A shadow flitted over a darkened doorway, the oak panelling hanging slightly ajar. The light cast by the lanterns of the inn threw a wedge of light into the dingy alleyway, illuminating the dirt-clogged cobbles.
A cloaked figure emerged from the safety of the shadows and approached the door. A pair of pale hands reached up, one to open the door to the tavern, the other to push the hood back. A high brow was revealed, crowned by thick, near ebony hair. Clear grey eyes darted about, wary and watchful. The girl went by many names; had had many names. Arry, the Ghost of Harrenhal, Nymeria, Cat of the Canals. Arya Stark, Princess of Winterfell, though that had been a long time ago, when she was no more than a child.
Now she was no one. A faceless assassin, about to carry out her first duty. She paused, hand on the latch, her grip iron on iron. She filled her lungs. The air was stagnant and foul-smelling but it soothed her racing heart. Swift as a cat, she slipped into the light and warmth of the inn.
It was late, past midnight, and most of the brawl had dispersed. There were however, a few men left behind. Inebriated, incapacitated, and sprawled pathetically across carved wooden tables. All three of the bloated sots were dead to the world, with all of their soft spots exposed. It was true that Braavos was not King's Landing, and the people here had some honour when it came to taking lives, but the assassin still found herself irked by their nonchalance.
'Sitting ducks,' the girl thought to herself. 'They're lucky I'm not here for them.'
She was almost startled by her own cold-bloodedness, that she could be considering the many ways to kill total strangers. Her time at the House of Black and White had certainly changed her. But she was done with that now. She was independent. And independence meant choosing clients and negotiating prices for kills.
The girl had singled out her target the moment she entered the room and moved to a table a little way behind him. The man had dark hair that fell to his shoulders in waves and sharp, angry features that cast angular shadows across his face. Even when seated the girl could tell he was tall. His shoulders were not particularly broad, suggesting he was lean, but there was a solidity about him that contradicted this.
She sat watching him for at least twenty minutes. He did little more than finger the rim of his pitcher, occasionally taking mouthfuls and wincing as the heat hit the back of his throat. He seemed fairly inconspicuous. The girl could not understand why her client wanted this man dead.
'It is not for me to pass judgement,' she reminded herself sharply.
The girl no longer became restless, but she was somewhat relieved when the man rose. He paused to leave some coins on the table before leaving, despite the owner being nowhere in sight.
'Not even a thief. An honest man, it would seem.'
The girl dug her nails into her palms in annoyance. She had succeeded in every element of her training, but try as she might, she could not suppress her natural inquisitiveness. Sometimes Arya Stark did not seem so far away.
The girl followed the man at a safe distance, always keeping to the shadows, her movements graceful and her footsteps hushed. Her target was weaving his way deeper into the back alleys of Braavos, though the girl still knew exactly where she was. Part of her thought she should just put a knife in his back, but again, the Stark in her had different ideas. He was to be her first and, for some inexplicable reason, she wanted to look him in the eye when she did it.
The man turned down an alley that the girl knew to be a dead end. Either he had reached his destination, or he had no idea where he was going.
'Or you haven't been as careful as you thought and he's leading you into a trap,' she thought darkly.
Her pace slowed as she turned down the alley; the man was nowhere in sight. She proceeded cautiously, feeling for the dagger concealed up her sleeve. The only source of light was the moonlight that bathed the walls, but the night was overcast and every cloud that passed over the face of the moon caused the shadows to morph and distort.
All of the girl's senses were alert, eyes noticing every movement, even the flick of a rat's tail from behind a barrel at the far end of the passage; ears picking up the far-off drunken shouts of men and the playful squeals of the women whose love they had bought for the night.
What she didn't sense, however, was an attack. She felt a rush of air a split second before a wall of flesh barrelled into her. She raised her arm to block a strike from the left and knew immediately that the impact would leave a mark. The man was fast, and strong. A glint of silver alerted her to the blade in his hand and she adjusted her tactics accordingly. Drawing her own knife she deflected his next blow, but received a knee to the stomach instead. Winded, she staggered backwards a few steps.
