A/N: So, it's 3 a.m. here and I know I should be in bed like any sensible person, but this idea crossed my mind and before long I was sitting before my computer writing away. I just realised there weren't that many stories about Jaqen around and even less about him pre-Asoiaf. Well... okay this is not excactly a story about Jaqen H'ghar but more about the man behind the character, before he joined the Faceless Men (if that makes any sense at all).

So please enjoy and let me know what you think. And apologies to George R.R. Martin for borrowing his creations.

The water in the canals was black, a velvety trap for any fool lingering on the streets tonight. Dark clouds hung over the city and engulfed all light before it could touch the earth. He could not have hoped for a more perfect night. Not that anyone would have paid him much attention anyway. He was no one of import going to a well-known and well-visited place. But if someone did pay attention to the skinny man with his mud-brown hair that still held traces of blue die at the ends, if someone from the docks recognised him, what then? Would they shout out for him, risk a fight in the open? Only the bravos were allowed to duel in the streets and he was as close to a bravo as the mouse to the elephant. He was no one of import.

The knife in his right hand glistened in the light from a window above his head, just for the slightest of moments but that was enough to remind him of the blood dripping from the blade and marking his path. Perhaps he should wipe it clean but somehow the mere thought was enough to make him wretch. No, he should keep ignoring it. Some blood was the least of his problems. When the body was found – and that was only a small matter of time – he wouldn't be safe anywhere, blood stains or no. Fleeing the city was no option and staying required a hiding place.

It was his third time in Braavos and so he could guess the way well enough even if he captain had never allowed the crew to venture so far from the docks. Not that it mattered now. On the morrow there would be a new captain. Either that or the crew would dissolve and seek employment on another ship. There was always a Lysene or Tyroshi around to hire men. Pirates were never out of employment in the rich waters of Essos' coastline. One never needed to look out for long. That's how it had been with him.

So many years spent at sea sometimes made him forget where he had come from. Many of his former crew members had been fellow Tyroshi and Tyrosh had always been one of their favourite stops on voyages, yet sometimes after long hours on deck he could have forgotten his own name. On board the Sly Doe names had never mattered. People called him Boot or at least they had. His boots were back in the ship's cabin now, allowing him to tread silently away. He guessed he would have to find a new name soon.

Two cats jumped out of a corner and startled him, high screeches penetrating the damp night air. As soon as they'd appeared they were gone, flying over the worn cobblestones like two shadows. He looked down and realised that the knife had slipped out of his grip. For long seconds he stared at it as if he'd seen it for the first time. Should he take it up? Would they let him in if he turned up with a bloody knife at their doorstep?

His legs moved out of their own accord, further and further away they carried him. It had been a small knife, light of weight and until that night only used to slice through apples or perhaps ropes, never human flesh. Yet without it he felt undeniably lighter, as if a heavy cloak had been lifted from his shoulders.

In the distance he could still hear the cats. His eyes searched the alleys to his right and left for any figures in the dark. Were they already looking for him, he wondered. The next moment he imagined some praising his name to the heavens for his deed, for he certainly had not been the first to consider doing it. Others had as much reason to wish the captain dead. None before him had been brave enough to act. Brave or reckless, he couldn't decide which one.

He'd killed more men in his life than he ever cared to know. A pirate's life was one of violence and he'd struggled with himself for a long time. What other options had there been? Once, he'd been a cobbler's apprentice but that was too long ago. Then disease had come, and then death. There was nothing left for him in Tyrosh. There was no one left.

His muscles ached with strain to keep him from just running down the street and waking every resident in his wake. Instead he commanded himself to remain calm, collected and inconspicuous. Soon he would reach his destination. Everything would be well.

And if not?

What if they send him away again? There was of course another option. As easy as falling asleep he'd heard. But no, he didn't want to think about that right now. There was still hope.

His feet brought him to a tall door, black on the one side and ashen white on the other. A shudder went down his spine. There was still time to turn around. But there was nowhere else he could go.

"Valar morghulis."

His voice remained surprisingly calm as he whispered the words against the heavy wood, two fingers tracing the line where black and white joined. The door opened silently and clenching his jaw he entered the darkness. Of course, once inside he realised how illuminated the room really was. Candles shone eerily from their altars, flames casting dancing shadows against the walls. And he was not alone. Men and women were praying even at this late hour and some had already sought eternal sleep. No one paid him any attention.

Unsure of what he should do, he let his eyes roam the strange place. Some tiny voice at the back of his head pointed to the door he'd just entered through and behind which the world of the living lay, still and safe, but he shook it off. There was no place safe for him. There was no turning back.

"I see you have not come to pray. What is it that you seek to find instead?"

He spun around to find a cloaked man facing him, face hidden in darkness beneath a heavy hood. Still, he could feel a pair of eyes fixing him to the spot.

"I've come to serve the Many-Faced God."

"I see," the strange figure said. "And yet you have the look of a man desperate for the gift."

He bowed his head. "Please. I have nowhere else to go. Let me stay and learn and I swear you will not regret it."

Silence followed, just a short moment but for him it felt like eternity. His hands were sweaty but he refrained from rubbing his palms against the worn linen of his trousers. Instead he stood still, staring right at the point he guessed the man's eyes to be.

The hooded figure nodded his head. "Yes. You are not scared, I can see that. And yet. And yet..." Just then a spidery hand flew up to the hood and pulled it down to reveal the man's face.

Almost he would have jumped away in horror. There was no face. In its place a rotting skull stared back at him, its eye sockets empty save for a worm winding around scraps of dead skin. Bile rose to his mouth but still he refused to move. This was a test, he knew. A test he needed to pass.

"Kiss my head and prove that you are not afraid of death."

Seconds passed. Then one foot moved. Then another. He was taller by almost four inches and so he had to bend his head slightly to touch a cold forehead. As his lips pressed against skin and bone he had to think of another kiss, similar and yet part of a different life. His lips planted against her temple after the life had slipped from her. His hand clutching hers so strongly he'd almost feared breaking the delicate bones underneath the soft skin. Death was no stranger to him. As he straightened again he realised something wet trailing down his cheek.

"Good. Very good." The skull had vanished and replacing it was the face of an elderly man, flesh alive and unhurt. "You will serve."

His lips twitched upward. "Valar dohaeris," he replied, not daring to hope just yet.

"Indeed." The elderly man smiled at him, a kind expression, something he had not seen in many years. "Tell me, who are you?"

He blinked, trying to remember his name, his actual name. "My name is-" He was interrupted.

"You are no one."

So he became no one.