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She was six-and-ten when she next saw him, her face angled to catch the salt spray of the waves. She did not hear him approach, and this was strange in and of itself. Six years as no-one, and she had learned not to let anyone sneak up on her.
Except, it seemed, for him.
"A girl has grown."
She did not move except to turn her cheek to the wind. A breeze combed through her short hair.
"A girl has become a woman."
"Did you think to startle me, ser, sneaking up unannounced?" She did not turn to face him. She did not want to see the face he wore now. She did not want to forget the face that the other girl remembered.
He chuckled, low and deep and with different voice. "A girl is not so easy to startle."
"A man has a talent for startling though, I think," she shot back, her grip on the ship's rail tightening. She still knew him. How could she still know him? His voice was changed, and she knew that if she turned around - and she would not turn around - his face would be less beautiful than the one she had known - than the one other girl had known.
She knew from his silence that he was moving to stand beside her, and resolutely turned her head away.
"Was Jaqen H'ghar your real name?"
"It is the only name a woman will know this one by."
"That's hardly fair."
"How so?"
"You knew me by three names, once. I only know you by one, and it likely a false one."
He was silent a moment. She tried to pretend he wasn't smiling, but she knew he was. "Does a woman remember her three names?"
She bit her lip, her teeth worrying the soft flesh for the first time in years. "I have gone by more than just three names in my lifetime."
He laughed. "A short lifetime for a short girl."
"Well, how many names have you known?" she snapped.
"Enough."
She scoffed and rolled her eyes. Her teeth began to worry at her bottom lip again. She waited until the metallic taste of blood coated her tongue before she answered, "Arry was the name you first knew me by." She paused, remembering. The blood tasted too sweet and too salty on her tongue. "Weasel next. Do you remember Weasel? Weasel had you kill two men, and asked you to kill a third."
"A man does not remember the names of those men, but he remembers Arry and Weasel... and another."
"Chiswyck and Weese," she supplied, ignoring him, "and the third was Jaqen H'ghar." She bit her lip again before remembering herself, and turned to face the man another girl had known as Jaqen H'ghar.
"Oh."
He smiled, and his teeth were white against the dark brown of his skin. "Does a girl think this face strange? Does a girl not find this face pleasing? A man would be happy to change his face, if only to accomodate a lovely girl."
She swallowed. "No," she croaked, "No. This face is pleasing enough."
His smile grew wider. "Too pleasing, perhaps?"
"You look like a Targaryen," she said.
The man leaned back. "Ah. And a girl has known many Targaryens?"
"A girl has... seen a Targaryen."
"And this is the same as knowing a Targaryen?"
She did not answer him. It had been two years since the Dragon Queen had claimed Westeros, and two years since Lord Brandon Stark of Winterfell had become King Brandon Stark of the North, and one year since the Targaryen prince had come to Braavos with a pretty northern princess on his arm. It was around that time that she had decided that the heat of Braavos was worth nothing without the snows of the North to compare it to. Another girl had known the North. This girl only knew the canals and cobblestones.
"Has a lovely girl known any other names?" he asked softly, resting his hand quite close to hers upon the ship's rail.
"Nan," she whispered, "Nymeria." She cleared her throat. "Salty, for a time." And then, with pride, "Cat of the Canals."
"A name dear to a girl."
"Beth, the bind beggar," she continued, "and then an ugly little girl, and Beth again and Cat again and at times I was called Beqqa the Beautiful and Malena the Merciless and once even a boy named Jorick and between all these names I was no-one."
"And who are you now?"
She turned to face him again. "No-one."
He tsked. "A girl is a poor liar."
"No-one," she said again.
"A girl must learn to lie better."
"No-one!"
"A girl has never been no-one, and a girl will never be no-one. Behind the face of Beth the Blind and Cat of the Canals, there was someone. Behind Beqqa the Beautiful and Malena the Merciless, there has been someone. The face a girl wears now, this is not no-one. This face will never belong to no-one. A man asks again, who are you now?"
She turned away, her face hot, her lip raw, and the taste of blood and the name of a girl she had tried to forget yet lingered on her tongue.
"A girl is..."
She coughed.
"They call me - they called me..."
She bit her lip again.
"My name... my name is..."
She screwed her eyes shut.
"Arya Horseface, Arya Underfoot, Arya Stark, Arya Stupid! What does it matter, Arya, Arya, Arya, Arya. Yoren knew my name, and Gendry, and Jaqen H'ghar, but I forgot, I forgot, and I'll never forget again. I am not no-one. I have never been no-one, and I never will be again. I am Arya Stark, Lady of Winterfell, Princess of the North, sister to queens, and a Stark of Winterfell."
She gasped, and felt a hand at her elbow, holding her upright. "A girl remembers. A girl knows."
"A girl is going home."
Jaqen H'ghar's lips curved in a queer smile.
Arya Stark turned away and lifted her face to catch the salt spray of the waves upon her tongue.