Your eyes, they tie me down so hard
Rarely had the Cat ever been so busy while residing under the roof of the House of Black and White. No longer did she find that she had her own time; the Kindly Man and the handsome man and even the waif seemed to conspire in order to deprive her of a moment to herself (moments where she might have otherwise sought Jaqen out. Surreptitiously, of course). Every moment of her day seemed now occupied with some task or training and when she was finally allowed to stop, the acolyte often found that she was so exhausted that she simply fell into her bed and was lost to the world until the next morning. She had even been too tired on several recent occasions to attend suppers, despite long hours of sparring, sword drills and running through the streets of Braavos on various errands; something for which both of her masters had admonished her, in their own way.
The handsome man had gruffly told her that she could never hope to best him if she did not eat enough to guarantee a reasonable amount of strength. After he had advised her thusly over crossed blades, he swept her from her feet with his leg, a merciless demonstration of his point. The master assassin had merely smirked when the girl looked up at him from her place on the hard floor of the training room in a way that could reasonably be described as pouting.
Her Lorathi master's concern seemed to emanate from a softer place.
"A girl is nearly too thin as it is," Jaqen had whispered to her one morning shortly after he found her in the armory pawing through the daggers and shortswords. His arms were wrapped around her lithe body and he imagined that he could easily count her ribs through her thin blouse if he only tried.
"Mmm," was all she said in acknowledgment, for she had his earlobe between her teeth and was not inclined to release it in order to justify her actions or explain the degree of her nightly exhaustion. Had she been more willing to do so, she might have said, "When the choice is between supper and sleep, sometimes sleep is the correct answer." But, since she did not wish to interrupt her enjoyable activities to mount a defense, her master was treated to the gentle vibrations created by her monotone response.
"Really, lovely girl," he groaned, "a man is… ah… most… serious… hmmm."
The Cat pulled away from him slowly, letting her teeth drag incrementally from his earlobe with reluctance, and then gazed up at him through her dark lashes, an impish smile on her lips.
"We've barely been able to speak for days," the girl finally answered in a decidedly purposeful whimper, employing the same pout she had recently used on her handsome master, "and when we finally have a few moments alone, you want to use them to chastise me about my attendance at meals?"
The Lorathi threw his hands helplessly in the air and noted the girl's smirk at his gesture. Too much like a man's handsome brother, he thought ruefully, welcoming her back into his arms where the girl quickly slipped her fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, lightly scratching at his scalp as she pressed her cheek to his chest.
"Still, lovely girl, you should not miss supper tonight, no matter how sleepy you find yourself at the end of your duties."
He could feel her smile against his chest and after a moment, she rose up on her toes and drew her mouth very close to his ear, whispering something to him before he pulled his head back and gave her a look of mock-reproof and shock.
"You are not a lovely girl at all," Jaqen growled in a low voice, half teasing, half… something else, "but a wicked, wicked child!"
She laughed then, throwing her head back, and his heart soared at the sound of it as she danced away from him and snatched the weapons that she had come for in the first place. Before he could say else to her, she had given him a look full of longing and then she was gone.
The assassin scrubbed at his face with his hands a bit after her departure, hearing her warm whisper in his ear once again, thinking, she does not understand what she says. A familiar thought occurred to him, one that had come to him repeatedly since his return to the Free Cities. The Lorathi shook his head and mused to himself that despite all the recent plots and threats against his lovely girl, the person Arya Stark most needed protecting from was herself.
For when she had pulled his ear to her mouth, she had said, "If you do not see me at the supper table tonight, you will know where to come for me. There is no spelled bolt to deny you entrance."
In truth, the Cat was not naturally so bold or easy with her master as her manner in the armory had made her seem. But the separation from him, broken only by very brief, occasional encounters (in corridors, passing in the temple, across table, and that one time in the stairwell which still made her shiver to think of) was doing something to her; somehow strengthening rather than lessening the yearning she felt for Jaqen. She found that she did not grow accustomed to his absence. The burning inside of her that he had awakened with his kiss in the courtyard was now ever present and ever growing.
When she had seen him enter the armory and the door had shut with just the two of them on the one side of it, she was seized with a sort of madness; a desire to touch him and to taste him; a desire she found it too difficult to suppress. And so, the girl had found herself once again in Jaqen's arms, and when he had lifted her a little against him, she had almost unconsciously buried her face against his neck, trying to hold back the tears she felt stinging her eyes as she did.
Determined to stop herself from crying and highlighting her deplorable weakness, she sought a distraction; to occupy herself in such a way that she would not think of the fact that though he was holding her now, it was merely a prelude to another farewell and more long days and nights of suffering alone without him.
And so she had found his earlobe and when she took it between her teeth and the scent of cloves and ginger and leather had filled her nose, her sadness and apprehension had been replaced by a sweet ache that she had only known since Jaqen's return from Westeros; a sensation that clouded her thoughts and made it hard for her to breathe normally and should have frightened her, had she the wits then to feel fear.
Now, walking along the passageway and up the stairs to the main level of the temple, her wits slowly returned to her and the girl's cheeks began to burn as she thought about what had just transpired. What must Jaqen think of her?
As the Cat entered the main temple chamber, she was forced to leave that question unanswered, as the handsome man was pacing by the pool, waiting for her and looking impatient. Indeed, during the last week, she had learned that his impatience was nearly as much of a defining characteristic as his smirk.
"I am so pleased I did not have to send a search party to the armory looking for you, little wolf," he said sarcastically.
I am glad of it as well, she thought, biting her lip and coloring a bit more. Taking her look for contrition rather than relief, the handsome man's face softened and he quirked one corner of his mouth up, looping his arm through the girl's and walking toward the ebony and weirwood doors.
"Did you at least find suitable weapons?"
"Of course," the Cat scoffed, proud of the normalcy of her tone. "Why do you think it took me so long? I'm very particular about which blades I carry." And which ear lobes I nibble.
The handsome man began to explain her task for the day: a training exercise in Braavos, gathering certain information of interest to the order along the docks of Ragman's. Several ships from Westeros had docked within the past two days and they were sure to be carrying fresh news. The requirements were simple enough, she thought, until he tacked on, "I'll be hunting you the whole time. If I find you before you make it back to the temple, you will have failed."
She rolled her eyes but knew better than to complain of the unfairness of the task (since he could change his face as often as he liked during the exercise and she had yet to earn hers).
