it was, and put all her efforts into finding out how does her precious cutthroat spend his time in the City of a Thousand Isles. By some lucky chance she's managed not to get herself into trouble somehow, always treading her path lightly, sticking to the shadows as if she were one of them. And that's why she was now prowling in the darkened alley, her eyes gleaming in the night like a cat's, waiting until he emerges from the Black Bargeman's to finally go back to his apartment.

The Black Bargeman's was not a pleasure house, most surprisingly, but a comparatively decent local for alcohol-soaked gamblers, where they could lose themselves in wasting fortunes they didn't have or depriving others of them. Arya watched the dim, purple light emanate from the underground local in gentle flows as she felt the bass vibrations under her feet. As if she wasn't trebling with anticipation already...

Here she was at last, an inexperienced hunter with a stolen gun in a stolen holster, and a stolen knife tucked behind her belt, all hidden under the long black coat, also stolen depending on the point of view. She was just as tense as an arched bowstring is right before it goes loose, releasing a deadly missile. Here she was, willfully risking her life again, reckless and determined as ever. Maybe that was just what she needed; a moment of freedom. Weeks of constant pretending were tantalizing for Arya, and it was not only pretending of being cut out of steel, but also pretending that the lack of closeness between her and Jaqen didn't hurt.

Ah, you silly girl... She sighed and began to patter her shoe impatiently against the curbside. You've already been through this multiple times, you knew how unwise it would be to fall, you knew that it would hurt sooner or later... Though he could've at least made it more evident that he was going to become an unaffectionate shadow of what he used to be... He was right when he'd said that he was not Jaqen H'ghar. This persona has faded away, leaving only a Faceless Man, thought he could easily switch right back into it as he'd demonstrated earlier on. Maybe that's what he has always been, before she came around. Maybe he truly was No One. Just now it occurred to Arya how wrong that was. True, the ability gave him a huge advantage in his profession, but it also made him less human. If only there was a parallel uniniverse of some sort, in which they could be together, but alone. With no one to judge, no boundaries or commitments of the past. If only she could find a way...

No time for thinking of that.

The two-winged door of sleazy black color suddenly opened, and Amory Lorch walked out of the Black Bargeman's with a look of mocking satisfaction on his face, swaying only slightly. Arya presumed tonight's game of billiard turned out to be successful. Pray for all this luck not to leave too soon you drunken pig, cause you will need it.

The way back to the infamous apartment didn't take him long, but the young assassin-in-training was there almost in an instant, having learned all the twists and turns of the cobbled streets at night. She climbed on the balcony with the lightness of a circus acrobat, though her weapons weighted her down. She was no more than a shadow shifting through the open sliding door and into the flat. She wondered if the man was careless enough to leave his balcony door opened, or simply stupid. Perhaps it was both. Perhaps it was not only Arya that thought she could come to no harm in a place so far away from home.

The girl crept into the living room, and passed the mess only a man living alone could make of his accommodation without the smallest flinch. She's been here before to search the place for guns and other weapons so that there would be none he could use once the night they met again finally came. But she hasn't expected to actually find none. There was only one gun he carried everywhere with himself, especially during his nights out, but nothing apart from that. It was odd indeed, but the girl was not here to investigate. She was here to get the one thing that made her carry on despite all difficulties. Something she prayed to the Gods every day. Revenge.

Her steps were gentle as a windblow as she made her way to the front door, stepping over the collection of bottles scattered on the floor, careful not to make the pile of pizza boxes on the coffee table meet its collapse. Truly, eliminating this man would be a great favor to the flat owner, and society as well. Arya took her position, her body melting with the shadows on the wall just next to the door. She reached under her coat and drew the gun from the holster on her thigh, gripping it in both hands.

His lazy footfall echoed in the staircase. Her breathing hitched, and her palms clasped tightly around the pistol's grip. It made an oddly satisfying click as her thumb pulled the hammer. She could hear his inarticulate, happy mumbling and each step that led him straight towards her. The girl could also hear her own heartbeat. Slill as silence. Calm as still water. I'll get you, you motherfucker.

The key was forced into the lock with an unpleasantly loud crank, and turned two times. For my father. For my mother. For Robb. For Yoren. Arya held her breath, and the handle was pressed, the door stood open. He flat was lit up partly as the cheaply vibrant light rushed in through the entrance. There was a broad shadow laid out on the floor, harshly outlined and gently swaying from side to side, and with each step he took it became larger as Arya observed it, covered by the opened door completely. Now she was quiet as a mouse, but soon that would be no more. Amory Lorch walked in, as if he was a man without a care in the world, not bothering to turn the lights on. And before he managed to think twice and close the door behind, it slammed loudly, making him jump, surprised.

He didn't notice the hateful stare of a lonely, vengeful girl on him, but when he had, he also noticed the muzzle of the gun she bore, aimed directly at his face. His jaw dropped and those plump, flushed cheeks became chalky wkite. The drunken song died on his lips, and he looked ridiculous with his narrow eyes widening like that. As if he were seeing a ghost, and she liked the idea very much.

That's right, you son of a bitch. Prepare to meet your favorite worst nightmare.

Chapter Text

"What, don't you recognize me?" She spat, savoring the terrified look on Amory's face. He looked chalky pale, as if he's just seen a ghost. "Don't you recognize the 'little shit' from the picture of a family you slaughtered?!" Her whole body was trembling with rage, though her arms were solid as steel when she held the pistol aimed at his chest. "I'm sure you do."

Arya's tone was like a predator's growl, an almost inhuman hunger for blood. In the pale moonlight Her skin was nearly white. A northerner might think she was a dangerous creature from a forgotten legend — a White Walker, but she was not that. She was a wolf and would not be afraid.

"You're... you-" Amory squealed like a pig for slaughter, slowly, very slowly trying to back away. Arya'd have none of it. She followed his every step with a dominant smirk prowling in the corner of her lips.

"I'm Arya Stark. I want you to know that." Her fingers itched to pull the trigger so bad it was almost painful. They itched to complete her vengeance, to give the gift of death, but at the same time the girl wanted this moment to last forever. She wanted her victory to carry on for ages, and suddenly she didn't want to be a nameless shadow that brings justice. She wanted it to be known that Arya Stark has killed Amory Lorch, a man from her list, that she's the one to be feared here.

"But you're dead!" The great stout of a man blurted out at last. What?

"Oh, am I?" Her smirk deepened as she thought He's gone even crazier than he'd been...

"They all are! You were burned alive! The manse... All of it..."

Oh. So that was the official version of the incident. Well, that's splendid. When someone has finally noticed something's not the way it should, all the evidence they could've found were probably just piles of ash. How ironic, surely they didn't even consider the possibility of a little fiery sabotage, and took the death of all within the reach of the fire as a fact. So Amory wasn't looking for her, let alone suspected her recent location, but then why was he here? Why was he here, gazing at her like if he's solved the greatest mystery of Westeros, repeating all over again: "You, you... it was you..."

A single moment of puzzlement — that's what it took. A couple seconds of consternation and thought on Arya's part for tonight's events to take a completely different turn. Absorbed by this surprising piece of information, she forgot if only for a second, to trace carefully in the dark. Her coat got hooked by the handle of the door that covered her up mere moments ago, and she tugged at it, making another step forward.

Bang! A single bullet was sent to cut through the air, but its course changed. It went through the material of the pig-faced man's leather overcoat, and got stuck in the flesh of his arm. Arya wasn't given the time to realize her mistake, for in an instant he was there, charging at her like a cursing tsunami. Bang! She gave another shot, but it swished somewhere above his head. At that moment her stillness was lost. The back of Amory's giant palm closed the distance between them, as he smacked the pistol out of her hands with a great force, then pushed her back to the wall, closing his fist around her neck. She stared, eyes wide, at the bloody hole in his shoulder.

"It was YOU! Seven fucking Hells, what are you?" He hissed right at her, complete fury mixed with a certain dose of pain. Her fists were everywhere. Jamming into every spot they could reach, she was kicking too, blindly trying to strike him with all her might, because the blunt, pulsating pain in her skull grew with each second. Her lips moved, throwing silent insults, at the grunting man, who had no problem to lift her up so that her feet dandled in the air, then choke her with his vise-like grip.

He bared his clenched teeth, willing his fingers to dig into the flesh of her neck with even more pressure, and she wanted to tell him to go fuck himself, but tiny flickering black spots unabled her to, making her limbs go a little lump. Soon she forgot all about his reddened malicious expression, or just how she despised him, for soon there was only the fight for air that mattered. Her lungs heaved heavily in her chest, and her nails were grazing the skin of the hand that deprived her of it. Arya felt as id her eyeballs were to come out of their orbits, and the hectic heartbeat filled in her ears.

No, no, no, no this is not how it was supposed to go.

"I should've killed you when I had the chance, you little shit. Just as I had killed that old man." The words were muffled and the whole world was fading, but she could still make out their meaning.

No, this is not how I die... Sometimes the best method to win, is to give in.

Her arms hung loosely at her sides as the last breath was choked out of her throat. Livid mouth, bloodshed eyes closed.

Amory dropped her so quickly one might get the impression that she repulsed him like a leper. Her body thudded harshly against the wooden panels when she fell down like a lifeless marionette with no strings to keep her standing. The man averted his eyes and focused them at the large red stain on his shirt.

"Ah, fuck!" He'd hastily thrown his overcoat aside, revealing the yet unused gun tucked in a holster close to his chest, and winced, examining the wound. He was too busy with feeling sorry for himself, he didn't notice that the girl laying on the floor was not as lifeless as he'd like her to be. She struggled not to whine as she lifted herself up slightly on shaking hands. Arya had to take her breaths slowly, soundlessly, though her lungs were on fire. Inch by inch she crawled closer to him. Slowly, carefully, recklessly. And in the final moment she got to her knees and reached to the holster on her thigh. Before Amory could turn a seven-inches-long dagger pierced his inner thigh. He screamed. No, not screamed, he roared.

Arya stumbled to the side, supporting herself against the coffee table, standing up as fast as she could. There was not a second to waste, and she was now left with no weapon. What was she to do?

Amory grunted in pain bent in half as he tried to pull out the knife. He shouldn't do that. Arya's thoughts frantically swirled around in her mind. It won't be long till he bleeds out to death. But still she had to survive until he passes out. She watched the muscles on his broad back and arms tighten abruptly, when the dagger was practically torn out of his leg with a slick sound that made her wince in disgust. And somehow Amory was still standing. He'd need a couple seconds to shake off of the shock, and the girl would not let those few seconds pass by. She had no weapons, but he was the injured one here.

"Bearing a weapon does not grant her advantage, she should remember that..."

She leaped onto the coffee table and jumped right onto his back, like a cat, and dug her claws into his shoulders, feeling the sticky, hot liquid oozing out from underneath her left palm. The girl pressed her fingers into the spot with as much force as she could, and the cutthroat's back arched as a flood of curses left his mouth. He tussled around as if he were a dog chasing his tail, tugging at her short hair. Arya was so tightly pressed to him she could smell the sweat on his nape.

"You disgusting bastard!" She rasped in his ear, her voice cracking with each hurting syllable.

The muscles on Amory's neck tensed as he clenched his jaw not to grunt again. And then his giant hand stumbled upon the back of her coat.

He yanked the girl up by it, and this time he succeeded. She was dragged forward, losing her grip on him, forced to fall down again and harshly hit the ground on her side. A short, cracking sound could be heard when her ribs made contact with the floor, and Arya squealed, feeling a sharp jolt of paralyzing electricity run along her chest. It was a dangerous fall, that one, and this time she didn't get up.

For the second time today she felt someone else's weight corrupt her movement for Amory's next move nearly paralleled her teacher's. But oh, how different they were! The blood leaking down his leg dripped down in large red spots, soaking through the material of her leggings. After the half-conscious girl could react, she felt the cold, sharp edge press against her throat. It was wet and red as well. She could barely see anything apart from the cheeks of a man directly above her flaring in fury.

"Not that talkative now, are we?" His breath was heavy on her face. "That's too bad. You can try beggin'. And maybe I won't cut you up to tiny pieces.

Go on. Don't be shy you little shit."

Jaqen watched as the fading smudge of smoke that left his mouth blended in the air before his eyes, lazily mixing with the vibrant purple light. He sat at the table far away from the pool tables though not so long ago he'd been very interested in a particular game. Well, not in the game itself, but in a certain pig-faced gamer. He's been observing him ever since he arrived in Braavos, and he knew very well by now, that Amory Lorch spent most of his evenings at the Black Bargeman's. And the Faceless Man didn't come to assassinate him for so far, putting the personal matters aside (which should not batter because, Seven Hells, he was a Faceless Man!) he had no reason to. The man, who's turned out to be a significantly passionate gambler, has not shown any signs of arriving here with a certain mission like tracking and eliminating a young, female fugitive and her companion for example. He was just... there. Behaving like everyone that travels to the most famous Free City to run away from the rest of the world. One could think Amory was on vacation of some sort, but Jaqen wasn't so sure. This was a perfect example of how his point of view, that was supposed to be objective, changed.

He couldn't bear looking even at the shadow of the gambler's figure without imagining his fist smashing that disgusting face of his. This was selfish and uncalled-for, but Gods, he wanted to put his miserable existence to an end. That would be just.

But for the hundredth time since he met his lovely girl, he didn't surrender to those needs, and sat calmly at his table, with a fake beard attached to his jaw and a hat with a broad rondo casting a shadow on his features, smoking a cigarette the taste of which he hated, and had only stared as Amory left the Black Bargeman's about a quarter-hour ago.

It was about time he returned to the House as well, there was no use sitting here, and he could really use some sleep. However, tonight Jaqen was a little anxious to return, and the bass going up and down his body soothed him somehow. Sleep would not solve the problem of the chaos that ruled his mind right now. And throwing himself back into the source of that very chaos would not be of help either. He hated seeing Arya's blank, unmoved expression just as he hated Amory and that cigarette. Wait, no, that is not true, he couldn't hate anything about her, but it awakened the same sort of emotions in him. What should he do? He wouldn't be able to carry on like that for long... Today he finally understood it. He didn't want to keep only a part of Arya Stark. He wanted her whole, he needed her whole. It was either everything or nothing. Breaking the rules or destroying the only thing his heart held dear. A choice impossible to make.

But either way, Jaqen felt obliged to tell her about Amory at some point, because keeping this information only for himself was just not right. She had every right to know, and it seemed that no great danger was waiting for them at least at Amory's part. Yes, that's right. He should tell her, so why don't do it right now?

And that's how Jaqen found his reason to leave the local, and go back to the House of Black and White. He took his time though, walking through the beautiful braavosi alleys and listening to the sounds of the night. He thought his apprentice was safely resting in her room as she was ought to. Not only did he think that, he was certain. And even as he passed the colorless hallways inside, taking off that ridiculous beard and ridding himself of the equally ridiculous hat, he still couldn't decide whether 'right now' was a good idea.

You saw how tired she looked today, let her sleep. Besides, a man should not enter a girl's room in the middle of a night.

But then he suddenly stood in front of the infamous door she had so much struggle with finding, and he just couldn't hold it back. He knocked. Nothing. Stillness.

Well, of course she didn't hear it, she's bloody sleeping!

But Jaqen shushed that annoying little voice down, and knocked again, louder this time. Still nothing. A small line appeared between his brows as they furrowed. Something in his gut abruptly tightened, instantly putting him on guard. He could sense something was not quite as it should be, and his instincts were hardly ever mistaken. "Arya?" he wanted to call, but forced himself to swallow the name back before it was voiced. That's it then. The assassin pulled the handle down and pushed the door gently. The light from the corridor fell upon her room from behind his back as Jaqen scanned it. And when his eyes stopped at the bed, he gulped in outright shock. It was empty. It felt like taking a shot straight at his chest. It felt like a giant icicle cutting through his spine, and he was frozen, horror taking over his features.

Oh no, no, no, NO! Gods, Arya, what have you done?

The next thing to catch his attention was a flower in a clay pot standing on her desk. It was a nasturtium.

"Still got nothing to say?" Amory said through clenched teeth, leaning over the girl like a vulture. He pressed the blade further, so that a smallest movement from her would cut her neck open. She still had a great difficulty to focus her senses. They were all focused rather on the growing pain in her chest rather than at finding possibilities of survival. Her swollen eyes wandered hopelessly, searching for anything and finding nothing. In a couple minutes reality would be for her no more, so why keep struggling? Why keep on fighting?

"That's a pity. You're gonna join that old friend of yours sooner than you planned I bet." His mocking tone meant nothing to her, but a memory appeared in her mind, like a beam of sunlight in the surrounding dark. Yoren. At first he was there, explaining to her how they're going to take her to Jon's and all will be good again, and then he was gazing at her with those empty eyes and a hole in his forehead.

"Yoren." She whispered, clutching that memory to her panting chest, and not letting it go.

"What did you say? Huh? I can't hear ya!" A brief tinge of pain made Arya shriek as the dagger finally nicked her skin, but she kept on breathing.

"Yoren." She said a bit louder now, her voice all hoarse, but carrying an inner strength Amory was too dumb to notice. "You killed him." Death in exchange for death, was that not how the gift was supposed to be given? Did the Many-Faced God really need a prayer other than the one Arya's been whispering to herself in secret night after night? A few loud thuds resounded like echoes in her ears. What were they? Doesn't matter. "And now you'll share his fate."

The gun Amory carried in a holster near his chest was still there, waiting, unused. Why didn't she think of it earlier? Her hands were free! Before she could think about it, her palm closed around the metal handle and swiped right up to Amory's sweaty, bald forehead.

Bang! The sound was louder than it should've been, as if two guns were fired instead of one. Amory Lorch was gone. His eyes rolled up as his body crashed hers limply. Arya dropped the gun immediately. Right then, she broke. She started crying out, trapped underneath the heavy bulk of a corpse, tussling weakly. She felt him everywhere on her and it was horrible. She felt his fingers crawl under her shoulders and tug at her from each side.

"Don't! Don't touch me you stinking bastard! Get away!" She kicked and screamed though her body was aching all over, closing her eyes shut and clenching her fists.

"Shh. Shh. It's me." She heard someone's whispering plea, but she paid no mind to it. The colossal weight was gone, but those hands crawled all over her and tried to pick her up.

"Stop! Leave me alone!"

"Arya. Arya, it's me." Those hands were on her face now, cupping bot her cheeks, and suddenly something changed. All of a sudden she realized the contact was not violent, but gentle and her hitched breathing slowed down a bit. She recognized the feeling.

Her eyes flickered open and suddenly she was cradled in Jaqen H'ghar's arms as he sat on the floor with her victim's body right beside him. He looked down at her filled with worry and undescribable longing. She sighed, letting herself sink into his embrace, finally safe, finally at peace. Where did he come from and how did he know she'd be here, that Arya didn't know, but she didn't care.

He wasn't mad at her, and he wasn't cold or distant. He was Jaqen H'ghar at last.

"Jaqen." She whispered almost inaudibly, feeling the weakness taking over her entirely now, that her anger left her.

"Ah, lovely girl..." No other words were needed. His palms trembled on her cheeks and he moved away carefully, but only to change his position so he could clutch her to his chest firmly, but carefully, and have her rest there like a wounded wolf cub. He kissed her hair and breathed in their scent.

She was here and she was safe. She's fought her battle alone and she won. He felt relieved, and Gods, it was most inappropriate at this moment, but he was happy as well. Happy, because now the Lorathi knew her change of behavior was merely an act set up to distract him from Arya's plan. That Arya Stark had been hiding from him, but she was there the whole time. And he did not want to lose her anymore. He would not.

Restricting her was never the right thing to do. Seven Hells take all the rules if that was the price he'd have to pay for following them.

The assassin fixed his grip on his apprentice to lift her up, then got to his feet and carried her out of the dreadful scene. He'd have the Waif clean the place up later whether she wanted it or not. But not right now. Jaqen made sure she was wrapped in the coat tightly before he stepped into the night to carry her home. The poor thing was all in red, long smears and terribly stiff.

The black wing of the large doors of the temple gave a raucous creak as they opened, revealing the inside of the crumbling building in all its hollowness. The doe-eyed woman turned her head abruptly, interrupted in her prayer, and what she saw shocked her to the point, she was unable to do anything else other than just gape at the two.

"You're needed, sister. There's been an unfortunate accident in a place well-known to a Waif. Hurry." She stood up immediately, and though her eyes seemed not to be so sure of her actions, she nodded and headed quickly to the western nave, where she disappeared somewhere among the stone walls, while Jaqen passed the round pool and made his way to the passage leading to the secret part of the House of Black and White. Arya listened to the sound of his steps and swayed to the rhythm of them. She tried to focus at her thoughts and the warmth of Jaqen's touch in order to forget about the hundred needles in her chest and the suffocating ring around her neck.

"Jaqen, I..." Her throat was so dry it made her sound awful.

"Hush, sweet girl, we're almost there."

The corridor was dark and empty as always, but the Faceless Man could find the way even if his eyes had been taken from him, and so they were quick to arrive at the doorstep of her room. Her heartbeat was calm as he laid her on the bed as if she were the most fragile being in the world, then knelt down at the bed's side, turning on the lamp on her nightstand. As mild as it was, the light made the girl's eyes squint. And the first thing she saw was a face taken over by concern. The handsomest face she's ever laid her eyes upon. She was now laid down with her head against her own pillow, safe and taken care of, all because of the man who came for her. The very same man she disobeyed despicably.

"I'm- I'm sorry, Jaqen." She even felt guilty for overusing the name, but she hasn't been using it for such a long time... "It won't happen again."

He smiled at her the most soothing of all smiles, and she barely believed in the genuineness of it. This was simply too beautiful to be true. Maybe she really had died, and that was her heaven? No, in heaven there were no cracked ribs or blood on one's clothes.

"There won't be such a chance. Because from now on, everywhere a man goes a girl follows."

"B-but you said I wasn't re-"

"A man has said many things in the past, but they shall be no more. We will not part again."

