DISCLAIMER: Not mine *pulls hoodie strings tight*

Prendre plaisir my friends!

Though she would never admit it, the Cat did not know what to expect for the first trial. Gendry had stuck to his insistence that he didn't know what the test would be, but the Cat was a master at the art of deception- and the commander most definitely was not. Most people had one tell, maybe two or three. The Cat had always bitten her lip, until it was beaten out of her at the temple. She had once had a brother who looked at his feet, and a sister who smiled prettily and twirled her hair around her finger. Gendry was no different- his jaw would go stiff, and he would find something very interesting to look at other than her eyes, like a particularly fascinating patch of wall, and his hadn would go to the bull's head hilt of his sword as if in comfort. Really, it was child's play to the Cat, but she didn't call him out on it- partly because she knew there was no point, and partly because she knew he was well aware of the fact she knew he was lying.

The ginger tea and honey had helped to soothe her cramping guts, though it was nothing on the Waif's near magical remedies, but the throbbing in her temple had not eased one bit. In fact, the intensified training over the last few days had left her whole body feeling sore and stiff- another thing she would never admit. She glanced around her at the yard they had entered, at the champions filing in one by one. It wasn't their usual, private yard, but the greater yard at the front of the keep. A great, black curtain had been hung from the covered walkway above them, hiding the other half of the yard from sight. Spectators and sponsors, courtiers and servants, all of them lined the balconies along the top, chattering eagerly amongst themselves, placing bets, pointing out the champions they thought looked best. The Cat noticed that the Mountain had more than a few eyes on him, and the northman, Cenred. She scowled at the two young men watching her, and they quickly averted their eyes.

"Try and look like you're happy to be here," Gendry muttered in her ear, standing so close that she could feel his body heat warming her back.

"Why?" she asked, not bothering to put on a pleasant expression. "They're all rooting for me to lose anyway."

"The Crown Prince isn't," he said, nudging her. She followed his gaze to where Aegon stood with the two young lordlings she had seen him with on the road from Castamere. He was watching her intently with those amethyst eyes, barely listening to the white haired man beside him. When he noticed her gaze, he dipped his head in acknowledgement, flashing her a grin. She offered him a tight lipped smile in return and looked away.

Barristan Selmy stood by the curtain, a gloved hand upon his gleaming sword, and the Cat surveyed the scene boredly. Someone approached behind her, stepping up to her side. She knew who it was before he spoke. "It's all rather dramatic, don't you think?" She almost smiled at the sound of his northern accent, the heavier, lower turn of the words. How good it was to hear it!

She glanced sidelong at Cenred. Gendry was tense beside her, and she could feel him watching the thief closely, no doubt wondering if she and Cenred were speaking some ridiculous secret code to formulate some escape plan that would invove the death of every member of the royal family. She rolled her eyes at him and turned back to the champion.

"Are you surprised?" she asked, taking in his features, the dark hair tied off his face in a leather thong, the pale skin and light eyes. A familiar face, though she had never met him before, because in it was the face of every northerner, the face her father had once represented. It was a face that belonged to snow and wind, to rolling hills and hidden waterfalls and frozen lakes. It was a face that belonged to Winterfell and the Wolfswood and Weirwood trees. She looked away.

"Not at all," he said with a quiet laugh. "Southroners always did have a penchant for frivolity and charade." She smiled at that. "What do you think it is?" he asked under his breath.

She shrugged, keeping her attention on the curtain. More and more champions and sponsors were arriving, and the tower clock would soon strike nine- and the trail would begin. The trial that might decide her fate; come too high. and she might be targeted as a threat; come too low, and she risked losing and being sent back to the mines. Unless, of course, she died. It was on that note that she realised that even if she did know what was on the other side of the curtain, she wouldn't help him- northerner or not. "Maybe it's a pack of dire wolves that we have to kill with out bare hands," she said, looking at him fully. "Wouldn't that be fun? Then the other sponsors would regret not choosing northerners too."

Gendry cleared his throat; now was not the time for talking. She crossed her arms and said, "Best of luck," to Cenred, before striding towards the curtain, Gendry following close behind. "Still pretending you don't know what's behind that curtain?" she asked under her breath when they were far enough away from the others that no one would hear. Gendry's eyes immediately fixed on the black fabric, jaw stiff. She smiled and shook her head. She adjusted the thick leather belt slung low across her hips. It was the kind of belt intended to bear the weight of multiple weapons. Its lightness now only reminded her of what she'd lost—and what she had to gain.

