A/N: Written for Trick or Treat 2017 for spookykingdomstarlight as an extra treat.

Death comes to him armored in white. It wears Meryn Trant's face, but Syrio can see the truth beneath it. At least the girl has finally fled. Syrio, the first sword of Braavos, refuses to.

He raises his broken sword, prepared to face this - his greatest challenge yet. Trant - the coward - hesitates, even when facing a man wearing no armor and wielding a broken wooden sword. Behind Trant's face, Death smiles Its skull grin, ever hungry for more souls.

Far be it for Syrio to let It go wanting. Here, in the Sunset lands, they call It the Stranger, but Syrio has known It intimately ever since he first picked up a sword. He has danced with It many times, sateing Its hunger with his own enemies rather than his own blood. There is a certain thrill in the constant uncertainty of this dance on the edge of a sword.

Let us dance, Death does not say. Syrio does not reply, but lunges into action. The first Lannister guard dies by Trant's sword after Syrio trips him into the way. His sword clangs to the ground and Syrio knocks it into the feet of another guard.

He stumbles forward, straight onto the broken edge of the wooden sword. Syrio shoves it deeper into his eye, twisting it as he pulls it away. Two down, three to go. Syrio smiles. He has faced worse odds before.

Trant snarls in rage and advances, but Death smiles. It never stops smiling. Syrio darts out of the way. There is little chance he can go against a knight in full armor without a proper blade. Every time Trant advances, Syrio retreats. Another Lannister guardsman approaches him from behind. Syrio waits until the last moment before he whirls out of the way.

Another guard falls to Trant's sword. Before Trant can pull the sword away or the guard can fall, Syrio takes a dagger from the guard's belt. It is not much, but it is better than a wooden hilt.

Now wise to his game, the last guard stays well clear of Trant.

We've had a merry chase, you and I, Death does not say, shall we not end it?

Syrio does not answer.

With a scream of rage, Trant strikes at him. It takes everything Syrio has to deflect blow after blow with his dagger, to keep his feet moving against the seeming inevitability of the whitecloak. Meryn Trant comes upon him again and again, unceasing.

Until -

Syrio stumbles against the wisp of Its ragged cloak; it had moved in a different direction than Trant's, against all laws of Men.

But instead of killing him immediately, Trant only grips his throat, choking him. Syrio can feel Death's icy fingers through the leather gloves.

"Now, you little worm! I'll have your hide pay for every man you slew!" Trant growls, raising his sword.

Shall you come with me this eve? Death does not say. Syrio grins at It and gives the only answer he ever has.

"Not today."

He drives his dagger through Trant's armpit where the armor is weak and into his heart. Syrio's smile is vicious as the light fades from Trant's eyes, taking It with him with a final ghostly laugh. He picks up Trant's sword and faces the last guard.

The guard looks like he is rethinking his life choices. Syrio does not intend to let him get away. The more confusion there is as to what happened today, the better.

Syrio lifts the sword into position, feeling a smile not his own overtake his face.

"Shall we dance?" Death says.

END