Disclaimer: I own nothing from Tolkien, Martin, and the producers of the films/television series. Anything you recognise is theirs. Applies to every part of this story.
Lady of Wolves/Chapter 1
"Useless," came a voice, whispering out of the darkness the girl found herself in. "Weak, pathetic. Not worthy to be called No One."
The girl snarled at the voice, but realised her error when the ironwood staff smacked her sides again and sent her to the ground.
Shuddering at the impact of hard stone against her knees, she gripped her own staff more tightly, ignoring the sharp ache in her bones. The pain was no stranger to the girl, but the fury and humiliation hurt harder.
She forced herself to stand, relying on instinct to lift the staff in the direction of the voice. If only she still had her sight...
But no – that could never be.
The girl slowed her breathing and listened. A slight drag on the ground to her left, the soft scuff of leather on wood. Her ears had not failed her yet.
Only months. She had not been training with the Waif long, yet even only months of fear and pain and rage had taken their toll. No more. The only path forward was clear, for all the darkness imprisoning her; all the girl had to do was stand her ground and be victorious in her fight with the Waif.
Then, she would be one step closer to becoming No One.
The girl hefted her staff, ears straining to hear the tell-tale steps that foretold the movements of the other.
The sound of air parting reached her ears. She raised her staff sharply, not a moment too soon. The thwack of wood meeting wood resonated in the cavernous space of the training room. Then another blow came, and another, the girl finding it within herself to block them all, relying on instinct and hearing and hard-won strength.
'No more,' the girl thought to herself. 'No longer will I be useless and weak and pathetic. This time I will win.'
With this in mind, the hidden wolf inside her snarled in satisfaction and rose up, lending strength to the girl and guiding her staff in the fight. Strength to hold under the blows, quick feet to dodge aside, flashes of tactical brilliance came together in a fast-paced match until at last, at long, long last, she managed to beat back the Waif.
Snapping her staff forward one final time, she felt the other give under the force, the heavy wood of a staff impacting the stone tiles. The girl kicked the other's weapon away, far out of reach. Another swipe, a quick kick of her leg, and the Waif fell.
The girl smiled, the tip of her staff held to the other's throat.
Three slow claps echoed in the chamber. She held her breath.
"It seems the Waif is no longer needed for your training. Come, girl, and follow."
The new speaker was one whom the girl had not heard in a long time, but it was impossible to forget the sound of the Kindly Man's voice. Throughout her years in this House of Black and White, the better part of a decade, the Kindly Man had watched over her progress and had been all too free in speaking truths often painful to the ear.
The girl threw down her staff and followed, noting that the Kindly Man was leading them to the hall with the fountain. Her blindness had not been an obstacle in finding her way around the House of Black and White for long.
The girl had every corner and passageway memorised. Just like the number of steps it took to get from the House to the market, from the butcher to the brothel, from the liveliness of the port to the still death waiting in the apothecary's poisons.
That was one advantage to being blind. Not only had her other senses sharpened and developed, but only without her sight had she been free to leave the House again for the first time in years, once the Kindly Man had judged her sufficiently penitent for her vicious outburst all that time ago and much of her new training had been completed. The Kindly Man had even demanded the absence, for there had been fresh blood to train and the girl's presence had served too much as a hindrance on the House. Why should they feed an assassin who could not carry out any missions, after all?
Yet even in the darkness and hunger, the girl had remembered, old memories and vivid dreams of the past.
Even now, walking to the hall with the fountain, the girl remembered coming to Braavos from Westeros, just less than a decade ago.
She had come here, to the House of Black and White, seeking not just refuge but vengeance. The power to save herself, to wreak justice on the people who had escaped righteousness so often. She had decided that if the gods would not punish the evil ones, she would.
For two years she had served the Many-Faced God by day as Cat the oyster-seller, a nameless servant in the Sealord's court, Mira the brothel-cleaner and many others beside. Her training to become one of the Faceless had come during the night, though often she had been called to give the Last Gift, death, to those who sought it. When the deed was done, the girl had prepared the bodies for burial, had allowed grieving relatives to take the corpses away.