She glanced at Aegon. He could probably see what was behind the partition from his place up on the mezzanine. Why not help her cheat a little? He wasn't looking at her though, his purple eyes fixed on Cersei Lannister, who was smirking down at the Mountain, who was flexing his muscular arms out and cracking that obscenely thick neck. Had she already told Gregor Clegane what was waiting beyond the curtain? It seemed like something she would do.

Selmy cleared his throat. "Attention now!" he called to them. All of the competitors tried to look calm as he strode to the centre of the curtain. "Your first Trial has arrived." He grinned broadly, as if whatever the curtain concealed was going to torment the hell out of them. "As His Grace has ordered, one of you will be eliminated today—one of you will be deemed unworthy." Just get on with it! she thought, her jaw clenched tight. As if he'd read her thoughts, Barristan the Bold snapped his fingers, and a guard standing by the wall pulled the curtain back. Inch by inch, it swayed away, until—

The Cat bit back a laugh of relief. Archery! It seemed half a joke to her now, all of her anxiety fading away into nothing.

"Rules are simple," Barristan said. Behind him, five targets were staggered at various distances through the yard. "You get five shots—one per target. The one with the worst aim goes home." Some competitors began murmuring, but it was all she could do to keep from beaming. Unfortunately, Clegane did not bother concealing his triumphant grin. She hoped that perhaps a stray arrow would find it's mark in her throat. Maybe it would be hers- or rather, would have been if she had not noticed the fact that at least half of the guards stationed along the walls had their crossbows loaded and aimed on her.

"You'll go one at a time," Selmy said, and behind them a pair of soldiers rolled out a cart of bows and quivers loaded with arrows. "Form a line at the table to determine your order. The Trial begins now." Metal clanged as a bronze disk was struck, once, twice and then a third time. It hovered in the air a few moments after the final ring.

She expected them to rush to the long table stacked with identical bows and arrows, but apparently none of the twenty-one other competitors were in much of a hurry to go home. The Cat made to join the forming line, but Gendry grasped her shoulder. "Don't show off," he warned.

She smiled and pried his fingers off her. "I'll try not to," she purred, and joined the line.

It was an enormous leap of faith to give them arrows, even if the tips were blunted. A dull head wouldn't stopif from ripping through the mad king's throat- or Aegon's, if she wanted. She supposed that not all of the champions were criminals, though; many had been chosen for their prowess as a soldier. But for those few criminals, the Scalper, the Puzzler, the other killers in the group with a penchant for cruelty that did not stop at simply killing a victim- it really was a wonder that they were putting weapons in their hands. Perhaps it was confidence that the reward of winning would subdue any thoughts of assassination. Perhaps it was blind stupidity.

She pushed the thought from her mind, though the idea of seeing the king of scabs dead for all he had done, the thought of crossing a name or two from her prayer (Theon Greyjoy, the Mountain, traitorous Black Brothers, Ser Ilyn Payne, Tywin Lannister, Roose Bolton, Ramsey Bolton, Queen Cersei. Valar Morghulis.) was far too tempting to resist picturing just how satisfying it would feel to watch them die- before, of course she was executed herself. There would be time for that- to finish her prayer once and for all, when she was free. And to get free, that meant winning, and that meant she needed to focus on the trial at hand. So she kept her attention to the competitors; with twenty two champions, and five shots each, the Trial took a dreadfully long time. Thanks to Gendry pulling her aside, she'd been at the back of the line- not dead last, but three from the end. Far enough back that she had to endure watching the other competitors go before her.

The other competitors did well enough. The giant circular targets were composed of five coloured rings—yellow marking the centre, with only a tiny black dot to mark the bull's-eye. Each target got smaller the farther back it was placed, and because the yard was so long, the final target was nearly seventy yards away.

