AN#1:

Alright. I am so very sorry for taking so long to write this. I even wanted to add another section to this, yet the chapter turned long and I thought you good readers deserved an update.

Life had a way of disturbing me every time I sat down to write, so if there are some mistakes here and there, I apologise.

Thank you, regardless, for both your support, your patience and reading! Hope it was worth the wait.

Chapter Text

No One

"I have much to tell, yet even more questions..."

"We know, child." Her elder offered a smile for his student. He gave a fleeting look towards No One's sister, before signalling for her to follow him. The Elder led her to a small room to the right of the medical chamber, in which she had taken residence during her trial. Apparently, this was where her robe, breeches, boots and weapons were placed, following her consumption of the poison. Once all her daggers had been strapped to her body, her midnight blue acolytes robe once again adorning her shoulders, she made her way out of the chamber to follow the Elder once more.

No One was mildly surprised when her poisonous sister followed in tow. This conversation was apparently not supposed to be private. She would have to kerb the details a little, after all. The elder had long since learnt of her affection for the face belonging to the man who saved her, time and again during her life as Arya Stark.

After walking up a long flight of stairs, they arrived at The Hall of Masters. She noticed there were five other faceless men present. Some she had seen before, the handsome man included among them. A sly Lorathi conspicuously absent, she noticed. Well, he did say he had business to attend.

The Elder motioned for her to sit in what she could only presume was their Lorathi brother's seat at the round table. Taking her seat between The Handsome Man and The Waif, No One looked upon the table, strangely similar to the floor on which Arya Stark had died.

The Elder broke the silence that had filled the room after everyone had shuffled into their seats. "As you all may know by now, we have a new master in the order." He started. She looked up from the table, halting her architectural admirations to return the look sent her way. Seeing as she did not shrink back at the looks she was sent, the masters reclined their head in her general direction. A show of respect.

"Yes, fortunately, our senses have not been dulled. Pray tell, what did you see."

"We wandered around Braavos together for a while. He pointed out a man called Ambraysis Orantrys. It seems he is in need of receiving the gift. He explained you would understand." She said in a quiet voice turning to The Handsome Man. This statement seemed tp cause a spark to run through The Hall of Masters, igniting hushed whispers in the corners of the room. A stern, reprimanding gaze silenced the unwelcome gossip quickly. It seems even lorathi masters have their faults. She contemplated. The Handsome Man's eyes widened at the girls earlier words and looked towards the Elder as if waiting for confirmation. The Elder nodded towards The Handsome Man in return, urging him to take action.

At this, The Handsome Man rose, pushing his chair out from the table, and quickly departed from the Hall of Masters. The elder signalled for her to continue.

"We walked for a long while, not speaking until we took the path to the old Hall of Masters. Other than that, all there was left was the sacrifice." She purposefully avoided their romantic escapade following. That will be a revelation for another time. She decided. In a house of assassins, information was power.

The masters nodded amongst themselves. With the vow of Valar Dohaeris, they dispersed throughout the temple once again. All except the Elder, who stayed behind. He looked upon his student fondly. It was always a special thing when a new lorathi was born.

"That leaves only one thing before you can continue your training." He explained. The scar. One all faceless men had, and all of them were different. That, along with their title, were the only things that differentiated the Lorathi members of The Faceless Men.

She smiled at her teacher. For many fortnights a girl named Arya Stark had resented the man, yet the woman who stood in her place had come to appreciate the patience he had shown, despite her juvenile actions.

Together they headed down a staircase, towards The Hall of Faces. As the staircase slowly wound down in the temple, a strange sense of awareness washed over her. She could not pinpoint what it was she felt, yet it was something entirely new. They walked together in the expansive hall until they reached a door built into one of the pillars. Upon opening the door, revealing yet another circling staircase leading to a small ceremonial chamber. Faceless Men and their circular stairs, noticing the pattern.

Upon entering the ceremonial chamber, she found The Waif stood near an altar, the altar holding a long, symmetrical, ceremonial dagger. The altar was a small stand elevated by a cylinder of obsidian where the knife lay on display. Both of the edges of the blade were slightly curved on both sides of the weapon converging into the tip at the middle. It was evident the blade was wickedly sharp, even from her vantage point. It was a dagger designed for the avoidance of pain, abnegating the receiver, the knowledge of their cut before the blood would start flowing. Behind the small platform was a fresco depicting the different faces of Death. There is beauty in death. It was not the natural beauty of which the bards would sing. It was not the beauty observed in a sunset, a lush forest, not even in the wonder of a snowy tundra. It was beautiful in a quiet, melancholic, mysterious way. Bards would never sing songs of the beauty of death, for the beauty in and of itself escaped the mind's comprehension as soon as it appeared.

