A Girl had become A Woman. It had started with a dull feeling below her belly and she had woken to brown bloody smears on her sheets. For a short while clueless, she stared at it and her dark bloodied fingers. And then it had dawned on her - her body was that of a woman now. Each assassination so far had always been a test on what else she could give up of herself, in order to become No One. And the last two years she had often been set to work in a mummer's farce where she had been required to use her sex hovering between that of a girl-child and a woman. Anywhere else than her home a woman would be wedded and bedded. But no doubt her next assassination would require using her maidenhood in order to kill. A female assassin was rare, but very valuable. Whores, courtesans and mistresses could go where men could not. More, the target would just come to them. Better have it over with as quickly as may be.
But deep down inside of her something - or someone - rebelled, the hardest it ever had so far. While A Girl - nay A Woman now - wished to suppress this other, she started to shake and tremble, her throat tightened so that she gasped for air and a great pressure built up behind her eyes. She could not stop it. The other would not be denied. An immense sadness came over her. Tears came violently, with hiccups and bellowing. She threw her face in her bedding, hoping to muffle it. Her fists gripped her blankets and she pulled them against her stomach. She curled up her legs. "The last of my innocence! The last!" the other screamed in her head. Father would be stricken! And Jon! Jon would be angry! She had not thought of them for many, many years. Their faces floated before her mind's eye. They chopped his head off! They killed him! And Robb! And mother! My sister raped by that Imp! Brann crippled and flayed! Memory after memory overcame her - Syrio's final stand, the flight on the King's Road, the horror of the God's Eye, Harrenhall, creepy soft voiced Roose Bolton, the Hound, her utter loneliness when everybody abandoned her… It was not the anger of Arya that fought against that final step into doom, but the deep sadness that she had never allowed herself to feel for herself. I was Arya! I am Arya! Her true self did not want to be denied its existence any longer. I am! Don't you throw me away just like that! I was just a little girl, surviving. They tried to kill me, sell me, use me, and I survived it all. If you kill me yourself, what was the point?
Arya wept and wept, for the first time mourning herself. She did not know how long she had lay there like that. It seemed like a very long time, before she calmed enough to stretch her legs. She turned and lay on her back and looked at her cell's ceiling. There was a calmness inside of her now. She wiped away the wetness of her eyes and cheeks and sighed. I am Arya. That thought was enough to find stillness within. She heaved a deep breath and then let out a long sigh. What now? She could tell the kindly man that she would leave the guild. She could just step out, and the world would be at her feet. She could hide her womanhood for a while. But she knew she would do neither. Nay, I will tell him that A Girl is A Woman now. I will use my No One. I can be No One in order to be Arya. She finally flung her legs of her bed, planted her feet firmly on the ground and stood upright. Still as water. Quiet as a shadow. She slipped on her acolyte robe and walked out of her cell to find the kindly man. She knew how to be No One.
He eyed her in silence for a while. She could see he was surveying her. He knows something has changed. She knew she was changed.
"Who are you?" It seemed like a very long time that the kindly man had asked her this. He used to interrogate her about who she was for months, when she first came to live here. But then, after a while, he had been convinced enough she was No One and did not ask anymore.
Still as a pillar. "No One." She said it in that newfound calmness.
"You lie," he said. "You are Arya Stark of Winterfell only looking for a home still. Not everyone can serve. There is no shame in that. You can turn around and just walk out and be Arya. If you want to become an actress I can help you. If you want a husband, let me find you one. If you want to return to Winterfell, I can get you on a boat to White Harbor."
He had not used that name to her for over a year she thought. Back then it alarmed her. She always wanted to prove, convince him that she was No One, that she could serve. But that pride had left her. She simply blinked at him as if he was speaking of someone she did not know. Still as water. "Who is Arya?" she said.
"Hmmm." For a moment longer he stared at her inquisitively, but then slowly he nodded. "Why have you come?"
"A Girl is a Woman."
"A girl is no woman without losing her maidenhood," retorted the kindly man. "You will have to give it up in order to serve and you may be too proud to give it up for someone who is not your husband, nor your lover."
She wanted to hiss and bite her lip. She had no interest in having a husband, nor a lover. Still as stone. He was goading her, but he could not trap her, not anymore. The kindly man assumed she lied, and only her response could ever betray her. I can fool him. He does not know. "A Girl will give it up." She knew she would.
"You lie. It is only Arya's pride speaking." But his claim evoked no response from her. More silently he said, "You can remain a girl. Not every girl must become a woman. There is no shame in that. Turn around and walk out and be Arya again and join the Silent Sisters of the Seven."