The Cat ran her fingers along the smooth curve of her yew bow. Archery was one of the first skills she had ever taught herself- as a child she would sneak out when no one was around, and fire at the target with a stolen bow and the only arrow she had, over and over and over again, until she hit the target dead in the centre every time. Yet even that had not been enough in Braavos, where the principal elder had demanded she hone the skill even further, until she could shoot several arrows at once in half a blink at a moving target so far away she could scarcely even see it. Sometimes she didn't even need to see it to hit it. She had not complained over the high expectations once; after all, archery was a staple of any assassin's training. Two of the assassins, including the Sorrowful Man from Quarth, proved it with easy, skilled shots. Though they didn't hit the impossibly small bullseye, their shots become sloppier the further away the target, whoever their masters had been, they had clearly known what they were teaching.

However, not a small number of the champions were as impressive. The gangly boy could barely string his bow at all, and only hit the first three targets just barely, missing the others entirely. The soldiers were alright, though none of them hit the bullseye, or the final target. Alator hit four of them, but didn't get inside the yellow once, and the sellsword from the Second Sons hit all of them, and hit the black dot on the closest target, too, making him the best shot of the day.

Cenred surprised her as well, with three bulls eyes into the nearest targets and two final shots along the border of the inner ring, out-shooting the sellsword; she wasn't sure why she was surprised- after all, archery was deemed one of the most important skills a man could have, in the North, along with swordskill and horse riding.

The room went quiet when the Mountain took his turn. The yew bow looked like a child's toy in his hand, as he plucked it up and strung it. He fired it, again and again and again, in the span of a few seconds. The arrows embedded themselves so deeply in the wood that only a few inches of the shafts showed before the brown goose fletching. He roared in fury when he missed the final target, and snapped the bow in his hands with a loud crack. There was shouting and the rush of people shuffling back as guards trained their crossbows on him, demanding he calm himself. He stormed to the back of the yard, and threw himself down on the bench, face like thunder as he cracked his knuckles. The Cat looked up at Cersei, and was surprised to see the vile woman smiling- as if she understood the effect of Gregor's display of strength and volatile temper in rattling the other champions. The Mountain may not have won this trial, but the reminded of his immense brute force could go a long way in shaking his opponents later on, and instilling a healthy sense of fear.

And suddenly, it was the Cat's turn. She stood on the white line, looking at the vast length of the yard before her. She could hear the champions snickering behind her, and when she picked up her bow, the top standing some feet above her head, the crowd howled with laughter. Her blood boiled, and she snarled to herself. If they knew what she could do- if they knew who she was- they wouldn't dare to laugh at her then. She had been laughed at all of her life- as a child, as a fugitive, even withing the House of Black and White among the other apprentices and acolytes, she had been laughed at. She had had enough of it. Gendry's words of warning were a distant hum in the back of her mind as she strung the bow. Let her show them. Let them see what she could do. She didn't care if it wasn't tactical. She didn't care if it wasn't strategic. She didn't care if Gendry shouted at her later for it. All of it was nothing, just white noise.

She fired.

And the arrow hit the bullseye of the farthest target, embedding deeply in the woad. The laughing stopped, but blood still boiled in her ears. She plucked another arrow, and another, stringing two at once. The muttering was utterly drowned out to her, as she focused on the same target. Fired. Both hit, thrumming as they stuck each below the first, one left and one right, forming a triangle. She fired again, and the arrow found it's mark, still in the bullseye, just below.

The muttering had stopped. The yard was silent. The Cat put down her bow, and the whispering started again- she still had one more arrow left; what was she doing? the yard went silent again as her fingers went to her throat, and the cloth that bound her shirt in place. She untied it, and the collar of her shirt fell open, revealing the patch of skin at the base of her throat, but the Cat didn't even think on it as she raised the strip of cloth to her eyes, and bound it around her head. Blinding herself.

"Cat." Footsteps were approaching, but they were so far away, and the bow was already in her hand again. "Cat, stop." She didn't; she strung the arrow, and pulled the string to her cheek. Breathed in. "Cat!" Breathed Out. The yard was utterly still. Utterly silent.

Silent enough that when she released, the arrow's hiss as it cut through air was audible. The thud as it sank deep into the target reverberated in her bones, where she had known she would meet her mark.

The Cat put down the yew bow, and slid the blindfold off. And there was the fifth arrow, right in the centre of the tight circle she had created, buried deep into the utterly obliterated black dot that marked the exact middle of the target.

A large hand wrapped around her arm, and yanked her back. She looked Gendry dead in the face, and saw herself, cold and raging, reflected in his own furious eyes. "You fool!" he hissed at her, shaking her. She yanked free of him, ignoring him, and looked up at the balcony, where the onlookers had gone completely silent. Cersei's face was utterly enraged, but Aegon- Aegon was watching her with bright, bright eyes, one hand curled over the railing as he smiled at her. She smiled back.