In the end, the Cat was successful, partly due to her natural stealth, and partly because she had not proceeded straight to Ragman's but rather had detoured to the market, where the waif had asked her to purchase a few items needed in her workshop. While there, the girl had also managed to piece together a reasonable disguise out of bits of purchased and pilfered clothes. She was rather fond of the hat, a wide-brimmed affair with one side curled up and pinned with a dark feather such as the Myrish sailors sometimes wore. She might have to keep it. Both the disguise and the delayed timing of her jaunt around Ragman's Harbor had thrown the handsome master off of her trail and she managed to enter the temple at dusk, just ahead of him.
"Well done, little wolf," he had complimented when he finally caught up to her. "The hat suits."
"I thought so," the girl said amiably.
"You will perhaps find it cumbersome when we spar," the master told her, smirking at her crestfallen expression. "Training room, in a quarter hour."
"I'll just go give the waif her things from the market," the Cat replied with a sigh.
It was only then that the assassin noted the small sack in her hand and his tone was a mix of incredulity and disgust as he asked, "You went shopping?"
And just like that, her mood was light again.
"A quarter hour, was it?" she sang, bouncing off toward the waif's workroom.
As she rounded the corner and pushed through the door of the workroom, she thought on the sudden intensity of the activity in the temple, at least as it involved her. There were endless expectations, it seemed, and the girl did all that was required. Sparring, serving in the temple, occasionally helping Umma in the kitchen, small outings into town on various errands for the Kindly Man, for the handsome man, for the waif (such as the one she had just performed while she was meant to be training with her handsome master. She was certain she would hear more about that in the training room). It seemed strange that the Cat was sent to perform such menial tasks when any of the younger acolytes might have done the job, but in truth, she was glad to keep her mind occupied.
Every minute the girl was sparring with the handsome man or discussing something with the Kindly Man or distilling substances from plants with the waif was a minute she was not consumed with her anger and sadness about Olive's fate or her worry for her brother (wherever he was—he still had not returned to the temple). Every minute she was busy with the work set out for her by the order was a minute she was not dedicating to pitifully pining for Jaqen.
And perhaps that was the point of it all, she thought vaguely, but then dismissed the notion. To accept it would be to accept that the order was aware of all her emotional turmoil (and that they cared enough to intervene. The idea did not sit well with her, for several reasons).
Still, the outing to Ragman's had been a sort of respite, too. That her training at the hands of the handsome man was beneficial was not in doubt, but she had spent hours sneaking about the docks and purchasing things for the waif in the market and those were hours she had not spent with the handsome man thrusting the heel of his hand into her breastbone or jabbing his elbow into her gut. But, it was not to last. In ten minutes, she would be at it again.
She was getting much better at defending against these attacks, truthfully, but still sported her share of bruises. Her most recent crop of black and blue marks were only now starting to recede and she still bore a bit of stiffness in her muscles from her vigorous training. It was worth it, the girl reasoned, as her instinct for hand-to-hand combat was rapidly increasing and her comfort with the bastard blade her master had insisted she start using was much improved. But still, sometimes one just wanted a long soak in a hot tub…
The Cat said as much to the handsome assassin as they ended their sparring session an hour later.
"Eat first, bath after," he told her gruffly as he took her blades from her and replaced them in their respective wall racks. "You're not to miss another supper."
The girl turned wide, grey eyes upon the master, making them almost shiny, and clasping her hands beneath her chin in her best approximation of a distressed damsel, cried with false sincerity as she fluttered her lashes, "Oh, you do care for me! I just knew it!"
The master assassin gave the apprentice a withering look, and seeing it, she tried unsuccessfully to stifle her rising giggle. He merely shook his head at her then, and then sent her on her way, directing her to go straight to the dining hall.
"Save me a seat, little wolf, I'll be there shortly."
She snorted at that, knowing that he would sit near the head of the table, as he always did (next to Jaqen), and not deign to place himself at her side, in the middle of the table where the older acolytes sat.
As the Cat limped down the long corridor, she reflected on her time since her return from Biro's to the House of Black and White. The girl concluded that she really should not complain too harshly about her situation in the temple. Despite the principal elder's command that she limit (well, cease) her interaction with the Lorathi assassin, she still had Jaqen's devotion (and his concern, it seemed. And his ear lobe…) in addition to the handsome man's seemingly undivided attention. The former filled her with butterflies and racing heartbeats and gave her feet that felt as if they barely touched the ground (both figuratively and literally, as when he had held her tight and lifted her off her feet earlier in the armory). The latter filled her with purpose and made her feel strong and confident and led her to the belief that she was capable of anything, despite the bruising and the aches and the occasional unwelcome kiss.
It was unwelcome, not matter how her flesh tingled beneath the handsome man's lips. It was only learning, and meant nothing. It was a tool, the same as her training blades. It was education; the best sort, he had said. She curled her lip slightly at the memory and then laughed a bit, shaking her head as she recalled it.
And with the impossibility of bringing her problems to Jaqen, and the continued absence of the Bear, the handsome man was the only person to whom she could talk about... things.
Not that they did a lot of talking. Mostly, she listened and he instructed. And teased (about Jaqen; about her reactions to his own touches; about her attire).
"I miss the gown from Biro's," he had told her once, eyeing her boy's doublet and loose breeches distastefully as they rested after sparring.
"You're the only one," she sneered, her head leaned back against the stone wall of the training room. Her eyes were closed and she did not bother to open them as she replied. She could well-imagine the smirk on his handsome face; she did not need to see it to know it was there.
"Oh, I think not, little wolf. I'd venture to say my very serious Lorathi brother misses it, too."
She had opened her eyes then and looked at the master to discern his meaning, but his expression was inscrutable and she could not decide if he spoke from any real knowledge or was merely guessing. She finally looked away, deciding that the handsome man only desired to get a rise out of her.
Another time, as they danced around the training room and when the handsome assassin made a grab at her, he managed to tear the seam of her tunic sleeve, laying part of her shoulder and upper arm bare. It was no serious matter, as she was not particularly attached to any piece of clothing (save one, and she would not wear it for sparring), but when the master had pinned her to the wall briefly, his gaze moved to the bare flesh and he remarked upon a scar he saw there. It brought to mind her master, and their reunion in the courtyard garden of the temple, and she could almost feel Jaqen's calloused thumb there once again, stroking the imperfect flesh and teasing her about the time he had seen more of her than he should have. And then she felt her face grow hot and red, leaving the handsome master flummoxed.
"If you're going to blush so shamelessly, you must at least give me an indication as to the cause," he scolded her, but she had slipped from his grasp then and he found that she had sprung onto his back quick as a snake, holding a slender blade at his throat.
"Some secrets," she whispered haltingly in his ear, "a girl would keep for herself."
The Cat entered the dining hall and found a seat diagonally across from Loric. As she took her place, he smiled at her in his usual, worshipful fashion. Honestly, the boy seemed far too sweet to slit anyone's throat. She could not fathom what had led the order to accept him as an acolyte. The girl could sense none of the requisite darkness within him. She thought perhaps he might make a good priest, however.