"A girl is No One. A Woman is No One. It makes no difference," she said. She understood that now. It made no difference, because Arya was Arya, whoever she was. Still as stone. "I serve." She was sure of it now.
The kindly man nodded slowly at her. "You will attend to your temple duties until the time you will be asked to serve, and later you can tell me of three new things you have learned."
For several moons she served only inside with her own face. She washed and combed the dead and picked their pockets. She stood still at supper and meetings as a cupbearer. She followed the kindly man in the morning to inspect the dead. She was not picked for any gift. The waif instructed her to count her bleeding days and the non bleeding days and taught her about potions she may be required to use in order to prevent any child growing in her womb or help her relieve the cramps. Meanwhile Umma prepared her favourites whenever she had her period and gave her warm honeyed milk in the morning and sweetened wine in the evening. At first her bleedings were not as regular. The first time they lasted only three days and never with clear blood. The second time, they returned after fourteen days. Then they lasted only two days, but were fiery red. After a while her body found a rhythm and did not deviate anymore. It was a strange thing to have a body that could tell her time and days. It was not just the bleeding that told her time, but every different day in her cycle. A woman knew her every changing body and her cycle. And so did Arya.
The kindly man failed to test her identity for several weeks. And then one day, out of the blue, he would spring her with it once more. But Arya was without pride now, without the need to prove herself. She would survive, learn and serve. She was a stealthy she-wolf lurking behind her face, just like in her dreams of the wolf pack that hunted people in a desolate winter landscape. Winter is here. She was an instrument, but so was the kindly man. And the cycle would repeat once more - days without calling her lie out, until he called her a liar. Still as a wolf.
Six times she had bled before she was called on to serve and taken down the four and fifty steps down below the canals in the vault of faces. She had worn many different faces the past years - ugly faces, pretty faces, broken faces, scary faces, peaceful faces and happy faces. But always it had been the kindly man who had chosen for her.
This time, he said, "Choose the pretiest young face to your liking."
She passed pillar after pillar, stopping at one young woman's face after the other, sometimes caressing them gingerly, until finally she halted in front of one that seemed to fit her age. Palest of skin it was, almost like white alabaster, with a petite perfect nose and low forehead. "This one," Arya said.
The kindly man smiled at her. "It is a very fair face indeed, like the face of princess."
She sat down on the stool, closed her eyes and waited for the rush of blood rolling down her face like a curtain when he would make the cuts. She felt the sharp pain of the knife and then the fitting of the face and drank the tart liquid that would help bind the face to her own with her blood. And then the dizziness washed over her when the images came - a young man dying as another had stuck him full of holes with the pointy end. Challenged into a duel by an envious rival, her lover had died and broken hearted she had not wanted to live anymore. Before, she would have scorned women who wished to die from a broken heart. But now that she felt the weight of despair, grief and even if the physically haunting pain, as if the rival had stuck as many holes into her as well, though he had not, she was not as keen to judge anymore. She did not believe that even she herself had ever felt that amount of hopelesness. Arya shook off the sensation of deep sadness of the dead girl. As usual, her face still felt the same, but when she looked into the mirror she stared at this face of a lady, with the most fragile fair skin and grey eyes with a hint of violet, a pointy chin and low forehead - a heart shaped face.
Arya was free to pick the richest dresses that could fit her and started a new apprenticeship in Purple Harbor with the courtesan Black Pearl as Elaena Amber. Only when it was a dark moon did she return to the House and tell the kindly man three new things she had learned. Purple Harbor seemed like a completely different city. Ragman's canals sometimes seemed no more than sewers and gutters running along alleys of stamped earth and cobblestone, and hardly any bridges. People just jumped across the narrow canals. And at night only the inns and brothels shone light to help you see where to walk. But at Purple Harbor the canals were wide enough for the ornamental barges to carry the rich, with narrow, but fully paved sidewalks and wide, ornamental stone bridges. Torches and lanters hanging from walls lit the way at night. Bellegere's house was built from stone and was three floors high, with two neighbouring salons that could be joined by opening the doors that reached almost as high as the ornamentally carved and painted ceiling, and a dinner room as well as large bedrooms. Arya was used to castles and keeps for the rich, but here even citizen could own what they called a palace in Braavos.
