A/N: Welcome to the next installment. :) Thank you to everyone who has reviewed, I really appreciate the feedback.
This chapter is a bit shorter than the others, but it's also a bit more exciting (in my opinion, at least.) Onward! Enjoy!
Chapter 4: Arya
Quiet as a shadow. She slipped breezed past the guard on the battlement the moment he turned around.
Calm as still water. The guard reached the end of his assigned patrol area and turned around to retrace his steps; she melted into the darkness of a corner and froze. The guard walked right on by.
Swift as a deer. As soon as he was out of sight, she dashed from her hiding place and took the stairs two at a time, her bare feet barely touching the worn stone, her hand holding Needle still at her side, and her breath coming in inaudible gasps.
Quick as a snake. She met a Maester coming down the stairs. Before the man could even notice she was there, she drew her dagger from her boot, knocked him over the head with the hilt, and slumped him in a position of one who has had too much to drink. No one would be any wiser. Then, she proceeded to the door she wanted.
Fierce as a wolverine. There were two guards stationed at the door. Both in white cloaks. They had not seen her yet, which was fortunate since it would be difficult to take them both by surprise. Drawing forth a handful of coins from her pocket, she flicked them down the corridor. Distracted by the noise, both men followed the sound, and she wasted no time. She lunged at one with all the ferocity she could muster, catching him off balance and toppling him into his comrade. The three of them fell into a heap on the floor, armor clanging loudly on the stone, no doubt warning her prey that something was wrong. Taking advantage of her position on the top of the limb pile, she grabbed the pure white, helmed head of one and smashed it into the equally pale helm of the other. They both went limp.
Fear cuts deeper than swords. She really had been too noisy. Syrio and the Kindly Man would be so disappointed in the execution of her task. Half the castle probably knew she was here. There was no doubt that the target behind the door was aware something was off. She froze, panic setting in when she heard the scuff of boots approaching the door from the other side. The sound of the door knob being turned jolted her out of her incapacitated state, and she managed to vault herself into the rafters above the door. She would be safe as long as he did not look up.
The heavy door swung open, and she found herself staring at the top of a messy head of dark hair, one that was looking around in confusion. Eyes she could not see found the white knights sprawled on the floor, and the shoulders connected to that dark head slumped in exasperation. The King of Westeros stepped out of his chamber and knelt beside his unconscious protectors. "Dayne? Storm?" he asked, shaking their shoulders.
She seized her chance. Grasping the doorframe, she silently swung herself down off the ceiling into the room and hid herself expertly underneath the outrageously extravagant bed. To wait.
The King's words echoed to her from the hallway, "Ned? Edric? What did you do this time? Another challenge to see whose helmet was forged better? Well, you'd both lose to me. I know for a fact that my blacksmith put everything he had into that thing."
He chuckled to himself at the private joke he was sharing with his knocked out friends, and she felt an uncontrollable and inexplicable urge to roll her eyes. She quelled it instantly. No one was supposed to read this girl's thoughts on her face.
Sighing at the men on the floor, the King stood up and muttered, "You guys really need to get your little games under control. I don't mind, but when Brienne gets back you know she's going to hear about this and will likely put you on opposite shifts. You don't want that, now, do you?"
Leaving his shields with the impression that they were out cold because of their own stupidity, the King walked back into his chamber and shut the door behind him. The footsteps trailed leisurely away from her, tired, weary, and completely weighted-down. Being King for the last eight years had clearly taken its toll. Luckily for him, this girl was about to put him out of his misery.
The Kindly Man had come to her two moons ago with a new face and a name to find. To find and kill. Well, she supposed it was less a name he gave her than a title, King of Westeros, but that had been all she had needed to know. How hard could it be to locate the King?
She did not question the Kindly Man. She did not ask who had ordered the contract. She did not ask why this King needed to die. It was not her place to question the House of Black and White. The Kindly Man told her that if she completed this mission successfully she would be inducted as a full member of the Faceless Men; then it would be her place to serve.
It had taken a moon to sail across the sea and another two weeks to make her way to King's Landing undetected. She had spent the last two weeks hiding on the battlements, observing daily comings and goings, and memorizing the changings of the guard. She watched the King from afar, never getting close enough to see anything more detailed than a crown on his head and the white figures that were always flanking him. This girl had found it easier to complete the contract if she did not acquaint herself with the target beforehand.
She tried not to think of or admit to this particular weakness. The Faceless Men were not supposed to flinch from their duty or have second thoughts. This girl was not supposed to care what happened to the people under contract, she was not supposed to have these flashes of memories and echoes of voices from her past self running through her mind as she padded through familiar halls. Arya Stark had died on the Fingers with the Hound she reminded herself; this girl had never been in the Red Keep.
Rolling silently onto her belly, she peered out from beneath the heavy blanket that covered the bed and reached all the way to the floor.
Her target was bent over a desk, studying a map intently and muttering to himself. She watched as he ran a large hand through the dark mop of hair on his head, taking the time to size him up and analyze potential weak points, trying to ignore the fact that he looked vaguely familiar, from the time when she had had a name and wore her own face.
Even the most cursory of glances revealed that her task would not be as easy as she had hoped. This King was a large man, tall and inexplicably muscled for someone who spent most of his time sitting in a horribly uncomfortable chair. Running her eyes up and down his body, she could make out no weapon on his person, worn openly, at least; but there were three places she would have stashed a blade if she was him: strapped to the ribs of his left side (that is, if he was right hand dominant like she suspected he was), tucked in the back of his belt that was hidden by the lose fitting linen of his tunic, and the shaft of his comfortably worn boots.