"But the rules..."

"Until this very day a man has lived by following his rules, and what good has it brought? Because of them his lovely girl suffers, and if they bring suffering instead of salvation, a man would be a fool to remain devoted to such principles. Hush now, he has to have a look at his apprentice."

And so she hushed, trying to cooperate as the man took his coat off of her, then removed her shoes. It was very hard to not let him see the pain that all these movements were for her, and again she tried to keep her senses busy bu observing his hands or the messy halo of his windswept hair. She's never seen them quite as unkempt, even when he'd been acting homeless, and it brought a little smile to her lips.

"Well, a girl is going to need a new pair of new trousers." He muttered taking notice of all the blood on her thighs. Thank Gods it wasn't her own. Amory should thank the Gods it was Arya who killed him and not the Faceless Man, because otherwise his death would not be an abrupt one.

At first the girl didn't understand the questioning look Jaqen'd sent her, but then her cheeks flushed red, though it was barely noticeable since she was still quite pale. A girl is going to need a new pair of trousers and these ones are gonna have to be got rid of. And since Arya couldn't even lift herself up on her elbows she couldn't even think of taking them off by herself. There was a moment of silence following the girl's realization, but the thing she wanted the least right now was to make this awkward for the both of them, and she quickly nodded, forcing her self into thinking that she was being ridiculous. That this shouldn't affect her at all, but then she felt his hands tugging at the material of her leggings and then sweeping down the slight curve of her hips and she could lie to herself no more. She could only hope he didn't see the goosebumps that appeared everywhere where his touch went. She dared not look up at him.

Why did Amory have to bleed all over her? Just why?

Her legs were bare but fine. No bruises whatsoever, so he swung the covers over her to keep her warm. Now it was time to move to the more serious part. Jaqen rolled up her shirt and cursed under his breath.

"That filthy son of a bitch."

His tone was so vicious it made Arya flinch. She's never heard him as angered.

"Is it bad?"

The hurtful sting at her side was enough of an answer, as he examined the large bruise slowly growing purple, touching the spot carefully. She swallowed back a whine.

"It seems that a girl's physical training will have to be put at a standstill for some time." He said furrowing his brows as his eyes wandered along the dark marks that bloomed on her skin like bloody flowers. But that was not all. The swollen ring around her neck was another one of his concerns.

"A man shouldn't have let that happen." He remarked bitterly, and Arya couldn't bear the expression of guilt that made the dark circles under his eyes deepen.

"It was my fault. All of it. You did nothing wrong." Jaqen was silent for a while, before he let out a resigned sigh.

"Sweet girl, kind and gentle." He took both her hands, lying limply on her sides, in his own, then brought each little knuckle to his lips. Those very same knuckles had been clenching the handle of a gun not so long ago, though to him they seemed most fragile. "A man did everything wrong, but quite a few things are going to change now. We need to wait till a girl gets better, but in the meantime..."

"What?" The question was immediate, and Jaqen was most delighted to hear it. He let go of her hands and sat closer to her to wipe away the rebellious strands of her hair that kept stubbornly falling over her precious northern eyes.

"Tell me." She urged the assassin.

"There are skills a girl must learn that don't require using her strength or reflex. Soon, a girl will see for herself. And the easiest way to develop those abilities is by playing The Game."

"What game?" There was a slight flicker of recognition hidden in the confusion that swept over her heart-shaped face. Or at least for a moment the Lorathi thought he saw it. But no, she couldn't have heard of it, could she? And there was a question that puzzled him even more. How was that even now this fierce, vengeful girl could look so lovely?

"Patience, lovely girl. No more questions, not tonight, a girl must rest." She did want to object, but he cut her attempts short by leaning down suddenly, so close that his lower lip nearly brushed her ear. The white locks of his hair tickled her cheek and so did his breath when he whispered to her as if he were revealing to her the greatest of secrets. The smell of ginger and cloves was almost making her dizzy.

"I'm happy to have you back, Arya Stark."

For a second she forgot all about the horrors of this day or about her pain, because what followed these words was a feeling of the assassin's lips on her cheek. It might've been just an impression of hers, but they lingered there a bit longer than they should. She closed her eyes to feel that and only that, but when she opened them again, the man was gone, leaving only the scent of ginger and cloves behind.

And I am happy to have you back, Jaqen H'ghar.

"I want to keep faith, but you're making it harder
(But it's killing me to love you)
I'm reaching out now but you're pulling me under
(But it's killing me to love you)
I give you all just to watch you waste it
(But it's killing me to love you)
But I can't let go when you still need saving"

- Vancouver Sleep Clinic, 'Killing Me To Love You'

Chapter Text

Ilyn Payne

Walder

Joffrey Baratheon

Tywin Lannister

She was going through these last four names over and over again as her broom scraped against the stone floor.

Ilyn Payne

Walder

Joffrey Baratheon

Tywin Lannister

Had she been able, she'd sing it out like a lively little melody, motivating her to put more heart into her sweeping. Arya couldn't do that, unfortunately, because she wasn't alone. There was only one female dedicated to this activity in the House of Black and White, and it wasn't Arya Stark.

The Waif was determining the tempo in which their brooms were swinging as if it were the most important assignment in Westeros. Normally, the girl would complain and most definitely point out the pointlessness of it, but this time she didn't. The apprentice was quite relieved actually, both because she could finally stop laying pinned to her bed, and that her task was relatively undemanding. Her ribs, now enveloped tightly by a thin cocoon of a swathe, were still not in the best condition and the muscles of her core, especially obliques were still sore. She got used to a small, constant dose of blunt pain though, so the sweeping was not a problem at all. She could even state she was quite comfortable.

Who would've ever thought that the absurd idea of Arya choosing this damned broom as her tool for the day would actually come true? Well, if anyone, it surely wasn't Ned's daughter who'd expect this.

The night when Jaqen brought her in to then disappear into the night, the Waif came in his place no more than half an hour later to salve her bruises with some odd, oily rub and make her swallow a few swigs of a particularly disgusting hot brew. Arya almost refused on that one, knowing the doe-eyed woman's past, but eventually drank the whole thing, and it did help. Greatly. The girl could actually speak normally, to the Waif's great disappointment, though the swollen ring around her neck would still need a couple days to heal.

"I know you're mad at me for what I did. You have every reason to." Arya said to the Waif, whose broom was also currently in use. The woman was wearing a particularly grim expression today, and the Stark girl felt an urge to speak up, for she had a feeling that if she won't be the one to break the silence, the Waif would simply explode in a flood of irritation. "But I would've been a coward if I had done nothing. Killing Amory Lorch was a favor to mankind, believe me. It was just the right thing to do."

"You're so very wrong, Arya Stark." Since the feral night she's developed a habit of calling her by the full name, mocking the apprentice's reckless demonstration that was killing the gangster. "If I were allowed to do the right thing, you'd be far away from here. You wouldn't even get close to this temple in the first place." She's been keeping her eyes glued to the floor so far, but now she looked at the girl, her mouth pressed into a tight line. "But his plans are different. They were different from the very start I suppose. And I'm afraid he thinks he's doing the right thing as well."

There were a few moments of silent sweeping before one of them spoke again.

"Why?" Arya asked nearly as quiet as a mouse. "Why is it so forbidden?"

She didn't get an answer right away. First, there was a deep sigh and then the Waif's restless sweeping stopped.

"Do you know how came to find myself here? How I became "the Waif'?"

"Yes. The Kindly Man has told me."

A short, pleasing sound filled the dusty air, and it almost made Arya flinch. She heard the woman laugh for the first time. It came out as quite shocking as it didn't fit the situation, especially in a place so dark, and it was completely alien to the girl's ears, which have gotten used to the plainness of the Waif's speech. But all of a sudden she was laughing.

"The who?"

Ah, Seven Hells, why did the names Arya used to describe the nameless seemed so amusing? How else was she to address them? Her a subtle flush crept up to her cheeks, but she said nothing.

"The Kindly Man, you say. I like it. Did you come up with it by yourself, Arya Stark?"

"I just thought he had kind features, is all."

"To that I must agree, but you should know it is often misleading; judging others by their looks." The slight amusement that brightened up her features faded slowly and gave place to the usual indifference. And from there she forgot the digression and carried on with her story. "Assuming you know my past, would you consider it forbidden, what I have done?"

"I..." Would she? Well, of course the act of killing anyone was morally wrong, but reflecting on the specific circumstances of it and all the things Arya herself has done, she wasn't sure at all. "I don't know. Do you?"

"I do and I don't. I always wanted to have a family, and when it was given one I destroyed it, and that is a fact. The only right thing to do, as it appeared to me, was also the forbidden one. But I decided not to act against myself, and that is why I must devote my life to service in this temple, I see that now. To my luck, it's not the worst form of atonement. I even managed to find a glimpse of fulfillment here. You see, sometimes the rights and wrongs can't be distinguished from one another, but in the end everything must be balanced.

I threw my chance for happiness away, yours was brutally taken away, and he... Well, his case is different."

"What do you mean different?" Arya was really moved by the woman's confession, but her curiosity awakened immediately. Seriously, what was so special about his story that no one would speak about it to her?

The Waif looked at her, not quite sure if she should spill even a word, opening her mouth as to say something, but then the front door gave a loud creak, and a scraggy silhouette entered through. The conversation was interrupted and would not carry on, guessing by the way the Waif abruptly resumed her work as if she never ceased to sweep the stone floor. Arya watched the stranger from the other side of the temple, narrowing her eyes distrustfully at the skinny young man. There was nothing significant about him; his clothes hung on him, his hair were of the blandest, mousy color, and he kept his stare down as if intimidated by this place. Perhaps he felt the heaviness of a thirty stares cold as stone on his thin frame, or perhaps he happened to know whose house he's just entered. Was that likely? And significantly enough, he was the first person Arya saw walking into the temple other than the three occupiers of the House of Black and White.

What's he doing here?

The young man shoved his hands into the large pockets of his hoodie, and walked up to one of the kneelers at the back of the temple, not taking even a glance around. This was weird. Really weird.

And to the girl's further confusion, after a couple minutes her doe-eyed friend rested her broom against the wall and strolled towards that very same spot, and knelt down, pretending to pray. The Stark girl didn't know what to do. Should she go too, or should she just stay and observe? What was that all about?

They began to talk, whispers so quiet the silence muffled them. The man passed the Waif a couple brief sentences (not daring to look at her face) then they sat in complete stillness, until he stood up and turned to leave just as quickly as he came, which only left more unanswered questions.

"Valar Morghulis." She barely heard the Waif.

"Valar Dohaeris." Was the reply, and then they parted.

Though this time no answers were to be given as the Waif stood up and headed out of the temple and towards the corridor that led to the secret part of the facility. Arya tried really hard go pretend to be clueless and what is more; busy, but she didn't know if she'd fooled the Waif or not. However, before she was lost from Arya's sight, the girl noticed the envelope clutched tightly to her chest. The thin man must've been a messenger of some sort, but who would write a letter addressed to a place with no address at all? And who would be the recipient, since apparently everyone who lived here was supposed to be nameless? The assassin-girl-in-training had her suspicions, but they were no more than that.

The temple's been left hollow again. With no eyes to watch over her actions, Arya decided to leave her sweeping for now, as it was the dullest of all tasks, and quite useless. On the contrary, the sanctuary and the great statues were far from boring, even if only to look at. She put her broom away next to the Waif's, then slowly walked over to the edge of the round pool, which was surrounded by all the majestic (at least half of them partly destroyed) figures supposed to portray only a few of the infinite forms of Him of Many Faces. She's never been left in the temple alone like this, and it filled her with the subtle kind of excitement, the one that makes your heart beat faster but at the same time your mind is utterly at peace. Arya observed how all those small flames danced in a deliberate rhythm, making their candles weep with hot wax tears. Once she thought no beauty could be found in a place so forlorn and filled with dust, but it was there. The beauty in the dancing flames, and the deep blackness of the pool, and the faceless statues. For a moment she thought she were capable of understanding then what it was that fascinated her teacher about the House's history so much. The medieval atmosphere was everywhere; in every corner, each heavy stone under her feet and the cobwebs gluing the walls with the ceiling.

It remained there throughout the years somehow and now Arya was the one to be let to breathe it in, and it was extraordinary. Did Jaqen feel the same when he was her age and locked up here? It was hard imagining the Lorathi in his teenage years, but that's what she attempted to do and it made her smile.

The water of the round pool right beneath her was still. She didn't know if she was allowed to touch it or break its stillness in any way, so she didn't, and only wondered what was the purpose of it here. It is not a usual thing to place a pool in a temple.

Her pondering was cut short, for all of a sudden (and for the second time this day) the black-and-white doors behind her back screeched, and someone's lumbering steps echoed in the lonely naves. The flames trembled and so did Arya, but then she saw the intruder, and eased up a bit.

It was a woman, and even though she was hiding it under the long overcoat with a large hood, she was beautiful. Arya couldn't help but notice that her moves were full of grace, the swing of her hips gentle, but provocative enough. The girl's eyes were fixed on the stranger's red high heels as she got near, only lowering her head so that the shadows made it impossible to catch even a glimpse of her face. For a moment a strange thought took over the mind of Ned's daughter. She thought she's seen something similar in her previous life. Someone just as Faceless in a darkened room smelling of candles and dried-out paper. But it was unsteady like an image from a dream...

And then the Faceless Woman was right there, at the side of the pool and sat down next to Arya, making sure her identity stays unknown first. The girl couldn't even see her profile, so she kept on examining her shoes. Her hands were gloved, and the Faceless Woman fidgeted with her fingers nervously.

What's going on? Am I supposed to do something?

"She goes by the name Nightingale in the House of Seven Lamps..." The Woman spoke suddenly, as if she were praying quietly to one of the tall statues. Arya's brows furrowed, but she didn't interrupt. "...There is not a woman as sinful as she in the City, and because of her profession she's come to learn secrets no whore should ever learn."

And suddenly Arya knew.

Oh, how clever was that. How inconspicuous. No one would ever guess, even the apprentice herself. The whole sweeping thing had a purpose after all, and to think that Arya could've learned it all the very first day... That was how... That was how the contracts were made.

"And as to the price, it should be of no concern to the Faceless Man. It is entirely his to name." And then she went silent, surely awaiting a reply, while the girl tried to collect her thoughts. Well, if those were the terms, the deal seemed even more profitable for them than for the woman. The death of that Nightingale had to be simply priceless to the mysterious contractor. But Arya was not the Waif, she didn't know if any promises could be made in this case.

What would Jaqen do? Or, even more importantly, what wouldn't he do? This time the decision was hers.

Well, Arya did know the right words to seal the deal, and she chose to use them.

"Valar Morghulis." She accepted the woman's request.

"Valar Dohaeris." Was the reply, and the voice pronouncing it trembled slightly. A couple still seconds passed, and the beautiful woman went away, making her way to the black-and-white door with the kind of suppressed confidence that does not go unnoticed. Even the candles seemed to be watching her as she left the House.

This night was particularly dreamless for Arya Stark. Usually she'd have those night retrospectives that came as echoes of the past resounding over and over in her head, blending altogether so that there was a great fire on the streets of Braavos, where she had to fight Amory and Rorge and Biter, enclosed in a ring of flames, or there was a large, hurtling train crushing through the walls of the temple of Him of Many Faces. The rarest were the dreams, in which everything was black and white, like in those old movies, but after waking up from such a dream the girl usually couldn't help but question her sanity. And the most frequent ones were those of people rather than places. When she dreamed of her family, each morning she'd wake up clutching her pillow so hard to her chest that her fingers were stiff as sticks and her head hurt. When she dreamed of Jon or the three boys she met on the train to Harrenhal, she'd feel down the next day and there would be a strong sense of loneliness behind her eyes until her daily tasks would make her far too busy to think of anything. But when she dreamed of Jaqen (and those dreams were not so rare, quite fortunately) she'd always wake up wishing she hadn't. Well, no one could compete with the real-life Jaqen H'ghar, but the one in her dreams... She didn't have to be so careful not to let her affection show, and that's why sometimes she got a bit carried off, but she knew dwelling on such desperate efforts of her imagination was not necessarily a good thing.

So when tonight her mind was slowly drawn away from a blackness so thick it could be liquid, towards a small light to her side, she wasn't sure if it was still a dream or not.

Her eyes flickered open lazily, and noticed the small bright spot immediately. A couple seconds had to pass before her vision got accustomed to the deep shadows, and it appeared clear that the dim light was emanating from a small lantern held by her teacher.

'Who even uses these these days? Couldn't he just switch the light on?' It was pretty though. And the light was subtle, making her feel calm, not alarmed as being wakened up by a vibrant bright flood each day did.

'But hold on a second.'

"What happened? Why are you here?" Asked the girl, lifting herself up to sit at the edge of the bed. Jaqen was never the one to wake her, nor did he ever visit her at night. He held the lantern up, so she could see his face. It was disquietly handsome, lit up like this.

"It's about time to begin, lovely girl." He said, and his usual smirk seemed like a mischievous smile as he gestured for her to get up.

Arya was still a bit confused, but fully awake now, not knowing what to expect.

Maybe this is only a dream after all...

And when she got up, right then it hit her that she was wearing only her sleeping dress. There was a thick bandage around her ribs, but still she felt an urge to cover herself up somehow, and it almost made her forgot that there was something she was supposed to tell him the first moment she'd catch the sight of him.

"There's something I have to tell you." Arya said while folding her arms on her chest, feeling as awkward as possible. "A woman came into the temple today. She wanted to make you a contract."

"Really? And how does a girl know what that woman wanted?" It was a real struggle for Jaqen to keep his eyes fixed on hers, though he cursed himself for it.

"I spoke with her. Your sister went away for some time, and I was left alone so... She came to me herself and I couldn't see her face, but apparently she's willing to pay any sum for one death."

"Hm." The assassin thought about it for a while, then nodded somewhat uncertainly. "So now a girl knows how it is done. That's good. But what is the name? A man needs a name."

"Nithingale." Said Arya, and the genuine surprise in his features made her hesitate, but eventually she went on. "And she said something about a House of Seven Lamps... Do you know where that is?"

"Yes. Though a man would like to say otherwise." He seemed troubled. Troubled, for a man that never stops smiling. "Did a girl agree to those terms?"

"I did. Was that wrong?" Arya could see some strange thought was blooming in his mind, or maybe it was just her, or the dim light. But for these few seconds of silence, he was surely calculating something.

"It is not for a man to judge whether the decision was correct. It will not be his hit, but his apprentice's."

"What? My hit? You mean I'll..."

"The young assassin will not be on her own of course, but the first hit it shall be, this Nightingale. It is settled and we'll discuss it tomorrow. Now, a man would ask his apprentice to sit opposite him."

The girl opened her mouth to say something, but it immediately closed as she saw her teacher bending down with the lantern to sit at the ground.

"Wait, what's-"

"Shh."Jaqen interrupted her unceremoniously. "Do as a man says."

And so she sat at the floor, cross-legged. The Lorathi placed the light source aside and when he spoke, she could see tiny playful glints in his serious stare.

"There is a Game, played by those who want to prepare for wearing new faces in the House of Black and White." He began, and Arya's pupils detailed as she came to understand the purpose of his visit, but still had no idea what to expect. (By the way, the awful awareness that under her night dress she wore completely nothing never left her.) "It is simple, yet very effective. It's been played by every Faceless Man to live under this roof and now it's a lovely girl's turn. The game is called the Game of Faces and the rules are only few. One player is given a topic or a question, and their answer must consist of two truths and a lie. If the other played detects the lie, their opponent loses."

"And what happens when they lose?" Arya wanted to know. Knowing Jaqen H'ghar it couldn't be just a matter of losing and winning. The smirk that grew on his lips was a clear confirmation to her thoughts.

"Then the winner picks a suitable punishment for them."

Oh well, she should be getting ready for a crucial defeat then.

"Shall we?" The assassin's icy eyes narrowed slyly, and Arya was already thinking of the many possible tortures that were in stock for her. Like scrubbing the floors, additional hours of training, or maybe he'd have her running around the streets collecting pieces of broken pots like last time?

But she nodded, agreeing on his terns. She had to.

"Good. Let's start with something simple. A girl has put a flower on her desk. Why?"

He was scanning every inch of her face, and Arya bit her lip in hesitation. How could she lie to him? Bending the truth, that would be possible, but straight up lie while keeping an eye contact? She had to think fast. Perhaps it would be best if she slipped the lie in at the very beginning?

"In some cases taking the time for consideration in the right moment can be a good tactic, but not in this case. Go on." He hurried her.

"It reminds me of my mother. She used to grow nasturtiums in the garden we had at the backyard of our house in King's Landing." She added a small dose of bitterness to her words, hoping it was convincing enough. "I didn't want it to fade, so I decided to keep it. Besides, sometimes seeing only black and white can be tiring, and so I brought in some color when I had the chance."

Arya expected to hear something from him, anything that would confirm her fail, but no such thing happened. Jaqen just continued to gaze at her for a while, making no remarks. Believe it or not, but that was even worse. The girl didn't know how she did, therefore couldn't determine what needed to be improved on.

"Each night a girl makes a prayer. It is not a prayer to the Many-Faced God. What is it for, and to whom does she pray?" The apprentice felt more and more like at an interrogation. An interrogation with a lie-detector, and its tiny sensors stuck to her head. But she hasn't ever told anyone (besides the Hound) about her list! How in the Seven Hells did Jaqen know?

"How did you..."

"Lovely girl" He cocked his head at her as if it was ridiculous to even ask. "a man knows."

Okay this would be a tough one. Her brows furrowed and a small vertical line appeared between them as she tried to concentrate.

"It is a list. A list of people I'm going to kill. I've made much progress since you came around, but there are still a few left." It would be the sneakiest of lies hidden in between the words. She was sure he won't notice it, because it was partly true. She bit her lip. "Once I considered putting your name on it, but I'm glad I haven't, because once your name is there, there's no going back." With that last sentence she managed to make the assassin smile.