He had clearly been trained by someone very skilled, finally making sense of why her client had paid so much to have a Faceless One deal with him. The man didn't attack, but circled her like a predator would its kill.
'No,' she thought viciously. 'I am the wolf.'
She leapt at him with a feral snarl, landing blows in a flurry of flying limbs. Her opponent was forced backwards down the alley, parrying some blows, bearing the brute force of others. The girl found herself relishing the pained grunts he made when her blade grazed his flesh. Unfortunately, he was as quick as her and a good deal stronger and so she rarely did more than graze him.
They continued like this for half a minute before the man ducked under one of her swipes, throwing her off balance. He took advantage of this by knocking her blade clear out of her hand, sending it clattering half way down the alley. By this point they had reached the blocked off end and the girl was backed against the wall. The man smirked, seeming sure of a victory, then paused.
"Why do you want me dead?" he enquired, genuinely puzzled.
There was something jarringly familiar about his voice that the girl couldn't grasp. "I don't," she replied vehemently. "My client does."
The man considered this, twiddling his knife in his hands. "And why does your client want me dead?"
The girl gritted her teeth. Even now there was a stubbornness in her that hated admitting ignorance.
The man chuckled. "You do not know. Interesting." Then, seeing the look on her face, "This bothers you?"
"It is not for me to pass judgement," she said, watching the knife that he was now tossing into the air and catching effortlessly.
At these words he stopped and gave a slight smirk. "A girl is wise to say so, even if she does not think so."
She froze. His voice triggered a memory. The memory of a man with a fair face and white streaks in red hair. A man who owed three.
He smiled at the recognition on her face, then struck, quick as a viper. The girl was jolted into action. She used a crate at her side as leverage and launched herself up into the air and over the head of her assailant. Before he could react she had grabbed his wrist and twisted the dagger from his hands. She crouched and swept her leg in an arc, knocking his feet out from under him.
Within the space of five seconds, the man had gone from what had seemed a guaranteed victory to having the girl straddled across his chest with the cold steel of his own blade pressed to his throat. She knew that she should kill him there and then, but her curiosity had been piqued by the way he had addressed her. It seemed that she had the upper hand until her target spoke.
"It would seem that we are at an impasse, lovely girl."
She glanced down to see that he had a knife of his own pressed to her ribs and growled in annoyance.
"A man should never carry just one knife, especially with one such as yourself out to get him."
"Who are you?" she snapped.
"Who do you think I am? " he replied, his tone so calm and teasing that it set the girl's teeth on edge.
She hesitated. It was ridiculous to think that this man was the same Jaqen H'ghar she had known all those years ago at Harrenhal. But it wasn't just the way he talked, it was his voice itself. It had the same foreign lilt that Arya had found so fascinating, the same dulcet texture, like cool water running over smooth rocks. And now that he was this close the girl recognised his scent, mysterious and musky, like the pine forests that had surrounded her childhood home, but with an underlying sharpness that made her think of an exotic spice market.
"You speak like someone I knew a very long time ago," she said cautiously.
"And where is this man now?"
The girl thought back to the last time Arya had seen Jaqen, after she had refused to cross the Narrow Sea with him, instead choosing to stay in Westeros to find Robb and her mother, both of whom had been killed before she reached them. The Faceless Man had adopted a new identity and told her that Jaqen H'ghar was dead.
"He's dead," she replied coldly. "Along with everyone else."
The man's eyes softened. "A girl has suffered much heartbreak. A man is sorry for her."
"What do you know about it?" she hissed.
The man raised his hands in surrender, allowing the dagger to fall from his hand. Slowly, he lifted his hand to press his palm to his forehead. The girl realised what he was doing before it happened; she had seen it happen many times before.
The man's face began to change, his cheekbones became less harsh, the jaw line stronger. His dark hair became red, slashed through with white, and his eyes faded from brown to blue, until the man pinned beneath her was no longer her target, but the faceless killer from her past.
She stumbled back, dropping the knife in shock. "Jaqen?" she whispered disbelievingly.
"A man has the honour," he said with a smirk and a dip of his head. "We meet again, Arya Stark."
"No one calls me that anymore," she replied, still speaking in hushed tones.
