Training at any Cost

Arya

The captain had let her board, no questions asked. She didn't miss The Hound but she wished him well. The coin coupled with the simple phrase, Valar Morghulis had brought a tinge of fear to the captain's eyes. A small part of her felt satisfaction at his reaction. Love no more. But she would become fearsome. She would grow strong, then make them all pay.


The crossing of the Narrow Sea was a blur.

One hard-tack meal, one shallow sleep on her filthy cot, one chore on the decks after another.

It all passed without incident, she paid her way and got through the time.

Most were frightened of her, some were fascinated. Her refusal to react or flinch soon made them hesitant enough to gift her a wide berth. She appreciated that. She had nothing to offer these men except a growl and a kick to the gut. She'd run plumb-out of patience and compassion. Leaving Sandor behind was the last of her kindness used up. She didn't even harbor any guilt for the hurt look on his face.

It was best.

It was all she was capable of.

Arya Stark had weaknesses.

Her new self did not.

She had just about managed her sea-legs when they made port.

A young Arya would have been awe-struck by the sights, smells, and sounds of this new land.

It was warm like King's Landing, but the breeze that came off the water countered the heaviness of it. The colors people wore, so different from Winterfell. Most Northerners didn't bother with flashy fabrics and intricate designs when the wind howled and the snow crusted the ground. Here there were bright costumes and unorthodox shapes, beaded fringe that jangled, flowy fabrics that trailed behind the wearer yards long, headpieces with alternate faces laughing from each angle, and women clad in trousers and rugged boots like her. She took in the last with an arched brow.

It wasn't difficult to find the Order of the Faceless Men. It was closed up tight, like a fortress. The stones that made up its walls were simple, but the patterns engraved on the doorframes were unlike any she'd witnessed. She waited, and watched. She saw two men stop before the door, leaving offerings on the doorstep. No one came to receive the gifts, nor did anyone dare to steal them. A woman limped to the doors, she wailed and pounded for entry. Arya couldn't understand her words, but she could recognize the desperation. The doors open, she takes the offerings with her, and hobbles inside. The doors shut once more.

What was this place exactly? What was the nature of their power?

She'd seen Jaqen, how easily he'd killed, the way he changed faces. He'd told her to come. To learn for herself. She wasn't sure now.

But she'd come all this way.

And she had nothing else.

She gathers her courage and walks steadily toward the entrance. Just a few steps in and the doors open of their own accord, waiting for her. She hesitates no further. If this is to be her end, so be it.

An old man in nondescript robes stands to greet her. He is ancient, but he looks content, no discomfort to be seen. He welcomes her in wordlessly.

There are great cleansing pools, many lost souls crowded around them. The limping woman is perched in its edge, greedily dipping shaking fingers into their depths. She cups the droplets she can manage and brings the contents to her lips, sucking up the moisture. She falls, like others who drank. Separate robed figures carry them off with grace and practice.

She looks from face to face. No fear, no fight, only acceptance. They want this. She can understand. She couldn't have before, but now…

Her eye catches on a familiar figure hovering in the stairwell.

Jaqen.

She's not exactly happy to see him, or even relieved. But she had reached the end of her search, there was catharsis in that. He nods as if asking her to follow.

She does. Then up stairs glowing with rich candlelight. Down corridors that wind and turn with no apparent pattern.

"A girl has come at last." How had he gotten behind her?

"I promised I would."

"And yet it was not an easy choice." He observes.

"Was it meant to be?"

"Always so witty, quite humorous."

"I didn't come to entertain you." He smiles at that, looking even more handsome, not that she cares about such things.

"Of course not. Understood. Come on then."

He leads her through multiple corridors, it's hard to keep track. She has to stay in-step not to get lost, and he is quite a bit taller than her, longer strides.

She's given a tiny room, a flat cot was set in the corner, a small dresser with a wash basin atop it, and an unadorned mirror hanging above. What an odd accompaniment to such a sparse room. It suited her fine.

