Jaqen had left her in the bath, freezing and fuming, his luxuriant and deep laugh causing her to bristle as if she were wearing Nymeria's skin. She bellowed after him not to think that this was finished; that she fully expected to get the rest of the story, and soon. That annoying chortle echoed down the hall as he left to do whatever it is that exasperating masters do after they've thoroughly humiliated their apprentices. She resolved that she would hear the rest of this story when she was clothed and if he thought she would play another lying game with him in exchange for information, then he was sorely mistaken. He owed her.

She stood, dripping and shivering, cascades of water plunging down her body and into the frigid tub. She stepped carefully onto the slick stones and grabbed the soft linen cloth she would use to dry herself, slinking to a spot in front of the dying fire. She stepped as close to the inner hearth as she could without burning herself, trying to warm up as she rubbed the droplets from her goose pimpled flesh. Once dry, she began to feel the heat from the embers inching up her legs and wrapped herself in the damp linen cloth, walking around the copper tub to retrieve her clothes. They were beyond help. She had to wring out the excess water that was soaking them, the cold water dripping into the tub as she twisted the garments over and over. She tossed them into a dry corner of the room and sat in the chair where Jaqen had been only minutes before, using her fingers to comb out the tangles in her dark hair. She could still detect his faint scent lingering in the air, all ginger and lemons and cloves.

Sighing in resignation, she wrapped the linen more securely around her form, picked up her wet robe, small-clothes, and dagger and then used all of her cat-like prowess to creep to her cell undetected so as not to expose her barely clad body to a host of brothers' eyes. Once there, she hung her clothes around her small room to dry, then found her sleeping shift and exchanged it for the damp linen wrap. Groaning, she collapsed onto the bed, eyelids already heavy, too weary and sore to even contemplate supper. She closed her eyes as she drew her soft woolen blanket over her, clutching it under her chin, and thought of all she had seen and heard that day. She fell asleep wondering what it was that Jaqen had been carrying in his wooden case but it was dragons that dominated her dreams.

Upon awakening the next morning, she was certain she was dying. She was confused as to why she nearly collapsed in agony when she pushed up from her bed to attempt to sit and then the memory of sparring with Jaqen came back. Seven Hells! If this was the pain with a long soak, she couldn't fathom what it would have been like without it!

Gingerly, she used her right arm to push up, guarding the tender left arm and relying on her abdominal muscles to help pull her into a seated position. Sucking in a deep breath, she stood up and cried out then stifled the sound, biting back her whimpers and cursing her own weakness. She was unable to comfortably lift her arms high enough to braid her hair again so she left it loose. It fell around her shoulders and down her back in the wild, dark waves that were a consequence of sleeping with it wet and unbound. She took rather longer than she should have to get dressed and then forced herself to stretch as much as she could tolerate, hoping to loosen up and become… functional. After all, Jaqen had made it clear that she would be sparring with that bloody bastard sword again today and in her current state, she was like to be too slow to do much more than take a beating.

Carefully, the girl made her way to the small dining hall to break her fast. She found she was rather hungry, probably due to a combination of all the exercise the day before and missing her supper once again. When she arrived in the chamber, several of her brothers were there already, filling their plates with an assortment of Umma's breakfast offerings. There was an egg pie with chopped sardines, toasted bread with honey, stuffed grape leaves, and cider. The Cat was so famished that she couldn't have cared less if there was raw goat innards and spoiled mare's milk, she dove into the food with gusto. The smell was divine. The taste was even better, at least for the few bites she chewed slowly enough to taste. She noted with glee that her jaw muscles weren't the least bit sore.

"You're moving awfully slow this morning, Cat," Loric observed, reaching across her for another piece of bread. "Are you unwell?"

Loric was a young Myrish boy, very pretty and nice enough but new to the order. He was rather more chipper than was appropriate for an assassin in training and he still liked to talk. A lot.

"Just sore from training, Loric," the Cat replied, leaning back in her chair and enjoying the feeling of a full belly.

"What? How could you get sore? All you ever do is train!" the boy declared.

"Let that be a lesson to you, boy," came Jaqen's voice from behind them, startling her. The Cat didn't need to turn to look at him in order to know he was wearing a cocky smirk, revealing his dimple. Besides, it hurt too much to turn around. "There is always something for the improving."

He rounded the table and dropped easily into the chair opposite the Cat. She looked across the table at him, embarrassment and vexation warring on her face. She pushed her head against the high back of her chair and sighed deeply, waiting for his inevitable jape. At least she wouldn't have to tolerate it on an empty stomach.

