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The Fifth
Her first thought is, punishment.
The second, betrayal.
Jaqen hadn't flinched when she looked at him despairingly as her vision receded in a world of endless dark. No, the iron mask was in place. She doesn't know if that was the real Jaqen, even now.
He hadn't flinched, but only in Arya's triumphant moments during a particularly good day does Arya allow herself to consider what she'd actually seen; pity.
Now, sat against a wall with a beggar's cup in her muddied hands, Arya knows what this really is; training.
Arya Stark does not blame Jaqen H'ghar's pity, for she pities herself as well. Or she did, the first week during her disguise as a blind beggar girl. Arya Stark felt sorry for the loss of her pride, shaking a cup for coin. She felt angry at the vile words spat at her from an unkind stranger, at the hard kick in the ribs she'd receive if she was begging too persistently. Arya Stark of Winterfell was stubborn, and bitter, and ever so sorrowful at what her life had become.
A girl named Arya (she likes to make this distinction, in light of her inability to truly shed her identity) took that self-pity and tucked it in a neat little box in the corner of her mind, adjacent to her List and the very bad, terrible memories Arya Stark did not think about anymore. A girl named Arya now listens. She listens, she begs, and she learns.
She learns the gait with which the Waif walks—ever so faint that it is, her steps almost imperceptible. Almost.
The Waif has a slight favoring of her right foot, and it gives her away every time the Waif appears without notice. A girl named Arya can't block all of the blows from her staff, but Arya is patient now. She takes every throbbing pain and uses it to her advantage.
She learns the people of Braavos are foolish. They strut about the fish market and gossip, thinking a blind girl means a senseless girl. She has no desire to correct the distinction for them.
She also knows when Jaqen—the real Jaqen—stops to visit her. His scent precedes his arrival—Arya is surprised she never put two and two together before. The strong, lingering scent of ginger and cloves clings to Jaqen like a second skin, and it carries with him every time he's come to see her.
Sometimes he throws a staff at her and spars. These sessions don't go very well, as he is faster than the Waif and quieter with his steps, and therefore less easy to predict where his blows will land. Sometimes he asks what a girl named Beth has learned this day, and she tells him—the fish monger is cheating on his wife, the clam merchant smuggled a family from Yunkai to Braavos several weeks ago, and the acolytes whom Arya deigned not to name ("the acolytes have no name, Master") are having dalliances amongst themselves outside the walls of the House of Black and White.
To which he had replied with a lazy drawl, "A man asked a girl what she learned, not what a man and the entire House already know."
This day, however, the scent of ginger and cloves comes but Jaqen says nothing. No staff is thrown her way, no questions pried from her. He simply is, just as Arya is. Sometimes she feels a slight prick along her spine, and deduces in those moments he is watching her.
Something is different this time. She senses it. Perhaps her time as the blind beggar girl is coming to an end. Perhaps not. Jaqen does not speak, and Arya decides it is time to speak what's been turning over in her mind for weeks.
"A girl wishes to say something to a man from Lorath."
She hears a soft huff, and Jaqen's voice is indulgent. "A girl may speak freely."
Arya puts down the begging cup carefully and folds her hands in her lap. She stares unseeingly, and Arya is grateful for it. She doesn't think she could say this while looking upon his face.
"Three years ago, a man who called himself Jaqen H'ghar offered a girl named Arya Stark salvation from Westeros."
"A man remembers."
"Jaqen H'ghar told Arya Stark she may learn his ways of changing face, of killing silently without notice. Does he deny it?"
"No." His tone is questioning, curious.
"To Braavos, he said. A list of names she has—Joffrey, Cersei, Iln Payne, the Hound—all names she could offer to the Red God. As a Faceless man." Arya turns to where she had heard his voice, and gives as pointed of a look as possible. "Jaqen H'ghar lied to Arya Stark that day. He had no intention of allowing her to offer the names to the Red God—the Many-Faced God, he meant. It was a lie meant to tempt, and it worked. Does he deny it?"
"A man did not lie that day. He meant every word; he still does." Jaqen's voice is a mixture of disbelief and confusion.
"A lie," Arya says.
"A man warns a girl not to accuse a Faceless Master of a thing that is untrue. These things have consequences."