"Sly girl, you almost made it, but that's a lie, and a particularly impudent one." The corners of Arya's mouth dropped.

"How do you know?"

"If there's no going back, what about the Hound then?" His hands clenched sharply on his knees where they had been resting calmly all this time. Suddenly there was a lump in her throat and the girl found it hard to swallow.

"What about him?"

"You spared the brute. You showed him mercy, let him go."

"But that doesn't mean I'm not going after him sooner or later." Somehow there was still hope in Arya that she could fool her teacher, and prove him wrong to abscond the punishment, but in vain.

"A man thinks otherwise."

"I let him go because he could be useful to me. I hate him just as I hate everybody from my list!"

"Another lie. A girl might've hated Sandor Clegane, but not anymore, a man sees it in her eyes." He knew he was right, and it made the situation all the worse. Arya went silent. "And now, even though her tricks have been disposed, she still insists on lying." Jaqen tsked at her, having the time of his life apparently. "There is still much work ahead of us. A man thinks we need not wait for the Game's final outcome."

"But-" She tried to interrupt, but his eyes silenced her. Winning any sort of argument with Jaqen H'ghar was simply impossible. 'You won't get me the next time you smart-ass.'

"As the punishment, tomorrow the apprentice will attend her training and will spend the rest of the day... blindfolded."

"Blindfolded?" Was he crazy? Well, she should've predicted he'd come up with something original, but this? "And what purpose would that serve?"

"Everything has its purpose."

The Stark girl's expression sharpened. She looked at the man in front of her, whose own features were so alluring in the dark, she found it difficult to think straight.

"And when will I get the opportunity to ask you something?"

"Whenever you please, devious child. Finding wholehearted curiosity in your stare is most delightful to a man."

Ha-ha, maybe, but you hardly ever provide me with answers anyway.

This was her chance. She could ask away anything. Anything. That was almost too much to choose from. Almost. Though perhaps she should take it easy and ask about something not related to the 'delicate matter' (as the Kindly Man called it) as much. If there was much work to be done, then there surely would be other occasions.

"I wonder... Why did you want to be Faceless? What made you choose this life for yourself?"

The assassin's face hasn't changed as she voiced her question. Not as she was examining him the whole time, not even as their eyes were locked with an unbearable tension.

"When he was a boy, a man has committed a crime greater than each of those he has later on, and guilt weighted heavy on him, so it was a form of atonement to carry on as long as he lives." He spoke quickly and his voice was firm. Arya already had mixed feelings, though it was only the first part of the reply.

"As a man has said, Lorath used to be his home, and the local cult of the Blind God had a strong influence on him. The worshipers of the Blind God are ought to generalize those who surround them, by avoiding using their names. One person does not differ from the other to them, because they cover their eyes completely, and so they tend to use only the phrases 'a man', 'a woman' to describe others. It led a man, who was still a boy, to thinking about what would happen if one got rid of their identity entirely. What possibilities would it give? Well, he found his answer here, in Braavos."

"On his deathbed, a man's father gifted him with an object that changed his life forever. It was an ancient coin. Unfortunately, the father didn't reveal the origins of it. However, having faith in the great importance of it, a man has devoted his life to research and learning about the history of both Westeros and Essos, and along with the truth he also found the House of Black and White which was a complete ruin back then, and an old man residing in it. The coin was a coin of the Faceless Men."

He was still smiling and Arya's head was swirling. So that was how a truly exquisite liar plays the Game. The answers were so loaded with information new to her she could no longer distinguish the ones that seemed believable and the ones that didn't.

"Now, which is the lie, lovely girl?"

She tried to think, she really did. But each story seemed convincing enough, and they were so complex! How did he come up with all this without stopping to think twice?

"I... I don't know."

Jaqen shifted in his seat, dropping down the mask that gave him this playful countenance, and came closer to Arya, so close she could feel his breathing on her cheek. The girl flinched and moved away slightly, seeing a subtle threat crawl up the assassin's face. What, was he mad? What for?!

"Every. Single. One." His tone was close to a growl, and it sent shivers running up and down Arya's spine. "A man does not speak of his past." She could tell he was very much on the edge of losing his temper. If he hasn't lost it already. Well, yeah, that was a poor move on her part. "Understood?"

She closed her eyes and clenched her jaws. 'I will not tremble. I will not be intimidated.' There was a pinching nib of pain in her mouth, and then she felt a strange, metallic taste on her tongue. Just then the girl realized she's been biting her lip this whole time.

Jaqen noticed her reaction, and quickly retrieved the control over himself, slowly moving away, but then his stare fell upon the tiny red trace on her lower lip.

"Ah, sweet girl, stop." And suddenly his hand was there, his thumb involuntarily pulling the bleeding lip from in between the clenched teeth. "She has to give this habit up, it makes her emotions too evident."

Her eyes flew open as she felt his touch on her mouth, and she saw how he now focused at it. A few tiny red smudges marked his finger. The atmosphere between them got somewhat intimate, and they both knew it perfectly well. Only she was too bewildered to retreat, and he too caught up in the moment. Right now he could think of a thousand different ways in which he could taste these delicate lips of hers, and it was tearing him apart inside. How could he even think of such a thing! Would Arya want that? Of course, she wouldn't, she was so young, so innocent! But she stayed in her place, moving not an inch back, looking so deeply entranced...

No one would hear. No one would see. No one would judge. It was just as he'd imagined, and yet he had a very strong feeling that it would change too much. Or maybe scare her off. And he wouldn't want that. But she looked so perfect in the dim, warm light. His lovely girl. His little chaos that turned his world around. His next crime. Arya Stark.

And then it was there, and Jaqen's mind has gone completely blank. A soft brush of her lips against his.

It truly was an utter shock to the man's senses, but his body responded immediately. He kissed her with the hunger of a famished wolf and a fierceness of a fired gun as if he was never to kiss anyone again. Arya gave a quiet gasp and surrendered to him completely, molding under his touch like the precious northern flower she was. Her heart beat so fast it made her head spin and the sensation was indescribable. The blood that was hers, the girl could feel on the mouth crashing her own, but there wasn't a lump in her throat or a knot in her stomach anymore. There was only warmth and passion sealed by blood.

By then she was almost sure this was indeed a dream.

Chapter Text

"Love is clockworks and cold steel

Fingers too numb to feel

Squeeze the handle, blow out the candle

Love is blindness

Love is blindness, I don't want to see

Won't you wrap the night around me?"

- Jack White, 'Love Is Blindness'

When Arya woke up her room was still completely dark. Isolated and secure; that's how it always had been, and when she thought of it, that must've been the reason sleep would always find her as soon as she'd close her eyes, and leave her only when it was interrupted. The silence seemed so thick, the girl had the sensation she could drown in it, and she wondered what it was that made today different. Perhaps it was the lack of physical exhaustion she'd gotten so used to throughout the days spent in the House? Yes, that would be the most obvious of reasons. Yesterday was one of the least demanding days, and her body needed less time to regenerate. Her bruises were getting better as well. They were still there of course, but her every breath was no longer painful, and had she been given something with a slightly higher collar to wear, no one would notice the purplish line in her neck or the little cut right next to it. The memory of the feral night she earned those ugly marks which proved her recklessness slowly faded away, and so did her sleep.

Ned's daughter was not the person to stay long in bed, the new energy ordered her to get up and do something, just anything. And so she tossed the covers away and crawled to her chest of drawers. There were not many things inside, so the girl was quick to find a few candles and a box of matches she's found there a coupe days ago. It was nice they still used them in the House, even quite often so, and not only at the temple. It was a really nice touch to that eccentric little environment of this place. Arya picked three black ones (with white knots, of course) and placed them at her desk, lighting up each one with a single match.

The three tiny flames cast a subtle, dim light on her surroundings, and while the girl stared at the bright spots, it reminded her of something. Of that divine dream she had this night. She almost forgot all about it, but now her memories were brought back to life, all so vivid and clear... It seemed so real. All the emotions that bubbled up inside her, the assassin's demanding tone, the vulnerability, the passion, ah it was too much for one night. And to think it had been just a figment of her imagination... She's had that kind of dreams before, but this one was particularly realistic. She could still feel the bittersweet taste of lies on her lips mixed with another taste of something else entirely. There was a small part of her that was grateful that the event wasn't real, because it was safer this way, but every other part of her mind yearned for more. Again, it was stupid of her, but that's the way it was.

The girl sighed and walked up to her drawer again to pick some clothes for the upcoming day and then went to take a shower and scrub the fantasies of the night off her body then let them be sucked down the drain.

When Arya came back, all prepared for her training, she saw the Waif sitting in her chair, examining the pretty little flower next to the still burning candles.

"Couldn't sleep?" Asked the doe-eyed woman, curling her fingers around the delicate petals.

"No, I uh, I just had a weird dream, that's all." Said the apprentice, running a hand through her hair. It wasn't technically a lie though. "So," She continued trying to sound enthusiastic, avoiding even a second of uncomfortable silence. "what's in stock for me today?"

"Strange you should ask, I thought you knew." Implied the Waif raising a brow at the girl. She stood up and held out a hand towards Arya. At her palm rested a long piece of black fabric.

At first the girl had no idea what she was about, but then it struck her like a flash of lightning. Her jaw dropped, but she covered her mouth with her palm just on time.

"Is there something wrong, Arya Stark?" A question echoed in her head, but it was distant, as her mind was currently in shock.

It was... real. It was all real! She's lost at the Game, and this was her punishment, she... She kissed Jaqen H'ghar. She kiseed Jaqen!

Oh, Gods. Oh, GODS! I did it, I really did, and... And he kissed me back, he- Arya was close to screaming, her face became all red, but she had to get a grip of herself because she wasn't bloody alone. The Waif would think she's gone completely bonkers. She clenched her jaws and took deep repetitive breaths. The world slowly settled down along with her thumping heart.

"You worry me, girl. What's that about?" The woman put on a very serious expression, coming closer in case the apprentice fainted, but the girl stood her ground and dismissed her words.

"I'm sorry, it's nothing."

"It doesn't look like it at all. Are you sure you don't want to settle down for a while? I can't deliver you to him in that state."

"Really, I'm fine." She affirmed more steadily now. The Waif couldn't find out. It would be better if she didn't even assume, and it brought Arya back to reality. "Okay." She sighed, placing her cold palm over her forehead. "I can do this." Arya affirmed to herself more than to the woman, then took the black band from her.

"Well, if you say so." The Waif wasn't pleased, but the girl's gotten used to that. "Tie it tightly and don't cheat. He'll know if you will."

The girl held the piece of fabric before her face and took a deep breath. Well, at least Jaqen won't have her fight him while she's blind, right? But what will he have her do?

Her fingertips brushed along the wall as she followed the sound of footsteps ahead of her. Her dark-eyed companion wasn't making it easy for Arya, moving even faster than usual, almost as if she wanted the girl to lose the track of her in this new situation she's just found herself in. For the first time in her life, the girl was grateful the halls of the home of Faceless Men were empty, because otherwise she'd be bumping into something every five seconds. Today the house of Black and White became a House of Black and Black only, to her closed eyes. It was quite an experience, she had to admit, and it was only the beginning.

"Keep up, Arya Stark, we're already late." The Waif demanded, which only made the girl mumble under her breath a phrase not worthy pronouncing aloud.

When they arrived at the training room, she had to spread her hands before her until they stumbled upon the door frame. She stepped inside, and for the first time since her first day here, she noticed how the sound of her footsteps on this surface slightly differed from the clicking sound she made while passing through the halls. It was also a bit colder there.

"I brought her, brother." And yet voices still confused Arya. Her head turned awkwardly to the side. It was weird not knowing if she was looking in the right direction, or making a complete fool of herself.

"So a man sees. Thank you." Jaqen... Always so formal, but not while sitting cross-legged near a shining lantern at his side. Arya, stop it for Gods' sake!

She heard the Waif walking away, then the door close behind her. Well, that was it. They were left alone. And Arya was frickin blind. Something inside her wanted to shrink and hide away, but at the same time run towards him and feel what she felt last night. Did he remember? Did he feel the same or was this a huge mistake?

"Lovely girl." Oh, he did remember. Guessing by the tenderness of his tone he remembered every second of it. It was a miracle, but somehow Arya managed not to smile like an idiot. He cleared his throat.

"Follow my voice. There's a table in front of you, with weapons displayed on it as every day. A blind girl should pick one for herself."

She did as he said and went ahead, with hands extended in front of her, though she tried to tread firmly. Then her palms stumbled upon a rough wooden edge and wandered further, curious what the Faceless Man has prepared. He wouldn't make her fight him, right?

He would. Those were swords she was to have to her disposition today. She touched one handle, then another, and the next one, not daring to slide her fingertips up the blades. If these were the swords that used to be hung up on the walls, they were sharp as wolf's fangs.

"But how am I to fight, when I can't see?" She asked full of doubt. To her opinion that sort of training would be nonsensical, but what did she know.

"A man is aware his apprentice is trained in swordplay and fencing, and so dueling without certain constrictions would be not enough of a challenge, doesn't she think?"

Arya snorted. Even now her teacher hasn't lost his playful tone.

"While dueling you? No. I think it would be perfectly enough of a challenge."

"We shall see about that. Now, pick your sword."

With a tiny smirk in the corner of her mouth she began her search. Arya knew precisely which one was made to fit her, and that was the one she would have. Unless he didn't take it under consideration due to its size, and it was still at its place high on the wall. But then yes! that was it! A handle thinner than all the other ones. Light and sublime, quick as a snake. Swift as a deer. The girl picked up the smallest sword.

Jaqen's voice led her to the rooms center, where they stood opposite each other. Arya took her fencing pose immediately. She didn't know that, but her sword wasn't pointing directly at her opponent, but slightly to the right.

"No, no fierce girl, relax." How was she to be relaxed, while it took so much effort to focus? Plus, she felt under a constant observation, and it was not entirely a nice feeling.

"Why would I?"

"Because today the time has come for the tables to turn. Today a man is the attacker, and a girl must only block his blows or dodge them. But her feet must not move. She is to stay right where she is."

Well, alright. This wasn't as much a suicidal mission as she thought it be.

"Okay." Arya straightened u a bit. She really wanted to prove herself experienced with a sword in her hand this day. "Let's do it."

"Very well. First, try to concentrate on a man's steps. The sound they make. Calculate the distance, the direction, the tempo."

She listened. Jaqen was treading lightly as well, but she was able to tell he kept himself fairly distanced, and her head moved right where she pictured him. It was only Jaqen, and yet she felt almost ambushed. The darkness wasn't the best friend of hers. She was the clueless prey and an assassin was circling her. Her fist clenched tighter around the metal handle.

"Good. If a girl knows where her enemy is, the rest is almost entirely a matter of instinct. She must sync her mind with her body, otherwise she'll fail."

Arya heard him getting closer, somewhere from the left, so she lifted her sword up, but then something swished through the air, and there was a sharp sting of pain just above her left calf.

"Ouch!" She hissed, alarmed, but in a matter of seconds the sting was gone. No blood was spilled.

"Is that... is that wood?" She exclaimed, disbelieving her own words. "Are you hitting me with a wooden sword?"

"Only if a girl allows it. Come on! Defend yourself!"

Another blow landed at her shoulder. It was not at all hard, but it wasn't the physical part of this play that hurt. Arya was armed with her favorite weapon in hand, but plainly exposed to her assumed enemy, unable to make a move. She tried to sense his position and predict the next movement, but there was such chaos in her head.

A pang at her back, then at her elbow, and she only turned and looked around with frustration.

"A girl must concentrate! Or else she'll be cut into pieces."

And then she froze. "You can try beggin'. And maybe I won't cut you up to tiny pieces."A shiver ran along her spine. The girl's head enlightened with a horrible flashback of that dreadful man spitting those words at her. 'Oh, no sir, not today.'

Her back hunched just in time to be missed by the stick. There was a moment of stillness and her head was no more obtained by chaos.

Fear cuts deeper than swords, but I am a wolf and will not be afraid.

Her arm was solid as steel when it arched to the left, blocking Jaqen's strike. The girl didn't really foresee it coming, it was rather her body, not mind, leading her actions. She could almost envision him, her teacher, standing a few paces away, quirking a surprised brow. His steps were clearer to her ears now. The assassin came closer. Arya smiled.

Jaqen attempted to hit her from behind, but wherever he went, her head followed, and when he made a bold move aiming at the side of her head, she ducked and put up her guard again. However, she was yet too slow to block a sequence. Steel hurtled against wood repeatedly, first at the level of her hip, then chest, but when the stick flew to the back her knee it reached its destination, making the girl bend it and kneel ungraciously. She wouldn't be given a moment to take a breath, of course, because her ears detected the next blow coming right away. Arya didn't even manage to stand up. But she was lucky. The girl raised up her sword just in time for it to cross with Jaqen's heavy strike aimed down at her. The two weapons (one professional, one temporary) created a perfect 'X' and the man didn't back away this time. He pressured her down, so she had to hold her thin sword with both hands. Not for one second did he try to make it easier for her, but slowly she forced her muscles to work, and clenched her jaws while her legs began to straighten. She heard his breaths were shallow and quicker now, and she knew if she stood up she'd be inches away from him, as the man towered over her, trying to push her down. Though he wasn't using his full strength, she was sure if that, otherwise she'd never manage to get up. Or would she?

Arya was standing now, her hands shaking from the force she used against her teacher crossed just above her head and just below his. She felt strong. She was just a girl, but she felt unstoppable.

"You, Arya Stark," he stated breathily "are simply extraordinary."

The girl let out a short, surprised sigh. It happened every time he'd forget his supposed manner of speech and address her by her name. Arya would never admit it, but if Jaqen H'ghar wanted her knees to go weak, that's all it took. Only a few words, and they made her head spin.

Time went so much faster while, instead of sweeping floors or laying motionless in her bed, the girl was entirely consumed by practicing the impossible. If someone had told her a couple months ago, that she'll end up sparring blindfolded with a hitman, she'd probably laugh them off. But that's apparently what she's been doing for hours, before something, or rather someone, interrupted them. An abrupt, unexpected sound made the two hastily step apart. Clap, clap, clap; it repeated, disturbing Arya. What was that?

A world made out of sounds, scents and sensations, in which the girl was living right now had its disadvantages. Quite a few of them actually. She couldn't see the ghostly-white silhouette standing at the door, applauding their uneven fight.

"My, my, what a duel!" The Kindly Man exclaimed, sounding genuinely fascinated. "You do most certainly have a talent, child. Had I not learned your origin firsthand, I'd be prone to think you're a braavosi." The sound of his cane clacking against the floor resounded through the training room.

"Well said." Was Jaqen's reply. "But to what do we owe this unexpected visit?"

"I dare say you already know. Don't you think you owe me an explanation?"

Arya had no idea what was going on. She just stood there with a heaving chest, gripping tightly her sword. What did the Kindly Man want again?

"A man does indeed." Said the man after a short moment of silence, then the girl felt his hand rest upon her shoulder.

"A man would ask a girl to go to her room. And don't take the band off. Our training is not over yet."

"The girl doesn't need to leave." Objected the old man, but it was the perfect opportunity for Arya to figure out which way she should go to get to the door.

"She deserves some rest, we've been quite busy this morning."

"If you say so."

And with that, the Stark girl was dismissed, having reached the door. Well, she'd have to make her way through the halls alone this time. The thought of bending the rules and taking off the damned band has crossed her mind, true, but she was too cautious now of Jaqen's superpowers of knowing anything that was related to her, so she decided to keep it on.

With her hand never leaving the near wall, Arya proceeded on her way wondering how in the Seven Hells was she supposed to find the right door.

What should I do? What should I do? I'm bloody blind, how does he expect me to...

But then she remembered something.

Her door was, according to the assassin, twentieth to the right. While so far her left hand traveled along the cold wall, she changed the sides and extended the right one. Not long after picking up on this relevation, it fell upon the first doorknob and passed it. Then the second, then the third and so on until Arya's got to the twentieth. She hesitated then, not really believing this would work, since she's had such a problem with finding her room the last time she was left alone. But oh well, what was there to lose?

She turned the handle. It made a low click and the door stood open.

Tonight when he came into her room, she was already waiting for him, sitting cross-legged at the center of the room, with her eyes covered, and a tanktop under the nightdress. She couldn't see that of course, but somehow she sensed he settled down a bit further than the last time. A shadow of the glint of light lingered around the edges of the thick material tying her eyes.

The Game went on quite similarly to the previous one, only this time Arya's defeat wasn't as devastating. It was notably easier for the girl to control her features while she didn't have to look Jaqen in the eye. She even tried to imagine he wasn't even there and the night was the only audience to her lies, and in that way her voice was uninterrupted, and tone steady. And she bit her lip only once, which was a great success. When Jaqen detected her lies, one after the other, she remained silent, and listened to his every advice carefully.

The Game was quick to pass, however, and when it did, to her very horror, the girl heard the man get up and turn to leave.

Wait, no no no, I won't let you disappear again. I won't let you behave as if nothing happened, Faceless Man!

Arya reached up quickly and by sheer miracle her wandering hand managed to catch his wrist. Her fingers curled around it forcefully.

"Please, don't go, Jaqen."

"A man doesn't want to, but he must."

"Why?"

"He has... duties."

And which ones would those be, master of The Game?

"That's a lie." She pointed out sulkily.

"How could a girl know that?" His fake pride made Arya sigh. Who was behaving like an amateur, now?

"A girl knows." She quoted him. "Even though your tricks have been disposed, you still insist on lying? That's not fair."

Jaqen hesitated for a long while before finally replying:

"A man shouldn't. He really shouldn't." But his facade already began to break, she felt it.

"Oh, but I wanted to talk to you!"

"About...?"

"Sit down, then I'll tell you."

Another long pause. Arya's grip on him didn't loosen for one second.