The dagger in and of itself was beautiful. It was black glowing faintly in the torchlight. Upon closer inspection, the blade revealed curving lines adorning the dagger, where pitch black gave way to purple.

The girl who was once Arya Stark, knelt in front of the altar, as The Elder took the knife from where it lay on display. She closed her eyes and muttered the oath binding words of Valar Dohaeris. She felt only the blood as it began to flow over her features, the tang of metal assaulting her nostrils. The girl opened her eyes, observing the elder cleaning the ceremonial tool. From her right, The Waif brought with her a piece of cloth to clean the blood off her face. Looking into a mirror, she could already see the blood beginning to clot around the wound, slowly forming her own, distinctive scar. Marked as death's own.

Following the ritual, the trio made their way upwards in the temple. She had only ever been allowed on the main level and the lower floors. She had always been curious as to what lay beyond the doorway heading upwards, yet she had always thrown her curiosity to the wind. After a girl named Arya Stark's vengeful murder of a Westerosi knight, she had learned discipline the hard way.

Graceful feet passed through large, soundproof, wooden doors on the 2nd floor, she was confronted by an orchestra of voice, low and high alike. The complete antithesis of what the girl was used to on the lower levels. The hall contained an amount of inhabitants one could expect from central Braavos at midday.

A dark brow rose at her older peers, only to have the expression returned.

Milling through the options that had presented themselves, joining in on the banquet seemed the most ideal. She sat at a wide table, adorned with food, drink and laughter. She shuffled through personalities fit for the company she was joining. She analysed the expressions, the conversation going on around her. Open, bawdy... gossip.

The Braavosi...

A smirk danced on her features as she easily slid into the conversation going on around her. Most of it mindless boasting and swagger, though there were occasional conversations delving into more complex and paradoxical subjects. Best not join in, appearance is everything. For now. She reigned in her restraint as she made sure everyone around the table grasped the level of her skill with a sabre.

There was a conversation however, that seemed to draw everyone in. Herself included, for more reason than one.

"Haven't you heard? Apparently, a new Lorathi has been ordained!" A voice in thick Braavosi exclaimed.

Hushed tones and murmurs alike were brought with the exclamation, filling the hall gradually. "Why the secrecy?" she asked a young, blonde haired boy sat to her right. The boy was hardly more than 12 summers if his face was to be believed. He still had the frantic look, the impeccable curiosity which came with youth. The same mentality that eroded with age.

He looked at her. Blue eyes roaming over her scar, and his face gradually illuminating with excitement. It took a few seconds before his wondrous look gave way to thoughtfulness and eventually, secrecy. He rose o sit upon his knees to whisper in her ear. "The Lorathi lot are not to be trusted. That 'Kindly man' of theirs have kept steady streams of acolytes to take the place of the 9th. It seems he has finally found his 'price student'." his voice dropped from secrecy to mocking, before returning to secrecy to finish his sentence. "You ask me, it is all Lorathi illusion."

A dark brow rose at the young acolyte. She looked him in the eye, as the boy's confession ran through her thoughts. Brothers in name only, it seems. Some unification might be fitting.

"You would think me, an illusion?" She asked the young boy, a smirk dancing once again on her features.

She allowed the look of shock to slowly appear on the acolyte's face, as he wore his emotion on his face like a flamboyant water dancer's garb. His shock giving way to embarrassment and eventually fear. "You are..." he started.

"No One." She finished for him. "And who might you be?"

He humbled himself before her, bowing his head with wide eyes glancing up. "I am Rasco."

Ambraysis Orantrys

His horse trod its way through the grassy plains. It was a dull sight, to say the least. It had been a few weeks since he left Braavos, and R'hllor help him, it was dull. The constant canter of the horse as it made its way through the endless, grassy plains that made up The Dothraki Sea was not exactly entertaining. Patience was never a virtue for the red priests. Patience was for Him and his deathly ghouls.

