Chapter Text
Her father's steward Vayon Poole sent Arya to the Small Hall.
The trestle tables had been dismantled and the benches shoved against the walls.
The hall was empty, save for a tall figure that stood at the center, wearing strange robes, their hair was long and black as night, and styled in a ponytail that reminded Arya of a rope of sorts.
"While I have some fondness for your father, I do not care for tardiness," the person said in a melodious feminine tone that surprised Arya. There was also a strange accent behind her words that she could not place. The person turned and stared at Arya with sharp eyes that she felt could cut through her as easily as a greatsword could. "I expect you to be here before midday, and I will not tolerate you skipping class."
"Class?" Arya said tasting the queer word, not really understanding what was going on. She took a step in, and took note of the woman's strange attire. It was a queer mix of silk and steel. She wore a tunic of pale pink and white, loose and flowing, but over her chest and hips were dark, lacquered plates of armor layered like scales. Sleek black pauldrons rested on her shoulders, guarding her neck. It somehow looked like armor while at the same time it felt feminine, moving with the fluid grace of a dancer's dress. "Who are you?"
The woman bowed so their eyes were level to each other's. "My name is Akane Tendo, I'm here to teach you how to dance."
Arya furrowed her brow. The name was queer, just like the way she talked. "Dancing?"
The woman pivoted on her heel and pushed off the stone floor, drifting to the left with a motion so fluid it looked as though she were swimming through the air. It was impressive, Arya supposed, but she didn't care.
Dancing.
Her father had gotten her a dancing instructor.
"I do not care for dancing!" She stomped her feet and turned back to the door, but before she could reach it, her Lord father entered the hall.
"Why would you do this to me!? I thought you had finally understood how I feel!"
Her father raised his hands to placate her. "Arya, calm down, please, allow us to explain."
Arya tried to get past her father to get away from this silliness, she was fast, but he knew her well and before she realized both his hands were on her shoulders, keeping her in place.
"She's got a temper," the woman said as she silently landed just behind Arya. "It appears you've raised quite a wolf, my lord," she said in a conspiratorial tone, a jovial smile on her face.
Arya stiffened, thinking she had once again embarrased her father. She closed her eyes and forced herself to stay still.
Her father hugged her, and cleaned the tears from her cheeks with his hand. "Akane here is..." he looked up at the woman, and seemed unable to find a word that truly described her, but he finally settled for, "...an adventurer. She's the closest person I know to the Nymeria of legends."
Arya turned and stared at the woman. "Like Nymeria?" She narrowed her eyes, a spark of indignation rising in her chest. He's lying, she thought. He's making up a fairy tale to trick me. There was no way this woman with bare hands and silk robes was a warrior queen.
Akane stared at her without giving anything away. After what felt like an eternity, she finally sighed. "I met your father some... nine? Nine years ago. It's weird to keep track of time in Westeros."
Arya looked at the woman, and back at her father. Nine years before... that meant... "The Greyjoy Rebellion?"
"Aye," her father said, taking a step toward the strange woman. "She might appear like any woman of the Seven Kingdoms," he explained, and Arya raised an eyebrow at that. She had to admit the woman possessed the eerie, fluid grace of a cat, but a dancer was still just a dancer. "But nine years ago, a storm brought her from out of nowhere, and before I realized it, she saved my life."
The woman made a so-so motion with her hand. "I do not believe your life was truly in peril, my Lord."
He shook his head. "Perhaps. But in battle, you never know. What I do know is that you danced across the battlefield with the fury of a storm and took down more Greyjoy men than anyone else. You might be right that you didn't save my life that day, but I am certain that your intervention saved countless men of the North."
"You humble me with your kind words," Akane said, bowing again. Somehow, Arya felt there was a cheekiness to the way she spoke to her father, a total lack of the deference lords usually demanded.
Still, Arya crossed her arms, glaring between the two of them. She wasn't a little girl like Sansa to be swayed by pretty stories of storms and heroism. This was a mummer's farce.
Her father clicked his tongue, and turned. "I have matters to attend to. Akane, I leave my daughter in your care."
The moment the heavy oak doors clicked shut behind her father, Arya's glare returned.
He thinks me a fool, she thought, her fingers tightening into a fist. This was a mummer's farce, a clever ploy to distract her from learning true steel. There was absolutely no way this slender woman in silk and lacquered plates had fought in a real war, let alone slain Ironborn reavers. It was just another trick to force her into being a proper lady.
"What sort of dance is this, then?" Arya asked, her voice dripping with skepticism.
"You will not dance, not for at least three moons," Akane replied smoothly, "but if you must know, I am a master of the Anything Goes School of Martial Arts."