"Alright, wicked child, Seven Hells take me." He ranted, sitting on the floor in front of her again. The assassin wouldn't know, but his apprentice's gray eyes glinted with victory under that black band. "What was that a girl wanted to talk about?"

Nothing could prevent Arya from biting her lip now.

"Your past."

He sighed, sounding really, really annoyed, but it didn't discourage the girl.

"A man-"

"Does not speak of his past, yes I know that, but you see, the thing is you know practically everything about me, and I... Well, I know practically nothing about you. And you can trust me. Entirely. There's not a thing I wouldn't share with you had you asked me to."

The assassin was silent. Every thud of Arya's heart was driven by anticipation, and she almost couldn't hold it. It wasn't only about her curiosity, it was also about him. Something told her that this confession at his part would strengthen their bond the more. Maybe she was expecting too much, but she trusted her intuition.

"I won't judge. I won't pry and further question you if you don't want me to. I can't even look you in the eye..."

"Fine." It was the most indifferent 'fine' she's ever heard, but it came to her as quite a shock nonetheless.

"Wait, what? Really?"

"But..." Jaqen began, choosing the right words deliberately. Arya regretted not being able to see him right now so bloody much! "...everything has its price, and so does granting your plea."

"Name it, the price. I'll do anything." She might've been too abrupt in stating that.

"Let's say... A whole week without your eyes."

A week? Are you kidding me? Now was the time for regretting the promises made, but the blind girl was desperate not to let her doubt show, and said:

"Done." Even if only to see with the eyes of her imagination the disbelief on his face. "But what about Nightingale? When are we going to see to that?"

"Of this matter an apprentice should not worry. No contractor can tell a Faceless Man when exactly he must do a hit. Besides, a girl isn't ready yet, and it's hers not her masters."

"Um, okay then I guess." For what else could she say?

The Lorathi sighed again, and tussled a bit, perhaps running a hand through his hair. Could it be that he was nervous?

"Now, if you would know, listen closely."

Oh, she was going to listen closely. There was nothing she wanted more at the moment. It couldn't be that now, could it?

Chapter Text

"A man could tell many otherworldly tales to his apprentice. He could make her believe in each of them as he himself has throughout the years, but if she is to know the truth... There is no tale for him to tell." Jaqen's tone remained collected so far, but Arya could hear it trembling deep inside, behind the thick coat of blackness covering her eyes. Her eyebrows furrowed slightly, and she bit her lip in thought. He was speaking in riddles again. The girl opened her mouth as to say something, but the Lorathi carried on.

"And what a man means by this, is that he... That I" And here he paused, picking his words carefully. She heard his slip out of his manner of speech by accident from time to time, but never has she heard him do that by choice. "don't have a past outside these walls. Or at least not one I could remember. My first memories are of this place and this place only, along with its owner; the Kindly Man as you'd addressed him. He says that one day he found an abandoned child at the threshold of the temple, a gurgling baby, to be specific. And, believe it or not, that baby was me. Funny, isn't it? That my sister carries the name that should actually belong to me.

So, I grew up here, but I knew since the very beginning the truth of my origin, or rather the origin I lack. The Kindly Man was like a father to me, but only to a certain point. I wasn't given a name, so I carried on without it. I didn't need one, and I managed to convince myself I didn't even want one. The old man, kind as he is, decided to desert his own too, it was a sort of union between us, a union I was very happy to strike up. After some time he began to teach me the history of our world, he is obsessed with it as you surely know by now, and it became my obsession as well when I started to link together the pieces of it. The tales of certain inhabitants of Lorath were fascinating as they suited my need to find a way to live everyday life without a name, but my favorite lectures were of the Faceless Men, of course. You can well imagine why, lovely girl. It was destiny. I needed a sense of belonging, and it was given to me the moment I grew old enough to understand it. All my misery and uncertainty became my blessing, and I used to be satisfied by that, I really did. Instead of searching for my identity I buried the memory of it six feet under the ground with a smile on my face. I was No One and I could ve anyone I wanted. When I went out of the temple I would constantly make up stories about who I was, each day a new one, and they would always believe me. Kids, teens, adults, whoever. I thought I was free."

"But then..." Began Arya with her voice a bit hoarse and a small, curious line drawn between her eyebrows, trying to find the face of him, who has none, somewhere buried deep in the darkness surrounding her. "...why did you become an assassin? And how?" The girl has obviously forgotten she was not to interrupt him, but Jaqen was sure she would, sooner or later, and a nostalgic smile she couldn't see cracked his lips in half. She looked so clueless like that, blindfolded, but the Faceless man never forgot the little rascal hiding behind the mask of her pretty face. Gods, how could he resist her?

"I remember a time when the walls of the temple weren't as crumbling as they are now. Still, it was forgotten by the braavosi even then, all except one.

I was sitting at the edge of the pool, examining the statues of Him of Many Faces maybe for the thousandth time and playing with some ancient coins the Kindly Man gave me during that day's history lesson, when suddenly an old lady walked through the ebony door, then knelt before my god as well. It was the first visitor since my sister appeared, and a very unexpected one. Despite being caught off guard and all alone, I kept still as if I were one of the statues around me. The lady kept her head down and I could see her hands tremble as she prayed. They were nearly as crinkly as my keeper's. It was dark and quiet, so quiet in fact I could hear the silent echo of her words. 'I have been to all the Gods in this city' she said. 'I have made numerous offerings, but none of them ever listened. Please, if there is a God may he hear my plea, there is no one, who would help me.' A very fortunate choice of words I would say. 'My husband... He is a vile, terrible man. I put him behind bars many years ago, and when I saw him last, his mouth were spitting curses at me, swearing revenge. And tomorrow... Tomorrow is the day he is to be freed.'

I listened to the poor woman, already certain what it was that I was bound to do. When she walked out, full of regret and mourning, I followed her in the dark of the night to her home. It was a very stressful night for the both of us I'm sure. And she was right. Just when the first beams of sunlight peeked above the city roofs, a large fist thudded loudly on her door. Only, the thudding was followed by another noise, and I believe when she opened the door at last, she found her husband lying flat on his back at her doorstep, with a large wound on his chest and the coin of Faceless Men placed neatly next to it. Not even a week later there was another client, promising a name to my God, and this time I was ready to strike up a real contract."

And then there was silence. Black silence. Arya almost couldn't believe it. Her palms were icy cold, but her chest was feverish.

"So you carried on the tradition of the ancient assassins all by yourself? And you really don't have a name? You don't know where you're from?"

"Does that surprise you, lovely girl?"

"Well, yeah. Of course, it does! I don't... I... it's just so surreal."

"A couple months ago, the idea of taking an apprentice sounded just as surreal to me, you can be sure of that Arya Stark."

The girl wanted to just bury her hands in her face, but those several weeks of strict self-control taught her to remain still. She didn't know if she was disappointed or just surprised.

"Is there something wrong?" The concern in his tone proved to Arya she didn't control her features as well as she thought.

"N-no! I, uh..." Too hasty of a reply. Of course there was something wrong. There was no point in hiding it. "Everything's just not how it should be! Not how I hoped it would." What did you hope for, stupid girl? That you'll get to know something about Jaqen H'ghar that nobody else does? That you'll grow closer? That you'll change his mind?

A gentle rustle of fabric hit her ears. The warmth of his palms entwining with hers surprised Arya, but she didn't shy away. She didn't smile nor squeezed his fingers in response either.

"This is how it's always been, there is no other option here." She passively let him try to soothe her. Funny, how the assassin sounded as if he were trying to convince not her, not the surrounding darkness, but himself. "I am No One. I will always be No One, to the world, to the Waif, to the Kindly Man, and to Arya Stark. To the two people, who brought me to this world... to myself. Even as I want to, I can't make it any different. I am a man without a face."

"That's what you'd like to think." She nearly scowled, pressing her lips into a thin line. The emotions building up in her had reached their peak. She'd give that smirking devil a piece of her mind. "You'd like to think you're immune to all feeling and attachment. But it's closer to the truth to say this is exactly what you need. You're talking bullshit, and I'm gonna prove it to you." Arya snatched her hands away from his, not giving the man a chance to react, and reached up, until she felt the curve of a jaw under her fingertips. Now it was Jaqen't turn to go stiff, as ten cold fingers crawled all around his face. Delicate, but demanding, like raindrops splashing on his cheeks, falling to his mouth and marking the tip of his chin, then crawling up along the bridge of his nose, and circling his eyes. The Lorathi felt his stomach do at least a few impetuous flips, but his body didn't move an inch. When the palms of his lovely girl finally settled on both sides of his face, it was a real pity she couldn't see the look in his eyes.

"You say you have no face, huh? Well, this certainly feels like one to me. And what is more, Mr. Faceless, is that you can have as many fake faces as you want, and this very one will always be hiding underneath, whether you like it or not. This is you." This was just enough to make every reasonable thought vanish from the man's mind, like the light of a blown-out candle. His hands were already acting on their own. "And I don't care what you are to the rest of the world, because to me you are Jaqen H'ghar. Do you hear me? Nothing's gonna change that." By the time she finished her sentence, the girl was pulled forward, and suddenly found herself sitting astride the lap of the so said Jaqen H'ghar. He sensed her tremble beneath her skin, and it was the sweetest of sensations. She was right, that vixen of a girl. She was so right. To be closer to her, that's what he needed. And to hear his name leave those precious lips once more.

"Say it again, lovely girl."

"N-nothing's..." Arya began, clearly struggling with her heart jumping right up to her throat.

"No, before that."

The girl bit her lip, cheeks flushed red. He only gripped her waist tighter.

"Jaqen H'ghar."

What followed was him desperately trying to lick the words off Arya's lips, and her desperately trying to ignore the heat growing in between her legs. She was victorious this night, and just this kind of feeling was beyond rewarding. Kissed by the night, by the emissary of Death itself, she felt more than just a girl. If only she could lose herself in it...

Their lips parted without the slightest sign of shame or regret.

"I see even taking your eyes does not tame you, evil child. I don't know how else to punish you." Arya liked that little hoarse undertone in his voice. Her ears grew more sensitive to those little details. She had to focus on the senses she had left. "What devious God do you serve, Arya? And how have I wronged him?"

"There is only one God." Arya smiled. "His name is..."

"Death." They both finished.

An unnaturally vivid image appeared in the Stark girl's mind. A memory, to be more specific. A memory of a darkened forest lit by burning, golden walls, and two pairs of bloody hands clasped together. The feeling of the sticky liquid in between her fingers... She might not have been fully aware of the meaning of these words by then, but she surely was now. The girl let out a heavy sigh and rested her head against Jaqen's shoulder.

"I feel as if a whole eternity has passed since my family... Since I..." Unable to finish her sentence, Arya just gave up halfway through. The words came before she could stop them. She really didn't want it to sound like that. She was worried she had just killed the mood, but the assassin only kissed her hair, and sighed too, sounding just as troubled.

"There's one more thing." She said, trying to quickly brighten up. "That's no big deal, it's just been bugging me for quite some time."

"Is that so?" Somehow she knew he was smirking. "I'm all ears tonight, but don't get used to it."

'We'll see.' Thought Arya.

"If you're the most renowned hitman in both Westeros and Essos, plus, you have no actual identity and no one knows how you really look like, how did you end up heading off to King's Landing's prison?" Arya's head bumped lightly against his chest as the man chuckled.

"Of all things you could've asked..." Jaqen mused, shifting his weight on the floor, and before she knew it, he lifted his apprentice like one would lift a weightless doll, placing her on her bed. "My arrest was entirely on purpose. I needed to find myself there, because of a newly struck contract. My client was particularly displeased with the life sentence of a certain arsonist. The madman burned down a school, murdering my client's three children along with over a half of the other attendants and workers. It was a great disaster, I'm sure you can imagine. I was glad to fulfill the contractor's wish, though it required some creativity on my part. And what would be a more ridiculous way of getting imprisoned, than to willingly claim yourself a legendary hitman before the authorities? I got a life sentence as well, if only to stroke the local government's ego or to simply set an example, but of course no one actually believed me. Well no one but two men. One was Tywin Lannister, the other realized the truth mere seconds before he was burned alive."

Arya winced. What a dreadful way to go... though he deserved it, he did.

"What was his name?" The mattress squeaked slightly as Jaqen leaned over her.

"The newspaper headlines called him The Dragon. Some were stupid enough to say he could breathe fire. That flames wouldn't do him any harm." The hitman leaned down, and the way his breath lingered along her neck sent goosebumps down Arya's shoulders. "They were wrong." He whispered, then began placing delicate kisses under her ear and along her jawline, as her fingers curled in his hair. It was also like fire. To think the girl used to be shaking with anger just at the sight of it.

"You know... truth is, I wasn't the only one curious about this."

"Oh?"

"The first to actually point out the absurdity of your stay in King's Landing was the Hound."

Suddenly, the Lorathi froze. It was just a moment, not longer than a heartbeat, but Arya noticed it. He moved away gently, not letting her know the reason.

"Alright, enough of bedtime stories. Tomorrow you start paying back the price of my confessions, I need you well-rested and beaming with energy for that."

An imitation of a playful tone. What was wrong?

She didn't oblige though. Tonight, she got more out of him than she expected, and that was a true miracle.

"Ha-ha. Funny." Now she had nothing but sarcasm left.

"Goodnight, Arya Stark." Sweet as honey, smooth as velvet, but no, not really. What was wrong?

"Goodnight, Jaqen."

The apprentice squeezed her eyes shut harder and listened. A few long steps, barely audible creaking of the floor... the door being open and then shut quietly... but then nothing. He didn't walk away at first. She heard a deep inhale, exhale and a few, muffled words. Or rather one word whispered over and over.

"Selfish. Selfish, selfish, selfish..."

She felt a round, uneven shape under her fingertips, as they examined the surface of polished wood. Two, miniature valleys, over them an equally small, but sharp mound, and long, almost plain meanders on both sides. Arya was feeling her own features carved into the wooden panel, trying to imagine how it would look. Everything was in its place, she thought, except for the hair flowing down her shoulders. The work was very precise, and she wouldn't expect it to be any less impressive when the Kindly Man asked her if she would pose as a reference for his bas-relief. It seemed that the old artist's talent was exceptional on any medium. The girl was surprised, honored even, although sitting peacefully in one position was a real test of her patience.

"It's a pity I can't see it." She complained.

"Well..." The old man mused. "You have other senses, don't you? Haven't you gotten any accustomed to living without one of them? It's been almost a week as far as I'm concerned."

"Yes. Tomorrow I take off this awful band." She brushed gently the smooth lines of what would be her dress. "Could you at least describe it to me?"

"Try and describe it to yourself. I'll correct you if you get anything wrong."

"Um..." Arya traced the line of her arm. "This girl is obviously supposed to look similar to me, but who is she? Who did I pose as?"

"This is no ordinary girl, Arya. This is a princess. A northern princess, you now see why I thought asking you to be my model would be a good idea, and I'm already fed up with studying the Waif's doe eyes, anyway, the princess' name was Lyanna. She was very brave and adventurous for her time."

"Her left hand is, um... it's attached to something?"

"Something?"

This something was mirroring Lyanna's extended forearm but was larger too.

"It's a bow? No. Maybe she's holding hands with someone?"

"That's almost correct, if you make two of your guesses one. That bump you can feel on her wrist is a binding between her and the person holding her hand. Go on."

It was getting harder to guess, but she was almost sure she could feel a man's chest, then moved up to see if she would find a face there.

"I feel another face. And long hair, but this is definitely a man..."

"Indeed." What was that amused tone supposed to mean? "Focus on the face for a while more, and you might even recognize it."

Arya raised her eyebrows slightly, confused. The curve of his lips, the straight nose bridge, the sharp line of his eyebrows...

Oh.

"No, it can't be." The girl was fighting not to bite her lip. "Is this Jaqen? Did you... Was he posing for this?"

"That's right! I have to admit I didn't expect you to guess so quickly."

"Now I really regret I can't see!" She let out a giggle. "Who is he?"

"This, child, this is prince Rhaegar. He had long hair as well, that's the main reason I borrowed your teacher for this. Only the color is wrong, well, mostly - Rhaegar's was entirely white."

"Was he a northerner too?"

"Oh, no. He was a Targaryen. His dynasty once ruled the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros."

"Were they allies? Or some distant family?"

"They were lovers. This is a marriage scene."

"Oh." No other answer would form in Arya's mouth. Oh. "Were they happy, at least?"

"They were very happy. But for a very short time."

A loud click of a lock interrupted their conversation. Guessing by the light rhythm of her steps, it was the Waif.

"I see you're done with posing, Arya Stark. That's good, because I have at least four hours left to torment you." The doe-eyed woman was in a good mood, Arya could tell.

Four hours later sweat was dripping from all over her in streams, and her muscles were twitching in a desperate plea for rest. In addition to the usual sparring, they played a particularly annoying version of hide and seek, the Waif's favorite. Basically, it required Arya to chase after the Waif, depending only on the sound of her footsteps. The fun part was that there were all sorts of obstacles laid out in the training room, waiting there, ready to bruise and make the young assassin fall over repeatedly. Her legs barely listened to her as she made her way down the hall. In one hand Arya held her towel and some pajamas for change, the other never left the wall. Counting the doors it wasn't confusing to move around here anymore, even blindfolded. After a long day such as this one, Arya liked to visit the large bathroom, or rather 'bathing chamber' to let her sore body be soothed by hot water and the sweet medication that is laziness.

Around the sixteenth door her extended hand finally reached the right handle, and Arya entered, welcomed by almost inaudible purl of water waves. It was practically like a private swimming pool!

She hung her towel and nightgown on the low bench near the pool, then making as little movement as she could, Arya threw off her clothes (careful not to take off the black band, of course), not bothering to pick them up from the floor. Then carefully, she searched for the entering spot, checking it with her foot. The air was cold, and just as goosebumps crawled atop her skin, Arya found the entrance, and careful again not to slip down, she got into the pool. A delighted sigh left her throat. She would close her eyes if she hadn't already, and let the warmth envelop her. Last time she was here, the girl left a bar of soap just at the edge of the pool, so later on she wouldn't have to break her neck while searching for it. She was just about to pick it, when suddenly, a splash disturbed her relax. Roughly four feet away, just at the other edge of the pool, although not particularly loud, it was definitely a splash. But she was alone, wasn't she?

"Huh?" She asked the darkness. "Who's there?"

Silence.

An icy sting of panic slit through her chest. The apprentice was completely exposed, with no weapon, and completely blind! Whoever the intruder was, they could very well see her, while she stood there vulnerable! Wait, no, think Arya! Who could possibly enter the underground property of a hitman just like that? And sneak into this particular room thought there are countless more? Hm? Exactly. No one. This had to be a test of some sort, and the young assassin might just have the idea of who decided to perform it. Arya's lips curled slightly in a sly smirk. With one fierce swoosh of her hands, she sent the water splashing right in the direction of the supposed intruder. At first, her plan seemed to fail, but after the fifth wave she was rewarded with a cough and another splash, this one directed at her in defense.

"I knew it! I knew it, you sneaky bastard! For how long have you been here, how- How dare you?!" She reached to the knot on the back of her head, her cheeks red half from anger, half from shame, and tugged at him to look the brazen peeper in the eye.

"No, no, don't!" Jaqen warned sharply, and the girl hesitated. She wouldn't, if it wasn't for the hint of genuine panic in that command.

"And why wouldn't I? What the Seven Hells are you even doing?! Have you no shame?" She gripped the knot again.

"You're forgetting yourself, Arya, that would be breaking our deal and making the situation more... cumbersome dare I say. Considering the circumstances." He sounded both amused and serious, which made an odd combination. Arya frowned.

"Circumstances?" Frustration and annoyance, she's never spoken to him like that before. "What are you talking about, Jaqen?"

"Well... I didn't just enter the room. I was here... all along."

If Arya thought her cheeks were red before, she was mistaken.

"So you were, uh-"

"Using the bathing chamber, with no intention of sneaking up on anyone, yes."

"And that means you're..." The girl really didn't need to finish. Yup, she was in the largest of tubs with Jaqen H'ghar. Naked. She felt as if all her intestines just squeezed into a tightly knotted mess.

"A man might have no shame, but a girl certainly does, guessing by the color of her cheeks." Arya was nearly having a heart attack across the pool, and the hitman was audibly trying to hold in a laugh.

"But, but you could've said something! Why didn't you say anything, no, you just sat there and gawked while I was... Ugh, you devil! Why didn't you say anything, just why?"

"I was simply too stunned, lovely girl. A man had every reason to gawk."

"Just that you're making me run around blindfolded doesn't mean you can toy with me like that!" Though Arya was really more embarrassed than mad, still, it's been a while since she's yelled at anyone, and right now it was not an unpleasant feeling. "I hate you!" She plashed at him repeatedly, claiming "I hate you, I hate you!" until she heard him laugh and lunge to the side. She tried to chase him as he moved around her in circles. Then suddenly his laugh ceased, and that's when she knew he dived in. But Arya had only a couple seconds to acknowledge that, when something wrapped nimbly around her ankles and pulled her down. Before she could catch some air she was already under the surface, wriggling her legs to chase Jaqen away. But then, an idea came into her mind, and she stopped moving, letting almost all the air escape from her lungs and her limbs fall at her sides.

He waited for her to jump out and suffuse him with another flood of scolds, smirking as he always did, but none of the above happened. With every second the water became more and more undisturbed, while the Faceless Man grew concerned. A sudden tide of panic swept over him, and the man hastily dove in again. The fear only increased as he found her sinking, her body motionless, surrendering to the underwater calmly. Quick as a snake, he got to her, dragging her limp torso up. As soon as their faces were above the surface, the man scanned her suddenly full of fear. Was she always that pale?

"Arya?" He shook her loose frame. "Arya!"