The ghouls had been opposing them for centuries. And while the opposition by the ghouls was a passive one, it was of a significance which could not be accepted. The opposition would soon end. He would see their house crumble before he would decide on any other course of action. Much was left to be done.

Riding into a small cave to the side of a mountain he had been shadowing, he dismounted his horse and started a fire with a flick of his wrist. The firewood which he had brought easily caught on fire and the cave was illuminated. It was a damp moist place, the cave. Not much different from the foggy streets of Braavos.

He scratched his beard as he felt the fire start to warm the environment around him. He only had to wait for a couple of minutes before his guest arrived. In that time he had prepared some of the provisions he had brought with him. Two goblets of wine, for pleasantry, and a few slices of bread with cream. It was not much, yet it would have to do. Eating is a necessity for all things living, after all.

The cantering of hooves against dirt slowly approached the small cave. A woman entered the cave. She truly blended in among the savages. Her hair was greasy and unruly, her skin darkened by hours upon hours of riding and walking in the hot sun. Her clothes were ragged and even though she travelled through the Dothraki Sea, she still managed to remain obese.

"Ambraysis?" The woman called out. Her accent rough and unrefined. Oh, she was good. Looking through the cave, the woman quickly found him. She sat down on the woollen blanket and pillows which he had lain upon the ground.

"Mirri Maz Durr," Ambraysis greeted the woman, "everything is going according to plan. Soon, the dragon shall have wings." Enthusiasm and trepidation of the victory to come slowly spread through the cave, in unison with the heat from the fire.

As the conversation and planning went on throughout the nights two phials of herbs and medicine exchanged hands. One meant for curing illness replaced by one which brought it.

Unbeknownst to the pair, the shadows themselves - as well as that which resided within - had loyalties which resided with the lagoon rather than the port.

The bastard daughter of Valyria, over the shadow.

When daybreak finally came, and The Dothraki Sea was painted in the crimson of morning, so too was the cave plastered with the same shade.

The Lorathi

It was time. Time to return to the place he belongs. He had been stalling at this place for far too long. Though time was nothing for the faceless, urgent matter require his attention. And there were... other things. Many complications. New faceless ones, increasing conflict within their own, red priests, old enemies - on both sides of the narrow sea, even.

Libraries are no place for faceless men.

False.

Everywhere is a place for the faceless men.

Nevertheless, he admonished himself for dawdling at the citadel. The 9th had slipped through his fingers. Was his lovely girl ready? He should have been there like he promised his lovely girl when they parted.

He was not there.

His guilt seemed to chorus through his mind. He should really reallocate his focus. The girl passed the test. It was not possessiveness, but guilt. Guilt for not keeping his promise. 'If the time comes when you must find me again, bring that coin to any man from Braavos, and say these words to him; Valar Morghulis.' Arya Stark never found the Lorathi, she found peace before he found her. Lorathi ones pride themselves on the fulfilment of promise and contract. The Lorathi - himself - was no exception to this rule. Rather he was the example of why the rule was such in the first place. Same concepts applied for The God; Valar Morghulis - Valar Dohaeris. Promises and contracts both, in and of themselves.

He reflected his situation into his environment, then back into himself, thus mirroring himself to find the ideal face for the predicament he was left in. There was much left to consider. The god had taken all He could from the girl. But how much could He take? So many unknowns. How fares the temple in his absence? Was The God handling the red priests? The God had been busy for some time he had noticed. This coincided with the 9th's ascension, and thus completed the circle. Yet how did that leave the order?

He had seen where the girl would go, had it not been for the god's intervention.

He had to stop. He had become too distracted, too absorbed. A man named Pate's personality was starting to bleed through as his attention was diverted to everywhere and anywhere but himself. This was a place of distraction. Somewhere to get lost and never find oneself afterwards. So much literature, so much psychology, philosophy and reason. So much, that few individuals could escape the place.

He meditated for a day and a night, and his focus, his introspection, the self-reflection, the sly scheming lorathi all made their way back to him. Recentralized, he could focus on what really mattered. Gathering everything he had acquired, book and artefacts alike, he prepared the last deeds that need be done. He had made all the necessary preparations to cover his tracks. Although his focus left him, he never seized to stay low and unknown.