And then Gendry was towing her away, back towards the benches at the far end of the yard, past the three remaining champions who watched her with wide eyes, un-moving. She allowed him to march her right out of the yard, six guards hot on their heels immediately.

"What have you done?" he growled, towing her along so fast that she struggled to keep up. "You bloody fool. What were you thinking?"

"I was thinking that I was tired of being laughed at," she snapped, trying, with no avail, to pull free of his iron grip. "I was thinking that I want them to start taking me seriously and stop seeing me as the weak link."

He stopped so suddenly that her stomach lurched, and shook her so hard that he lifted her almost right off the ground, her teeth almost rattling. "We had a plan!" he snarled.

"Well, it was a stupid plan," she spat. "I already stood out. Now I stand out because they are afraid of me, not because they think I am weak."

He put her back down and let go of her, turning his back on her as he scrubbed at his face with both hands. When he turned around, he said, "But now you have made yourself a target. They will all want to eliminate you as soon as they can. All you have done is put yourself in even more danger."

"Careful," she said quietly, lip curling. "Or you'll start to sound as though you care."

"I do care!" he yelled, and then shut his mouth, looking away from her. She was too shocked by his outburst to reply. "I do care, because you are the prince's champion," he amended. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "You- do you not realise that you could have missed? What if you had hit the prince instead- or the king?"

She scoffed. "I would have had to be aiming the complete other direction-"

"There were twelve guards with crossbow bolts on your back," he cut across sharply. "Selmy need only have said the word, and you would be bleeding out on the cobblestones right now." He reached for her again, and she let him. "Come on. You're to stay in your chambers tonight- and tomorrow. You'll be lucky if they don't eliminate you for not following instructions."

"Tomorrow?" she asked, aghast. "What about training?"

"Even more training is the last thing you need right now," he growled, steering her up the stairs. "If they don't send you back to Castamere in chains, you are going to keep your head down for a few days." He shook his head again in disbelief and disgust. "Are all assassins so reckless?" he asked her, too quiet for the guards trailing them to hear. "Or is that just you?"

The Cat snorted. "Why do people keep asking me that?" she muttered, more to herself than him, but he answered anyway.

"What, why you're so reckless?"

Her mouth pulled down in a small quark. It was amusing, really, despite the anger and frustration still wolling off of him in waves, that he believed her to be reckless. And perhaps she was; after all, the last ten years of her life had hardly been conducive to encouraging caution and instilling fear and self preservation. Indeed, the Cat was fully aware of her penchant for throwing herself into dangerous situations; but it would be a mistake to ever assume that every move she ever made, risky or not, was not thoroughly calculated first.

"No," she said, as he dragged her down a hallway, footsteps ringing on the stones. "Whether all assassins are like me or not." First him, and then Aegon, and then him again- it was starting to get ridiculous, and frankly, annoying. "We aren't all the same, you know," she added more quietly.

"I was under the impression that faceless assassins were all alike," he said, even more quietly, and she knew he did not mean it as an insult, but was referring to the fact that they were all faceless beings, instruments of Death, and no more. All alike and unlike all, a collective of honed weapons with no more emotion or free will than the blades the wielded in the name of their god.

"Yes, well," she replied, a bit absently, her mind far away. "I already told you- I'm not one of them anymore."

He frowned down at her as they turned onto the hallway that led to her quarters. "You can't- can't change your face anymore?"

They stopped at her door, and he let go of her arm. "Oh, believe me, ser knight," she said, still far away, "there is far more to being faceless than the act of changing one's appearance. That is just the least of it." And it was; faces were just masks, and one that all people bore. The guild were just more versed in the subject than most. It was what lay behind that counted- or rather, what didn't lie behind, in the case of the faceless. She raised a hand to her still bare throat and rubbed it, as if in comfort, to feel the pulse, the warmth of her skin, and remember her humanity, that she was alive, really alive, and not a mere shell.

He looked like he wanted to ask more questions, but saw her shift in mood. He raised a hand to rub the back of his neck. "I'm going back down there to try and see if I can do some damage control," he said, sighing. He fixed his eyes on her again, commanding. "Stay here- and do try not to do something stupid."