Of course, he was not her, so it was doubtful he had any blades hidden about his person (she had learned that most men of power preferred to have other men wield their weapons for them), but the set of his shoulders alone was enough to tell her she would have to act swiftly and use all the force she had. Strong as a bull… wait… that wasn't right.
She had never slipped up before.
Where in the Seven Kingdoms had that come from? Strong as a bear was the correct saying, nothing to do with bulls. She would have to contemplate her mistake, but now was not the time.
Now she must act.
Sliding from beneath the bed, she padded with quick and soundless feet across the room to the desk. Unaware of her presence, the King remained bent over his papers, back exposed to dangers he knew not.
Fluid as silk, the girl leapt onto the King's unsuspecting back, drawing the knife in his belt as she went and tossing it to the other side of the room; she had learned to trust no weapon but her own.
From her perch, she could feel that there was no holster for a blade on his chest, so only a hidden boot dagger was still a threat. But there was no time to take care of that at the moment for her victim was responding to being attacked by now; even the most witless men will notice when someone jumps on their back and wraps an arm around their neck.
Drawing her own knife, she whispered her prayer in his ear, "Valar Morghulis," and went to swipe the edge against his throat, thus completing the contract and ensuring herself a place among the most accomplished assassins in the known world: the Faceless Men.
Or, it should have been as simple as that, but the King did not cooperate with her plan. Apparently not as stupid as she thought he was, he must have been on higher alert than usual since his guards were unavailable because the moment she spoke, his hands shot out, grabbed her by the shoulders, and flung her roughly over his head, her back crashing down forcefully on his desk, knocking the wind from her lungs in one gusty breath.
He was faster than she suspected. The strength she had been prepared for, mostly, but she counted on her own speed to counteract his power. Now that that was no longer an option, she supposed she would have to rely on her skill with her steel and hope the King had none. The mission was still salvageable. She had been in worse situations before; she could get out of this, it would just take some creative thinking.
And her breath back.
Using her unfortunate paralysis to more permanently incapacitate her, the King held her wrists together with one of his hands, scrabbling for something, anything, to tie them together with the other.
She need to breathe. Now! Before he got his hands on a length of rope, a boot strap, or even a sturdy handkerchief. Just as he was reaching for the bed hangings, she drew in air with the eagerness of a drowning man. Her lungs burned with each fresh pull, but it was enough.
Flinging her legs over her head, she slammed them into his shoulders with every ounce of force and momentum she had. He went down, and she was once again on her feet.
See, just a little improvisation. Success.
Crouching into her water dancer stance, she slid Needle from its sheath with an ominous rasp, hoping to strike fear into the heart of her victim, after all, fear cuts deeper than swords.
No longer worried about remaining undetected, that had gone out the window the moment she jumped on him, she let him rise to his feet and prepare himself for a fight. She had trained for over a decade in the art of swordplay and never backed down from a challenge; she could take this man.
He seemed to sense that she would not attack him until he was ready, so he took his time getting to his feet. Sighing, the King walked to the trunk at the foot of his bed and grasped the handle of a gigantic Warhammer resting on its lid. He swung it a few times, reacquainting his arm to its weight and turned back to her, resigned.
Taking a moment to get his first real look at her, his eyes fell on Needle, and his dark brows drew together in confusion. He blinked as though to make sure his eyes were not lying to him before she saw recognition dawn bright on his face.
A kind of manic hopefulness took over his features, and his gaze snapped to her face, searching desperately for something.
Whatever it was, she knew he would not find it, for this girl had never met this man.
He studied every inch of her face, lingering over every detail and becoming increasingly frustrated as he couldn't locate what he was looking for. And then he met her eyes.
Her eyes were the one thing the Faceless Men did not have to power to change, but it had not been a problem for her as of yet. Countless people had gray eyes, and it was her job to remain forgettable enough that no one would remember her eyes if they were to see her again with a new face. But the two, probing points of blue fire that were currently burning into her soul belonged to the one face from her past she could remember better than her own, and he had not forgotten her.
The hammer slipped from his hand, smashing a crater in the stone floor beneath it. Wide eyes transfixed on hers, he strode purposefully toward her. She cursed herself for her ineptitude when she realized he was now too close for her to do any damage with Needle. This entire operation was not going as planned, and this damn King was just about it blow it even further out of the water.
"Arya," he murmured, disbelief plain in his tone.
He knew her. Still. She wore someone else's face, and he knew her still. The thought both surprised and infuriated her. She had spent years becoming no one, and all she had worked so hard to establish had been uncovered effortlessly by a stupid smith who played at being King. It was maddening. But then, Gendry Waters had always driven her mad.
He towered above her now (not that he hadn't then), and she prepared herself to remain silent through the barrage of questions that she was sure would follow; Faceless Men did not give up any information. She thrust her chin up to meet his look defiantly, but he did not say anything, questioning or otherwise.
Instead, he took her chin in his hand and kissed her.
A small, insignificant part of her brain registered that Gendry's hand was warm, his lips were soft, and his touch had caused her newly uttered name fly away again, but the rest of her pushed him away and drove her dagger deep into his side.
He gasped in pain, a reflex guiding his hand to the hilt protruding from his belly, tugging the weapon free of its fleshy new sheath. Gendry looked unseeing from the blood dripping to the floor to her face, then collapsed.
She watched him fall as if she weren't there, frozen to the spot with an odd mixture of triumph and horror. She didn't even make a move to leave as the door banged open and frantic shouts filled the room; she could only look on with morbid fascination as the bloodied dagger rolled from his limp fingers.
And then everything went black.
A/N: I hope you liked it! Let me know what you think. :)