"A girl is wearing her hair differently today," the Lorathi remarked innocently. "A man is not acquainted with the intricacies of fashion. Is this the new style among the young ladies?"

She pursed her lips and said nothing, trying to maintain her dignity. Loric was not helping the matter with his enthusiastic commentary.

"I noticed that too, Cat! It looks very nice, but it doesn't seem practical. Can you fight like that?"

She doubted if she could fight at all, and not because of her hair, but mustered as much composure as she could and told the boy, "You must be ready to fight in any condition. Your enemy will not wait for you to dress your hair before attacking."

She thought the answer very appropriate and congratulated herself on her poise as well as her relevant and useful impromptu advice. Loric seemed to agree as his wide eyes shone upon her with a respect that bordered on adoration. He was probably the only one of her brothers who didn't fear her—he simply wanted to be her. She felt fairly self-satisfied until her master's voice sounded over her internal applause.

"Well met. A girl has the right of it. You must be ready at any time," he agreed, his eyes crinkling at their corners as they met hers. "And to that point, a girl will meet a man in the training room in one half hour."

She suppressed an overwhelming urge to groan as Jaqen picked up a piece of warm bread, poured a few drops on honey on it, then popped it in his mouth as he rose from the table to leave. When he passed behind her seat, he bent to whisper in her ear.

"A girl will have to disarm a man if she wishes to hear the rest of his tale today."

Her mouth drew into a tight line and she squeezed her eyes shut, trying to battle the frustration welling up within her.

"What did he say?" Loric whispered to her after Jaqen exited the room.

"He said I'm never going to hear the end of his story," she sighed.

The Cat left the small dining hall shortly after her master did, bound for the temple courtyard, hoping that stretching in the warm sun would restore enough flexibility to her sore muscles that she might not completely shame herself in the training room. Standing by the fountain, she slowly bent forward, grasping her ankles and feeling the ache wash over her. Still, the sun warmed her through her jerkin and presently, she felt a little better. She stood back up and began moving her arms in slow circles, gritting her teeth at the stabbing and pulling she felt in her sword arm. Well, her left sword arm. As her master had pointed out, a girl has two sword arms.

Voices echoing in the distance pulled her away from her thoughts. She had believed she would be alone in the courtyard but apparently, others wished to enjoy the morning outdoors as well. She did not relish the idea of being questioned about why she was stretching in the sun (as it was not part of her usual morning routine), so she slipped quietly beyond the fountain, into the shady stand of fruit trees and tall, ornamental grasses on the far end of the courtyard. After a short time, the Kindly Man came into view, walking with Jaqen. As they approached, she could clearly hear their conversation.

"With all due respect, a man does not believe she is ready. You said as much yourself not two weeks ago," Jaqen was saying, his expression tense.

Why was he so easy to read? It was so unlike him to have an unguarded expression.

"Indeed," the Kindly Man remarked. "Nevertheless, the time is fast approaching when something must be done."

"A man begs more time."

"Brother, there are things you do not yet understand."

Jaqen turned to give the Kindly Man a curious look, his question unspoken but plain nonetheless. The Kindly Man regarded his brother with fondness and rested his hand upon the Lorathi's shoulder as they came to a halt in their walk, between the fountain and the Cat's hidden location.

"We are all but servants of the Many-Faced god," the Kindly Man began. "We have our roles and we must play them. He does not bend to our whims but we to his. We must be ready when he calls us."

The apprehension on her mentor's face was plain. She could see it from her hiding place where she stood quiet as a shadow, afraid to breathe lest she be detected, mind a-whirl. The Kindly Man's words echoed in her thoughts. There are things you do not yet understand. What things? She engaged in the useless exercise of trying to read the Kindly Man's face-that-was-not-his-face.

The Kindly Man could see her master's concern as well and attempted to assuage it.

"Worry is not for us, Brother," he told Jaqen softly. "This distress does not become you. If it would ease your burden, there is an assignment in Pentos. A certain wealthy merchant… I had intended to send one of your brothers since you had only just returned, but if you like…"

"No," Jaqen interrupted immediately. "A man would stay in Braavos, and do what he can. Has the time been determined?"

"Oh, I would say not much more than a month," the Kindly man remarked mildly as they began to walk back toward the temple. "Yes, I think a month will be long enough."