In one moment the girl cracked into a laugh full of small coughs, nearly spitting all the water at his face. She did that on purpose, of course. "Ah, that's what you get for messing with Arya Stark, ha-ha! Were you scared? Did I frighten you?" She carried on with her giggles, but the man holding her only sighed, releasing some of the tensity accumulated in him. "Jaqen H'ghar with nothing to say? Unbelievable!"

"Don't you ever do that again. Ever." That was a serious demand. Maybe even a tiny bit too serious. And he never let go of her. His hands were clasped at her ribs.

"Or what?" She teased, moving to better position herself in his grip. Yes, the girl was very aware that their chests almost touched, and she didn't know how would she react at this level of intimate closeness, so she chose to move slightly away. Jaqen wouldn't have it though.

"Or every time you take a bath I'll be stealing your clothes, and then, you'll have to get rid of all the shame you've got left." Now it was Jaqen's turn for teasing. But he was more deliberate in his actions. The muscles of her abdomen tensed as she felt his hand slide up her chest smoothly. It traced the line of her collarbones and lingered on her neck for a while longer before finally lifting up her chin as he might have done to make her look up at him, had she been able to. The girl wouldn't dare to move, and she could only hope her goosebumps weren't as visible, or that Jaqen's icy eyes weren't focused anywhere around the area of her nipples. Shame, shame, shame. If it wasn't for the water, maybe it could burn her from inside. "Am I making myself clear?" His voice was so deep she nearly, nearly squealed. She allowed herself only to nod, but somehow her bottom lip found itself tucked between her teeth anyway.

And that's when he let her go.

"Take your time." The man said while getting out of the pool. "You do deserve some rest, but when you're done I'll be waiting outside. The time of your punishment is almost over, and we have a long night ahead of ourselves, lovely girl."

A couple hours later a man would be leading a girl down a particularly dark corridor, with its stairs lit only by candlelight, hiding a treasury of even darker secrets, which she was about to learn. A girl had her first hit yet to make, and it was almost midnight.

Chapter Text

It wasn't cold. Though Arya was currently deep under the ground, and heading even deeper, she didn't get that unpleasant feeling as she used to be getting every time her parents asked her to bring something from the basement. Led down the stone stairs by the firm grip of a hitman's hand, she almost felt safe.

Both the man and the girl remained silent as echo carried the sound of their steps further into the corridor. It was about quarter past midnight, and Arya knew she'd be taking off that awful piece of black material covering her eyes, and the curiosity of what would be there before her eyes as she does so, excited her very much. The girl didn't regret her week-lasting sacrifice though. Jaqen was easier to conciliate while she appeared so vulnerable, deprived of her sight. However, it was only another thoughtful disguise for her. Ned's daughter didn't feel vulnerable at all. Not anymore.

She walked ahead confidently, ready to face anything on her way, until Jaqen stopped her bu placing a hand on her shoulder.

"Here, lovely girl. This is the most secret room in this entire building. It's time for you to take a look..." He fiddled with the knot for a few seconds, and the band finally fell to the ground.

Her eyes fluttered open very slowly. Eyelids sore, she tried to focus. It did really feel as if she were given a new pair of eyes. Lucliky, the room she found herself in was only dimly lit, for a sudden flood of sunlight would've momentarily blinded her. At first, she couldn't make out anything from the sight in front of her. Everything was blurry, looking like a particularly chaotic mosaic. Arya squinted, trying again, and this time she was almost sure another pair of eyes stared back at her. No, not a pair, but a whole legion of eyes. The uncountable variety of different stares made Arya's own eyes jump from one to another, scanning all the faces restlessly. Male and female, youthful and aged, wealthy and poor, blond, ginger, brown or black-haired or with no hair at all. Some of them she recognized from the news she occasionally watched on TV, like that fatman with a slit throat. But here his (barely visible) neck was not even slightly nicked. The girl scanned the countless expressions of people of all races; fear, indifference, content, worry, anger...

They were photographs, splayed and pinned to the large wall in front of her, not leaving one bare spot.

Although none of them was the one she missed for a week.

She turned her head away from all the eyes on her and faced her teacher. It was like letting out a relieved sigh after months of choking on air. The one white strand of his hair was still stubbornly curled, mismatching, and yet fitting perfectly. She almost smiled.

"These are your hits. You keep them here like... lime trophies." Arya admitted more to herself than to Jaqen.

"Just so." He nodded, watching her reactions carefully. "This is the Hall of Faces."

Maybe he searched for outrage or disbelief in the girl's features, but he would find none there. Perhaps she would've thought of this ritual-like obsession as inhumane or distressful before her journey marked with bloody trails began, but now she wasn't. Arya Stark had her own Hall of Faces, and it came in the form of a list, the crossed-out names her trophies.

Seeing no hint of worry weighting her features down, the assassin led her to a large desk, which nearly disappeared, stood in front of the large wall. There was a map of the Free City of Braavos splayed on it, overlaid by piles of documents. Passports and ID's, all belonging to the people sacrificed to Him of Many Faces. There was one picture on the side, and Jaqen pointed at it.

"This is the woman, whose life rests in your fierce little hands, lovely girl."

Strong chin, full, red lips, cat-like eyes with long lashes, contoured in a way that made them seem irresistible. Caramel skin contrasted foxily with the gentle waves of her long, black hair.

"Nightingale." The girl whispered.

"Now, see, here is the House of the Seven Lamps." He tapped the location near the Harbor, marked with a small, red cross on the map. "And tonight it's simply overfilled with all sorts of... customers, that's a green light for us."

"Okay, so what's our plan?" Arya wanted to know, the first glimmers of excitement awaking inside her. No reply, followed by a single sigh made her look up at Jaqen again. "We do have a plan, right?"

"We do." He sounded as if his words tasted bitter. "But before we discuss it, I don't think you're aware where it is exactly that we're going."

"What do you mean? We pass the Satin Palace and then head towards Ragman's Harbor-"

"No. That's not what I mean. Did your contractor mention anything about Nightingale's job that night?" The man tried not to let his concern show, Arya saw that. But what was that she knew about her target?

"Um, the woman, she said there is no other woman as sinful as Nightingale, and... oh."

"Exactly. The House of the Seven Lamps is a pleasure house, a brothel, call it as you will, but it's not a place a girl like you could just walk into, there are certain things you have to be prepared for, and-"

"Jaqen." She cut in quickly, shushing him. That talk they had before about shame suddenly became clearer. "It's fine, just tell me what I need to do. I can manage." They exchanged stares; Arya's willful and calm, Jaqen's - conflicted. In thought, the man wondered what devilish forces allowed him to give her eyes back. He yielded.

"Very well. First we have to work on your disguise because this time Arry won't do, unfortunately. And this is presumably the hardest part. I have worn female disguises before, believe it or not, but I'm afraid none of my costumes gets even close to something we could use. It wouldn't fit you anyway, and the girls at the Seven Lamps have a very... unique dress code."

This actually made her chuckle. Jaqen was so gentle with his words, it was ridiculous to think this man's an assassin for hire.

"Then how do we do it? How do we get these clothes?"

Jaqen pulled out a long, metal key out his pocket and put it at the desk. "With this. Well, this and with the help of some basic tricks my sister taught you."

"What does it open?" She eyed the item. It looked just ordinary.

"Even the most expensive establishments have their backdoor."

Arya looked up at him, her gawking mouth mocking outrage.

"Jaqen H'ghar, how did you come to be in possession of a key to the back door of a pleasure house? And you're trying to teach me about shame?" Finally, this brought back in the smirk. Arya was proud of herself.

"Let's just say this once was a key to getting many extremely useful information. I haven't been using it... much."

"Uh-uh, sure." Sarcasm. Sarcasm is the way to make a smirking devil smile.

"Don't give me that look, little rascal, we're not playing two-trurhs-and-a-lie tonight."

Rascal. Arya did like that word. Definitely. Jaqen liked it to, but he'd surely try to deny it if anybody asked.

"We never stop playing, I believe you said it at some point." If she could, she would make those delicate teases last all night, but then suddenly her interlocutor turned away.

"Speaking of that. I think I should work on my appearance as well."

Her gaze followed him, and just then Arya noticed an open dressing room across her spot. There were multiple long hangers with all sorts of clothes. Suits, cloaks, overcoats, hoods, sports clothes, casual ones, jailer suit, a couple dresses (dresses! The bastard wasn't lying) and even a military suit. Plus, at least a dozen hats, fake facial hair and wigs were also on display.

It looked kind of like pulled out of a cheap thriller about some crazy man with serious mental problem, but despite that, it worked, so the girl chose not to complain.

"What does the apprentice say, hm? I think I'll go full blond this time. Or even brighter. I've never done that before."

Arya bit her lip. The image of a white-haired prince holding hands with a northern princess suddenly crossed her mind. She quickly brushed it away.

A blond man with his hair tied up in a man bun sat in an unbelievably comfortable, extravagant chair, at one of the extravagant, round tables, drinking an extravagantly exquisite drink from an extravagant glass. Everything here was just that - extravagant. He picked a fitting, blood red suit for this occasion, but he wasn't standing out, oh no. The gentleman was surrounded by dandies in all shapes and sizes, so he was blending in perfectly. Not that anyone paid some extra attention to him. Money seemed to be dripping down from the ceiling (sometimes, it did) or down the luscious bodies of the dancers on the main platform. Anyone, who walked in here instantly knew they've just found themselves in the most luxury floor of the Seven Lamps. And this is just where the man in the blood red suit needed to be. He scanned the area with his dark brown eyes, confident that no one would notice they were actually contact lenses. Though he tried to focus more on the drunken customers or the tall woman standing distantly in the corner of the room, watching everything cautiously like a harpy (he'll be making a very extravagant purchase with her help later), his icy eyes behind the brown contact lenses did sometimes stroll away and towards tonight's main attraction. There were seven of them of course, dressed only in feathers and jewelry, and the seductive red light (he did dress perfectly for the night) enhancing every curve, every angle could make any man's head spin. But sadly, they were not looked at as women. They were looked at as objects, and the man in disguise didn't even try to break through that. He felt sorry for them, though each one was probably wealthier than him.

But he didn't come here to feel sorry, did he? No, no he needed to focus, or a certain lovely girl will be getting impatient soon.

Jaqen has been waiting for the right one for quite some time now. It was simple, cliché even, but still he had to do it without looking suspicious. So he waited for her, until finally she decided to slalom her way through the extravagant seats, getting close enough. She was dressed as all the waitresses on this particular floor were. Not vulgarly, like regular hookers, though of course, their outfits didn't leave much to the imagination. They wore white velvet, see-through slips with lace and chaplets, and silver collars with long and thin, silver chains on them, which were attached also to their wrists. The women wore wigs too, the hitman was sure. There was no way all the waitresses had the same color and haircut.

And one just the right size was now within his reach. Just as she was about to pass his table, Jaqen stood up swaying slightly, putting on a well practised drunken expression, and oh, so accidentally, spilled the few drinks she carried on her tray, right at her cleavage.

"My apologies, darlin'." He said, letting a wild smirk creep up to the corner of his mouth.

She was used to darkness by now, that one thing's sure. Arya didn't really mind being by herself when the lights were off, in a small restroom with 'STAFF ONLY' written in big, black letters at the entrance. She had the key Jaqen gave her in the pocket of her jeans, and a folded gauze, freshly sopped with chloroform in her palm. And though she was fully clothed (which was about to change in a minute) she felt bare without any weapon. No daggers, no pistols, not even the smallest of handguns. The Faceless Man didn't allow her to bring any of those, stating that there was no possible way for her to walk around the Seven Lamps armed, and that they will have to come to with something as they get there. Arya wondered why.

Click, click, click. She heard someone approaching from behind the closed door. Stilettos? Oh, Gods no, she hated those. Another few clicks and then a gentle creak of a turned doorknob. The girl held her breath. She was using the same technique she used for Amory. When the door opened, the girl used it as a cover, then the light switched on. A slim, young woman walked in, and in that instant, Arya shut the door behind her, and jumped at her from the back, pulling her head back with her right hand, and pressing the gauze to her mouth with her left. Evidently, the woman didn't think before she made her first move. You don't take a sharp inhale when someone stuffs your mouth and nose with chloroform. These were the words of the Waif, and she knew a great deal about poisoning.

The waitress was just as short as Arya, but not as strong. She tossed and struggled in her spot, scratched Arya's forearms with her nails quite harshly, but it was only for a couple seconds that she resisted the sudden urge to fall into blissful unconsciousness. Her muscles eased under the young assassin's grip, and the girl let her body slide carefully to the ground. She wished the poor waitress no harm, she didn't bear the name promised to the Many-Faced God. Okay, so now Arya had some time to examine her new disguise, and she grimaced bitterly. At least now she knew why she couldn't be armed in this. Chains? Really? And was she supposed to just prance through the room in this ridiculously exposing garment? She could just go out clothed in nothing at all just as well. And who the hell wore such high heels? How was she supposed to walk in these?

Oh well, but she had to. A few moments later the girl was fully disguised, with a huge red stain on her chest. So this was his method? Ugh, typical.

But nonetheless effective, she thought. Plus, the slip was nearly the perfect size. There was a sink and a mirror in the restroom, so Arya could adjust the wig of long, honey-like hair properly, brushing the bangs with her fingers. It hid her sharp, dark eyebrows. Good. Her face was already made-up, because the only things Jaqen could supply her with were cosmetics. She was supposed to look seductive in this disguise, but looking in the rest room's narrow mirror, that's not what she saw. Every element was right, but while combined to create a complete look, they appeared awfully misplaced. It seemed that Ned's daughter wasn't created to be seductive.

"Seven Hells, of course you're not." She said, looking her own reflection in the eye."You're created for being deadly. Be deadly. Act."

'And hurry.' She added in her thought. 'You've got no time to waste. You're just a waitress, no one's gonna pay extra attention to you. Get the work done.'

With that, Arya hurried to the door, feeling the key she hid in her shoe pinch her foot.

It took her a few heartbeats to get rid of the shock on her face as she left the 'STAFF ONLY' restroom behind. Swathed in the dazzle of it all, the girl felt as if she suddenly found herself inside a kaleidoscope. Everything was in different shades of red, and mixed with the glimmering sparks and reflections of jewelry. Her gaze darted to the seven dancers, and to the 'gentlemen' surrounding them. She noticed a few other waitresses as well, but she couldn't really focus at anything in particular. There was a large knot, squeezing and twisting her stomach. Fear and fascination. Luckily, Arya spotted the man in the blood red suit just in time for her to get a grip on the situation. They had to act quickly, nothing else should matter. Left on a counter beside her, the girl saw a tray, which was now hers to use as a prop. The chains rattled quietly as she threw back her long hair, exposing her shoulders and neck. No one would notice that red stain anyway, they had plenty other things to fix their attention at. Arya stood straight with her tray, then with a gentle sway of her hips, she began making her way through the tables.

Her partner in crime saw this and got up as well, looking (almost) perfectly sober this time.

The girl made an effort not to look anyone in the eye, and only focused at the nape of her disguised teacher. Move lightly, slide through it all as fast as would not be considered suspicious, and everything's gonna be fine. With the grace of a water dancer, she made it halfway through, when suddenly she felt someone's grip o her hips. Ten, thick fingers curled around the hem of her slip and pulled down. In one moment the waitress was unceremoniously sat on the lap of a randy gentleman, sprawled in his seat like a king. She almost dropped her tray.

"Well, hello there, beautiful." He said to her, voice hoarse from the alcohol mixed with excitation, eyes shiny. He was at least partly a braavosi, guessing by his accent and dark, curly hair, though his complexion was a bit too bright for one. "Won't you rest here for a little while, hm?"

Gaze spinning, words breathy, hands greedy, she didn't like this one bit. What was she to do, she was posing as a waitress here, not a whore! In a split-second an image of her slamming the tray on the man's face flashed before her eyes. Tempting, but unreasonable. That would be a one big fail. No, she had to act as if she were doing this for years.

The waitress placed her tray on the table, and leaned in, pretending she didn't fear his touch.

Somewhere there, a few paces ahead to the crowd, the infallible intuition of a certain assassin told him to stop right where he was. Just before reaching the tall lady standing behind the platform he turned on his heel to check if everything went as smoothly as planned. And what awful surprise he faced...

"I could find many, many ways to put your dirty little lips to work." The braavosi tugged at her one of her chains as his other hand slid up and down her thigh. The girl let out a light chuckle, making an excellent job at hiding her disgust. In the corner of her eye, she noticed Jaqen H'ghar standing where he was, paralyzed. She nearly felt the tensity in hos muscles, the effort he had to put into keeping still. His fists were twitching.

'Now, this is how a true killer looks like.' She thought, and the next smile she pulled at the shameless braavosi was hardly a forced one. The corners of her mouth curled slyly, as she placed her palms on his shoulders and drew her body closer.

Rage. Malicious fury. She saw madness burning behind those dark contact lenses. Arya was biting her lip again.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you." She whispered to the drunk hustler.

"What's stopping me? Your tiny fists?" He mocked, his hands still searching for something, prying under her slip.

Arya leaned closer to his ear, making sure no one else would hear it, and mouthed two words, barely audible:

"Valar Morghulis."

The man froze. In an instant, his search ceased, and he shied away as if she were a wild snake coiling around his torso. The braavosi gazed dully at her, not quite understanding what just happened.

Arya stood up, not sparing him a second glance, a wide smile extending her lips.

A couple minutes later, Jaqen was led by the thin, tall woman up the large stairs to the more private part of the local. The woman, who was probably around forty, had her blonde hair tied up in an elegant bun, and wore a long black dress with a matching pair of slick gloves. Though the jewels in her ears and around her neck were just as expensive as those on the bodies of the dancers, she didn't fit here. And that's why Jaqen knew she was the one he had to turn to. The heavy, fake lashes seemed to weight her eyelids down, but as he'd offered her the sum, they went wide open. The assassin has just bought himself a night with Nightingale. This was going to be quite an evening, he felt it in every inch of his mind and body.

He knew Arya took off her shoes and stuck to the shadows right now, just as he'd instructed her. In case anyone caught her, where a waitress should not be, before they'd left the Red Room, Arya'd returned him the key, placing it on the tray along with the other drinks he ordered but didn't even take a sip of.

By the way, the curiosity as to what she told that disgusting man at the table, was eating him up from inside (it was also the undeniable need to take one extra life not included in the contract). He'll be getting it out of her sooner or later. She really is a rascal, that one.

The lady stopped, interrupting his thoughts.

"She's waiting for you, sir, as requested." She didn't look him in the eye this time, only bent her head slightly, and turning on her heel, walked away. Jaqen expected to hear at least one over-the-top declaration of a night filled with the wildest pleasures waiting for him, or something of the sort, but he didn't. For a moment it made him wonder if there was a particular name this woman would like to promise to the Many-Faced God, but only for a moment. He pushed the handle and walked in, with each step getting closer to Arya's target. He told his apprentice they would come up with something as to how exactly Nightingale will be eliminated, and so far they had nothing. Yet here he was, walking into the cave of a lioness, unarmed.

There were many objects there, which Jaqen noticed in the room, which would not be appropriate to describe here, but none of them was deadly. The same, however, could not be said about the woman sitting at the foot of a bed so large it almost took up the space from wall to wall. The picture he had prepared to be hung on his Hall of Faces did not give any justice to the beauty of her mesmerizing eyes or lips as red and lush as a dream, of course, but her body was simply goddess-like. And when she stood up, gracefully and walked up to him in her tight, black corset, matching lingerie, and red high heels, Jaqen was motionless in his spot, completely smitten. From beneath her long lashes, she looked at him, no, into him like the most skillful of hypnotists, and he didn't like that. No wonder people gave up fortunes to spend just a few hours with her.

"Good evening, Mr. ...?" And to think Jaqen was confident he's good at using his voice to his advantage. Her playful tone almost made him forget his tongue. Who was it, that wanted her death? Ah, Seven Hells, get a grip! You know what you're here for!

"I'd like to keep my anonymity." Well, at least he could manipulate his tone enough to betray no emotion.

"Of course." She laughed, moving closer. Her hand raised up and rested on his shoulder, where her fingers curled slightly. Nightingale's long nails reminded him of a predator's claws. "At last, you've come. I've been waiting for quite some time now, but this is not how I imagined you... not at all."

It was hard, really hard to figure out what to kill with, while the person you're after is dazzling you with their sly gaze. Arya was supposed to give him about two minutes before she walks in. Jaqen found himself wishing she wouldn't wait at all.

"I don't understand. What do you mean?"

"Well, knowing your... profession I expected a bulky man of rough, vulgar features, but I see I couldn't be more mistaken. You're quite handsome."

A pang of surprise shot through him like a bullet. It was a terrible, terrible surprise.

"Profession?"

"You are a professional indeed, don't deny it." The woman smiled at him. Her hand left his shoulder, and she made one step back, then began circling him. "Your ways aren't always the most subtle, but I do admire you."

Ah, crap! Of course! What a horrifyingly brilliant plan! But why? Why would Nightingale do such thing? Why would anyone?

"I am a professional as well. And all these men, so plain and insipid, I'm bored with granting their wants. And when I realized that, I thought if I can have any man, why not aim for something I find exciting?"

Arya didn't recognize her that day in the temple, for how could she? But could that really be true, that this woman sacrificed her own name just to...

Jaqen let out a short chuckle, nearly a hysterical one. Nightingale didn't seem to care.

"Think of it. To be the mistress of the legendary hitman from Braavos. To know the face of the Faceless Man. Doesn't it sound fun?" She stood at his side, with each word her face was getting closer to his. "What are you going to do to me tonight, Faceless Man?" She whispered, lips nearly brushing his ear.

"If I were you, I wouldn't worry about me." Suddenly Jaqen regained his smirk, even though the next second, she grabbed his hair and with the quickness of a snake pulled a dagger from her corset and pressed it hard to his bare neck. "Really? Didn't you come here with the intention of murdering me?"

Jaqen let a few seconds of silent tensity pass between them, as he didn't try to escape her hold. Nightingale didn't take one very important fact under consideration. He wasn't alone.

