I do not own Game of Thrones or any of the characters.
Escape
William watched Syrio as he stared out the window silently, thinking hard. Finally, he turned to him, face serious.
"I will carry my sword with me again," Syrio said. "And you will do the same. If your task is what you claim, I will help you. The First Sword of Braavos does not leave a boy to deal with such tasks on his own."
William nodded. "For the time being, I will continue going about my task as I have been."
"And I will assist wherever needed," Syrio said.
William nodded once and turned, walking out of the room while Syrio walked over to a cabinet off to the side, pulling it open and staring at the chainmail shirt hanging inside and the sword beside it.
William watched as Syrio disarmed Arya, holding his wooden sword to her throat, pronouncing her dead.
"You said right, but you went left!" Arya complained.
"And now, you are a dead girl," Syrio said.
"Only because you lied!" Arya said.
"My mouth lied," Syrio corrected. "My eyes shouted the truth. You were not seeing."
"I was so!" Arya argued. "I watched, but you-"
"Watching is not seeing, dead girl," Syrio interrupted.
Arya frowned in confusion.
"Arya," William spoke up, walking over with his wooden sword, a plain short sword a few inches longer than his arm hanging from his belt. "Have you ever been listening to someone and not had any clue what they were saying, even as they were saying it?"
"Yes," Arya nodded.
"This is the same thing, but with your eyes," William said. "When a man fights, his eyes shift toward his target, even if just a small amount. So even if he said right, his eyes would have gone left, telling you where to block."
"Just so," Syrio smiled.
Arya nodded. "Can I ask you something?"
"Of course," Syrio said.
"Why do the two of you have swords today?" Arya asked.
"For training," William said. "Once you advance enough, you'll use a real blade, too."
Arya nodded just as the door burst open, all three turning to it.
"Arya Stark, a man in the golden armor of the City Watch, said as he strode into the room, flanked by four Lannister soldiers. "Come with us. Your father wants to see you."
"And why is it," Syrio said, holding an arm out to keep Arya behind him, "that Lord Eddard is sending Lannister men in place of his own? I am wondering." As he spoke, he calmly turned into possition to fight, making it seem as though he were simply shifting his weight for a pleasant conversation.
"Mind you place, dancing master," the Gold Cloak spat. "This is no concern of yours."
"My father wouldn't send you," Arya said, retrieving her wooden sword. "And I don't have to go with you if I don't want."
The Gold Cloak laughed. "Take her."
"Are you men or snakes, that you would threaten a child?" Syrio asked as one of the soldiers stepped forward.
"Get out of my way, little man," the soldier growled.
"I am Syrio Forel," Syrio said.
"Foreign bastard," the soldier growled.
He drew his sword, but before it was even all the way out, Syrio slammed his wooden sword into the man's blade, knocking him sideways before slamming the wooden blade into the side of his helmet, knocking him out.
"And you will be speaking to me with more respect," Syrio finished as the other soldiers, minus the gold cloak, all drew their swords.
"Kill the Braavosi!" the Gold Cloak ordered. "Take the girl."
William dropped the wooden sword instantly and reached for his real one, only for Syrio to hold his hand out to him.
"I will handle this, boy," Syrio said. "There is no need for you to dirty your blade yet. Arya girl, we are done with dancing for the day. Run to your father."
The three soldiers charged and Syrio began to beat them easily. The first he dispatched as quickly and easily as the first, knocking his sword aside before dropping him with a sharp wrap to the helmet. The second, he knocked the sword aside and spun around him, then caught his cape as he deflected the third's sword and slammed his wooden blade into his face, dropping him. As he spun, the first stood and moved to attack, only for the one Syrio was swinging around to slam his sword into the first's helmet, dropping him again. Syrio finally hurled the seconds, then ducked under the second's blade, tripped him, then slashed him in the helmet again, knocking him out again. Then, he turned to the Gold Cloak.
"Bloody oafs," the Gold Cloak said.
"Begone now, Arya," Syrio said.
"Come with me," Arya pleaded. "Run!"
"The First Sword of Braavos does not run," Syrio said.
"We'll see you soon, Syrio," William said, grabbing Arya's hand. "Good luck."
Syrio nodded as William dragged Arya from the room, sprinting away. As they ran down the stairs, Arya tried to go back for him. Finally, as they reached a junction with another set of stairs, William yanked her to a stop and covered her mouth.
"What do we say to the God of Death?" William asked.
"Not today," Arya said, once he uncovered her mouth.
He nodded and glanced up the stairs as the sounds of blades clashing and screams of pain and dismay began. "Let's go!"
Arya nodded, and they began to run down the stairs, Arya muttering "Not today" to herself over and over. Finally, they reached the exit, both stopping short as they found a cart with a chest of belongings, a half-dozen corpses lying around the cart, all of them belonging to the people the Starks had brought with them.
"Needle!" Arya said, dropping the wooden sword she still had and darted to a chest that had been dropped and which had broken open, beginning to sort through it.
"There she is," a voice behind them said both turning and finding a small, plump boy in a red shirt with a white cloth tied around his forehead.
"What do you want?" Arya demanded, still looking through the chest.
"I want you, wolf girl," the boy said. "Come here."
William drew his sword. "Beat it. We have more important things to deal with."
"Leave me be," Arya said. "My father's a lord. He'll reward you."
"She'll reward me," the boy said. "The queen!"
He stepped forward, only for William to slash his throat just as Arya stood with a sword barely as thick as his finger. Arya stared at the boy for a moment before turning and running, William following.
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