It was before the break of dawn that she was awoken and expected to begin her training. They had her bathe and prepare the bodies of the newly dead. They set her to work, expecting to hear groans and complaints. But it was nothing to her. She did it without incident. She was methodical, precise, and thorough. The only time she became discomfited was at the corpse of a young man, black curly hair, slight of stature. He so reminded her of Jon that her hands shook as she set about her work. The only way she could continue on was to imagine someone else caring for her dear brother and the tenderness and respect she would have them provide. She carried on.

Next they taught her poisons and droughts. Some, she recognized from her earlier training. Some she knew but under different names. They taught her speaking only High Valyrian, the captions beneath the detailed pictures written in an unfamiliar tongue. Herbs to numb, concoctions to make the muscles seize, ungents to cause rashes and swelling, and elixirs to thin the blood and keep the wounds from healing. Her tutors were varied, Jaqen rarely paid her attention, but she was so busy she hardly noticed. They were all quite impressed with her progress and set her to determining potions by smell and effect alone.

All but one acolyte. The Waif, she was called. The girl showed no appreciation, nor emotion of any kind. Arya expected no friendliness per se, but she found her lack of affectation unnerving. Still, she was hardly invested enough to feel hurt.

She graduated from poisons quickly. She was to be trained in the style of fighting unique to Braavos. No bandying heavy broadswords about, covered in thick armor to slow her down, no. She was given form fitting trousers and a figure-hugging tunic in an all-together miraculous if not too showy fabric. It was a well-treated leather intertwined with tendon and silk. She could move better than she ever had in her brother's clothes. She was tasked with running around the grounds, scaling the walls and roofs. She practiced crawling through narrow passageways without brushing the sides. She was asked to balance for hours on one foot, on precarious beams, over a long fall. Her muscles burned and it was all she could do to crawl into her cot at night before being awoken to do it all again the next dawn. The pain she got used to, the bruises and scrapes were commonplace, but the stiffness became a hinderance. She snuck down to the potions room to mix an ointment to soothe her stiff muscles. It felt odd to mix something meant to heal rather than harm. So much so that she hesitated in soothing herself, so used to the discomfort. But the thought of stalling in her training gave her permission to ease the pain. She dedicated herself doubly hard the next day.

Before practicing striking blows, she practiced evading them. In this, The Waif showed a hint of pleasure. She was struck until she could effectively move out of the way, battered until she could redirect the force of the staff. She learned to detect a twitch of muscle, to notice her opponent's eyes seek their target. She could predict a blow and move out of its path easily. She smirked at The Waif's irritation. Then she began striking back. It took some time before she caused The Waif pain.

It took even more time, she had lost track of such things, but her training progressed steadily. They gave her weapons. She only learned by watching what the others did and mimicking the motions. They never corrected her, but she could sense when she was successful or not. Slight corrections until she got it right. She made contact, but it wasn't enough. She made her targets smaller and smaller- the center of a left shoulder, the back of the right knee, directly above the kidney, base of the spine, dead on the nose, or the weakest part of the ankle. She didn't just make contact, she struck hard, and she had to be fast, raining multiple blows before her opponent could block or react. She expected annoyance, but her trainers only looked pleased.

As a reward, Jaqen took her down to the shore. He bought her cockles and sweet ice. They walked along the ports, past ancient buildings and grizzly sailors. But she wasn't fooled. This was not some fun diversion, but a test. What test?

"What do you see?" Jaquen asks as she is mid-bite on her sweet ice shavings.

"What am I meant to see?" She asks rather than give the wrong response.

They sit in a well-kept tavern, the whores are clean cut, and the roast is rich.

He orders them two ales and passes her one. He raises his as if to toast. She smells it. There's something. The hint of sour beneath the hops. He smiles at her caution.

"This isn't just a friendly night out, as you have surmised."

"What is this? I can't place it." She questions outright.

"If you want entrance into The Hall of Faces, you will drink it." He waits for her to make her choice.

With a resigned sigh, she drinks.

"A girl is brave. It has always been so." He compliments.

"Foolish." She wipes her lips on her sleeve. "What was that?"