"No." Jaqen replied, and then his lovely girl stormed inside.

Both females silently gawked at each other. The air suddenly went still and cold. The man saw all kinds of different emotions bloom on Arya's face. Shock, disorientation, panic, fury... Her gray eyes darted to the shiny dagger, and then to the side. What happened next was a just a matter of a few seconds. Arya's body (oh, so beautiful in her disguise) lunged to the wall beside her, and then everything went dark. She switched the light off. Nightingale, caught off guard, loosened her grip, giving Jaqen just enough space to free himself and leave her blindly grasping the darkness. It was impossible to tell from which side the attack will come. Clever girls go barefoot, and Arya Stark did. There was a muffled thud of skin against skin, and a short, high-pitched whine, interrupted by a swish of a blade.

Then silence.

Chapter Text

Nightingale looked down at Arya with her perfect, red mouth curled up in a tempting smile. Carelessness spread across her features in a moment as solemn seemed awfully misplaced. Dim light, Arya's proud stare and Jaqen's hand on her shoulder. They faced her confidently, with chins lifted, for the woman was at a great disadvantage. She was motionless, frozen in the moment, a lifeless image, printed on a piece of paper. This night the assassin and his apprentice hung Nightingale's face among others on the huge wall Jaqen called the Hall of Faces.

The remains of tingling buzz of adrenaline were still making her fingers tremble slightly, but it was a victorious night no less. Her golden wig and this awful see-through, barely-covering-anything piece of fabric she was supposed to call a slip, lied tossed carelessly into the Faceless Man's wardrobe of disguises, while her partner in crime kept the red suit on. She prayed she'd never have to wear that disguise again, Jaqen on the other hand, had grown quite fond of his.

"Finally a girl is No One." Said Jaqen, but both of them knew it wasn't true. Her initiation was complete, yes, and she could become No One when she chose to, but underneath her skin, a girl was always Arya Stark and would remain so until she drew her last breath. Arya knew what he meant though, and her round face turned to respond him with a sly little smile.

"So what happens now?"

"Well..." He recognized her game instantly, but that didn't stop him from taking his time, while he brushed a few tangled strands of her hair, which she hadn't had the opportunity to comb yet, behind her ear, letting his eyes linger about her face before finally saying: "Now, I would suggest she take a shower and get some sleep before tomorrow's training."

"What? Training?" The disappointment in her features seemed to amuse him, but only slightly. "C'mon, I just made my first hit! It was a big day for both of us, I thought we could celebrate!"

"Killing a woman, who's sacrificed her own name to The Many-Faced God, are you sure this counts as a real hit, Arya Stark?" Of course, Jaqen H'ghar wouldn't be himself without a bit of a tease. The girl knew better than to let him get away with it.

"The woman, who had you with a dagger at your throat, defenseless and caught off-guard by her terrible plot?" She was just as amused as him. The Lorathi had to suppress his smirk and let her win this time, though she was very much in the mood for a fight, perhaps only to leave her not fully satisfied. The man moved away to the desk, beginning to shuffle some of the papers laying atop it. They were sticky from the hot wax dripping down the burning candles.

"Then how would a girl imagine such... celebration?"

"As a day off tomorrow, that's for sure, and as for right now..." She bit her lip. "...I'm sure we can figure something out." For a moment, he did seem to consider it, but Arya couldn't really tell, since she could only see his back and a glimpse of his profile.

"Hmmm-no. I have a better idea. A girl is going to do just as a man says, to be well-rested and ready for tomorrow, which is going to be an entirely regular day-"

"How in the Seven Hells is that better?" She scowled at him, getting a little impatient. Was one day off really too much to ask?

"You didn't let me finish, uncouth girl. An entirely regular day, but with one exception."

"And what would that be?" Arya crossed her arms on her chest, not quite convinced. The assassin, still leaning over his desk, finally turned to her with a mysterious glint in his eye.

"We're going shopping."

Arya's brows furrowed, perplexed. That was definitely not what she expected to hear. Not once had they done any shopping since she arrived in Braavos, then why now?

"For what?"

"There are some very important arrangements to be made, have I not told you yet?" If the curve of his lips could speak at its own, it would probably say something along the lines of 'Ha! Gotcha!'. He was perfectly aware no 'important arrangements' were ever mentioned between him and his apprentice. "Tomorrow evening is the beginning of a ten-day-long festival, the biggest annual celebration held here, in Braavos." His smile grew bigger and the glint in those icy irises was set aflame. "We wouldn't wanna miss that, would we?"

Arya opened her mouth as to say something, but he shushed her quickly. "Rest, lovely girl, and I promise you celebrate we shall."

The girl listened this time and just nodded, satisfied for now. She'd sent him one last glance over her shoulder before she turned and left him, alone in the facility's most secret room. Jaqen listened to the echo of her footsteps until they faded away, clenching his palms on the edges of the desk. Her body language had changed, he could not only hear it, but also see it, sense it. His lovely girl was more confident now than ever before. That's good, he thought, marvellous. It should make him proud, it did make him proud... But a certain worry had its roots grow deep into his core, and though he's managed to ignore it so far, this feeling never ceased to hit him from time to time like a wave, and now it was getting stronger.

Jaqen reached to one of the bottom drawers, and pulled out a neatly folded piece of paper. It was the letter he received from the Waif the very same day Arya received her first offering to The Many-Faced God. It's traveled a long, long way, to now rest in the hands of the wrong person.

His expression hardened, as well as his stare, examining the handwriting on the envelope. If only he were heartless enough to hold it over a candle, merely for a few seconds, and watch the flames consume it inch by inch. What relief that would bring... And what guilt.

"Ten days, Jaqen, give it ten more days. Ten days..." The man kept on repeating. A lot could happen during this time, right? Maybe another solution would present itself along the way. Maybe.

"Seven Hells! How can a person so small be so headstrong!" Complained Arya, rubbing her aching side. Almost four hours spent sparing with the Waif, and she was already all covered in bruises. While fighting with their fists only, the chances were even, and with knives it often happened that the girl bested her opponent, but when the Waif had her favorite staff in hand she really posed as a great challenge. She never hit Arya as to cause serious damage, but just hard enough for the blow to sting and hurt her pride.

"I bet she's asking herself the very same question." Jaqen mused as they strolled down the market street. It was particularly busy this afternoon, everything seemed greater, busier, louder than the last time they visited. Countless frantic customers scattered all around the place like ants in a mound, however, and this surprised Arya the most, there was no sign of that nervous tension one feels in a supermarket during a big-time sale. Excitement and anticipation, yes, you could feel it all around, in the air, and on the faces of the people passing by, but that was all. The girl was definitely not used to it.

"Um, Jaqen?" She began before they skimmed quickly across one of the bridges to let through a group of four braavosi men, carrying a load of clinking bottles, filled with shiny liquor, which would easily sustain a whole neighborhood. "What is the festival actually about? What are we celebrating?"

"The Unmasking of Uthero." He answered, leading the way through a narrow side alley. "Doesn't ring a bell?"

"No, unfortunately."

"When the City finally revealed its existence to the rest of the world, and that was at the one-hundred-and-eleventh anniversary of its founding, ships were sent to invite men of all nations to celebrate together. The tradition carried on to this day. It's impressive, really."

The two had made their way through the crowd, and found themselves in a quieter part of the market. There was a small clothing shop, squeezed between the other two, inconspicuously called 'Needle'. Apparently that was their destination. As Jaqen held the door open for Arya, a shiny set of silver bells announced their arrival. The shop seemed to appear just as tiny on the inside as on the outside. It was just the kind of place an average passerby wouldn't even notice. A plain signboard over two mannequins dressed in simple, plain clothes of an equally plain material, and inside there wasn't anything to catch the eye of the customer either. No contrasting colors, no bold cuts or any originality at all. Is this where the most expensive hitman would get his attire?

"Here?" Arya wrinkled her nose, having scanned the surroundings.

"Mhm." The assassin nodded with chin lifted up proudly. Clearly he didn't feel like an explanation was necessary, for he only stood there and waited with eyes fixed on the back door. Arya did the same.

Not even a minute passed, when a woman in a rosy ping, flowing dress entered through, and welcomed them.

"The Faceless Man himself! What a surprise! This would be the first time in years you're not sending your doe-eyed sister instead. Was the red suit of good use to you? And who is your charming companion?" Arya's eyebrows snapped. 'Charming?' For years she's gone as a 'horseface' or a 'lumpyhead', only Jaqen had ever called her 'lovely' even as a boy... But since when was she charming to women like this one?

"Shae." Said the man cordially and smiled. "Hardly ever does one greet No One with such genuine enthusiasm as you do." It was true, what the Lorathi said. Shae's whole frame was undoubtedly brightening the room. She had a warm stare with a lingering sharpness to it, and lips like rose petals. She didn't fit here just as a rose doesn't fit in a rye field.

"I can see why." Shae smirked to herself. "How can I help you then?"

"We come to you with a very special order today. The Unmasking is nearing, and we ought to look out best, wouldn't you agree?" With that Jaqen shot Arya a smug glance.

"Oh, of course! Come, follow me inside."

Still a bit confused, Arya did just that and went through the backdoor as Jaqen let her go first.

"I still don't underst-" The apprentice began, but the rest of the sentence apparently got stuck in her throat, because of the sight which opened to her along with the backdoor. It was perfectly understandable then, that they've just left the plain world behind, and entered a completely different one. There were tens of ball gowns, with hems flowing down like vast waterfalls, or embroidered with the most complicated patterns of lace, delicate as the wings of a butterfly. And men's clothing was bedazzling nonetheless; more tailcoats and vests than she's seen her entire life! Each collar worthy of a king, jeweled buttons, old-fashioned ruffles and sequinned sleeves... It was as if they'd suddenly found themselves in the middle of the richest of carnivals! Arya did need a moment to pick up her jaw. It was obviois now, so obvious - the other part of 'Needle' was just for show.

"A man is glad his lovely girl approves."

And there she was, thinking there was not a thing in this new strange life of hers that would surprise her.

"I... wow that's... That's ridiculous Jaqen! Who dresses like this?" The girl has never attended a banquet or a ball, nor even a school prom, because either she was too young or simply she had no interest in primping in front of the mirror for hours like a peacock only to impress people she didn't even like. Besides, with her tomboyish style, she wasn't fit for these occasions, not that she felt the need to.

"Oh, you'd be surprised." He chuckled.

"Drop it. You can't be serious, each of these costumes surely costs a fortune!"

"Not if you're a patron and the owner's favorite customer." The Faceless Man led her further into the thicket of sharp colors and slick materials, a smirk just as slick on his lips. "A dose of natural charm often is of help as well."

"You're the favorite customer?" Arya raised a suspicious brow at him, a small dose of sarcasm to it.

"It appears so. Where did you think I get all my disguises from?"

The three reached the fitting room, and with the warmest of smiles, Shae asked Jaqen about the details of the new order.

"Let us discuss that later. A man wants to keep it a surprise." Of course, he did.

"Hey, that's not fair!" Accused Arya, slightly irritated.

"Perhaps, but trust me lovely girl, you won't be disappointed."

"And I will take care of that." Shae added, gesturing for Arya to stand directly in front of a large mirror. Beside it, there was a purple folding screen and a few bare mannequins. "Come, stand right here, I need to take your measurements darling."

"Yes, do just that, I'll leave you to it. And do take your time Shae, there is a matter I have to attend to, in the meantime." And with this yet another mysterious excuse, the Lorathi turned to leave. Before the girl could send him a questioning look she was led to a marked spot on the floor, and already Shae was making her stand straight, lifting up her arms, perpendicularly to her torso. The woman moved a couple steps back, seeming to have a measure tape inside her very eyes, to examine Arya's figure. Already, the girl was feeling a bit awkward, which made her chew on her lip before she managed to think twice and suppress the old habit. Shae nodded to herself a few times, cocking her head slightly at various angles, then reached for a tape measure (real, physical one this time). The woman went up to a small stand by the folding screen, and scribbled something in an opened notebook atop it. Her hands moved swiftly along Arya's sides and around her chest, barely touching her.

"You know, this is a very peculiar day." The seamstress claimed suddenly, in a voice only little louder than a whisper. "Not only does the Faceless Man come here in person, but with company too. This is actually the first time."

"First time... of what?"

"Him making an order for somebody else. And not just anybody," Her irises seemed to gleam as she said this. "a foreign girl.I know I'm not supposed to ask, and I don't mean to pry, but... who are you?"

There were many answers to this simple question, but Arya had only one to give, which made her chest flutter proudly.

"No One." The indifference in her tone was perfect. Shae smiled knowingly, spreading her tape over the length of Arya's forearm. The girl smiled as well.

"And how does one so young get by, having a friend as dangerous as yours?"

"You just have to trust him, I suppose."

Meanwhile, Jaqen H'ghar was heading down the market street, following the same path they picked with Arya the day they first arrived in the City. There was this one thing he couldn't get off his mind, a final touch to their upcoming celebration, which (oddly so) to him was necessary. As if he already wasn't going extra on his business with Shae for this occasion... But why shouldn't he go extra? The life of a hitman was successfully depriving him of all life's joys, and his apprentice somehow managed to bring him just that. Joy. Why not repay her with the same? Considering the circumstances... No, not now, he ordered himself. Don't think about it.

The Lorathi stood at the spot where for the first time he felt the panic of losing his Arya Stark to the waves of the crowd, then turned. In front of him was the only stall completely ignored, avoided by all potential customers. The old lady, pale as chalk, her skin dry as a fallen leaf and long, long white hair was still selling her furs. There, on the countertop, a couple stands of old-fashioned jewelry were displayed. In a few paces, Jaqen reached the stall, and was just about to speak up, as he heard:

"The lord of death, here you are at last. I was expecting you." A voice creaking like the swinging bough of a dying tree. The man was surprised to find the old lady's eyes boring into his own, though mere seconds ago she was crouching over some dusty cardboard boxes under the countertop.

"What do you mean?" He asked, innocently, but rather careful. "I'm only here to buy one of the ne-"

"I know why you're here." She squawked, cutting in. The lady lifted a shaking fist towards the man. A long, silver necklace with a direwolf pendant hung from in between her fingers. "You're here for this."

"Actually..." He began, suddenly put on alert by her rather strange behavior. But how did she know? Did this old woman really just remember that once there was a certain girl, who took interest in her necklaces so many days ago? Unlikely, but possible. "Yes."

"Then she is with you still, the Northern girl with misty eyes! O, that's too bad!" The lady squawked like a toad, and though Jaqen was sure he was experiencing a heart attack, his face and posture betrayed nothing. He acted only slightly annoyed, without averting his stare from her elderly face.

"I do apologize, but it is none of your business. How much for the necklace?"

"Oh, keep your dirty money to yourself, I dread even to catch sight of it!" Clearly, she was offended. "And besides, it was hers long before you crawled back here, to me."

A tiny twitch of an eyebrow, his pupils detailing and fists clenching; that was all he didn't manage to keep under control. Who the Seven Hells was this woman? Could she be a threat, or was she working for someone who was?

"I don't know what you're talking about, but these are very bold words you're using, madam. Are you accusing me of something?"

"Me? Gods, no, I would not dare! I was purposefully blessed with a long life, and I intend to keep it that way, thank you very much. And who would believe the accusations of a delusional old woman?" Something in the way her eyes gleamed or her lips arched told Jaqen, that this was far more than just a delusional old woman. She's impressed him, confused him, and for a moment even scared him. What should be done with her... he hasn't decided yet.

"Reasonable." Unmoved and cold, he replied. "What do you want then?"

A row of grey-and-golden teeth flashed at the man in a wide gap-toothed grin.

"An answer. Or at least a thought spared on it." The silver chain swayed forth and back in her hand. Suddenly Jaqen wanted to just walk away. As far from this mad countenance as possible. She had to make a dramatic pose before actually asking the question. "Is this kind of life really the best for her?"

It felt as if he just got punched in the gut. For all this time the assassin was the one asking himself this question, but only in his mind, never aloud. And now, it was too much. A question like this, asked just in the right time goes beyond 'a delusional old woman'. If the person before him was the Devil himself, he wouldn't be surprised.

"It's the only life I can give her." The Faceless Man whispered staring blankly ahead.

"Are you sure?" She sneered, but the sound seemed so distant...

"What?" Focus! Focus, goddammit!

"Are you so sure?" Her wretched pupils were glued to the left pocket of his trousers, and beneath her stare, the letter he carried with him everywhere tucked in that pocket began to burn his skin through the thick material. Witch! She must've been a witch!

Immediately coming back to his senses, Jaqen shamelessly snatched the necklace from her weak, old hand and walked off, too angry to glance behind.

"You're the Grimm Reaper, not a Guardian Angel, remember that!" He heard her call behind his back.

He would, even if he wished not to.

Chapter Text

The days flew by quickly, way too quickly for Jaqen's liking, and his mind was poisoned. Of course, Arya didn't know about it, or rather didn't know what caused all the subtle, but plainly visible to an eye as observant as hers, changes in the behavior of her teacher.

For instance, his long disappearances throughout the day had ceased completely. The man was very reluctant to leave her side even for a moment, and though he gave her space and tried not to be too evident about it, he was always there even while minding his own business, just keeping her in sight. The assassin also looked at her more frequently when he thought the girl wasn't paying attention. But he didn't just look, he observed as if searching for something...

One day, when Arya managed to kick his side without struggling to misdirect his guard for the third time, she knew, that not only was there something unusual going on, but something was very, very wrong. No matter the odds, Jaqen H'ghar would never allow himself such absence of mind during training. Never. And he wasn't the type to handicap himself.

Then, despite all this time spent together, the two never seemed to have the occasion to get close. Either they were in the company of the other two inmates of the House of Black and White, or they were out managing some business matters, shopping, even training (Jaqen was taking Arya into the streets to practice such activities as spying o a random passerby of his choosing or pick pocketing regularly now, he said it would keep her reflex and stealth in check) or simply the moment wasn't right.

The apprentice did want to ask about it, but just... couldn't bring herself to it. Each time, before she could arrange the question properly in her head, his distraction or longing stare, or troubled look were already gone, as if they were never there.

And so the time went by as usual, filled with training her strength and flexibility, self-defence or other specific fighting sequences with the use of fists, daggers, and even (to her utter delight) fencing. On the course of six days she's also learned how to prepare a single dose of soporific able to lull four grown men to sleep for nearly a day. The Waif was truly a miracle-worker in her service.

On the seventh day, Arya visited the Kindly Man in his rooms on the top floor, curious how his relief of a white-haired Prince and Northern Princess was progressing.

"Ah, but it is already finished, dear child!" Said the old man excitedly through his colorless lips, and stood, holding onto his walking cane. "Come, you should both see it at once. After all, you've both posed for it." Jaqen came along as well, of course.

They crossed the Kindly Man's workshop, a clustered mess as always, where Arya immediately caught the newest pieces, some still unfinished. As complex and strictly accurate were his old works, the new ones rooted in fantasy. Or so the Stark girl thought. Most of them depicted the same female character with white hair, again, and violet eyes. Once she was only a girl, swallowed up by flames, but still dancing among them unharmed, once she was a woman in full bloom, roaming the sky on the back of a dragon (a dragon! And oh, how majestic it was!), once she was seated like a queen, on a throne of gold...

The relief waited for them hung in the central part of the furthest wall, and the sight of it drew an amazed gasp from Arya's mouth. She saw them standing near the edge of a lake, surrounded by an evergreen forest, each little branch, each flower carved with the finest skill. For a moment her eyes wandered to the aged hands of the creator. How did he manage to keep these pale, bony fingers so strong?

But without any doubt, the centerpiece of the work was the newlywed pair. Standing arm in arm, their hands were literally tied by a knot , as they stared at each other hopefully, happily. The models examined the scene with just the same kind of look on their faces.

"Though we do not keep any photos in the House, aside from the ones on the Hall, now a girl shall forever be remembered within these walls. A small fraction of her is trapped in this relief." Jaqen recited as officially as of it were a funeral speech, but the impression was quickly topped by a sincere "Thank you" he addressed to the Kindly Man. While Arya still marveled at the art she and Jaqen were together a part of, the artist allowed himself a sad smile. He knew. Somehow he knew.

On the eight day a surprise awaited the girl behind the doors of the training room. When she saw her teacher standing still at the center of the parquet with hands behind his back, she pondered if she hasn't forgotten anything she was, for example, supposed to prepare for the day. But no, no matter how troubled her mind was, Jaqen wouldn't remind her what it was that she has supposedly forgotten. The man waited silently, with a strange, unreadable expression until she came up to him, and asked:

"What is it? Are we practicing battle of stares? You know I'm good at it."

"No, lovely girl. We can practice that once we're done, if you wish, but today is not for practicing. It's for learning new things." New? What could possibly be new? They've been through everything! "And the only equipment you'll need..." Sparing, martial arts, daggers, knives, fencing, pistols, rifles... "...are these." Even a damned sniper rifle!

"Shoes?" Arya wrinkled her nose, suspecting she was being a part of some bad joke.

"No ordinary shoes, they're dancing shoes, sweet girl." Jaqen'd pulled it from behind his back and was now presenting her a pair of shiny black footwear on medium length heels and a thin strap around the ankle. "How do you like them?"

"How do I like them? As far as I know shoes are not weapons, so I still don't get your point. It's not April fools, is it?"

"I assure you, I am one hundred percent serious, and though shoes could most definitely be used as a weapon, that's not what we'll learn today." He chuckled at the frustrated girl in front of him, his poker face beginning to crumble. "You see, the tenth night of the Unmasking is probably the most beautiful night in the whole year, and should you want to allure some gentleman, probably the best way to do that would be through dancing."

The longer he spoke the higher Arya's eyebrows rose. So it appeared it was not a joke after all... Truth was, she never really had the chance to try 'ballroom' dancing, and she guessed that's what her teacher was going for. She tried to keep up the playful atmosphere, but still, Arya had a very bad feeling about this.