He arrived at the tavern where Pate and his connections would dine their last supper. A tip of a small unseen phial ensured that by morning none would be aware what happened. The drop of liquid from the phial landed as it was bid, in the wine. Only he and Maester Tarly would never partake in beverage, yet the Nights Watchman had left earlier that week. Once everyone had partaken in the drink and celebrated the contract which they had signed, the small company went well into their cups. Unfavourable so. Luckily, for the maesters, they would not live down the night such that they may face the consequences the next morning.

As the maesters were found the next morning, a lorathi was aboard a ship. Two words hanging in the captain's ears.

Valar Morghulis.

No One

After the feast, No One efficiently made her way to her quarters. Grey eyes widened as she happened upon a new robe lying upon her bed. Equipping the garments, she studied herself in the looking glass. The set was midnight-blue intermingled by black and white with a hood hanging low over her face.

A black shortcloak partly winding around her body, hiding the close-fitting tunic which stopped just above the knees. With the set were a black pair of leather boots reaching her calf and a black pair of pants sewn together in white thread which hung tightly to her hips.

It was strange. The outfit sat tightly on her body, yet it somehow allowed full movement of her body. The most intriguing part of her new wardrobe, however, was the belt. The belt was of thick black leather, having many compartments and small pouches. It was a swordbelt capable of holding three swords. One at her right hip, designed for a rapier, and two at the back. The scabbards at the back of the belt were designed for shortswords, their holsters sitting opposite from one another, allowing the user to draw a sword in each hand.

The scabbards at the back of the belt were designed for shortswords, their holsters sitting opposite from one another, allowing the wielder to draw a sword in each hand.

On her table, she found the instruments which would reside within her new belt. All of them Valyrian steel.

Quick, graceful feet brought her hastily to the training room. The weapons weighed nothing at all. Like a wisp of wind materialised and sharpened impossibly. The blades cut through the skin of her finger when she attempted to test them for their sharpness. She was not aware of her cutting save the sticky red water spilling from her fingertip. All men are made of water.

Merciless slashes, cuts and stabs hit the forever unsuspecting training dummies. The blades slid through the air leaving only faint wisps of air before striking the wood, the blade strangely not dulling though both force, time and wear was exerted on the metal. Though she was inexperienced with the dual wielding of blades, she began to build the muscle memory required.

"Enjoying ourselves?" A quiet voice asked from the temple's shadows.

"These are extraordinary." Her voice returned, admiration intermingling with slyness. No One marvelled at glimmering blades resting in her hands. The blades shimmered in the training room torchlight, reflecting light around the room. In the middle of the blades, a close inspection revealed small glowing runes which ran from the base of the blade to its tip, creating streaking lines of dark purple across the sides. Death itself flowed in tandem with the blades.

The Kindly Man emerged from the shadows, appraising his apprentice. His face was golden in the torchlight lighting up the room. The house is usually lit with dozens of small candles, yet the training room required more lighting than the remainder of the house. The girl was unusually talented for someone who just picked up dual wielding. It seems his instincts served him well; the girl was ambidextrous. Although anyone could be taught to dual wield, it would never come naturally to one who is not of such talent by nature. His mind made up, he went on.

"You will have to take good care of them. They are some of the house's finest treasures." At this, her eyes gazed once again in wonder at the instruments now at her disposal and quickly nodded her assent. The swords were relics of Old Valyria, seldom wielded as a cause of their ancient and tragic history. Yet the girl seemed an appropriate wielder, and the blades chorused in agreement if the runes were to be believed.

Most were treated to discomfort by the mere vicinity of the blades and upon physical touch, pain. Yet in the possession of the girl, the blades seemed placated. Dark things commune with one another, Death had once told him. When they do, it is beyond the understanding of anyone who is not of the same fabric. As if fire should understand the intricacies of water.

"A faceless man may forget to sleep, to drink, even to breathe. Yet a faceless man never forgets to care for his blade."

"Just so."

He turned and walked towards the portal leading to the living quarters. Glancing back at her, he finished. "From this day, you will train with The First Sword, when you're services and duties do not otherwise occupy your time."

With the words of The Kindly Man, she made her way out in the foggy streets of evening Braavos. Walking over The Canal of Heroes and past The Moon Pool, she reached the Sealord's Palace. Here, she was met by one Qarro Volentin in the courtyard.

"Valar Morghulis, young death." Qarro Volentin welcomed. His garb was not of the usual of the water dancers. More conservative. Simple. This was a man who did not need flamboyant colours in order to draw attention. His confidence lay with his blade, rather than his wardrobe.