When a person had come alone and in secret, the Faceless had kept the prepared body. The girl had not been allowed to ask why.
Then had come a single moment that had changed the life the girl had fallen into. A few short moments, the sharpness of hatred and metal, and the girl had been dragged back into the House of Black and White, the outside world barred to her. So, too, had her sight been taken, for that same rash, careless outburst.
The Faceless, though unforgiving, would not discard a talented asset so easily.
For two years again, the girl had been locked inside the House of Black and White, had been trained with poison and weapon and words, had been punished for her failures and trained again. One by one, her other senses had been taken away for a time, until her ears sharpened, until she felt the very air beside her, until she could smell the barest trace of poison and could taste the slightest scent within the wind.
That was when the Kindly Man had allowed her to set foot outside the House again, though her eyes had stayed sightless and the meagre rations she had been afforded cut off. At first helpless outside in a half-forgotten world, soon the girl had learned the city and its streets, had discovered where to beg for food and where to hunt out secrets.
Secrets flowed freely in the darkness, where she could gather them like so many little strands of wool, the fibres holding the world in place. No one noticed the broken, hopeless ones. The girl hoarded her treasures, insubstantial as they were. A spider had once told her of the power the softly uttered words held and now, a world away, she believed him.
For five years she had lived in this twilight half-life, wandering outside by day and with her training increased in force by night. Then the Waif had come to her and had taken over her training for a few months, had been faster and stronger and deadlier – until today.
"Hurry, girl. The Many-Faced God will wait for nothing and no one," the voice stated, breaking the girl out of her thoughts and hurrying her steps to the fountain in the middle of the entrance hall. "Sit."
The girl sat on the edge of the fountain, both repulsed yet strangely intrigued by the poisoned waters it held, even after all this time. It would have been too easy to slip some to those who made her life this hell, the ones who took those she held most dear. Cersei, the Mountain, the Hound... they would all die one day, a long, slow, painful death. And she would be the cause.
The darkness in her could not help but smile at the thought.
A hand smacked her head harshly.
"A girl must leave everything behind to be No One," the Kindly Man reminded her, disappointment evident in his tone.
The girl did not flush in shame, though the colour attempted to rise. Better though she was at distinguishing the emotions and all that was held in the voices of men, she knew she was still unable to fully let go of her past. One sword remained, tying her to her family.
"A girl with a past cannot be No One. Remember this if you ever wish to be one of the Faceless."
The girl bowed her head in acceptance, biting back the retort another version of herself would have shouted for all the world to hear.
Stone grated against stone, the girl shifting in her seat to hear better. She thought the Kindly Man had lowered a bowl into the fountain. She knew this was true when she heard him fill it with the water and felt him press the carved bowl into her hands, waiting for her to adjust her hold before removing his grip.
"Drink."
The girl hesitated, thoughts of distrust entering her mind, before lowering the bowl. She felt the Kindly Man grab her hands and lift the bowl for her.
"Drink."
The girl shuddered.
It was the first lesson the girl had been taught here; trust nothing and no one unless it is yourself. Her blindness had in part been caused by foolishly believing the Kindly Man was her friend, that he would take her punishment for that outburst upon himself.
Heavy silence reigned in the hall.
The girl did not want to lose another of her senses, for she had lost her sight when the Kindly Man had drunk the same water while wearing her face all those years ago. But then, there was nothing for the Kindly Man to gain by taking another sense away. Not again. Hearing, taste, touch, smell, gone one at a time while her eyes were still wreathed in darkness. And after all the years here, the girl found it hard to believe that the only path he had chosen for her was death.
Gold weighed heavier than a man's soul. The Many-Faced God was always hungry for the latter and she had fed the god many times over the years, but the Kindly Man desired the former more.
It could not be, but just to make sure the girl asked, "What will happen if I drink?"
The girl was not prepared for the Kindly Man's laugh.