"Some gentleman? You mean any gentleman? Now things are getting interesting!"

"Any of those I won't manage to chase away, you have my word on that. Now, put them on."

Arya snorted, but obediently put the shoes on, though just how stiff and clunky they felt was not a good sign at all.

Everybody knows how such situations resolve in the movies. The man holds his unsure and shy partner close, then tells her to relax, feel the movement and let him lead, and everything will be good. Then, after a few steps she focuses on his face, forgetting all about her unaccustomed-to-dancing feet, and when the music starts to flow, they gracefully glide around the empty room, savoring the moment.

Well, for the assassin and his apprentice, that wasn't the case.

For them, it was a real struggle. After she's memorized the direction of the steps and the rhythm, still, synchronizing with Jaqen was, for some reason, practically impossible. The girl felt lii-fitted and awkward even as it were the arms of a man she trusted with her life supporting her. She cursed silently under her breath, nearly tripping over her toes and almost stepping on Jaqen's.

"Easy now, Arya." He almost felt sorry for her, it were supposed to be such pleasant few hours... She huffed and grimaced, her cheeks slowly turning red, her body seeming not to follow the instructions of her brain. She was a mystery, this girl. She equaled him in a duel even while having her eyes taken from her, and failed at waltz. Actually, when he thought about it, an idea appeared in his mind. Clearly there was no point in forcing her to learn the traditional way, but perhaps there was hope.

Jaqen stopped and let his arms hang loose on his sides.

"Ugh, no, wait I almost had it!" The frustration was bubbling up in her.

"Calm down, reckless girl. Let us try another way." He waited until his apprentice collected herself, sighing deeply and rubbing the back of her hand on her forehead. As she stood mirroring him a few moments later, he continued "Imagine that this is a sparring lesson. Only this time we only use our legs, and the only thing you're allowed to do is dodge my attacks. Watch my movement, and shy away as gently as you can, so I can't stomp on you. We've done similar exercises before."

And that's precisely what they did. Their dance began obscurely, resembling some little game children make up when they're bored. He made a step forward, she quickly stepped back, and on it went until they made a full circle on the parquet. By then, Arya has already grasped the sequence Jaqen repeated over and over again, and didn't even have to look at his feet to move in the right direction.

"Now, when I step to the side, I want you to follow with the same leg, as if you were my reflection."

He threw the new moves into the sequence, slowly at first, because it required more focus to follow and do dodge at the same time, but as the order of the steps wasn't too complicated the 'sparring' paced up quicker than he might've predicted.

Now that was better, much better. Closer, lighter, with less thought to it... They were almost there and it brought a little, timid smile to Arya's lips. Just then the Lorathi took her by the elbow, making her lay her hand on his shoulder, as his own hand rested on the small of her back. The other hand almost involuntarily entwined with hers, and all of a sudden they were dancing.

Gliding gracefully through the empty room as if they've been doing it for eternity.

On the ninth day Arya tried to talk the Waif into attending the Unmasking along with her and Jaqen.

"Oh, but why won't you come? Of us both you should know better that this is one of those nights you really don't want to miss! And Jaqen says there is no crime committed during the celebration, nor a punishment for it..." They were standing in the kitchen, preparing dinner, while Jaqen (who still was obviously not going to leave his lovely girl) sipped his black tea, hoovering over a small kitchen table across the room.

"Someone has to stay with the Kindly Man, and besides, I don't really think I'd be fit for such a party." There was a kind of dry bitterness behind the disfavoring curve of her thin lips and her eyes as deep as two doe wells. Arya knew better than to judge her by this ever-present expression.

"Why? You're probably just as well-fitted as I am." This was probably true, but not true enough.

"Perhaps, but every Masquerade is followed by an Unmasking, and I have already seen it all..." Stubbornly, the Waif avoided Arya's stare. "I won't change my mind. It's simply not for me." It was clear, that she would not allow herself this pleasure. The girl felt the corners of her mouth fall.

"That's a pity. Real pity."

"Oh, please."

"No, I mean it. I did hope I'd see you there." The sincerity of these words finally reached the Waif's ears somehow, and just then she decided to at last turn her eyes up to the girl, then to her resigned look.

"Maybe..." The petite woman began after a few moments of silence. "...maybe I could come to watch. From the temple's rooftop I mean. At least I won't miss the lightshow and the fireworks... if that satisfies you."

"Yes!" Arya was delighted, though she didn't know why it made her so very happy. "Promise me that's what you'll do."

And the Waif gave Arya a promise, along with what was the first cordial smile the girl received from her.

The tenth day turned out to be more than Arya could ever prepare herself to experience. The Lorathi had let her sleep as long as she wanted earlier on, and as to why that was she had no doubt when, around eight p.m, the girl entered her room to a sight she's been covertly anticipating for some time now.

Sprawled richly on her bed, there was a white, glimmering ballgown, and another object, black and round, laying right next to it. At the side of the bed someone placed a simple, black box.

Arya came closer, then stood at the foot of her bed and let out a gasp, not realizing she's been holding her breath. She stared at the delicate waterfalls of silk in pure awe. Shae was a magician, a real sorceress! The full sleeves had been cut vertically all the way down to her wrist so that with her every little move they would flow gently from her shoulders. The bodice was a perfect fit, and while the front could seem ordinary, the back was just the opposite; it would leave two-thirds of her spine completely bare. The skirts were so long the girl was certain she'd have to drag them behind her. There was no puffy, heavy effect to the hem. Only a few layers of nearly weightless, caressing material, flouncing around her silhouette. Because the silk was thin indeed, the gown would've been see-through... if it wasn't for the hundreds, thousands of tiny snowflakes covering almost the entire costume. They were tiny pieces of some other, glistening material Arya didn't know the name of, which cumulated at the core of her frame, covering every inch from the cleavage almost to the mid length of the skirt, then spread more or less evenly on the remaining parts. To her great amazement, the girl noticed each one of these unique, tiny snow petals was ornamented with even tinier, silver jewels. It looked like frost painting icy flourish patterns on a crystal-like windowpane, and it almost made Arya's heart ache, for reasons unknown to her.

The round object came out to be a mask. Carefully polished, full black mask, insignificant except for a single silver tear in the corner of the left eye.

Then there was the box, which contained four items. The first one was a pair of silver dancing shoes, matching the dress perfectly, and the second was a small pouch of snowflake pins for her hair, the third a jewel box with the direwolf necklace (at the sight of which Arya finally allowed herself to be completely smitten. He remembered! He remembered! But that was so long ago, their first day...), and the last was a little note stuck to the bottom, saying:

'The Faceless Man will be waiting for the Faceless Girl at 9:00, in the old temple.'

An hour later the sound of her steps echoed through the stone naves. The suitably many statues of the Many-Faced God observed her with their cold stares. Those, who still had eyes or faces, that is. The place was hollow — there would be no transactions made tonight, no prayers whispered to the mists of the ever present dust, perhaps except the one belonging to the man sitting at the edge of the round pool, bending over the brink, drowning his worries in the sacred well. The subtle glow of moonlight outlined his frame, and had he chosen any other place as a waiting spot, he would be invisible, but now he was just the opposite. At first, Arya saw only the cape (a cape, Seven Hells!), black and vast as the night sky enveloping him. Tiny pieces of what looked like broken glass, sharp around the edges, were arranged all over it, resembling a complex spiderweb which lit up, reflecting the rays of moonlight. Underneath he wore an old-fashioned frock, and his ever so cryptic face was covered by a white mask. It was glossy, like porcelain, and, may all disguises be damned, it smirked. The shape of the polished, colorless mouth was of exactly the same shape as its owner's and gave away the very same expression.

Arya just couldn't contain her amusement as soon as she registered that little fact and added it to the almost fairy-tale like feeling of the situation. She laughed, a short warm sound filling the darkened space. His head shot up. She'd dragged him away from deep thought, and now though he'd stood to greet her, Jaqen felt that he might need to sit again.

She was... like a dream. Like a winter nymph, a frozen angel... He wanted to say something, but as unnatural as it was, Jaqen H'ghar found himself speechless. There was not much he could do but to marvel at his lovely girl (such an understatement!) as she approached, gifting him with a delighted stare, which searched his from behind the mask.

"Is everything alright, cloaked stranger? You seem somewhat... distracted."

He so regretted not being able to see her face.

"I... merely try... to express my admiration for your beauty, but my words fail me, princess."

She was so thankful for the mask, because a large deep red blush took over her normally pale cheeks. Arya struggled not to bite her lip, because she had a feeling this he would sense even while she was covered. Whether he was telling the truth, or just keeping up the play, she didn't know. There was no mirror in her room to tell her that, so she has not yet seen herself. The only thing she could tell was that the feel of this costume wasn't like her, but because it was comfortable (thanks to the magic hands of the maker) she could get used to it. And most definitely she could dance through the longest of nights in it.

"You are too kind, sir." At least she's learned to control her voice.

Jaqen offered her his arm, and she took it. The two headed towards the large black-and-white doors, their costumes in evident contrast just the same. A perfect balance, one could say.

"Believe me, I'm not." He bent down to whisper to her ear. Try as she might not to, the girl bit her lip. They crossed the threshold and walked on and into the night.

There was one time, when Snasa, being the lover of all things romantic, dragged Arya to the theater. The play was called 'The Golden Rose', was set in the Middle Ages, and told a story of a beautiful young lady, who wanted to be the queen. Arya remembered it well.

The lady came from an immodestly wealthy family, and had everything life could offer; beauty, wits, a natural sense of charm, many admirers and friends, but most of all — a talent for manipulation. She used it to conquer the hearts of not one, but two kings, but even though she was crowned queen twice, each marriage was an immense disaster and ended with a terrible death. Though Sansa only gabbled about how things should've turned out differently for the beautiful lady, Arya remembered almost nothing of the plot, but she took in every little detail of the visual side of the performance. The girl remembered the majestic sets, designed as several parts of the castle, and of the medieval houses of the noble. The throne room was astounding, the lords and ladies looked as if ripped down straight from the paintings you see in museums, but Arya's favorite part was the town fair. And the reason why her thoughts ventured back to these memories was that the place she now found herself in looked just as the theatrical fair had.

The stone pavements in the Purple Harbor, the part of the City where every building was either antique itself or had been build on antique foundations, were illuminated by countless golden lanterns and smaller, multicolored fairy lights. Wherever she looked she saw people drinking, eating, laughing, just having fun. Almost every lady wore a ballgown, every gentleman a fine tuxedo, and all of them were like the mannequins from Shae's shop brought to life. Wherever she went she was enveloped by the most delicious smells and the richest of perfumes. Wherever she turned her head she heard the music of live performers, scattered all around the place. All the sounds melted in her ears, and all she heard was one entrancing composition, as she walked alongside Jaqen, in the middle of a masquerade greater than any theater has ever held.

The masks. Masks were also everywhere. In fact, there was not a single face left without one. It made Arya feel uneasy at first, so many disguised, eccentric figures making her skin crawl, but then, she and Jaqen wore masks too, and had been disguised before.

"Are you sure you don't have any dagger up your sleeve? Any holsters under that cape? Don't we have any secret mission to fulfill here?" Asked the girl in white. They were passing a smiling group of dancers fluttering the hems of their layered dresses up as if they were butterflies.

"That would be entirely forbidden, princess. Has a man not said this before? There has not been a crime during the Unmasking. Ever. And there will not be." Replied the man in black, his voice sure and calm. But he did notice her tensity.

"No abductions? No fights? No pick pocketing? No... poisonings?"

"By all the gods, old and new, I swear it." He wrapped her hand in his, squeezing it gently. Again, she wished she could see his face. It puzzled her, if her mask covered only two-thirds of her face, leaving her mouth uncovered, why was his a full mask?

Arya quickly abandoned the thought, though. His touch eased her uncertainty for now.

"Come, we've got to show off our dance skills, shall we?"

But it wasn't as simple as that, unfortunately. The place was ideal, true. She couldn't imagine a better partner, true. They'd mulled the steps over and over again all day long, true. But Arya just... couldn't.

That's why she never wanted to go to any parties! They only made her frustrated with herself and others to the point where her face would get red and the little rascal in her would start to show. What if she ruined everything? That'd be just like her, wouldn't it? And what about Jaqen? What if she stepped on his foot, while doing a twirl, tripping onto some other pair? Oh no, that was out of the question! And who would assure her this wouldn't happen? Jaqen did try, of course, more than a few times.

"It isn't possible, you've it learned by heart!" Still, she wouldn't go. This girl, who played the part of a waitress in a pleasure house!

They locked stares.

"Let's just drop it. I never even wanted to dance anyway." She didn't want to sound like a moody teen, which she had every right to by the way, and act as if it was no big deal, but the Faceless Man's learned her ways of lying long ago.

His doubting, though not yet resigned eyes narrowed. He was calculating something, that was about all she could see through the eye holes. A few long seconds passed until the Stark girl heard his verdict.

"Ah, screw it." He cussed under his breath, turned from her, and walked up to one of the costumed waiters circling the area with silver trays in their hands. Arya watched him blankly, not really knowing if she managed to convince him or not, but before she could say anything, Jaqen came back carrying a half-full goblet.

"Here." He said, handing it to the girl. "I won't have any of those negative emotions limiting you tonight. Drink it, Arya Stark."

She only raised a surprised brow at him, forgetting he could not actually see it. "I'm not sure I ...should. I thought I wasn't allowed to drink?"

"No, normally you are not, but it's about time to make a little exception, don't you think?" His voice gained a mischievous undertone that matched the white smirk perfectly. Arya eyed the goblet hesitantly. He'd have to take one more try. "You have nothing to worry about, a few sips will do you no harm, you'll only feel less... restrained. As your mentor as well as a teacher, I instruct you to drink."

And with that, the vessel was unceremoniously crammed into her grip. The girl in white still stared at it. In the past, she didn't have many occasions to get any experience with drinking alcohol, and she needed a moment to wrap her mind around it. The liquid was dark with a tinge of carmine, and the smell of it tingled her nostrils, but she had no idea what it was.

"It's not really a thing a teacher would ask of a student, I think." She said, a little smile playing on her lips.

Said teacher cocked his head to the side, then leaned in closer to keep his words audible only to her. "Let me remind you, that this is what our relationship is based on, precious thing." Behind the mask he was smiling as well, but what his eyes expressed Arya couldn't decipher. His fingers pressed the bottom of the goblet up gently. "Drink."

And drink she did.

Expecting a sour taste like medicine, she was surprised to feel the sweet electricity on her tongue. Her hand involuntarily wandered up to her throat, where the liquid spread its warmth. Jaqen was right. Arya didn't know yet what being drunk felt like, and she wouldn't feel it tonight. The only thing that changed was that the inner knot of frustration was now untangled, and waking excitement took its place.

Soon enough the only thing that mattered were the two of them; the Faceless Man and his lovely girl, wrapping their arms around each other, dancing as if they were closed in a bubble while the rest of the world swirled around them. Jaqen was examining her again, not just observing her dreamy smile or her eyes filled with delight, but really examining her, wanting to memorize each shade of the wisps in her irises. And just when he thought the moment would last forever, gladly forgetting about everything that's been going on in his mind recently, the dance was finished, and they still stood holding their positions, refusing to part. Then he felt her fingers quickly untangling from his, as she embraced him, tightly.

"Thank you." The girl in white whispered. She felt a sigh escape his lungs, and at first she was sure it was a sigh of joy, but then she paused, suddenly aware that it was not. But, somewhat hasty, Jaqen was already dragging her away from the dance floor to keep on their exploration of the festival. Knowing Arya'd love it, Jaqen first led her to the Moon Pool, where sword fight shows were organized, and again, he was right. The girl had to suppress a squeal when she saw the braavosi fencing masters, dressed like musketeers, putting on an artful dance of their own. Beaming with excitement and awe, she was ready to jump on the dais and challenge one of the men. Jaqen nearly had to use force to stop her, warning in a low tone, that should she win this would draw too much unwanted attention, and he was one hundred percent sure she would best any of the masters. Still, watching and recognizing the technique of water dancing in their movements brought up memories of Syrio Forel to her mind, and a few tears to her eyes, which she could not wipe away.

Then, they went to see the light show at the Drowned Town, which by itself was already a huge touristic attraction. Their next stop was the Blue Lantern, where the mummers performed their plays, and where the two arrived just in time for the final act of the newest rendition of the troupe's most famous farce. To make the performance available for a larger group of people, the stage was set outdoors, just outside the playhouse, and it was the biggest stage Arya's ever seen. It had to be, because even from a large distance, she could see and hear everything perfectly clear though sometimes the bursts of laughter in the audience were clamorous.

Around the time of quarter to midnight the crowd started to thin out. The masquerading citizens were leaving the Blue Lantern, but the other playhouses and restaurants as well, Arya noticed. It started with small groups, but then one by one, everyone abandoned their activities and as if obeying some sort of a silent command headed in the direction of the center of the city.

"Where are they all going? And why aren't we?" Arya asked Jaqen in a whisper, eyeing suspiciously one masked person after another.

"The Isle of the Gods." He replied. "They'll be gathering around the yard of the Moonsinger's Temple." Taking her hand, the man in black started walking in just the opposite direction. "When the clock strikes midnight, all at once, the crowd will take off their masks, and the Unmasking will be complete."

"Wait! But why are we going away from the crowd?"

"Because tonight a man would rather keep his mask on, princess."

They crossed empty streets and empty bridges, which appeared like abandoned in a haste as if a catastrophe was to occur. Ahead, the Long Canal spread like a flowing, black ribbon. It was an imperfect black ribbon, because someone'd left a single boat near the brink; a small gondola. It was also abandoned, but about five minutes to midnight it welcomed a man and a girl aboard. Jaqen got on first, his cape following him like a whiff of black mist, and helped Arya, sitting her at the back of the boat, as he took the paddle, and directed the gondola towards the open port.

Seeing the city so beautifully illuminated, and so alarmingly quiet was an otherworldly experience. Seeing the hollow streets in daylight would seem abnormal, but this gravely silence was far beyond that. The water reflected the many lanterns hung on the bridges and the spiderweb on Jaqen's back sparkled gently, like glitter, while the eyes of the gigantic Titan watched over it all, contrasting with the moonless sky.

"It's commonly known that the yard of the Moonsinger's Temple is the best spot, but I dare disagree." Said the masked man, gazing up in thought as well as his companion did. It was almost midnight. Arya was curious, would the Waif be watching from the roof of the House of Black and White? Perhaps the Kindly Man would too?

"Jaqen..." She began, but he shushed her quickly, and mere seconds after, the first firework swished up, followed by hundreds of others, splitting into a thousand fiery stars, which surrounded the Titan. The sound of so many small distant explosions, while cumulated, gave the impression of a deafening roar. The fireworks took up the dome of the night sky, and Arya, without second thought, began twisting and turning in her spot to take in all its splendor. Jaqen on the other hand, also caught up in the magical view, for a second forgot to keep his balance, and when the boat swayed he stumbled to the side, falling straight onto his lovely girl. A split-second before crushing her chest, his hands blocked the fall, gripping the rails on both sides. The boat swayed again under the pressure of his weight, and Arya had to hold onto him not to crack her neck against the hard surface. In this way, very suddenly their bodies were closer than it was appropriate, and their faces even closer. Arya gasped. Jaqen went completely still.

He saw it in her eyes, he saw it as plainly as the firework among the thick blackness of the night. They were asking 'Is it now? Is it finally the right time?' She knew there was something keeping him from crossing the line he set for himself, and she respected it. She didn't confront him, didn't demand anything, but now she was asking. And she deserved an answer.

Her fingertips brushed the polished surface of his porcelain-like cheek. They wandered along the edge of his mask, unsure. But Jaqen quickly composed himself, and holding her by the wrist brought her hand back down. As much as he wanted, no, he needed to cross that line, he retreated, ignoring the yearning. It wouldn't be fair. It just wouldn't be fair. From questioning, her eyes'd gone to sad, and it broke his heart. She felt betrayed. And it wasn't even the worst part.

"I wanted you..." All control was gone. His voice was breaking as well. "...to be happy tonight. To live a dream, without a single worry, even if it was to be only for a little while. But it won't go further than that."

Arya sat up, dropping her gaze bitterly. Her black mask seemed suddenly to be an expression of grief. "Have I done something wrong?"

"No! No." He had to look away too. "I have. It's me, Arya Stark, can't you see? I have done something wrong, something very wrong!" He thanked the Many-Faced God he decided upon a full mask, though he didn't deserve this protection. He should bare his desperation to her this very moment.

He reached to the pocket of his frock, and pulled out the miserable letter. Holding it out to her wordlessly, he willed his hand to go numb, so it would not tremble.

The Stark girl glanced at it first, then at him, then at the folded paper again. It was a look he saw before. On the train where he was the homeless vagrant, and she was Arry. It was a distrusting glance.

She took it. There was a note attached to the front, just above the seal, but the seal was already broken. Arya was just beginning to read the note, when suddenly she froze. The few lines of text she saw through the broken seal made her heartbeat abruptly stop. She knew that handwriting.

It was her sister. It was Sansa.

Chapter Text

If she's still with you, by any chance, give this letter to her, and her only.

The sharp, angular writing was hard to read. The note looked as if it's been scribbled in a great haste, or the sender was under the influence of intense, negative emotion. Arya knew only one person, whose everlasting internal anger would be so transparent, even in his writing.

And don't you dare read it yourself before you do that you smirking cunt, or I'll fucking get there and strangle you. I've been waiting for an excuse to do that for some time now anyway.

Cunt.

Her mouth twitched. She almost smiled, almost. But there was no time to ponder.

There was no address on the envelope nor other information whatsoever. Strange... How did it even work? How could this be properly delivered? The smallest hint of a smile fled from her face the second she flipped the pages and read the few first sentences from her sister. The girl's expression was a mix of deep thought, anticipation and nostalgia.