Aegon watched, transfixed, as his Lord Commander dragged his champion out of the yard. Not a single person dared utter a word; it was as if every person was holding their breath in shock and awe. There was a shout, and Aegon looked as Barristan Selmy jerked a hand at the champion next in line, ordering him to take his turn. Aegon did not envy the poor man; any attempt would seem feeble in comparison to the small assassin who had come before him.

"Seven hells," Edric said beside him, and then went still as he realised what he had said.

Aegon rolled his shoulders as he leaned against the railing, watching the champion struggle to nock his arrow. "Don't panic," he said, glancing sideways at his friend with a smirk. "I promise I won't report you for blasphemy."

Edric smiled in thanks, blonde hair flashing in the sunlight. "I've never seen someone do that," he said, leaning next to Aegon. "Shoot like that. I've seen good shots, and I've seen great shots- but none quite so... impossible."

"Indeed," Aegon concurred absently, staring after his champion as Gendry half carried the poor girl inside and out of sight. Girl hardly seemed right at all, despite what she had appeared the night before, when he had caught her asleep and off-guard. She had looked like- like a goddess, almost, and he didn't care how stupid it sounded, because she had. Like the Warrior come again- no; the Stranger. For who could deliver a deathly accurate shot quite so fervently, if not Death himself? He wondered what other strange talents she was hiding- other than the obvious, of course. "Though your own champion did very well himself," he said, nodding at the only other northman in the competition, a thief from Karhold. Aegon had been most interested to see the man approach Cat- and not lose his tongue for attempting to speak to her, as the glare she so often favoured people with suggested she may be inclined to do if interrupted or disturbed. Not the friendliest of women, his assassin, but he supposed that rather came with the job. Regardless, she had seemed almost... pleased by the thief's conversation. He wasn't sure why it did not sit well with him.

"Cenred is a good man," Edric admitted. "A thief, but an honest one, as far as thieves go." Aegon supposed that was fair enough; he knew little of the northman, but by all accounts he seemed an amiable man, not prone to violent outbursts or cruelty. He wondered if that would hinder him in this competition, or enable him. Humanity, after all, was not something the job of King's Champion required, and was something that more than a few of the other competitors lacked. The prince wondered if his champion was any different.

Aegon watched with disinterest as the final champion took his turn. He hit four of the targets, but only on the borders. Certainly nothing as impressive as Cat's performance. Performance- for that was what it had been. It rankled him slightly that she had allowed her anger to override logic, something that he rather doubted she was prone to do- but then, he really didn't know her that well at all. The night before was the first time he had glimpsed anything remotely human in her, the grief in her eyes, that laced her words as she told him why she was not enamoured with being called lovely girl.

"Who do you think will win?" Edric asked, nudging him. It was a familiarity that Aegon allowed of only his closest companions- among them the Lord Commander, who was at that moment striding into the yard, mouth set in a grim, but determined, line.

"Oh, I have every faith in my champion," Aegon said smoothly, straightening. "If you'll excuse me Edric, it seems I must speak with the Lord Commander." Edric Dayne dipped his head, and Aegon marched down the mezzanine, ignoring all of the chattering spectators.

By the time he made it down into the yerd, Gendry was already speaking with Selmy, who was judging the competition. Aegon winced; the White Bull did not look happy. He caught snippets of their argument as he approached.

"Your champion failed to show a willingness to follow orders in the face of her own pride," Selmy was saying, gloved hand cutting through the air in emphasis. "Regardless of her display of skill, she forfeited her place in the competition for stark disobedience."

"The Crown Prince's champion showed courage," Gendry argued back, face thunderous. Aegon was surprised to see his friend so determined to stand up for the assassin he had not long ago reviled. "She was reckless and arrogant, yes, but sh-"

"That is my point, Lord Commander," Barristan said. "If she were to be the King's Champion, she would need to be able to follow orders and directions accordingly- which she most certainly did not do today."

"Technically," Aegon said, cutting in smoothly. "My champion did not break any rules."

"Your Highness," Barristan said, bowing- ever the stoic knight. Gendry's jaw was tight as he did the same. "The champions were given express orders that-"

"That they had five shots each," Aegon finished. Selmy frowned, but let him continue. "It was never specified which targets they had to use them on. As it was, my champion knew that the first four were beneath her and a waste of time. She made a well informed and calculated decision based on her thorough understanding of her level of skill."