He pushes back his chair as if to rise.

"You must be back in 3 nightfalls, with 3 adventures to share, no more no less." He digs around in his purse and leaves the contents on the table. He orders something for her from the serving girl. "Good luck." He's standing now.

She sits jaw-slacked for a moment before taking the extra coins off the table. Jaqen was gone. A wave of dizziness sets in. The dizziness gives way to stabbing pain in her temples.

What the fuck had he given her!?

Everything fades in and out, the haze getting heavier. A few moments more and she recognizes what was in the ale- volypsum weed, it weakened the nerves behind the eye. She was blind.

Her heart beat too fast to let her rest. She could handle this. She could survive for 3 days. She'd been through worse. But she'd always been able to see what was in front of her.

Soon, there is only black.

She begins to panic, but remembers her training and counts her breath. On breath number 326, she was calm enough to plan and move forward. She listened to the laughter and footfall of the other patrons. She counted 27 others, 13 men. Simple enough. She counted the steps to the door. She learned to sense the walls so she didn't have to count. It only took a change of mind to utilize her training, she could gauge her surroundings without sight. She can do this, she can survive.

The girl deposits a hearty stew before her and requests payment. She does not let on that she cannot see, focusing on the source of the girl. She counts out the correct coins by the feel of the markings on the edges, and it's everything Jaquen had left her. She eats her fill and determines her next step.

She walks out into the brisk mid-day air. She can smell the sea in one direction, and roasting meats, the other. She knew the docks well, so she heads West to the shore.

She walks down the cobblestones, knocking into a few strangers as she passes, some even mutter curses at her. She feels an arm drag her into an ally. The strong scent of whiskey and a cruel laugh make her situation clear. The feeling of being dragged along coupled with the panic of not seeing his face nearly undo her. He pins her to the wall and gropes around in her dress. She feels his stubbled chin scratch her throat and she calms down as she remembers herself. With one hand free, she uses the flat of her palm to crush his windpipe. As he gasps for breath she pushes him off his center of balance and he clutches his throat while wriggling on the ground. She waits to hear his breathing and thrashing stop. She checks his pockets. She steps over his body and continues on her path. She recognizes a few voices, smells the cockles she'd become so familiar with.

She knows a merchant's shop around the corner, she makes a place for herself behind the refuge. The nip of the rats wakes her between hazy dreams.

A fleet-footed figure attacks her. The taunts identify the attacker as The Waif. The recognition does not soothe her in the slightest. The woman beats her to a pulp, she hobbles out to the shore, a kind fishmonger offers her some ice to press against her swellings. The birds dive at her for the scent of fish guts. She cracks back with the ice and they leave her be. She ends up sleeping with an empty stomach.

Arya is ready for the next attack, she remembers herself, and fends off The Waif. This only makes the woman angrier. Arya times a blow that knocks her opponent back, she listens closely, but it takes time for The Waif to right herself. The chimes ring out, reminding her of the deadline.

She can feel the air growing colder on her skin, the sun is setting on her back. The Waif redoubles her efforts, and Arya must fight her, slowing down her progress. Up the cobblestones she walks, anxious to return to the Temple before the sun is down and she loses her position. Another strike, Arya stops to break the Waif's right arm. A deep scream rings out. Up and on Arya stumbles, her vision unreturned but a faint fogginess on the periphery.

She makes it back to the House of Black and White, she can feel the death surrounding the walls. She bangs on the heavy front doors, yelling for someone to open the doors before the time ends. The sun sets and the doors swing open.

"A girl has returned." She recognizes Jaqen's voice and presence.

"Was there ever a doubt?" She retorts as she follows him back to her rooms.

She detects a smile in his reply. "None."

She is back in her old quarters and she is relieved.

"Rest now. The final training begins tomorrow."

She barely has time to ponder the significance of such a statement but she has fallen asleep, a small smile on her face remembering the crack of the Waif's bone and the resounding scream.

She awakes and sees the sunlight streaming through the curtains. She can see it. Her head hurts a bit from trying to focus and adjusting to the light, but she can see once again.