"I was wondering if you would show up, Cat," Loric chirped at her, the apples of his rosy cheeks shiny in the candlelight.
"I've been instructed not to miss suppers," she confided, flitting her eyes towards the upper end of the table. The Kindly Man was seated, as was the waif, the stern-faced master, and the lordling, but Jaqen had not joined them as of yet. She stuffed her disappointment down deep, telling herself it was a good thing if he did not show at all, as it would save her from having to pretend he wasn't there. But she could not convince herself adequately, for she just longed to see him (a lie, she knew, for as soon as she saw him, she would crave his touch, and receiving that, would want his kiss, and after that… just more. More and more).
The Cat shook her head a little, earning a quizzical look from Loric, but she just smiled at the boy. The seat next to hers was empty and she harbored the hope that the Bear would soon pull the chair back and sit next to her, grinning and saying, "I have so much to tell you!" but she told herself she needed to quit existing in daydreams and face reality: she was unlikely to see the Bear before her own trial, and even then, they might be separated for months, or even years, depending on how their assignments were doled out.
I didn't even get to say goodbye, she thought sadly.
Before she could ponder that disappointment much longer, the seat next to her was filled. The handsome man had not been japing when he asked her to save a seat for him.
The Cat covered her shock by saying, rather savagely, "Shouldn't you be at the upper end?"
He glanced at her haughtily and let his eyes wander down to the place where the laces of her blouse had loosened slightly, revealing just a hint more of the snowy flesh of her chest than she was otherwise prone to show.
"I rather like the view from here," he answered in a matter-of-fact tone, beginning to grin when he saw the girl snatch at her neckline and tighten the laces, knotting them together in a rather flustered way. She could feel the heat creeping up her neck and jaw, so of course, that was when Jaqen entered the hall. He took his usual place but spared a brief look at her, raising his eyebrow when he saw her flushed appearance, her clumsy fiddling with the laces at her neck, and his brother's plastered grin.
What is Jaqen thinking? she wondered, cursing the smirking assassin next to her inwardly for once again setting up the scene just perfectly for her master to draw the worst possible conclusion based on the evidence. If there is anything the handsome man is truly a master of, it's giving the wrong impression!
The girl ate quickly, both to extricate herself from her precarious position (next to the handsome man, and diagonally across from Jaqen) and so that she might have the hot bath she longed for before retiring. When the banter turned to friendly debating, the Cat excused herself and stood from her place. Conscious of Jaqen's gaze upon her as she rose, she turned quickly to leave but before she could move, the handsome man grabbed her wrist and pulled her back toward him, reaching up to clasp her neck and pull her down to him, whispering an instruction in her ear.
"To the bath and to bed, little wolf. Do not tarry."
The way he spoke in an overly-breathy whisper tickled her ear, causing gooseprickles to form on her arms and making her draw her shoulder up toward her ear as she bit back her giggle. She couldn't help but to let her eyes flicker to Jaqen's and though his face might as well have been made of stone, his bronze eyes burned and bore into hers. Or, so it seemed to her.
Though the instruction had been completely innocent, the way in which it was delivered was meant to elicit just such a reaction from the Lorathi master, she was sure.
"Grow up," the girl hissed quietly before pulling away from the handsome man. And then she left the hall, thinking, I can explain to Jaqen later, if he even really cares.
She was limping a little. Every bone in her battered body ached, and she half-suspected at least a partially cracked rib from the way she had to stint herself when she breathed too deeply. It felt like someone was running her chest through with a red hot poker when she coughed. The handsome man called it training, but it seemed as if he delighted in throwing her against walls and knocking her to the ground. Jabbing her in the ribs seemed a particularly favorite past time. The last time she had sported so many bruises, she was half a child, toppling down stairwells as she chased scrawny, uncooperative cats, undertaking her first lessons with Syrio Forel. Even he hadn't been as ruthless as her handsome master, though.
The girl was never so glad to arrive at the door to the bath as she was then, and she pushed eagerly inside (after petting the head of the black and white cat that was lounging just outside of the door), grateful to find several kettles of water steaming over the hearth. Truly, the Many-Faced god must love me, she thought, grabbing towels to hold the hot handles of the kettles as she poured the water. Once the tub was full enough, she shed her clothes and climbed in, hissing slightly at the scalding temperature but not letting that deter her from sinking further into the steaming water. After a few moments of enjoying the way the heat soothed her muscles and the deep ache in her bones, the Cat grabbed for the chunk of soap that had been left next to the tub and began cleaning herself, creating the mounds of scentless froth that always resulted from the exercise.
When the water had cooled to the point it could no longer even be called tepid, the girl stood, shaking off rivulets of water before stepping out of the tub and reaching for the pile of soft linen stacked in on the chair. She stood in front of the warm hearth and dried herself thoroughly. Now, her hair damp and her skin scrubbed clean, there was no evidence of the buckets of perspiration that the handsome man had rung from her earlier as they sparred. She was loath to don her sweat-stained clothes again and cursed herself for lacking the foresight to bring her shift or robe or a clean set of clothes with her into the bath. She looked ruefully at the linen wraps and thought, well, everyone is likely still in the dining hall, and there's quite a bit of linen here…
It should not have surprised the girl that Jaqen caught her leaving the bath, with only linen wraps twisted around her body. Her damp hair was trailing down her back rather than arranged over her shoulders, exposing her more recent injuries. She knew by the way her master eyed the bruises on her bare shoulder that he was not pleased, but he hid his displeasure well when he spoke to her, briefly, as they passed.
"A lovely girl's shoulders are meant to be white, not purple," was all he said to her. She gave him a wan smile, shrugging, her lids heavy with fatigue.
"You should have seen me a few days ago. This is an improvement."
He longed to take her in his arms then. He could imagine the feel of her, almost see the top of her head below his chin, her dark hair redolent of her. He could call up the feeling he knew it would rouse in him, the combination of deep satisfaction at having her once again pressed into himself, close and protected, and the even deeper ache, physical proof of his unfulfilled want. The feel of her cool, bruised skin beneath his lips as he kissed her hurts away, the soft angle of her neck where he would place his nose lightly, the curve of her waist and hip, where his hand would rest; all of these visions bloomed wildly in his mind as his fathomless gaze fell upon her there in the dim of the passageway. He stood near her, so near, but not touching; not speaking; his voice a strangled thing that he did not dare allow to leave his throat.
"Valar morghulis, lovely girl," he finally managed.