"The other Westerosi has been training twice as long," Jaqen pointed out.

"Yes, that's true," the principal elder agreed. "I think perhaps his time has come as well."

The men faded from the girl's view and soon she could detect no voices. She waited for several minutes before slowly emerging from her concealed spot, all soreness forgotten. Her heart was pounding. She was certain that they were speaking of her. Her and the rat-faced boy. The Cat's first inclination was to think that they were arguing, in their way, about her suitability for the final trial and taking her vows. Part of her wanted to be angry with Jaqen for questioning her readiness, yet there was definitely something more. That something more disturbed her, even though she did not understand it. Her master seemed as if he was... trying to protect her? His worry was becoming her worry, even though she did not comprehend the source of it. She was left with a sense of cold dread in her gut.

She arrived in the training room at the appointed time and found her master there, pulling swords from the racks. He tossed her the bastard blade and her preferred Bravos blade without a word. She caught them and watched as he pulled a sword for himself from the rack and tested its weight.

"Do you need padding?" he asked without a trace of derision. His expression seemed serious. He was being... strange.

"No," she told him. "I prefer to fight without it."

He nodded, then without further delay, began his attack.

He seemed to be everywhere all at once and she found herself moving more than she would have liked to avoid his blows, but was pleased to see that she could avoid them for the most part. Her muscles ached fiercely but the peculiar encounter she had witnessed in the courtyard coupled with her master's out of character behavior seemed to be filling her with tingling adrenaline and this enabled her to perform better than she had expected to. The bastard sword remained ungodly heavy in her hand but she managed to use it more frequently and more effectively than she had just the day prior.

Jaqen had no japes for her, no baiting, no gentle teasing. His voice was devoid of laughter and no smile creased his face. He offered only the occasional piece of grunted advice. Keep your sword up. Watch your stance. Straighten your wrist. Pull your elbow in. Bend, don't squat, you'll recover quicker. She had never seen him so intense or humorless in all their many years together. She had never seen him go so long without referring to her as a girl. This only served to increase that dread she had carried into the room with her. It left her limbs feeling numb and shaky but she found that numb wasn't as bad as the excruciating pain she had experienced upon awakening earlier in the morning. Still, he managed to disarm her twice in a short span of time, both times knocking the weighty bastard sword out of her left hand. In each instance, he simply stopped and waited while she retrieved it, then began his assault once she had regained her stance. On and on this went, the girl dancing just beyond the point of her master's sword, or blocking it with a groan as the singing steel vibrated up her arm and through her abused muscles, or scrabbling to retrieve one blade or the other (and once, both) from the cold stones of the floor. Her loose hair flew and floated, here sticking to the sweat on her brow, there covering her eyes, blinding her for a second and allowing her master to get in a solid thrust, poking her ribs.

As they danced around the room, her muscles seemed to loosen up and after a time, she had an uncontrollable urge to vent the pent-up anxiety born of the avalanche of unanswered questions and mysteries and intrigues that suddenly seemed to be crushing her. She was taken by a sudden burst of energy and as Jaqen delivered one of his powerful cuts, she slid on her knees under his arm, avoiding his blow with a move she had learned by watching the rat-faced boy, of all people. As she glided under his blade, she leaned back, arching gracefully as she instinctively brought her swords up in two opposing arcs which intersected at the point of his weapon. Her crossed steel shrieked as it slid swiftly down the blade of his sword to where he gripped the hilt. With a twist of her wrists, her steel grasped his and wrenched it from his hand, throwing it across the room where it struck the wall then fell to the floor with a thunderous crash of steel and stone.

As her momentum brought her to rest behind him, she rolled over and sprang up with both swords at the ready, mouth agape, hardly believing it had worked. Jaqen seemed to share her opinion as he stood before her, stunned, staring at his sword upon the ground then at his empty hand, then back at his sword. He turned to face her, his countenance a mirror image of hers-mouth agape, eyes projecting frank disbelief. Then, hair spread gloriously around her face and shoulders, pale cheeks now flushed with exertion and elation, she lifted the bastard sword's blunted tip to his heart, gently prodding him as she spoke the word neither of them had expected to pass her lips that day.

"Yield."

They stared at each other in silence for a while, unmoving but for the heaving of their chests until the Lorathi bowed his head in acknowledgement of the girl's victory. The Cat then collected both of her swords in her right hand and hooked her left thumb into her sword belt in a familiar gesture.

"I believe you owe me a tale," she said.