Arya ignores him. "You lied and you got what you wanted. I understand; tempting children who have a need for revenge is an easy way to enlist people into the Order."
"Arya."
"Meryn Trant was on the list. You knew. You knew, and you knew he would die by my hand. Everyone on that list that still lives was to die by my hand and you knew and you blinded me for it."
"Meryn Trant was not your life to take," Jaqen's says, a vein of annoyance in his tone.
"I had offered him to the Many-Faced God, what does it matter if he died by the wrong hand?" Arya says angrily, her throat tightening with unshed tears. "I had offered him, and others, for years and years and years to the God of Death and you lied to me. You lied to me, Jaqen H'ghar, and that is fine. Now I know. Just another one to add to the people who have deceived Arya Stark."
She feels her chin being grabbed roughly and forced to tilt her head up. "You had one task. You failed. You lied to your Master, to the Many-Faced God, to yourself. You acted selfishly; you did as you wished without consulting others. You did not wait, you did not show patience. Does disobedience in an order of assassins not deserve discipline?"
"You killed one of the Order to discipline me?" Arya says incredulously, forcing her chin out of his hand. "You—you showed me your death and blinded me! And no, I don't resent you for this. I'm training, it needs to be done. But the lie is still there. I'm never going to be allowed to offer the names on Arya Stark's list to the Many-Faced God. I understand now."
She feels warm fingers grip her shoulders, squeezing firmly.
"How will a girl learn the consequences of her actions without example?" Jaqen's voice is low, reprimanding. "She must believe she has doomed all of her brothers and sisters with her single act of selfishness. Lying to the Order for your own personal gain is not tolerated, foolish girl. It had nothing to do with your list of names, and everything to do with your deceit."
Arya's insides go cold as ice. She turns his words over in her head, putting the pieces together slowly. "You mean…it wasn't about killing someone from the list?"
"No."
Arya's eyes dart around, unseeing, but full of contradicting thoughts. "Then why kill someone from the Order to…to give back the life I stole?"
At this, she can practically hear him roll his eyes. "This is another weakness in your training. If you had been paying attention during the Waif's poison lessons, you would have known from the scent that it was a vial for deathly sleep, not death itself." Jaqen's voice hardens. "Do not be mistaken, lovely girl. Meryn Trant's life was not yours to take in this time. It was the Thin Man's. A girl is fortunate there are some acolytes in the order who are not so grossly short-sighted and took care of that debt."
Hope surges in Arya's chest. "'In this time'? Meaning…there would have been a time?"
Jaqen groans. "Yes, yes, a girl will have her wrath for all the names on her list and offer the Many-Faced God a worthy set of faces. But that. Was not. The way."
Arya turns over this new information in her mind silently. Jaqen's hands retreat from her shoulders, and she feels a shift in the air indicating he's sat down beside her.
"He killed my dancing master, Jaqen," Arya says quietly, finally. "Syrio Forel. He was from Braavos too."
"A man knew him."
Arya swallows thickly. "I had to, Jaqen. I had to." Her voice edges on desperate, praying he understood. Arya bites her lip and continues, a little reluctantly. "But…I understand now. It was not the time or the way. A girl is sorry."
"A girl's apology means nothing to the Many-Faced God. Or to a man."
"A girl has learned."
A pause. Then, "A man is glad of it."
He shifts, and Arya knows he's standing again. She expects him to leave immediately—but instead, the scent of ginger wafts over her face and she feels a hand gently pat the top of her head. "Learn, Arya Stark," Jaqen murmurs quietly. "Do not let suffering be your only teacher."
The scent of ginger and cloves disappears. And with it, a girl named Arya grasps the beggar's cup and begins anew.
xxx
Hello lovelies! My muse must be picking up because this chapter came to me fairly quickly, as has the next one. I hope you like the little insight to Arya's blinded experience. I really feel like there were inconsistencies with this arc in the show (and the remainder of Arya's time in the House of Black and White), and tried my best clarifying it.
I've been mostly following the television series so far, but I thought I'd mention that I'll be making some changes to the direction of the plot than how the show did it. Bless the show writers, but some things could be...improved. Or at least added to or shifted around. So I'll be doing that.
As always, thank you for reading! And please, if you liked this chapter or this story, drop a line and comment xxx
Until chapter 5 xx