"Valar dohaeris," she replied timidly, and then scurried past him, embarrassed to be found (again) wrapped in a thin, wet piece of linen in the corridors of the House of Black and White. Jaqen swallowed hard and then felt something on his leg. He looked down to see a cat, its back raised and its tail curled, rubbing against his shins. He regarded the cat briefly and then sighed, walking away.
She bared her teeth and gave a low, rumbling growl. Kingslayer.
"My lady, do not let this tarnished lion distress you," a rich, soothing voice comforted her and she felt a strong hand stroke her back languidly. The Kingslayer sneered at that, showing a hard, shiny hand.
"Gold doesn't tarnish, bastard."
"It wasn't your hand I referred to, Kingslayer."
The golden knight rolled his eyes and gave an exaggerated sigh, settling his gaze back on her companion after a few seconds.
"Honestly, you kill one king, and you're forever branded Kingslayer. Where is the fairness in that?" Jaime queried in mocking tones. "I've killed nearly half a score of Freys, just since my last nameday, and no one calls me Freyslayer. It doesn't even make sense!"
A very tall, very broad woman entered the circle of light around the campfire and interrupted their banter.
"Gendry, that beast makes the horses uneasy. I really wish you wouldn't bring her into the center of the camp."
"It seems we're not wanted, m'lady," Gendry told her, turning his back to the fire and the woman. "Let's find somewhere else to warm our hides."
"Gendry," the knightly woman called after him, sounding regretful, "come back. I didn't mean..."
But the dark knight was striding away from her and the fire, and the woman's voice grew fainter. Arya took a long look at the impressive woman and her infamous companion, snarling before she trotted after Gendry.
We will meet again, Kingslayer, and then, we'll have a reckoning, the girl thought, moaning a bit in her bed across the narrow sea.
When the wolf caught up to the bastard knight, he chuckled to her.
"You should not take offense, m'lady. You are pretty intimidating. They don't all know what a gentle soul you really have."
The wolf growled menacingly. If there was one thing she did not have, it was a gentle soul. Neither she nor the wolf could boast such a lofty possession.
Gendry laughed, but acquiesced, saying, "No, you are correct, m'lady. Gentle is perhaps the wrong word, but I'm no poet and often do not know the best way to say a thing. It's just that sometimes, when I look into your eyes, it's almost as if I can see... well, something. Something of her. But it's more dream than real."
The wolf whined.
"Do you dream of her, m'lady?" the man ask, slowing his stride. "Do wolves dream at all? Because I do. I dream of her and when I wake up, this feels like the dream. Does that make sense?"
"Boy, speaking to a direwolf as if she were your closest friend is bound to start tongues wagging," said a gruff voice from the shadows. Gendry and Nymeria both looked up to see Harwin, leaning against a tree. He drew a few steps closer to them.
"That's the benefit of having a direwolf as my closest friend," Gendry answered the Northman. "If anyone offends me, she can just eat them."
Harwin snorted, and then warned, "This hell-hound has a mind of her own. Watch that you don't offend her, or you'll find that it's you she's eating."
"I will, I swear it," she muttered in her sleep as Jaqen looked down at her, watching her face tense. "I will eat your heart, you bastard." Even in her sleep, she sounded fierce and even in her dream, she knew she didn't mean it.
It was the instant lightening of the night of her dream that pulled her from Westeros. There was a burning she could detect through her lids and she slowly opened her eyes to find her cell awash in light. Her taper was lit. The girl's heart jumped a bit as she saw a man's form standing by her door.
"Lovely girl, whose heart are you vowing to eat? Not a man's, he hopes."
That half-smile. The dimple. Spice and soap. The Cat rubbed at her eyes with the heels of her hands, scrubbing her sleep away.
"Jaqen," the girl whispered, caught between elation and apprehension. "What are you doing here?
"A man found that he had to see you."
And it was true, at least if he ever wished to sleep again. He had waited for her to come to him, his bolt undone night after night, but she never had, and so, long after those in the temple had drifted off to their cells and gone to sleep, he had lain in his bed, staring at his ceiling, thinking of her, irrationally hoping that just his willing her to come to him would make it so.
She started to sit up in bed but winced, the pain in her ribs stopping her. He approached her swiftly and slipped his arm under her for support.
"Where does it hurt, lovely girl?"
"Everywhere," she groaned.
Her master smiled to see that she was sleeping in a man's favorite blouse, but bit his smile back when he saw the bruises on her neck and traced their snaking path with his eyes until they disappeared beneath the collar.
"Brutality is not training," he remarked and his voice was steely.
"It can be," she returned with a weak smile, sighing gratefully as he helped her into a seated position. In mere seconds, his boots were on her floor and he had slipped behind her and seated himself on her bed, his back braced against her headboard. He pulled her back into him and she was soon reclined comfortably against her master, her head thrown back onto his shoulder. The girl turned toward him so that her forehead pressed into his neck.
"I've missed you," she told him in a small voice, almost as if she were unsure if she was allowed to say such a thing; unsure if it would offend her master for her to give voice to her weakness.
"And a man has missed his lovely girl," he murmured, gently stroking her neck with his long fingers. She could not help but to shiver, almost curling her head into herself, reacting to his touch. She heard a slight laugh from behind her, but she could not stifle her response.
"Do you wish for a man to stop touching you, lovely girl? You seem... uncomfortable."
"Too comfortable," she corrected. "And I do not wish for you to stop touching me, no. But... perhaps you should. Perhaps..."
"Shhh," Jaqen interrupted, "a man must touch you if he is to soothe your aching."
Arya knew he meant that he intended to use one of his healing tricks learned in Asshai, but still she thought, It is your touch that is causing my aching. Soon, the Lorathi's fingers were kneading and pressing on all the necessary places and before long, her pain had lessened.
"I am really most fortunate to have gotten you as my master," the girl sighed, relaxing into him more fully.
"Indeed?" her mentor asked conversationally, thinking back on his choice; his coin; his lovely girl as a child in a blood-smeared shift, barefoot and so small behind the melted, black walls of that desolate castle. Luck had had little to do with it.
"Mmm," she responded affirmatively, closing her eyes. Her master took her hands in his own and then wrapped their arms around her middle, which had the effect of surrounding her in a cocoon of arms. He nuzzled her gently behind her ear for a while before he spoke again.
"A man has been meaning to ask you about something his handsome brother said recently. Something about a kiss?"
At her pause, Jaqen believed his lovely girl to be confused by the reference and he felt an embarrassing amount of relief as he thought, She doesn't know anything about it. He was lying.
"A kiss between a man's brother and you," he clarified as an afterthought, feeling light.
"Which one?"
"Which one?" the assassin nearly choked in disbelief. "Lovely girl, how many of these kisses have there been?"