"Anything goes... what?"
Akane turned and approached one of the heavy wooden benches that had been hastily shoved to the side of the room. With a gentle tap of her bare foot, the massive piece of furniture launched into the air. She raised her leg, effortlessly catching and balancing the bench above her head.
Arya blinked. She remembered it took two grown men just to drag them across the floor not too long before. There was no way someone could just lift one with a casual flick of their ankle. Maybe she replaced it with some sort of fake benches?
Before Arya fully realized what was happening, the woman began to move, spinning across the hall. The bench moved around her as if she could control it with her mind, a terrifying blur of momentum. She slashed at imaginary enemies all around her with the wood, crushed figurative skulls, and blocked fictional arrows, wielding the heavy bench as effortlessly as a willow branch.
As Arya watched the violent, beautiful display, the stone walls of the Small Hall seemed to melt away. Suddenly, she could see exactly what her father had described. She vividly pictured a horde of ironborn pirates bursting through a breached castle wall, screaming for blood and swinging rusted axes, only to meet this swirling storm of destruction. She could see the reavers marching to their absolute doom, their shields splintering, their bodies sent flying into the sea by a woman wielding whatever rubble she could find.
When the dance stopped, the bench flew up and landed lightly in Akane's open palm. She held it as if it were a child's toy.
"Anything goes," Akane said, as she gently placed the bench back against the wall, "means that everything can be used as a weapon, anything can be a shield, anything can be a battlefield."
Between blinks, the woman moved and appeared instantly in front of her. She was squatting in a distinctly unladylike manner, her face perfectly level with Arya's. "Just like painting can be trash under the hand of a novice, battle can be art under a true master. Thus, Martial Arts."
Arya took a step back, her heart hammering against her ribs. All her suspicion had evaporated, replaced by a burning, ravenous hunger. "How can I learn to do what you do?"
The woman's smile reminded Arya of a cat's. "We will see." She hopped lightly in place, then walked to the far wall, picking up an enormous, lacquered turtle shell. A faint, nostalgic snort escaped Akane's lips. "Yes, this will do. I'm sure he would have laughed at me for using it. Most amusing."
"Who?"
Akane's eyes clouded for a fraction of a second before the playful glint returned, hardening into something much stricter. She dropped the massive turtle shell in front of Arya. It hit the stone with a heavy, ominous thud that vibrated through the floorboards. "Who, what?"
"Who would find this amusing?"
"No one in particular," Akane replied, her tone much harsher than seconds ago. "Now, pick it up and place it upon your back. Be quick about it."
Arya grabbed the edges of the shell and pulled. It didn't budge. She planted her feet and heaved with all her might, barely managing to turn the shell around to find thick leather harnesses bolted to the inside. She gasped for air, her arms already burning. The thing was unnaturally heavy, as if the shell were lined with solid lead rather than hollow bone.
"You expect me to wear this thing?" Arya demanded. This is torture, she realized with a sudden spike of dread. She doesn't want to teach me anything. She's just going to break my spine for her own amusement. Just another Jeoffrey. There was no way anyone normal could possibly carry something so heavy on their back, let alone fight with it.
"It is a highly traditional training method from my people," the woman said with a perfectly straight face, adopting a somber gravity that reminded Arya of her lordly father. But behind the woman's eyes, Arya was absolutely certain she found the whole thing to be a grand, private joke that only she knew the punchline to.
"How do you expect me to move with this on my back?" Arya asked, straining with great difficulty just to lift one edge off the stone.
"Well, not too well at first, I suppose," the woman said, and sighed. "Here, let me help you."
Before Arya could step back, Akane grabbed her by the back of her collar, lifting her off the ground with one hand as if she were a misbehaving kitten. In a swift, blinding motion, Akane hoisted the impossible weight of the shell, slipped Arya's arms through the harnesses, pulled them tight, and dropped her to the floor.
Arya fell like a rock. She felt like a rock.
The sheer weight drove the breath completely from her lungs, pinning her flat against the cold stone floor. It was as if a warhorse had just stepped on her back.
The woman massaged her chin thoughtfully, looking down at the pinned girl. "Hmm, it appears you are quite weak, child. Mayhaps I was mistaken. I do not think you will dance in three moons."
Arya growled. Gritting her teeth, she placed her hands flat in front of her and pushed up with every ounce of strength she possessed. Her arms trembled violently under the crushing pressure. She grunted, lifting her chest an inch from the floor, but her left hand slipped.
Smack. Off she went again, her chin hitting the floor.
"Make that four," Akane mused cheerfully. "Or perhaps six?"