Elaena was ushered in by a servant and shown her bedroom, adjoining that of Bellegere. And after she had some time to settle in, she was led into the room of the Black Pearl who lay languidly on a type of couched bed in her boudoir, and one leg dangling down, while she was reading a book. Few people could read and write at Ragman's, but not so in Purple Harbor. They even had shops with books no bigger than two hands filled with printed lettering. The Black Pearl yawned and delicately held her hand in front of her mouth as she did so, and then sat up. Elaena curtsied as Septa Mordane had taught her once,
Bellegere smiled at Eaena, revealing her white teeth that contrased her dark skin of her exotic face. "Welcome, Elaena," she said. She had a deep, husky voice. "I hope your room is comfortable enough."
"Yes, Lady Bellegere."
The Black Pearl laughed. "I'm no lady, Elaena. You can just calle me Belle." She patted her hand on the couch. "Come sit with me."
Elaena did so, and instantly Bellegere took her chin and turned her face first to the left and then to the right. "You are young, but very pretty. How long since you have flowered?"
"Six months, Belle."
Bellegere's dark, laughing eyes seemed to sadden after that, but then she mustered a smile for Elaena. "Well, I have no doubt that in my company you will soon grow more comfortable into being a woman. First, I want you to pick a courtesan name. We do not use our own names. It adds to the mystery."
Elaena frowned and then said, "The Winter Rose."
Bellegere laughed. "I did not expect you to tell me one, now." She stroked Elaena's face. "But it seems a fitting one, indeed. Can you sing or dance, Elaena?"
"Only the water dance," she said.
Again Bellegere laughed. "It's alright. I'm not so fond of either two myself. Tonight you will supper with me and there will be no visitors. And then from tomorrow on you will serve me - not like little Wallys, but like a handmaiden and companion," she added quickly. "You can go to your room now or wander around in the house. I have a small library of books downstairs in the salon, if you care for reading." And then she lay back on her couch, picked up the book again and ignored her further presence.
Being her handmaiden at first, Elaena dressed and bathed Bellegere, and the Black Pearl taught her about fabrics, colours and perfumes. How to combine them properly, but also showing her what did not work at all. Elaena never felt as if she was actually serving the famous courtesan, because Bellegere often switched roles with her, and made her test clothing as well. Sometimes they challenged each other into the wildest combinations and then walked up and down the rooms as seductively or as haughty as they could, pretending they were meeting each other on the street and greeted each other. She had male attires too and then they would dress up like bravos or a lord, and lower their voices, pretending to be men. Bellegere made her laugh and perhaps she was the first female friend she ever had in her life. She had never known how much fun another woman that beautiful and that sophisiticated could be. Sometimes, she thought that Septa Mordane would be horrified at the way Bellegere taught her how to be a confident woman. Initially, Elaena feared that Bellegere only read books that Sansa would have preferred full of silly stories of knights and ladies, but the Black Pearl had books about historical wars, about sailing and navigating, about different cultures all over the world, and even weapons. And in time, she learned about the names of Braavos' nobles and rich merchants, their preferences, their personalities, what they sought in a courtesan. And not before she was able to pick out the right dress, perfume, jewels and facial paint for the Black Pearl depending on the visitor, was she allowed to dress herself for being introduced into company.
"No," Bellegere told her day after day, and would leave her unseen and alone, away from company. Until one evening she said, "Yes," as Elaena stretched her rich, black, muslin dress before the long mirror. She had draped a silver grey gauze around her shoulders and arms, and only wore a silver locket around her neck. The locket rested on top of her young bosom. Elaena had cut her black hair until it was no longer than her shoulders, just like Elaena Targaryan, and had dyed a lock of hair silver to match her grey eyes. She had applied facial paint to make her look vulnerable and very light of skin. Bellegere grabbed her by the hand and dragged her downstairs to meet with her guests.
Elaena was then allowed to sit with the Black Pearl and accompany her to the salon of her great house in the Pearl Harbor, to sit with her in her box to see the mummer's plays – the Dragon Prince about Aegon who ousted the Lannisters from the Iron throne - or go along on a pleasure tour on her ship. Over time Black Pearl's guests would express their pleasure of seeing the Winter Flower whenever she accompanied Bellegere or greeted her with a bow whenever she walked along the canals of Purple Harbor by herself. And Before long, Bellegere informed her that she had her own visitors calling on her - young men, older men, handsome men and less handsome men.
