Meya Storm did not know what drew her to Syrio Forel. Perhaps it was his Braavosi accent. Maybe it was his charisma. In her mind, it was his unfathomable skills at swordplay, or, as he called it, dancing.
He held a sword like it was an extension of his own arm, never dropping it, never letting it fall too far from his grip. He never told Meya how he got to be so brilliant with a sword, he only responded with 'I was the first sword to the Sealord of Braavos.'
In a way, Meya knew this was just him bragging about a fancy title he'd once held. But she loved Syrio partly in her mind. He treated her kindly, he treated her like his own daughter. He called her his little assassin, always complimenting her on her skills at sneaking. Sometimes she was his little princess, but she always got angry at him for that nickname.
Their lessons were short, but plenty. Meya's father, King Robert Baratheon, had gifted her the lessons after learning of her desire to swing a sword. Meya was one of Robert's bastards, and only the second to be acknowledged by her royal father. The first was a boy called Edric Storm. He was eleven, two years younger than Meya and not born of the same mother as she.
Meya did not remember her mother. She had been two when the tavern wench had made the long journey from Storm's End to King's Landing, requesting that Robert take their daughter, as she was grievously ill. She had died the morning after Robert took Meya.
Meya was not sure how she liked King's Landing. It was a large city, the bustling capitol of Westeros and it reeked of death and sex. Meya lived in the castle among Robert's trueborn children, but she often visited the poorer parts of the city. Many times she found herself on the Street of Steel, speaking kindly with a blacksmith's apprentice called Gendry, who bore a striking resemblance to Robert in his youth. Gendry and Meya became quite good friends, and she began to suspect that he had feelings for her, feelings that she did not return.
While living in the Red Keep, Meya was forced to surrender herself to the will of Robert's eldest trueborn child, Prince Joffrey Baratheon.
Joffrey looked like his mother, Cersei Lannister. He had the proud, arrogant features of a Lannister, as well as the golden blond hair and green eyes. Had his mind not been clouded by a sadistic and cruel veil, he could almost have been quite handsome. He was a boy of thirteen, and Meya hated him with every bone in her body.
Joffrey liked torture. He liked to torture Meya and his younger siblings, especially. Meya often locked herself away in her chambers, making sure that Joffrey would not send his personal guard, Sandor Clegane, to come for her. Sandor frightened her to no extent. He was the size of three men, and his dark eyes could stop a man dead in his tracks. His face was marred by twisted scars given to him by his elder brother, Gregor. But he was the only thing that stood between Meya and Joffrey. And more often than not, he was the only thing keeping her between life and death.
When it came to Joffrey's torture of Meya, he took no limits. While he insisted that he could always, always make the torture worse, Meya was sure that it was always his worst. Many nights Joffrey forced himself upon her, despite her cries that even if she were a bastard, they shared a father. He was the beginning and end of her suffering in the capitol.
But then there was always Syrio.
If Joffrey had been particularly awful one night, Syrio would sit with Meya. He'd hold her tightly against his side, his arm wrapped around her. Sometimes, if he were able, he'd bring her sweet summerwine, something Robert seldom granted her permission to drink. They would drink themselves silly, laughing and telling stories to each other. No matter how many times Meya asked him about Braavos, however, he would not speak of his old life.
Robert did not speak with his daughter often. On her name days, he would hold a special feast. It was small, and private, but she was always happy that he remembered when she was born. Robert had other matters to attend to than his bastard's happiness. If she wished to speak with him, then she was forced to take an audience with him while he addressed his subjects. Meya loved him, despite this. He was her father, and she knew no other family.
Except for Syrio.
Syrio loved her. She knew this well. He never outright said it, but it was a mutual agreement that they loved each other. It was a bond between them that was acknowledged one night, when they were both sat on the stairs of Syrio's training room. "Meya," he'd said, while she rested her head on his shoulder and fought sleep. "If I died tomorrow, would you mourn me?"
"Of course!" Meya had cried, dragging herself from her near sleep. "I would mourn you every day for the rest of my life."
Syrio had smiled and laid a kiss to Meya's head. "Thank you, my little assassin. It is good to know that I have someone who will miss me when I'm gone. I was fearing that there would be no one."
They sat in silence for the rest of the night, until Meya had to return to her chambers for bed.
She did not know that even after she left, Syrio remained sitting. He sat there the entire night, thinking of the young girl that he cared for so much. And he vowed that he would never let any harm become of her.