"You are getting better. Had you not questioned me, you would be writhing on the ground with your dying breaths forced through your throat. But now... now, it gives you the power to change your face. You will be called No One, and you will be Faceless. Do not waste the gift. Drink."
The girl hesitated one last time.
"You will also get your sight back," he added, almost as an afterthought. That was enough for the girl, for if there was one thing the girl regretted in all her time here, it was losing the colours of the world.
She drank.
Almost immediately the pain hit her, collapsing her legs under her and throwing her on the floor. It was pain which erupted through her body, slowly tearing her apart one piece at a time, with burning fire forcing its way through her veins.
The girl tried to scream, but only droplets of scarlet blood spilled from her mouth as she lay twisting upon the stones, unable to speak or breathe. She still could not see and that made the pain so much worse, coupled with the realisation of failure.
Desperately, she grabbed at Needle's outline beneath her clothes, clutching the hilt tight, hoping her half-brother had remembered her before his death.
Feeling the presence of the Kindly Man leaving, in her fear and desperation, the girl managed to speak one word, tears trickling down her cheeks as her body convulsed outside of her control.
"Why?" It was nothing more than a whisper, but she knew the Kindly Man heard it all the same. Through her suffering, the girl heard him answer.
"Arya Stark was too trusting. She would never be No One. Not as long as she carried a sword named Needle hidden under her robe."
With those partings words, she felt the poison shred her last remaining tatters of life, and in her pain she rejoiced that she would see her family soon. Her father, mother and brothers … Sansa. Howling, she threw her mind away from her suffering, caught the last shreds of her direwolf and of home and clung, twisted in the embrace of the Many-Faced God and fought back, even as darkness took her from the world.
~o0o~
Deep in the cold emptiness of death, Arya felt the touch of the Many-Faced God, icy and vicious, all-encompassing. Twisting harshly, she saw a light shining faintly in the distance, a dying star. Arya flung herself toward the call, seized the invisible connection forever tying her to her direwolf and engulfed herself in the heavy shimmer of magic as she fought back against death.
The god laughed, and banished her away, towards the star.
When her soul first grazed against the soft warmth, the light tightened around her, ripping her from the void, tearing at her until all disappeared but the brilliant diamond-white surrounding her.
Arya waited silently for the pain to stop. But the grip of death still burned her, almost unbearable to the point where she wished the end of her existence would finally come, to ease her suffering and deliver her to whatever cursed afterlife she had earned. The pain grew, and now her body was changing, dissolving in the light and reforming with sharp flickers of the pain, becoming longer and slighter and stronger.
Finally unable to take it any more, Arya screamed out, a long shrill note that spoke of suffering and pain unimaginable by many of the people who dwell upon land. Her scream turned to a sob of shock and relief when she heard a soothing voice, one full of kindness and wisdom that soothed away her agony.
"You have suffered much, little Arya, but be brave, for you are needed. Remember: the lone wolf dies but the pack survives. Do not abandon the pack you will find, or else the world will suffer for your mistakes."
Almost immediately, the last embers of pain vanished. In the white light surrounding her, Arya could make out quick flashes of colour as she felt herself settle on an irregular surface, at once soft with mossy grass and sharp with twigs and stones.
An eternity later, the white brightness fluttering before her eyes faded away to the gentle emerald of leaves and the warm hazel of wood.
Reality returned sharply.
Arya took a few shuddering breaths. This could not be a figment of her imagination, for she could see the wind chasing clouds in the sky above, the stones beneath her feeling sharp and uncomfortable. Arya did not think her body could still ache so dully with exhaustion in any afterlife.
Wherever she was, lying on the ground in a forest of some kind, was startlingly real. Slowly, removing Needle from her clothes, she ran the blade across her thumb, pushed deep.
Blood welled up alongside a bright sting, darkly crimson.
Not a dream, then. Not death yet, either. Overwhelmed, Arya's eyes closed as she fell helplessly into a deep oblivion.