"That may be so, Prince," Selmy acquiesced, lowering his head in deference. "But she also gravely overstepped when she pulled that stunt with the blindfold. If she had missed-"

"She would have hit a brick wall," Gendry fumed, crossing his arms, and from the way a muscle feathered in his jaw, Aegon wondered if perhaps he had already had this conversation- and been on the other side of it at the time. "She would have had to turn around and aim at the sky to hurt anyone."

"She is a criminal," Selmy said stonily. "A murderess six times over, only here to escape a death sentence. When she is given a weapon, any risk is a risk I am unwilling to take, and-"

"What does it matter if she was wearing a blinder?" Gendry asked, throwing his arm out in frustration, voice rising along with his mounting fury. "If anything it made her less of a risk than any of the other champions, who could just have easily turned around and killed someone."

Barristan stuttered in outrage. "Are you accusing me of-"

Aegon raised his hand and both men stopped immediately. Barristan looked contrite; Gendry looked pissed. Aegon sighed inwardly. "Ser Barristan, I am sure the Lord Commander was not accusing you of neglecting your duty," he said, putting particular emphasis on the words Lord Commander. The choice of words seemed to make Selmy remember just who held senior office here, and it wasn't him. Aegon continued. "I understand your frustration; my champion will be dealt with appropriately for her recklessness. But I don't believe it should hinder her chances in this tournament. She did not break any rules, and made an informed decision that, regardless of her motive for doing so, better demonstrated the level of her skill- scores higher than any other champion."

"Her arrogance-"

"As i said, her arrogance will be dealt with," Aegon said a touch too sharply. "I agree that there should be a form of punishment; after all, we do not want a rogue for the King's Champion. I suggest that she be allowed to remain in the competition, but not receive special recognition. For her pride and arrogance, that would be the most fitting punishment, I think."

Barristan seemed to debate arguing further, but then nodded once, tightly. "You are wise, Prince," he said. "It will be as you say. But will you accept some advise?"

"Of course," Aegon said, inclining his head.

Barristan sighed wearily. "Make sure that she understands that should she win, there will be no place for a rogue in the King's service. Your grandfather does not suffer fools gladly, and her anger will be the end of her, should it go unchecked." And with that, he bowed and left. Aegon watched his white cloak fluttering in the breeze, pondering his words. It had not been necessary for the older man to say that it was not Aerys who didn't suffer fools; no, that remark had been for his grandfather's Hand, a man who had refused to name a champion for himself, saying that as Hand he represented the King, and it would be wrong for him to have one. Perhaps it had been a subtle message, for anyone who looked too long to see; that it was Tywin who really held the power here, that whoever served as King's Champion in the end, was really Tywin's Champion. The thought of Tywin's presumption sent anger flaring through Aegon's gut.

Gendry sighed. "That went better than it could have," he said, rubbing his jaw, no doubt aching from all of the teeth grinding.

Aegon scowled. "Tell Cat that she is a fool," he snapped. "Her lack of control over her anger nearly cost us this competition- and her life."

Gendry frowned at him. "You won't tell her yourself?" he asked.

"No," Aegon said darkly. "Because if I do it, I might just throttle her."

The Cat paced the room, wringing her hands. She was a gods damned fool for allowing her temper to get the better of her. What would the principal elder say if he saw her? Worse, what would Jaqen say? She remembered that argument they had had, not two months before... before her capture. That night, after he had helped her cover up a death that was not hers to take, when he had saved her and warned her.

"Willful, reckless girl!" Jaqen said, turning around so suddenly the girl stepped back involuntarily. "That death belonged to Arya Stark- are you Arya Stark?"

"No!" she protested, reaching out a hand as if she could still that anger, that thrumming need to instil in her caution. "I am no one, I am-"

"A girl insists in interfering with things she does not understand, and the Many Faced God is not for trifling."

"What? I know that, Jaq-"

He pressed her backwards until her back pressed into the wall of her dark cell, his breath misting across her cheek as he said in a voice both stern and lamenting, pained, "You do not know this, wicked girl. You know so little. You defy me, constantly."

"I'm sorry, jaqen, I-" she was stilled by his hand against her throat, his thumb stroking the long column.