Her eyes rolled upward and to the left, narrowing a bit as she chewed her lip in concentration, trying to recall. How many had there been? she wondered and her nose wrinkled in the most charming way.
"Let's see... the corridor at Biro's, most surprising and unpleasant," she recounted under her breath. "Mattine's cell, that's twice... Here, in this bed, three. No, wait, maybe four... five? Well, it depends on how you count them. What do you consider a kiss, anyway? Well, really, I was half-asleep so I can't be certain..."
The casual way she flipped through the occurrences in her head astonished him. How had he known nothing of this?
"What does a girl mean by here, in this bed when she was half-asleep?" he demanded, a bit more stridently than he had intended. It had been a while since Jaqen H'ghar had been truly shocked by anything, and it was taking him a moment to adjust to the uncomfortable sensation. "Why was this handsome master in a girl's chamber as she slept?"
He felt an unfamiliar emotion rising up within him just then. He could not put a name to it, but he had begun to sense it more and more lately, and this time, it brought with it a sort of vague intention, gnawing at his edges, trying to burrow into his core; a desire that he recognized as murderous, and his own undisciplined response startled him. He drew in a deep breath in an attempt to rule his thoughts, and awaited her reply.
"He came to wake me up, to train," she said cautiously, sensing her master's tension. "This was the day he stared at me through the midday meal as if he wanted to stab me."
Jaqen chuckled in spite of himself.
"Ah, the day a willful girl neglected to attend her training."
"Well, it was as much your fault as mine!" the girl insisted. "You see? This is why love is weakness. I was too consumed with my thoughts of you to remember my duty!"
"That is a serious charge, lovely girl," the assassin chided. "A man is no thief, yet you accuse him of stealing your concentration."
"I only speak the truth," she whispered, and a tinge of desolation colored her voice, "though I am powerless to do anything about it."
He had meant to drill her more about this abundance of kisses it seemed she had received from her new master, but her tone stopped him. To hear her admit, in her own way, that she loved him, and then for her to sound so bleak on the heels of such an admission, disturbed him. He drew their arms more tightly around her middle and placed a kiss on her jaw. The girl turned her face instinctively toward his and their lips met, her mouth opening a little as she sighed into him. Jaqen traced the soft margin of his lovely girl's upper lip lightly with his tongue, but stopped and withdrew from her as her breath hitched. He did not wish to frighten her.
"Oh," she whispered, "I wish you would never stop. Never never never…" Her voice trailed off, leaving only a soft suggestion of her want in the air around them.
She doesn't understand what she's saying, the assassin reminded himself.
Jaqen kept his arms wrapped securely around the girl's slight frame, but he leaned his head back against the hard wood of the headboard, keeping his lips a safe distance from her soft skin. Arya gave him a small, humming whine of protest but did not persist after she heard him laughing lightly. She had matters she wished to discuss with him, and as glorious as the feel of his lips was, kissing her master did limit her capacity for conversation.
"I'm glad you are here," she began softly.
"No more than a man," he assured her.
"No, I mean, I have been needing to speak with you, but have had little opportunity."
"Oh! Well, then, a man is at your disposal," Jaqen said in an officious tone.
"Olive is dead," she began, and he was surprised to detect a slight quivering in her voice. "And Will. And Staaviros."
"Yes," the assassin acknowledged. He had known that they would eventually discuss this, but he silently cursed that it had to be now. He waited for her to continue.
"And it was done by the Bear's hand."
"The serving girl, yes. The others were not his work."
She considered the information for a moment, not shocked that Jaqen possessed such knowledge but dreading what she had to ask him next.
"Were they… your work?"
He sighed, regretting the hurt in her words but also unable to deny the part of him that was a Faceless master; the part that knew she was an acolyte; the part that needed to affirm that his lovely girl understood she should not be troubled by these things.
"Would it disturb a girl if it had been a man's work?"
"So you're saying it wasn't?"
"No, lovely girl. This thing was not done by a man's hand, though you will recall that a man once told you such things must be witnessed."
"You were there," she stated flatly.
"Just so."
She blew out a long breath and slumped a little.
"Was there no other way?" the girl whispered.
"This is not for you to question," her master reminded her a bit coldly. It pained him, but she needed to remember her place in the order, lest her hesitations and questioning be viewed as disrespect.
And what will your own disregard for your master's instruction be regarded as, if not disrespect? a voice from deep inside of him queried. He pushed the thought aside, thinking only of his desire for his lovely girl to understand the need for her acceptance of the ways of the order; unwilling to admit that what they did now was folly.
"I know, but I cannot help myself," she replied, sounding forlorn. "They were so kind to me. They helped me, at a time when it wasn't safe for me to be here."
The Lorathi recalled very well. He pressed his lips into her hair and rocked her gently from side to side, hoping the gesture would give her some comfort.
"A man had feared a girl would be asked to do this thing," he murmured, and then instantly cursed his loose tongue.
"What do you mean?" the apprentice asked in confusion.
"When it became clear that the order was not bringing your friend who is no knight to Braavos, it seemed logical that you would be asked to give the gift to this tavern wench. A man is pleased that this did not turn out to be the case, for he knows how attached you were to the girl."
"My friend who is no knight? Gendry? But… why would the order care about Gendry?" she demanded, furrowing her brow. "Wait… why would you think the order meant to bring Gendry here?"
"A man was mistaken," he said, pulling one hand free of hers to smooth her hair and sweep it back gently behind her ear. He leaned over and nibbled at that ear, as she had done to him that morning. She recognized his attempt to distract her and shrugged away from him, pulling completely free of his arms and turning in her bed, facing him on her knees.
"Jaqen," she said seriously, "what in the Seven bloody Hells are you talking about?"
"Sweet child, you have still to earn your face."
"So?" she said, her brow still wrinkled in confusion. She felt a chill creeping up her spine. Slowly, understanding dawned on her and her heart felt like ice.
"Lovely girl," the assassin half-warned, half-pled.
"The Rat killed Robert Stone… Was he… was the master mummer somehow connected to the Rat?"
Even as she asked the question, she knew the answer. The Rat had come to the temple after running away from or perhaps being abandoned by a mummers' troupe as a young child. She could well guess who had been the leader of that troupe.
"And then the Bear killed Olive," the girl added slowly, her mouth opening to gasp as she looked at Jaqen's expressionless face, "but you had thought I might be asked to…"
Arya withdrew further from her master, sliding off her heels until her bottom rested on her mattress and her back abutted the footboard of her bed. She lifted her eyes to Jaqen's and waited for him to deny the suspicion behind her words.
"You were going to allow me to sacrifice Gendry," she finally spoke. "You thought that was what the order would direct me to do and you didn't warn me. You would have let me kill him!"