Dear Sister,

I can't even mention your name, apparently. There's too much risk that this letter might fall into the wrong hands, or at least that's what our mutual friend tells me.

Gods, I hope it reaches you and I hope you're safe. I was so terrified when they said they've caught you and were going to bring you back to King's Landing to where I was as well... But it was such a long time ago, and our friend told me all about how you escaped (is this really true?!) and who helped you. I still can't quite believe it, but he assures me that wherever you are now, you'll be fine.

A lot has happened since we last saw each other, but don't worry, I escaped too, and with help.

Things must've gotten out of hand finally, because Joffrey (I don't care about bringing up his name though, he can burn in hell) has been poisoned. He died at dinner table, choking on his own blood. I don't know how or when the poison was served, but of course the suspicion landed on me. I was sure that would be the end of me, and I didn't even dare to think what they'd do to me, but then, stirring further the disarray caused by Joffrey's death, came the news of you and of the fire... Once I overheard Illyn Payne and Walder Frey, my jailers as I liked to call them, saying it must've been an accident. An accident which burned alive everyone inside to ashes.

Horrible as it was, the news postponed whatever was to be done with me, and I think there must've been some terrible fate intended for the Lannisters for some time now, because another tragedy took place just a few days later. I should consider myself lucky though my situation was far from it.

Tywin Lannister was murdered. By his own son.

The mansion was taken over by complete chaos, everyone was behaving as if the world was about to end. And I only heard the nervous pacing, frustrated yells and angry conversations from behind the closed door of my room, where I was left forgotten. Don't think that I'm entirely useless though. I did consider an escape many, many times, but I was in no state for that, I hardly felt anything besides grave indifference and resignation.

That is, until one night our friend came for me. I was so happy I thought it was a dream at first. He had to spend a considerable amount of our precious time explaining everything and reassuring me all of it was true before I actually decided to go with him. I believed he could be trusted, because he was the only one to show me hints of sympathy before he'd gone to fetch you, and I wasn't mistaken. We fled that awful place unnoticed, and left King's Landing as soon as it was possible.

A few weeks ago we arrived at the place you were also headed to, before the train incident. We've encountered no other dangers ever since.

I know I can't expect a reply, but please know that while you're reading this, I'm thinking of you and waiting for your arrival. And I'm not the only one.

Your brother misses you. We both do.

That was it. That was the end. With trembling hands, Arya flipped the pages a couple times searching stubbornly for a continuation, hoping she missed something.

It worked! Sandor Clegane came back for Sansa, and now she was safe! Oh, how glad she was she decided to put him off her list! She was alive and at Jon's! And they were waiting for her!

They were waiting...

The girl looked up at Jaqen, almost jumping for joy, but then she saw his eyes through the holes in his white, porcelain mask. He wasn't looking at her. His back was a little hunched and his head hung passively. Something was not right... But what could that possibly be? These were wonderful news!

She shot a glance at the papers again, then at him, then to the papers again, and a creeping uneasy sensation slowly pressed upon her head and core.

"For how long have you had this?" She asked, disbelieving her own suspicions. But her disbelief wasn't as great, when she saw him flinch at the question.

"Since... Since the day before I took your eyes."

That day... What happened that day? Ah, yes, it was the day she worked at the temple and received the disguised Nightingale. Arya remembered the thin boy with the mousy hair, carrying something in his hand. Was he the messenger? So, all this time... he kept it from her.

Her gray eyes scanned the broken seal again, now with reproach.

"Why? Why didn't you tell me?" There was that tiny plea in her voice. A plea for a justified excuse, because he must've had one? But what would justify keeping somebody from reuniting with the few remaining members of their family, moments ago presumed dead or entirely unreachable?

He gave her no answer. He just sat there lime a cloaked statue, as the gondola swung gently from side to side.

"You knew how important this is to me! Why, did you just decide to keep me in the dark? You had no right, this was not your decision! I could've been with them already! Seven Hells, they must be so worried... Tywin and Joffrey are dead, I don't have to hide anymore! You knew this letter was the only chance for me to find home again... What were you thinking? Why tell me now?"

"I kept it from you as long as my conscience let me."

"Conscience? But what was the reason?"

She didn't see it. Perhaps that was because she was too taken aback by the prospect of a happy return to her loved ones, but the mask he so stubbornly insisted on keeping on also successfully concealed it. He could've given her many answers. A simple 'I didn't want to lose you.' or 'I knew you'd leave, and I wouldn't be able to follow.' would be clear enough, but the last thing he wanted to do was throw at her his self-pity and make the situation all the more difficult. If she was to hate him, fine, as long as it would make her leave with determination and hope in her heart instead of regret. The dream he allowed himself until now was over, and there was no use in longer postponing the unavoidable. The less is said the better. Those were his thoughts, and the only answer the Faceless Man could give her was bittersweet and cold.

"There is a true home waiting for you in Westeros, Arya Stark. As you said, you don't have to hide anymore, so there is nothing keeping you here." Jaqen stood, took the paddle in hand, and directed the gondola back to the maze of the canals, and then towards the House of Black and White. Arya sat silently for a while, processing the new reality she just found herself in. The sound of the dark waves around the boat was gentle and soothing, the sky was silent.

"You're wrong. You're so very wrong." The girl spoke after a while, as quiet as the waves. "If you choose to slip back into this 'No One' persona you've created to shield yourself, fine. I know your lie now, the Game of Faces is finished. I believed I was free with you, but really I was a captive just the same.

I trusted you with my life, and you used it. You're giving me no reason to think otherwise."

The two barely spoke on their way back to the temple, and a silence even deeper enveloped them when the morning came. She left as soon as the sun rose, accompanied by the Waif to the shore, while Jaqen stayed in the House, trying to focus on anything but the torture of imagining his lovely girl on board of the ship. There would be no teary gazes, no last goodbyes, he wasn't made for these things. He preferred the old, familiar silence and the simple black-and-white world, where the urges of the heart didn't matter. There were no boundaries, no shame. He hurried deeper into the hall with the intention of holing himself up on the lowest level of his home, which he called the Hall of Faces, but ended up in one of the small rooms instead. Saying that choosing this room in particular was a coincidence would be a pointless lie. In this room there was a small flower in a pot standing on the desk, a long black coat hung down on the back of a chair, and a mass of jewel snowflakes folded neatly on the bed along with a black mask lying on top.

For the first time in a long, long time, No One cried.

They were in the middle of having breakfast when the doorbell rang. Sansa was still in her pajamas, which consisted of a comfy top and shorts patterned all over with small bluebirds. She was standing at the stove making pancakes for her and Jon, who sipped thoughtfully his morning black coffee, his hair a curly mess.

"Jon, would you?" Asked the young woman, flipping a pancake to the other side and pulling a strand of her long red hair behind her ear.

"Yeah, sure." Jon stood up with his mug still in hand, dragging himself sleepily to the front door. Before he reached it, the person on the other side of the door had managed to ring the bell three more times. Sansa thought it rude, such impatience and lack of respect especially at an hour this early. Finally, Jon put an end to this unnerving melody.

"Alright, alright! How can I he..." He began, but then his voice trailed off. There was a sudden, crackling sound followed by a few disbelieving sighs, and then silence.

"Jon?" Sansa called, alarmed. "Is everything alright?" The only answer she got was an odd, weirdly emotional cry and a laugh. A little laugh like the chiming of silver bells, which made her forget all about the breakfast. She scurried out of the kitchen and into the hall, her breath caught in her chest. Could it be? The sight in front of her explained it all. The coffee mug was scattered to pieces all around the floor, and the drink spilled right on the carpet. Her brother's frame was hunched over a smaller, feminine one, which seemed to be clinging to him for dear life. She could see the small hands wrapped tightly around his neck, and a shag of brown hair cut short buried in his shoulder.

"Arya." She sighed, but then a louder, delighted "Arya!" escaped her throat, as her own arms closed around the two, and squeezed, never wanting to let go. Sansa's vision was blurred by tars of joy, but it was her sister at last! She got the letter! She was alright, and came back home! Lucky day!

"Stop it, stop, I need some air!" Laughed the youngest sibling, but was just as reluctant to let go as the other two. The grip was loosened but only to allow the three to simply look at each other, take in all the details to make sure this is not just a dream. They paid it no mind right now, of course, but there was a loud rustle to be heard from one of the rooms, and with heavy steps someone left their room to have a peek at the hallway.

"What's this chatter all about, won't you let a man sleep at once?" Rather roughish and annoyed, but it was a familiar voice. "Oh."

"You've changed!" Exclaimed Jon gripping Arya by her arms as if to make sure her presence there was real. It was unbelievable how fast she's grown.

"You're not the same reckless child I used to remember, little sister."

"No, I'm not a child anymore..." She smiled. "I'm not so sure about reckless though."

"Where in the world have you been? How did you get by? And Braavos? How was it?" Sansa also couldn't help it but notice the changes. Arya's frame seemed generally taller, stronger. And the fierceness in her eyes was in full bloom, though there was a certain sadness hiding behind the joy of her expression. Sansa would have to find out what was its source.

"Where did you live? You came all this way... alone? Or was someone with you?" Asked Jon, puzzled.

"The Faceless Ma-"Sansa began, but was quickly cut off.

"It's a long and twisted story. Let's not talk about it just now. Please."

"Is it really too long, or maybe too inappropriate for a family chat?" A gruff voice down the hall demanded attention. Arya gulped in surprise, realizing to whom it belonged.

Seeing the bulky giant of a man, Sandor Clegane, in sweatpants and a crinkled t-shirt was quite the shock for the girl. She shot a suspicious look at him, then at her sister.

"What's he doing here?"

"Yea, it's nice to see you too, bratty arsonist."

Arya ignored the Hound and only stared at Sansa inquisitively. The way the long "Umm..." awkwardly left her mouth, the eyes darted to the side, the hint of blush crept to her cheeks...

"No." Arya's face went blank, her arms hung loosely at her sides. "Se-ven He-lls, no!"

"Arya, I can explain..."

"He lives here?!"

"I have a share in paying the rent too." Sandor only smirked.

He was prowling over the empty streets like a cat in the nighttime. Or at least he liked to think he was, because in reality his movement was a little less graceful. Jaqen H'ghar didn't remember when was the last time he needed a drink.

The silence of all these black-and-white rooms and black-and-white halls was no longer calming (without the clicking of her heels following his), training did nothing to relieve the tension (without a partner be suddenly didn't even know where to begin) and he was sick of the Kindly Man's "You did the right thing" or "It's better this way, for everyone." repeated over and over again. The Waif was of no help whatsoever by continuously staring at him through squinted eyelids as if shooting unsaid accusations. He simply just had to go out and keep walking, keep walking with a flask in his hand until his legs feel like noodles, making him unable to continue.

Most of the time on his way the Lorathi encountered only grave silence and some of his fellow prowling cats crossing the street like shadows, because after the Unmasking in all its glory was finished, the braavosi needed a few days to rest their mind and body, but most of all the hangover. And he liked that. He liked the feeling of this ghost town. His frame blended with the gloom.

But then, of course, all had to be ruined. There was a greatly unnerving sound of the strings of a greatly unnerving mandolin being stroked in the distance. And what was even more unnerving, a voice the melody shortly after. Maybe in someone else's ears the song could sound light and beautiful, but to Jaqen it wasn't half as good as the croaks of a giant toad drowning in mud.

"He rode through the streets of the city

Down from his hill on high

O' er the winds and the steps and the cobble

He rode to woman's sight"

Up till then, Jaqen might've just taken another course and leave that pitiful musician behind, but what came next made him urge to seize the scamp, and throw his instrument to a nearby canal.

"For she was his secret treasure

She was his shame and his bliss

And a chain and a keep are nothing

Compared to a woman's kiss"

He began to walk faster, cursing under his breath, praying the Many-Faced God would help him restrain that urges. Before he reached the source of it, the refrain served as a base to his rhythmic mumbles.

"For hands of gold are always cold

But a woman's hands are warm

"For hands of gold are always cold

But a woman's hands are-"

"Shut up!" The aggressive yell deadened the song. Clearly Jaqen's just lost control over his throat. "What do you know!"

"Normally, I'd argue, but your state proves that you know much more than I do in this case." Unnerving and insolent, it appeared. The young man was sprawled at a small porch of one of the poorer apartments in this part of the city. He was one of those, who always behave like they haven't got a care in the world, and judging by his fine looks he could pose as the stereotypical heart breaker with a guitar, if it wasn't for a few little details.

He dyed his hair blue, and tied a few strands into plaits, and while his mustache was blond the rest of his facial hair was also blue. Plus, hos clothing looked like one giant patchwork of all sorts of materials colored in bright yellow, pink, and green.

Suddenly Jaqen's violent thoughts vanished. They were both pitiful it seemed. With a deep sigh the Assassin settled down on the sidewalk across the street.

"We're in a bad mood, I see." Continued the stranger, gazing up at the stars. "And perhaps a little... heartbroken?"

An odd chuckle escaped his throat, and Jaqen had to pour down a few sips from his flask to silence it.

"So what's the story?" The Stranger went on relentlessly.

"And why do you think I would tell you?" Sneered Jaqen after a long pause of silence.

"Well, perhaps because there is simply no one else who would listen? It's barely three a.m, and I'm sure you didn't get any help wherever you come from."

That was true. Very true. Instead of asking why would he tell him, maybe the man should ask why wouldn't he? The guy was a stranger, and a half-crazy one surely, so what did Jaqen care.

"I gave her everything." Let the selfishness, the offense, the anger, the longing and all the unrequired emotions loose at once. "I saved her from the grip of death, and I don't mean it as a metaphor, I mean a true threat to her life. I cared for her, I gave her a home, and I was stupid enough to believe she'll see it as such. I gave her a purpose, and I showed her all a life here could offer... Hells, I even gave up a huge part of myself! I changed for her, done things my past-self would curse me for! I gave her everything, and this is how she repays me!"

"Which is..?"

"She leaves, do you understand?! She leaves despite... despite.. How dare she!"

"Yea, how dare she!"

"To think that I'm accused of being selfish! Left here to rot, for one mistake, one unfair move and suddenly all the sacrifice doesn't matter! Oh, no, no, no, she's played her part in this Game, and she will take responsibility!"

Bearing this motivation in heart, Jaqen thanked the blue-haired young man and stormed all the way back to the House of Black and White. The soles of his shoes shuffled hard in the floor of dust. The old temple was as always, unnaturally still. The Waif was sweeping it profoundly. Perhaps she couldn't sleep as well. When the large two-winged door opened aggressively, she jumped, startled, but when she heard her brother so awake with passion, her face relaxed again. There was even a satisfied gleam in her doe eyes.

"Unthinkable! Utterly unacceptable! I will not allow this!"

"Took you long enough."

Dozens of tiny raindrops tapped against the windowpane, creating a low continuous hum. Evening came earlier this day and brought along a thick coat of clouds looming over Winterfell. Arya sat at the broad windowsill in Sansa's room, which they shared, drinking hot chocolate with her knees drawn up to her chest. She wore Sansa's blouse too, and her sleeves had to be rolled up a few times, so she wouldn't dip them in the drink.

Jon bought this house a couple years ago, obviously way too big for his needs though he had guests from time to time. His fiancee Ygritte used to come over for the weekends since she lived at the far northern outskirts of the town, and his friend Sam visited quite often too, but not as often as he had back in the day, because he was soon to have a family of his own. So, Jon told his little sister she could pick whichever of the unoccupied four rooms suited her, but for now the Stark girls preferred to share one.

"Why are you so sad all the time?" Lost in the humming of the rain, Arya didn't hear Sansa's approach.

"I'm not."

"I really appreciate your efforts but it's plainly visible when you think no one's watching."

So it was all for nothing, she thought. You're a trained liar, you should be able to fool anyone.

"It'll pass." Great, she didn't even succeed at fooling herself.

"You've been telling me this for over a week now, Arya." She sounded worried. Funny, how their relationship changed. The sisters used to almost hate each other.

"Well, then" Arya sighed. "I really don't know what else to tell you."

"Maybe..." Sansa seated herself opposite to Arya, crouching and eager to hear a story like a little child. "...tell me about the masquerade again."

Arya rolled her eyes, but her lips were already bending into a smile. Sansa rejoiced Arya's stories about the Unmasking of Uthero festival, and Arya wasn't as much as a tiny bit surprised. It was so like her.

Pretending to be annoyed, she had no other choice but relate everything she experienced during that night again. While Sansa was sparkling with delight, imagining how it would be if she were in Braavos that night as well, Arya's palms involuntarily fidgeted with the silver little dire wolf hung around her neck. The necklace was the only thing she didn't leave behind at the day of her departure, not taking it off even once.

Perhaps this little pendant was what made her thoughts go back to him so often. Perhaps it was another of his tricks, an amulet supposed to make her vulnerable to memory. She wanted it to be true, and yet the girl refused to take the enchanted necklace off. In this way she could blame him entirely for her baleful attachment. For the sleepless nights when she'd mull over and over again everything that's happened. She was still angry at him, but some of the conclusions she'd drawn from these pondering just wouldn't let her rest.

If Jaqen'd told her about the letter the day it arrived, so many things wouldn't have happened... Starting off with their first kiss, and ending with a great many of the most exciting experiences of her life.

Again, she was not an object nor anyone's pet to be kept somewhere, but it wasn't like anything bad has happened to her family, which her teacher kept from her.

And he has done so much for her, shared so much with her, that his motivations couldn't be wrong... Arya hated to allow the thought, but it appeared to her that she might've made a huge mistake.

If only he wasn't such a self-contained, remorseless, tight-lipped jerk!

And Sansa surely wasn't helping in this case. She hasn't given up the topic yet.

"You, having attended no real parties ever in your life, danced in an actual gown among all these people? And what's more you didn't dance alone, I assume? It's hard to imagine, it really is." The redhead laughed with sympathy.

"Oh, your Prince Charming would dance you all through the night, I'm sure." Arya's sarcasm was living a life of its own, she couldn't suppress it.

"Come on, don't jeer at me like that, we've been through this before. I know he can seem harsh at first, but- okay, who am I kidding, he is a gruff and often bad-tempered man, but he can be nice.

"Yeah, only towards you."

"Maybe you're right, but don't act like you two don't get along well enough. At least you have someone to punch when you're frustrated.

"Ha-ha."

"It's true. And it isn't like I imagined my ideal future partner anything like him to be honest, but it just feels right."

Arya had no argument against that. She knew the feeling. And, strange as it was, Sandor was absolutely head over heels for her sister. In his own, huffy way, but still.

Then there it was, a moment of dangerous silence. Sansa was thinking of it again.

"Um, Arya?" The younger sister already knew it was coming. "I really don't mean to pry, but I know this is important, no matter how many times you deny it."

"Deny what?"

"You know what. You haven't spoken a word about this No One guy since the day you arrived! You've been very secretive about many things, in fact."

"Because I don't want to talk about them. You said you didn't mean to pry."

"But I'm worried! It's just so strange! Has he hurt you, in any way?"

"What, no! No, I swear he didn't, he just... He's..." Clearly Sansa's jumped into the wrong conclusions, and Arya couldn't keep being silent about it then. But how should she explain it, so Sansa would understand? Was it even possible for the older sister to understand?

The girl searched for an answer staring through the windowpane, patterned with raindrops. The neighborhood was quiet, the streets almost empty...

"Holy shit!" Arya exclaimed suddenly, jumping to her feet.

"I'm sure he's not that." Sansa snorted, but Arya probably didn't hear her. She was already hurrying out of the room and into the hall. "Hey! What is it? Arya?"

She realized she was barefoot the moment her feet touched the cold wet asphalt street. But it was too late to go back, and she didn't care, there was no point in going back for an umbrella now either. Even from such a distance she recognized him by the white strand of hair. It was even more distinguishable now, because the rain turned the rest of his red hair a damp brown. He walked ahead with his eyes glued to the ground, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat. It was the long black one.

"Jaqen!" She called through the wall of rain, shuddering only half from the cold.

His head darted up, and finally their eyes met. And then he ran.

"If you thought even for one brief moment" The Faceless Man exclaimed a few paces before the distance between them was closed. "that you can turn my world upside down and then vanish from it you were mistaken! You will answer for your wicked doings whether you like it or n-" His dramatic speech was cut short by her lips, and suddenly they were one again. Everything he had to say, what he'd been composing deliberately throughout his journey, was simply wiped away with a kiss, and he couldn't be more happy. They were soaked to the bone but neither of them seemed to notice. He held her tightly in between his arms, where she belonged. And her smile, her smile cleansed his mind and healed his heart.

"I'm sorry, lovely girl, I..." But she silenced him again.

"Don't be. There's no need for words, there really isn't." It felt delightful to hold her heart-shaped face again.

"You're shuddering, Arya Stark. It's too cold out here." His eyes, yes, she loved those eyes.

"Come inside then. Come. We need to dry these clothes or Sansa's gonna kill me! This blouse's one of her favorites." She gestured for him to hurry along, but he caught her hand and squeezed it, self-conscience and doubt written on his features.

"I'm not sure I should..."

"Nonsense!"

"But you know that I will never be able to find a home here... I am what I am, some things are just beyond my power lovely girl. And who will I be to them? Your abductor? Caregiver? A hitman? A fraud? Or just Jaqen H'ghar? Because I'm no longer sure which of these is true."

"You're the man who made me brave again. That should be enough."

It was enough. It was perfectly enough. They approached the front door together, though Jaqen was a little nervous if he were to be honest.

"And besides," Began Arya smirking curiously. "My brother let the Hound under his roof, so he should be simply delighted by your presence."

"What?" The man gulped at his lovely girl, hoping it was a joke. "Seven Hells!"

"My words exactly."

Somewhere in the near future Arya Stark will ask her Faceless Man:

"So, what happens now?"

And he will thoughtfully stare at her, and then reply, with a familiar smirk curling his lips:

"There are still two names on Arya Stark's little list, if a man is correct."

And she will recall that indeed he is correct, and she too will smile.