One of them was a man who before had avoided being seen with a courtesan. But he had noticed the Winter Flower one time sitting in Black Pearl's box at the play Azor Ahai of Lies about King Stannis fighting the dragon queen, and had been instantly struck by her beauty, youth and innocence. He had been resolved to court her ever since. And court her he did. He called more and more, took her out to the finest establishments, bought her the finest black and grey dresses – velvet, chiffon and muslin – as well as jewelry, perfumes and fur hats and hand warmers. Though in his forties, he was still a handsome man, and he had always been conscious of his physical fitness. And he became greatly smitten with her.
It was after two months that Bellegere told her that the man wanted to take her winter flower for his own. "Remember, Elaena, it is your innocence that lured him and he desires to take for himself," said the Black Pearl, not without sympathy. "I know it is your first time and that he is old in your eyes, but young men are too often unskilled or clumsy and it will hurt more. He will be kind and gentle to you in exchange for your maidenhood. Who knows, you might even enjoy it."
And so, innocent - awed, insecure and somewhat frightened - she acted when he took her to his finest ship, for he owned a fleet of trading ships. He wined and dined her and carried her off to the bed. He kissed her reverently, stroked her as if he dared not, undressed her himself and would watch her for a long time, sighing, without touching her, until he found the courage to undress himself and reveal to her his engorged, upright cock. She did not need to act then that the idea of his large cock made her apprehensive of hurting her. He was not unkind or rough. Nor was he unskilled. He played with her nodule hidden in her dark triangle of hair until she was wet to receive him. It tingled and felt nice when he touched her there, though it was a far cry from what Bellegere had explained to her. He pulled at his cock several times while spreading her legs and placed the tip against her moist entrance in order to make it easier on her to slide in. He slid in carefully and then stopped, panting above her.
"I will try to not to hurt you," her lover said. He pulled back slightly and then shoved it through her barrage.
She grunted, gasping for air and biting her lip as she held on to his slim arms. It was a dull pain, rather than a sharp one, as if she had bumped into the corner of a table and would grow a nasty purple bruise afterwards. She had tried to shift her hips so that she could accommodate him better. He moved inside her, in and almost out, up and down, slowly and softly first, faster and deeper over time. It felt awkward and unpleasant. She winced as he stretched her and she dared not to move. His breathing grew hoarse and ragged, until he shoved and thrust hard into her. He shuddered and his breathing halted for several seconds and then he groaned as he pulled himself out and spilled his seed on her thighs. He collapsed on top of her telling her how wonderful that was, but never asked how it was for her. It was over and done, her first time, and the blood on his cock and the sheets was proof of it.
As her first lover he was not a bad one. He did try to please her in many ways. He was patient and did not require her to bed him every time, though he took her many times. After a few times it did not hurt anymore, but she remained mostly indifferent to it, when he sucked her little breasts, rubbed her nodule or slid his fingers inside to make her wet. He seemed not much bothered by that. One night he secretly snuck her into his own home and bedchamber. She had been naked under her fur cloak, except for the jewelry he had given her. She had worn the necklace laced with poison to the bed. And when he died in his sleep a few hours later, she slipped out once more, unseen. Quiet as a shadow. She returned to the Black Pearl's chambers, making sure that nobody would think something amiss for a while. She eventually feigned an illness that took her to bed and let the courtiers mourn her untimely death. Elaena Amber and The Winter Rose were gone. And she would miss neither of them. But she knew she would miss Bellegere though.
(Author's note: I know that most try to age up Arya enough to our modern sensibilities, but I do try to keep this fanfic in GRRM's tone of narrative - dark and that includes very young girls ending up being targeted as a sexual object. He manages to guard Sansa from it, but Jeyne Poole for example is but fourteen when she's married and sexually exploited by Ramsay. Dany is only 13 when married to Drogo. While adulthood is recognized as 16 in Westeros and most highborn do prefer to wait for the consummation of marriage until at least that age, as it was in the middle ages, it is different for the commoners. Historically from the high middle ages on, commoner girls were often wedded and bedded from the moment they were reproductive, including fourteen year olds while men were at least in their mid twenties to sustain a household for themselves and their family. I've read plenty of historical teen books when I was a teen that involved a married girl protagonist between the age of 14-16. Though higborn, Arya is not in a highborn situation and must work and live in an environment where sexual exploitation is common amongst very young girls. On top of that her work and skill and life experiences have matured her beyond the normal. It is clear that GRRM has started to sexualize Arya in his books somewhat already in the Mercy chapter, though she's but 11-12 in that chapter. And while I jump ahead in time, I'm not jumping 5-6 years in time. What happens to Arya in here and she participates in voluntarily is ultimately tragic.)