On the outskirts of Braavos, where the mansions of the rich lined the streets, was a building much taller than all those around it. Arya had once asked her mother why they had such a tall tower for their house, and the reply had been something confusing to her about how it allowed their lord to see all of the city and make sure it was safe for them.
Mother liked to talk about her lord quite a lot, but Arya had never been very interested by what she had to say on it. Her stories about her far off travels were much more interesting.
"When can I join you to go to another free city?" Arya had once asked, when Mother had been telling her about the pyramids of Meereen. She'd like to try climbing one, one day.
Mother had stroked her hair as she pulled her in close. "Not for a while, princess. Not until we are sure you are safe from harm, for-"
"'For the night is dark and full of terrors,'" Arya muttered the words along with her mother. "I know."
Arya spent most of her days inside the mansion's walls, becoming fluent in both the Common Tongue and Valyrian when there were Red Priestesses around to tutor her, and tending to the everlasting fire when they were all away. She did not have many other tasks besides those when she was left alone– the slaves did all the housework– and with no playmates, there was only so many times she could run around the manor playing make-believe games of knights and kings and queens. So instead, she lost herself to the world of reading.
Books were never kept from her, and she had asked for them so many times now that the priestesses always brought back rare tomes for her to read from the farthest corners of the world. She read about the conquest of the Targaryens and the Doom of Valyria, of the thick forests of Yi Ti and the mysterious continent of Sothoros. She marvelled over the sketched pictures of the Red Keep of King's Landing and the high walls of Volantis.
Her favorite books, however, were those that told of knights and swordsmen of old. There were many stories she had gathered, from the mighty knights of Westeros to the numerous sellswords scattered around Essos (sometimes with figures falling into both categories). The one that never left her side was The Dance of Water by Syrio Florel. She wasn't sure who Syrio Florel was, besides being the author of the book his name had never appeared in any other text. It didn't matter to her though; the detail with which he outlined different strikes and forms and stances was far superior to anything any of her other books had offered.
That book was hidden in one of the many hidden alcoves she had discovered, because she knew by now how Mother would react to her possession of it. Mother was against any form of fighting or talk of leaving the mansion. She was allowed on special occasions to venture into the city at Mother's side, but only if she wore her silk red robes and covered her head with a scarf.
So no one steals you away from me, princess, Mother would say every time she had questioned about it. Arya didn't ask anymore.
The past few weeks in fact, Arya hadn't said much to anyone in the mansion. Her last venture into the city had been to celebrate the Festival of Light, and she had stood amongst the assembly of worshippers of R'hllor as Mother and the other red priestesses made sacrifices into a great bonfire in one of Braavos' main squares.
She had not been prepared to see the sacrifices be children.
Arya had kept to her room afterwards, feigning illness. She knew she had little time left to use the excuse, but for a little while longer, she wanted to remain in the safety of her gilded prison, reading of heroic knights and queens of old and wishing she was one of them as well and help those who needed it.