"I do not want your apologies, my girl," he said quietly. "It is your obedience I would have. Your caution. No matter how many warnings a man gives you, you insist on behaviour that is nothing short of suicidal!" He leaned down, pressing his forehead against hers, his hand slipping around to cup the back of her neck, tilting her head to force her to look into his eyes. "If a girl is so eager to receive the gift, a man would do it by his own hand, and no other's. Is this what a girl desires? To be reunited with her family?"

"No- Jaqen, why do you say these things?" she pleaded, reaching up to grasp the wrist of the hand holding her neck.

"Because a girl leaves a man no choice," he whispered. "A man will not allow you to ruin yourself so. No one does not matter- but Arya Stark; she is everything to a man. Do not take her from him in the pursuit of foolish recklessness."

"I won't," she promised. "Jaqen, I won't. I swear it, by all the gods."

Unbeknownst to either of them, the girl would break that vow in under two moons, and there would be nothing the man could do to stop it from happening.

Grief. It slammed through her so hard that it sent her to the ground, arms wrapped tight around her waist as she bent over her knees, as if she could somehow prevent it from tearing her apart. Every vow she had ever sworn to him, she had broken, every damned one- and here she was, doing it again, because of petty rivalry! Shame coursed through her veins as she moaned through clenched teeth, trying to hold the pain, the tears, the overwhelming swell of anguish that threatened to consume her entirely-

There were footsteps outside her door, long and heavy. Gendry's, she thought. She gave herself three seconds, and then stood up, and strode to the window, back to the door, to give herself just a few extra moments to compose herself, never let him see the ruin that was inside of her. Daughter of Corpses, Bride of Carrion, the Ghost of High Heart had called her. Death's Consort and Princess of Decay. Dark Heart. Dark Heart. Dark Heart. But the Cat's heart had not truly turned dark, even after everything she had lost, everything she had endured, until that night-

The door opened, and she wiped her face blank. Turned around. "So? Is my head due to decorate the city gates, then, or will I be permitted to burn instead, as a gift to that ridiculous priestess?" She tried to keep her tone as bored as possible, as if she could not care less what the verdict was- when inside, fear coiled in her gut. Wilful, reckless girl, she heard again, and swallowed.

Gendry closed the door behind him and slumped into one of the chairs at the dining table. She strode across the room and slid into the chair opposite him. "You should thank whatever dark god it is you worship, Cat, because you will not be burning any time soon."

Relief slammed through her, and she realised with a start that, for the first time in a long time, she had been afraid to die. "So it is to be a beheading then," she mused, leaning back and kicking a booted heel atop the table.

He rolled his eyes. "Aegon managed to convince Selmy to let you off," he said, reaching forward to lift up her foot and drop it off the side of the able and back on the floor. She simply kicked up her other foot, and he sighed.

"Then it seems it is the prince I should thank," she remarked, "not Him of Many Faces."

The commander winced at the mention, and this time it was she who rolled her eyes. Westerosi, she thought with disdain. "That iron man was eliminated," he explained, rubbing his jaw with an oversized hand. "The gangly boy came last. You came thirteenth."

The Cat dropped her feet in dismay. "Thirteenth?" she fumed. "But I outshot every champion!"

Gendry shook his head in disbelief. "A moment ago you thought you would be executed- is thirteenth place really so bad?" When she scoffed and crossed her arms, he chuckled. "They thought it was a fitting punishment for your pride- to be placed un-noticeably either way."

"Pride had nothing to do with it," she muttered, slumping in her chair. "I don't see them penalising the Mountain for his little temper tantrum."

"Yes, well," he said, standing up, "the Mountain that Rides is a lot scarier than lady Cat Ashfold from Bear Island."

She smirked at him. "But not more scary than the Dark Heart?"

He chuckled again, shaking his head in amusement as he crossed to the door. "I don't think anyone is more frightening than the Dark Heart," he said. The Cat snorted as he put a hand on the doorknob. He paused, looking back over his shoulder. "Oh. There was one more thing, too. Part of the deal to let you off." The Cat quirked a brow and he grinned. "You're to be at the stables at dawn. Your training for the day will consist of shovelling shit."

He ducked out of the door as a fork buried itself in the wood panel, thrumming as it struck.

Dear, dear- Cat really needs to learn how to control that temper of hers, or it may just get her into trouble!

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