"Valar Dohaeris, First Sword." Death's servant retorted with a differential bow of the head. She had chosen a standard rapier for her training, it would not do to have the advantage of rune and Valyrian steel.

Qarro Volentin did not know what to expect from the ghoul, much less one of her statue. She was by all account what one would describe as a courtesan, had it not been for her garb and scar. She was still growing into her beauty. Had it not been for her station, she could have made a fortune. The scar was a small one, compared to what ghouls usually adorned; this one's scar merely ran from her forehead to her jaw. On the rare occasion of meeting a ghoul in their own face, they would usually have an angry scar diagonally across their face.

The scar did not detract from her strange beauty, it merely reinforced her defiant appeal. Judging from her age and statue, he did not expect her to be exceptionally skilled. Her Westerosi appearance did little to help his expectation as well, yet the girl earned her scar regardless. Not only that, her eyes told a different story than the rest of her appearance. While the body was still young, the eyes seemed ancient as time itself. Grey eyes that had seen much more than was due. She seemed to notice his assessment of her and raised a dark eyebrow.

"Walk with me?" He offered. It seemed she was merely waiting for his lead, as she quickly nodded and followed in his step. As they were exciting the courtyard, he decided to probe her.

"Have you any experience with the dance?"

"Naturally," She retorted. "The House would seldom send an acolyte who could not be taught." A smirk danced on her mouth as she finished her sentence. "Such would do little good to its already muddied reputation."

He nodded in return, offering unnecessary sympathy for the stigma the servants of Death received. No being deserved such treatment. Not even No One.

As they walked past The Iron Bank, they decided to duel alongside the other water dancers around The Moon Pool. As they drew their rapiers - sizing each other up - the other water dancers stopped in their skirmishes and a quiet fell upon them. They circled around one another, slowly prodding the other part for weaknesses to exploit. The girl was good, her stance was passive yet ready. Her feet were quick, graceful and silent as the grave. Not even her robes and additional swords made a sound.

Not a sound was heard till their blades clashed, the girl on the attack. She was quicker than he had expected. Quicker and stronger. Her muscles were deceptively small, packing a much harder punch than they should. Her movements were quick, agile and smooth as she transitioned from cut to slash then stab.

He bided his time until the moment was right. Upon his riposte, he started his counterattack, pushing back the girl who had previously been on the offence. The girl knew both the ways of attack, as well as those to defend - it seemed. He increased the pace, both his feet and his blade moving faster as they circled The Moon Pool, making their way towards The Sweetwater River. They danced around each other, changing all the while from attacking to defending. From advance to retreat. They changed, they spun and adjusted as their blades whirred through the air filling the air with wisps of silver and small whirrings only offered for the observant before being drowned out by innumerable clashes. The sound of steel meeting steel dominating the swish of air giving way to a sharp edge.

Doors swung open and audiences amassed from the Blue Lantern, as well as from the water dancers which were already present at the start of the duel. Slowly rumour spread around and eventually the square was filled with Braavosi from far and wide. Coin traded hands as bets were placed and astonished eyes looked in unison upon the exchange of blows happening before them.

A ghoul challenging The First Sword

This was a first. Something that riled up every thrillseeking Braavosi. The duel was intense beyond measure, longer than any duel previously seen by The Moon Pool, and by the end, both combatants were bloodied. As the cheers and chants died down and the crowd slowly dispersed, The First Sword stood victorious.

"I lost..." The ghoul proclaimed. The proclamation was so passive one might have mistaken it for a comment regarding the weather. The First Sword offered her his hand. She accepted his offer raising herself from where she was driven to kneel before him.

"You did," he acknowledged, "but not without dignity."

No One offered her new mentor a kind smile before disappearing into the foggy night.

AN#2

This has opened some of the conflicts we will be delving into. There is much more going on than it seems. The time is a tad bit wonky for this one. The section with Ambraysis and Mirri Maz Duur is much longer than the others. That one takes place over a week, yet the others are within 1-2 days. This can be seen by the plural of nights. I would have written more, but I wanted to keep it brief and vague to inspire thought and theory in your minds! Much more fun, that way.

Many more revelations and secrets are coming, don't you worry!

Comments are always appreciated! Thank you regardless for reading, hope you enjoyed.