Gingerly she gets up to look at herself in the mirror. She looks a horror. There's a bath set up and she makes use of it. No sooner has she finished scrubbing herself clean than a knock sounds at the door. Before she can think about covering herself, a servant brings in a plate of bread and cheese and fresh clothes for her to change into.

The unfamiliar servant doesn't even attempt to watch her change and she wouldn't care besides. She is past such things. She rips into the bread and cheese, hungrier than she thought.

He is Jaqen now, she is not surprised, and he takes her to the secret hall. The room she'd never been allowed to enter. She feels appropriate awe at the door. Inside are rows upon rows of faces, hung in expressions of sleep and peace.

"The Hall of Faces." He explains. "The dead give us this gift. We become them to carry out our work as we put ourselves aside. You have proven yourself ready to join us, but the choice must be yours. Is that your wish?" He leaves the question hanging in the air. This was what she'd been training for, what she'd come all this way for, what she'd been praying for as she recited the names in her head. She wanted this.

"Yes." She answers confidently.

"Then choose your first face, and choose carefully." He instructs her.

She searches the faces on the wall, trying to glean some sort of insight in each. She comes across a beautiful one, the delicate face so exquisite she can't believe it once belonged to a real person. Surely this was simply art.

"Veronica, the original Beauty of Braavos. Good choice." He comments, taking the face down. There's a heaviness as the face is fitted atop her own, the flesh molding down around her jaw. It itches at first, but she massages the flesh with her fingertips. It fits well and she is thrown into the woman's memories. A tragic tale. She had been the most beloved courtesan in all of Bravos until a jealous lover slit her throat in a fit of passion. Her body floated to the House of Black and White where she was prepared for the Hall of Faces. In payment for her sacrifice, a Faceless Man was dispatched to kill her murderer. A life for a life.

She couldn't wait to try out her new face. Her first assignment would be easy enough. Beauty opened every door.

She kills on demand. She uses a variety of methods- poison, stabbing, suffocation, pressure points, and asphyxiation. She tries other faces, younger, older, from different lands, with different postures. She prefers the courtesan. Sometimes, she takes on the guise of a young man named Arkeen. They suit her needs best. The lovely Veronica was allowed entrance everywhere, she could get close to everyone. But Arkeen was practically invisible, no one noticed him or expected much, it was easier to sneak around unseen.

She hears all sorts of gossip of home, some house overtaking another. She listens with casual interest, but finds such news irrelevant to her new life.

That is until someone from her list shows up.

In one of the higher end brothels in the city, a new customer had garnered quite the reputation for damaging prostitutes. She wanted to damage this man in turn, only when she recognized Meryn Trant, it was an easy decision to kill him.

Trant liked inflicting pain, he liked the challenge of bringing forth screams in new and creative ways. He had the Madame line up young girls to his taste, Arya was among them. She didn't react to his blows. Of course he chose her, excited at the challenge she posed. It doesn't take her long to cut off the flow of blood to his brain, rendering him motionless on the ground, eyes wide in fear. She poured wine in his nose and mouth until he finally choked.

She felt a sense of satisfaction that she hadn't felt for some time. It wasn't a particularly difficult kill, nor was it too easy.

She had an urge to show her true face, to tell him her true name and savor the recognition. But something held her back, so she savored all this privately.

She returns to the House of Black and White but doesn't sleep.

She had killed a brothel keeper the night before. And she had felt confident the world would be better without him. And yet, she hadn't savored it. He had deserved it, she remembered what he had done, she felt his wrongness down to her bones. She'd felt satisfaction at accomplishing a task, but nothing more. She couldn't help but compare the two deaths. There was a difference between killing a stranger she was told to and someone who she believed needed to die. It had been right and righteous. Meryn Trant deserved death, at her own hand, and the God of Death was proud of her. That brothel keeper, the others… she hadn't known them. She has to work a little too hard to stop overthinking it.