He half grimaced, now standing before her. "A man is aware. The Cat of the Canals, I believe people call you. Strange. A man always thought a girl was more of a wolf."
It was amazing, that even after all this time, Jaqen could read her so easily. He had seen right through her at Harrenhal; had known precisely what it was she wanted. Still, his insight was grating enough that her shock built into anger. She darted forwards and struck him across the face.
"Where were you?" she demanded. "You told me that if I ever needed to find you again, I only had to use that stupid coin of yours. I came to Braavos to find you, but you weren't here."
Jaqen massaged his cheek, looking slightly amused. "I told you when we parted ways before, a man has duties, too."
"I'm not joking. I needed you, Jaqen. I didn't know who to trust."
At this Jaqen dropped his hand. His usual light-hearted drawl took on a more sincere tone. "A man is truly sorry, Arya Stark. A man would not have chosen to break his word to you. Had a man known that a girl had been here in Braavos, things might have been different, but I have been gone for a very long time."
The girl stared hard at him. She liked the way her name sounded when he spoke it. It made her almost willing to reclaim it, at least for her own use if no one else's. Arya Stark. The thought grounded her, anchored her tumultuous mind.
"It's all right," Arya said. "I suppose things turned out fine anyway."
"So it would seem," Jaqen grinned, flashing a set of disarmingly white teeth. "A girl has become rather formidable."
"I'm hardly a girl anymore," she muttered, trying to suppress a grin in return. Then a thought struck her. "Jaqen, can I ask you something?"
"Anything, lovely girl," he replied mockingly.
"Why was I hired to kill you?"
"A man regrets to inform you that your client was not a real client. Tonight was one final test, one that all must pass before leaving the House of Black and White."
Arya was puzzled. "But I have left the House. They said I was ready."
"It is rare for anyone to be truly ready to take a life for the first time," Jaqen said softly.
"I killed people before I even came to Braavos," Arya protested.
"But a girl had good reason to take those lives, no? Your orders were to kill me despite not knowing why, and as a man said, a girl is bothered by this."
She nodded hesitantly. "But I didn't kill you. Does that mean I failed?"
"The test was not to see if you could kill me, lovely girl. This would be almost impossible. I am an experienced killer, you are only just beginning. Although," he continued, wiping a trail of blood from his cheek. "A girl did better than most would have."
Arya fought against the heat creeping up her neck. He sounded almost impressed. "You let me win."
"On the contrary, a man wanted to see what a girl could do. That is why a man volunteered for the job. And besides, a man does not remember a girl winning," he countered with a grin.
Arya shrugged. "So did I pass the test?"
Jaqen tilted his head and stepped closer to her. "In some ways, yes. A girl came closer than most to defeating me. This shows great skill. However, a girl hesitated. A man gave a girl a dozen opportunities to take my life. There were no witnesses in the tavern; a girl could have poisoned a man's drink and had done with it. In the street, a knife to the back is all that was required. To be a Faceless One requires ruthlessness. When taking a life, a girl must be quick, like a snake. Why did you wait so long before attacking?"
Arya averted her eyes. She could not tell him the real reason; her curiosity and stubbornness went against all the oaths she had taken.
"A girl says nothing. A girl keeps her mouth closed." Arya looked up, remembering when he spoke those same words to her as a child. Jaqen continued in the same low voice. "But a girl keeps secrets. It does not for a man to spoil them."
"I don't have secrets," Arya insisted. She couldn't bear to fail now, after so many years training at the House of Black and White.
"A girl forgets that we have met before. A man knows a girl better than she would like. The same fire burns within you as it did all those years ago. A girl may be a girl no more, may have gained new skills, but she is the same underneath. Still stubborn, with more courage than sense."
By this point Jaqen had moved close enough that his breath stirred the hairs that hung across her face. She tried to contradict him, but her voice was weak.
"This is a good thing," he whispered, leaning to press his forehead against hers. "A man would mourn the loss of Arya Stark."
Then he turned on his heel and walked away, leaving only the lingering scent of cloves and pine needles. Arya watched him go, her heart racing but her mind calm with the knowledge that they would meet again, and that there was someone in the world who still knew her as Arya Stark.