Her own anger surprised her. Did she care so much for Gendry, or was she just upset that Jaqen had told her nothing; had not warned her? She was angry, whatever the cause, her eyes blazing like molten steel, her breaths coming in short, noisy bursts from her nose. She thought her mentor might retreat from her anger; that he might make some apology or at least give her an explanation laced with guilt and apology. This was not to be so.
"A man cares nothing for this boy who is no knight!" Jaqen hissed. "There is only one thing a man cares about, and that is Arya Stark!"
She was taken aback by the vehemence of his words; by his use of her name, in this place.
"A thousand bastard knights could be sacrificed at the altar of your safety! Do you think a man would weep for them? If his lovely girl was safe and protected? Do you think a man would feel guilt for this? Anyone who would do you harm, a man would kill! Any action that could be undertaken to prevent that harm, a man would perform! Any sacrifice that must be made, a man would make it!"
The girl gaped at her master, stunned to silence and stillness.
It was sacrilege. Jaqen was a true believer and yet here he was, professing his own heresy, spectacularly, and all for her sake.
There was a gravity to his words that she grasped and yet still could not fully fathom; could not fully reconcile. She danced at the edges of understanding, afraid that in shedding her ignorance, she would be unable to avoid succumbing to the despair that would accompany the knowledge. The idea refused to shrink from her, though. The idea demanded recognition; insisted on being defined. It was the idea that he... loved her, in the deepest, truest way a man could love a girl... a woman. He was giving verity to that which she had always known to be a lie; that in their own dark and strange way, they were Florian and Jonquil. They were the living embodiment of the tales of gallant knights and lovelorn ladies; sacrificing all for love, against all reason and sense; forsaking all that had defined their lives, especially his, heedless of the immense consequences to be borne; without regard for the heavy price that would be demanded of them.
With one seething declaration, Jaqen had turned her world on its head. She could never have dreamed that his dedication to her was so complete; could have never hoped for it; could never have believed the depths of terror such dedication would instill in her.
A feeling rose in her; something akin to panic. She looked at her master's face, at his stony and resolute expression, and the reality of what he had said crashed in on her like a great, icy avalanche. A single thought grabbed her, invading her mind and refusing to free her from the fear it evoked.
I shall lose him. I shall lose him. I shall lose him. I shall lose him!
This declaration of his… this assertion…
The absurdity of it! The complete and utter nonsense of it all! It was the most immense foolishness and the greatest folly.
She burst out laughing, a deep, hoarse, throaty sound, startling in its force. She laughed and laughed and laughed until she cried and then she cried until she sobbed.
"Oh, Jaqen," she choked out through her tears. "We really are doomed." Echoes of her words in the garden.
He reached for her and pulled her to him, pressing his face into her hair, inhaling deeply as he closed his eyes and let her, the scent of her, the feel of her pervade his senses.
"A man knows this, lovely girl. A man knows."
Jaqen had left her shortly after that, pressing a sweet kiss upon her brow at the last, but it did little to assuage her fears. The girl was powerless against the strength of her master's love of her. She felt utterly torn, utterly bereft, for she could not walk away from him (and did not want to) without destroying herself (and him as well, according to his own pronouncement), but she knew that if she did not walk away from him, their destruction at the hands of the order was assured. She felt it. The truth of it was heavy in her bones. What was she to do with this deep and unrelenting knowing?
About her trial, she had drawn her own conclusions from the little he had said to her, and also from what he did not deny as she spoke. That she would need to kill in order to earn her face was not surprising, but that she would have to kill someone she knew, perhaps even someone she cared for, was an undeniable shock. It was something that was strictly at odds with what she knew of the rules of the order. Had she not served at council meetings, listening in silence to the masters refuse assignments because they knew the intended target? Only when a master who did notknow the name offered up for death could be found, would the task be assigned.
Earning a face, it seemed, was a different prospect altogether.
But who in Braavos did she know who might suffice for such a test? Jaqen told her that the order had not brought Gendry from Westeros, though he had believed they might (an indication of how far the order was willing to go to support its precious rituals). And she knew the blue-eyed knight to be safe, anyway, with Nymeria at his side, if her dreams were to be believed. So, who was left to her? Vorena? Lidia? Some of the whores along Ragman's who had been indulgent of her when she was just a scrawny child pedaling Brusco's daily offerings?
Brusco, she thought with a chill. His daughters, the bedmates of her youth.
Would the order ever make such a sacrifice? Brusco had proven himself to be a useful person to the Faceless Men, but that had not saved Staaviros. Still, she did not think it likely that she would be asked to give the gift to the fishmonger, nor to his daughters.
She swallowed hard, feeling more and more uneasy as another name crept into her thoughts. She clenched her eyes shut as if in pain, not wanting to think of it but unable to stop herself.
"Syrio," she whispered.
As the Cat struggled with unpleasant thoughts in her cell, her master walked the corridor toward his own bedchamber hoping that his having seen his lovely girl would allow him some peace so that he might once again sleep. However, before he reached his door, he was confronted by his handsome brother leaving his own chamber, fully dressed.
The smirking master stopped short, surprised to see the Lorathi before him, but recovered quickly.
"Valar morghulis, brother. You are certainly up late," the handsome man observed, curling one corner of his mouth up, taking on his familiar sardonic expression.
"Valar dohaeris, brother. A man might say the same of you."
"Just so. I wonder if we are awake for the same reason?" Here, the teasing master's smile widened a bit.
"A man does not imagine so," Jaqen replied icily. "Or, at least, he fervently hopes not. For your own sake."
The handsome man's eyebrows shot up and he regarded his brother carefully, saying, "Indeed? I am most gratified that you are so concerned for my well-being, brother. I hope you will likewise be gratified to know that I am taking very particular care of your apprentice."
"So a man hears," the Lorathi replied with a quiet menace, clearly not convinced of his brother's altruistic intentions.
"Oh? Well, do not worry, brother. I intend to continue my close attentions."
Jaqen tilted his head slightly, examining his brother's smug expression before he spoke.
"A man does not worry, and he will remember this kindness," Jaqen assured the handsome man ominously. After a thoughtful moment, he added, "A man will endeavor to repay you for it... properly."
The handsome master bowed his head toward his brother in acknowledgment, saying, "I look forward to that day, brother."
And then he was gone.
All the peace Jaqen had garnered with his late night visit to his apprentice's cell had fled, and he was left wondering, once again, about the circumstances which had led to his brother's close attentions to his lovely girl; wondering which circumstances would justify a handsome man's lips touching a girl's flesh.