Her next job is an actress. She took some time to research the woman. She was well-regarded amongst the other performers, she had many fans, and she was lovely in a sophisticated way. All of this she would have simply noted and continued on, but she had stayed to watch her perform.

The play was supposed to be a comedy, but not for her. It was about her family. And the Lannisters. And almost every other fucking house in the Seven Kingdoms.

Her father was portrayed as a fool, so willing to trust the damn Lannisters. They made it out to be his own fault for getting killed, to much laughter from the audience. Arya herself was played by a big-breasted girl with ridiculously long hair. She looked nothing like her. She was played as a scheming twit, more concerned with a crown than her own family. She could hardly expect accuracy, but even from a critical standpoint it was lacking. She resented all of them. The king was a fat drunken idiot, that was accurate at least. And the Queen was played by her target, the sophisticated actress she was meant to kill. And she had wanted Cersei dead. It should have been easy. But the woman was relatable, human, she brought sympathy to Cersei Fucking Lannister of all people. The real woman had no such tender side. But funnily enough, she was the heroine of the piece.

Her own eyes barely watered. This was all old news, told badly, she wouldn't let it affect her.

Until the second act.

Joffrey was murdered by his new Tyrell wife, Tyrion was tried for murder but escaped, and then the aptly titled 'Red Wedding.'

She doesn't breathe throughout the scene, and not one member of the audience laughs. They portrayed Jeyne as heavily pregnant before she was slaughtered, Arya wondered if that was true. She saw an actor with the flayed man upon his chest and knew then that the Boltons had helped the Freys murder her blood. That first week or so, she had prayed and begged every god she could think of to take her too. No response. Only the God of Death called her onward.

Arya pushes her way through the crowd to dry heave on the sidelines. Out of the corner of her eye she catches another tidbit- apparently she had been married off to Ramsay Bolton. There was a great deal of dialogue dedicated to making sport of all the raping Ramsay was likely up to.

What the unholy fuck?

Arya sneaks backstage as Mercy, a homely thing that didn't often get noticed. She looked through the actress's things and found personal keepsakes, cherished memories. She stealthily poisons the woman's brandy.

The actor who played her father was cast in a double role, he was also Stannis with an ill-fitting black wig on. Arya was drawn to his discarded jerkin, the cartoonish direwolf hastily stitched. Her father. She clutches at the symbol, letting herself remember. He hadn't visited her dreams since The Inn at the Crossroads.

A roar of applause and the actors exit the stage. Arya quickly grabs soilied costumes and props, seeming for all the world to be a simple stage girl. Sure enough, they toss her more layers and wigs. The actress reminds her to take good care of her blonde wig, though not unkindly, and thanks her for it. Arya does as she asks and brings it to her. The woman looks pleased and chats with her a bit, mistaking her quiet demeanor for that of a fan. Arya keeps one eye on the brandy. The more they talk, the more she likes her. She catches the younger actress, the one who'd played her look their way, a hateful look upon her visage. The mark pours a drink. The vindictive ingenue hated the woman, she had bought her death. Out of what? Jealousy?

Arya knocks the drink from the actress's hand, unwilling to kill her after all. Arya warns the woman to watch herself and draws further attention to her jealous costar. The woman looks truly shaken, but Arya leaves before she can ask any further questions.

What had she done? Or not done? Was that true about the Boltons? Why did anyone think she had married one? Was Joffrey really dead? That one she particularly hoped was true. The scene from the play made her chuckle out loud. But Tyrion as the murderer? It didn't seem likely. However, she'd been away so long, and it was all so far.

She didn't go right back to the House of Black and White. She needed to think. And she wanted to drink. Maybe she wanted to remember for once.

She went to her favorite tavern, it was the filthiest, but the owner kept things respectful, and sailors were happy to drink and share gossip. She often stopped by to learn secrets for her training. But now she wanted specific news from home.

She asked around, wearing the roguish Arkeen's face. She bought drinks freely. Joffrey was dead, she was pleased to learn. Tommen currently ruled King's Landing, meaning Cersei. She could imagine Cersei broken over her beloved son's death, monster though he was.