With the girl's particular gift for quibbling, she convinced herself that unsanctioned late night activities were not the same as unsanctioned early morning activities and so she dressed quickly, pulling on her boots over her fitted breeches, slipping a blade into the narrow pocket. In the grey before the day had dawned, the Cat slipped over the garden wall in her usual way, her actions witnessed only by the black and white tom which followed her through the garden door. As she dropped to the other side, she looked grimly at the sky, wondering how quickly she could make it to the harbor and back. She would not be easy until she laid eyes upon Syrio, and she knew just where to find him; him and his cart of cockles and mussels and fish. The handsome man had given her no instruction for the morning, and so he could not be angry with her for leaving the temple, she thought, but without much conviction.
The girl jogged most of the way there, using the exercise as an outlet for her nerves and her apprehension. As ever, there were multiple concerns buzzing in her skull just then, and she could not focus on one without it being superseded by another. Running freed her from the need to think. She concentrated then only on her breathing, on the feel of the cobblestones and earth beneath the soles of her boots, on the sun breaking the horizon and painting it with brilliant colors. When at last she reached the place she thought Syrio was like to be, she spotted him in the distance, his dark mop barely showing over the top of the cart.
He's so young, she thought. She strode toward him.
"Cockles? Mussels? Fish, pretty lady?" he asked as she drew close, favoring her with his shy smile.
He does not know me, she thought. He only knows Mattine.
"What do you recommend, young master?" she asked pleasantly in perfect Braavosi, perusing his offerings.
"It's all fresh," the boy assured her. "My master just sent me out not half an hour ago from the market."
"Ah, well then, I'd best have as many of your cockles as you can fit in a sack. I shall take them to my cook!"
"You have a cook?" the boy asked, making polite talk as he filled her order.
"Indeed. Some say the best in Braavos," she replied. "Umma is her name. She is the cook in the House of Black and White."
"The House of Black and White?" the boy asked excitedly, stopping his work. "I have been there! I ate her food! The honey cakes! They were one of the best things I have ever eaten!"
"Only one of the best things?" the girl chided. "Don't let Umma hear you say that, she's like to swat your bottom!"
"Well, it's the truth," he insisted steadfastly. "They were very good, but my friend Mattine once made a crab and cheese pie that was the best thing I have ever eaten."
"Oh, did she?" the Cat asked the boy, smiling fondly at him.
"Yes! She's the reason I was even there," he confided. "In the temple, that is. She brought me there."
He looked up at the acolyte hopefully.
"I asked after her the next day, but no one had heard of her. Do you know her? Do you know Mattine?"
The Cat dropped to one knee, looking into the boy's dark, sincere eyes and said, "Yes. Yes, I know Mattine. She is my friend."
The boy gasped in delight, clapping his two hands together.
"Oh! Then you can tell me where she is!"
"Well, yes, that's why I am here," the apprentice told the boy. "She asked me to find you, and to let you know that she had to travel far and away, back to her mother's family, in Myr."
"Oh," Syrio replied sadly, his eyes dropping to the ground. He looked deflated.
"But she told me, well, she asked me, rather, to keep an eye on you. She wanted me to make sure you were safe and happy."
"Oh! Well, I am," the boy assured her. "I'm six, so I can take good care of myself. I'm nearly all grown up now."
The Cat bit back her smile, nodding at him with a serious look.
"And Brusco lets me sleep on a soft palate in his kitchen, near the hearth," he continued. "It's warm there."
"I see now that it was silly of Mattine to worry for you," the girl told Syrio. "I shall certainly send word to her in Myr and let her know that you are quite capable of caring for yourself."
"Just so," the boy said, and in her mind, it was as if it was the first time she was hearing that turn of phrase, when Syrio Forel had uttered it to her as they discussed water dancing. She choked back the sudden tears she felt attempting to form. Don't be stupid, she told herself, forcing her lips to form a smile as she gazed at the boy.
"Just the same," she told him, and he noted that her voice had taken on an odd quality, but he could not name it, "if you should find yourself in need of anything, you have only to come to the temple and ask for the Cat."
"The Cat," he repeated. "Is that you? You're the Cat?"
"Just so," she whispered, and then startled the boy by placing a quick kiss upon his cheek as she rose. "Take care, Syrio."
"And you, Cat!" the boy returned, handing her a bag of cockles. She placed more coin in his hand than was required for the purchase, and then left him there, on the docks.
While it was true that the Cat should have been paying more attention to her surroundings than to her thoughts about Syrio and her final trial (and her master's tongue, which had also asserted itself and its recent employment as a matter of great importance, demanding its due consideration), it was also true that it was not strictly necessary for the handsome man to wrench her arm quite so forcefully as he grabbed her and pulled her into a narrow alley between a rather disreputable inn and a winesink just off Ragman's.
"Well, little wolf, you have once again astounded me with your capacity for defiance," he growled, pressing her into the brick of the alley wall quite firmly.
She gauged his mood, then her own, and settled on utilizing her specially honed talent for impudence.
"I am glad that I still have the power to astound you, master," she replied sweetly, a small smile playing on her lips. "Though I can profess no knowledge of what you mean by asserting I have shown any defiance."
"No unsanctioned late night activities," he reminded her through gritted teeth. "No missed meals."
"As I recall, it was no missed suppers," the Cat retorted. "And as the sun has already risen, you can hardly claim this as a late night activity."
The girl reminded him too much of himself just then, and he recalled vaguely how she had once assured him that his words would not pour forth from her mouth. It had not occurred to him that he should have hoped she was right.
"Let me be clear, then," the master said, intending to state again his expectations of her.
"Oh, please be clear," the apprentice sarcastically begged, irritating him immensely with her interruption. The handsome man had had enough. He flipped the girl around, her chest pressed hard against the wall as he leaned into her, wrapping one arm around her neck and covering her insolent mouth with his palm. His other arm he looped around her elbows, pulling them back against him so that she could not move.
"This feels... familiar," he commented, jerking her arms harder as she struggled. She dropped her bag of cockles then. "Once again, it seems you have allowed yourself to be pinned. I thought I had taught you better, little wolf. We obviously have work to do in the training room."
She could not speak, but the meaning of the growl that emanated from her throat was fairly apparent.
"Now, as I was saying, you seem to require that what I expect of you be more explicitly stated, so here it is: go nowhere unless you inform me first. Do not miss meals," here, he glanced down at the bag of cockles, then amended, "do not miss meals in the temple, unless you are in the company of a master about town. And speaking of masters," he moved his mouth close to her ear and said in a low voice, "there is a certain master with whom you have been instructed to have no interaction. See that you obey this command."
The Cat's heart lurched a bit at these words and she wondered if the handsome man knew something or if he merely spoke generally.
"Disobedience has consequences, little wolf," the assassin reminded the acolyte, echoing the Kindly Man's words to her, "the likes of which you cannot begin to imagine."
The girl grew very still beneath the press of the master's body and her mind grasped desperately at the stillness that eluded her.
"No need to speak," he assured her. "Just nod if you understand all I have said."
He felt her nod into the hand at her mouth, and, satisfied, he released her. She turned around and leaned back against the wall, one leg bent, pressing the sole of her boot against the brick in a casual posture. The Cat eyed the master coolly, giving no indication of being bothered by what had just transpired or by his very nearness, for her bent knee was just brushing the outside of his own. She resisted the impulse to cross her arms over her chest, not wishing to give the appearance of defensiveness or discomfort. Instead, she ran one thumb over her mouth thoughtfully as she hooked the other over the waist of her breeches. Her fingers tapped lightly at the top of her pocket; the pocket containing her slim dagger.
"What are you doing about town?" the Cat inquired breezily. "I know it could not be in pursuit of a wayward acolyte, since it is not for you to come find me. You are the master here, after all."
She had the most vexing habit of parroting the words of others back to them when it was least like to please them.
The handsome man looked somewhat less handsome when he allowed that sour frown to mar his comely features. He stepped closer to her, the inside of her bent leg now pressed against the side of his thigh. The master grasped the thumb that was tracing her own lip and pulled it away, sliding his hand over her wrist and gently pressing the back of her hand against the wall next to her shoulder.
"Careful now," he warned in a low tone, "disobedience isn't the only thing that has consequences."
"Forgive me, master," the Cat responded in a voice burgeoning with youth and innocence and apology; so much so that he snorted at its sheer excess. "I only wondered if perhaps you had come out to buy cockles for Umma. I'd hate for us both to show up to the temple bearing the same gift."
"Are you batting your eyelashes at me, little wolf?" the assassin scoffed. "If you wish to know whether or not I came here to do some harm to your pot boy, you have only to ask."
"Well?" she asked, ceasing her wheedling and taking on a demanding tone. Her fingers slipped into her pocket, gripping lightly at the top of her knife hilt. With one swift motion, the handsome man had captured that wrist, too, and pressed it next to her other shoulder, leaning harder against her.
"No, my girl, I did not come out to the docks at some ungodly hour to cause any harm to a toddler."
"Don't let him hear you call him that," the Cat advised, smirking at the thought. He's nearly all grown up now; he said so. "Why did you come here, then?"
"Oh, little wolf, need I say it? Some secrets, a man would keep for himself," he mocked. "Not every task I perform for the order is yours to know about."
"I'm not your girl," she finally muttered, rather weakly to his ear, as if she was unable to think of else to say.
"No, I think we've established that," he commented. "It's merely a turn of phrase. Why does it trouble you so? Are you, perhaps, less certain than you seem? Is that why you need to continually reassert the fact?"
"What? What are you even…"
"Have you discussed it with him?"
"Discussed what?" the apprentice demanded, allowing a little anger to creep into her voice. Belatedly, she added, "And who is him?"
The handsome man smirked at that last.
"I can understand your confusion," he continued sympathetically, ignoring her questions and the developing scowl on her face. "You are so very young, after all. How can you be expected to understand what it is that you want?"
"Ugh! What are you talking about!"
"Those feelings, at your age, they are only natural," the master said soothingly. "Just because you tremble when I kiss you…"
Her barking laugh interrupted him.
"Tremble? Bah! I never! As I recall, I laughed. Uncontrollably!"
"Oh, yes," he pretended to recall. "In Mattine's cell. But I was referring to the morning I woke you with a kiss after shaking your shoulders repeatedly did me no good. I recall then that you shivered rather than laughed."
"But… but…" she sputtered, suddenly mortified, "that was because I thought you were…"
The girl sucked her breath in quickly, stopping herself just in time.
The handsome man leaned his face close to hers, brushing along her jaw lightly with his nose and his lips. She closed her eyes and willed herself to breath evenly, not allowing any shivering or trembling to betray her.
"You thought I was…?" he prompted, the end of his words a question. She remained silent. His lips found the spot on her neck just beneath the angle of her jaw and he breathed gently into her ear. She might have mastery of her shivering, but she could do aught to prevent gooseprickles from forming on her neck and arms then. He continued in a bare whisper, supplying the answer for her. "You thought I was Jaqen? And why, my girl, would you think that? Was he, perhaps, expected?"
How had she allowed it to come to this? Had her master not warned her against crossing the handsome man? She silently admonished herself for her own foolishness.
The Cat shook her head slightly in answer to his question, inadvertently causing the assassin's nose to nuzzle her. That shiver she could not suppress as she had not been prepared for it.
"No," she answered, her voice steadier than she would have believed possible, "he was not expected. I was…"
"You were…"
"I was dreaming," she lied, latching onto the deep blue of Gendry's eyes. "A boy I knew once… in Westeros."
"A boy? In Westeros? A boy who happens to be named Jaqen?" he prodded, recalling the name she had spoken as she shuddered under the touch of his lips; the name that had interrupted his… attentions.
"No. A boy named… well, never mind his name, but in my dream, Jaqen was warning me against him. That's when you showed up."
"Ah, I see. So it was all perfectly innocent." His smile informed her that he did not believe a word she had said. She struck back, hoping to distract him from his current accusing tack.
"No, it was not all perfectly innocent. There was the part where a master snuck into my cell while I was sleeping and assaulted me in my bed. That part was certainly less than innocent."
"Always so dramatic, little wolf," the handsome man complained, releasing her and walking backwards until he was leaning against the opposite wall. "As I recall, you were only half asleep and you didn't seem to react negatively to my kisses until I stopped them."
What he said was technically true, which made it all the more infuriating. The Cat merely rolled her eyes at him, though, before asking what it was he wanted of her today. The master chuckled.
"Sometimes, my girl, you make it far too easy."
Here, she finally did cross her arms over her chest, giving the assassin her most disdainful look. In return, he gave her an easy smile, one that looked genuine.
"Come, little wolf. Let's get back to the temple. You can give Umma your gift and in exchange, perhaps she'll find you some bread and cheese since you missed her breakfast. After that, I'll teach you a few counters to the moves I just used against you. Perhaps next time we meet in an alley, you won't embarrass yourself so thoroughly."
The girl frowned at the japing master, but, acknowledging that such instruction was sure to prove useful, she gathered her sack of shellfish and followed the handsome man back to the House of Black and White, feeling rather light-hearted after learning that Syrio was safe and seemed like to remain so.
Not With Haste—Mumford and Sons (And I will love with urgency but not with haste)
Til Kingdom Come—Coldplay