The rumor about her own nuptials were widely believed, everyone thought she had wed the Bolton bastard. It irritated her, but it didn't really matter.

They spoke of a dragon queen intent to overthrow the Lannisters. A sincere good luck to her.

But it was the last which changed everything.

They spoke of The Wall. An army of the undead. And a Lord Commander highly regarded amongst his men, a local bastard, sometimes called Snow.

She had stood up so abruptly the table fell over and all the drinks crashed to the floor. Her insignificant companion looked affronted, but she did not respond, she simply ran. She ran and ran as fast as she could, no idea where she was going. She ran until her chest constricted and her side ached so badly she couldn't take in proper breaths. She finally collapses in an alleyway, breaths competing with her tears as she slumps against the wall.

Jon was alive.

How?

She had believed everyone dead, everyone. But what other bastard Snow could be the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch? What other man would the other men respect and follow? Her brother was such a man.

Her favorite brother.

And he was in trouble.

Her mind was made up. There had never been another choice.

It wasn't far. She had run that way without realizing it. The spot where she'd buried her past, herself, Needle.

The joy at seeing it again is so great that she clutches it to her breast, the cold steel reassuring. How had she been without it all this time? And by choice.

"I knew a girl would come here. The actress is still alive?"

Jaqen? How had he found her? He'd probably always known she'd hidden Needle rather than discard it.

"I had no reason to kill her." She answers.

"You were told to kill her. That is reason enough."

"Not for me. Not anymore. I owed you deaths, and I have repaid it by now. I am done." He doesn't react to her words outwardly. Was he angry? She couldn't tell.

"So you're leaving." He says, it's not a question. He motions to the very personal blade in her hands.

"I have to. My brother..."

"You can't." He says without emotion.

"I have to." She repeats, not knowing what more to say, how better to explain. "I have to. If you try to stop me, I will fight. You'll have to kill me."

He raises an eyebrow at that. Then he nods knowingly.

"I won't stop you." She scrunches her eyebrows in confusion. "It must be your mistake." He warns.

"My family, my brother. He needs me, I..."

"Good luck. A man will miss a girl. We will not see each other again." He is resigned, she won't be allowed back.

"Jaqen..." Right, that was not his real name. "Thank you… I..."

"Goodbye, Lovely Girl." He offers her a sad smile before walking away. And that was it. Her choice was made.

She makes her way to the dock with light feet, her path clear once again. She doesn't have much with her for her for the journey. But she has a fair amount of coin. She wears Arkeen's face, and the ever-present Veronica beneath, like a safety blanket. She has Needle, her dress from earlier, and a slight buzz left over from the tavern.

She finds a ship set to sail to the North, scheduled to set forth in a quarter hour. She pays her fare and is given a tiny cupboard to sleep in. It has a basin and a small window fitted with glass. She sets down her few belongings and gets settled. It's to be a long voyage once again and the prospect of the waiting makes her nervous. She decides to take off her faces, to get used to herself again, to remember.

Arkeen's face comes off easily, but Veronica won't budge. She wedges her fingernails into the edges where the face ends, but only succeeds in scratching her jaw. She goes to the window, watching herself in the reflection of the glass. She pulls harder, nothing. She takes Needle, slicing a fine line beneath her ear. It bleeds, but there's only blood underneath. She breathes in panic, what was happening?

"What the fuck?" She asks out loud. The sound of her own voice is strange to her ears.

"Arrrr..." She experiments, but can't get her name out. She wants to scream out Arya, but the words choke her, she can't say her name.

She can't say her name and she can't take off the courtesan's face.

A sinking feeling in her gut puts the pieces together. She hadn't been able to reveal herself to Trant either. Something had stopped her.

Jaqen had told her leaving was a mistake, but he hadn't stopped her. Her face and her name were forfeit. She'd traded them away. Arya Stark had checked into the House of Black and White for training, and she would never leave. Whoever she was now was headed back to Westeros, to her brother, but she would be a stranger to him. He would not know her and she could not tell him the truth. The ship was setting sail, her choice was made.