The man had left the safety of the Happy Port and entered the streets of Braavo. He wore brightly colored clothes, and had a bravos blade at his hip. He had a wisp of a beard on his comely face and a contented smile on his face.
She pushed her cart around, yelling "Clam, cockles and mussels! Fresh caught clams, cockles and mussels."
The man didn't notice her. That was his first mistake. Syrio had taught her long ago, in a different life. She had tried to sneak up on him, and missed every time, fool girl she had been.
She remembered a time much like this, in a different world, a different skin, a different name. Now she was no one, then, she was someone.
The night was cold and clear, as Arya of House Stark slipped along the walls of the Red Keep, intent on her prey. The man in front of her seemed to know nothing as she slipped to his side and made to grab him.
The man slipped away and she stumbled, hands out to steady her as she fell. The man grabbed her and pulled her up, chiding her as he went.
"What are you?" The man asked as she regained her footing.
"I am a girl."
"An ox more like. A girl would not fall. A girl would catch an old done man such as old Syrio."
"But…" The scruffy little girl started, eyes wide and indignant as she opened her mouth. Arya of House Stark had always been dirty, rolling around in some filth, talking with unwashed strangers.
"A girl would not argue," The man made to change her position. He moved her legs and arms, spreading her out until she was as flat as a lizard-lion floating in the bogs. He adjusted her one last time and tilted up her head.
"Just so," He nodded and moved away. "First you must learn balance, and then speed, and then agility. And then, only then will you catch Syrio. You must be as smooth as summer silk, fast as a deer, quiet as a shadow."
"Just so, Master Syrio," the girl bowed and moved away, trying her best to be silent, smooth and fast.
"Just so," agreed the water dancer, watching her slide away.
"Just so," he thought again. He walked away, thinking of another time, of fat cats and skinny swords, old done men and a house of black and white.
She moved on, sliding how Syrio had showed her, but, no. She was no one, no one had never met Syrio and no one never would, thanks to Meryn Trant.
The cat slipped into the alley, trailing the brightly colored man, hands on her knife. The cat stalked in the darkness, quiet as a shadow and swift as a deer.
The man glanced back and hurried along, face hidden as he forged ahead. Sounds of laughter echoed, it was time for the cat to make her move.
She slid up to him, smooth as summer silk. The man started, reaching for his sword as the cat.
Quick as a striking snake, she knocked the blade out of his hands and stood over him.
The man had a look of utmost terror on his face as he scrambled back from where she stood over him.
"What do you want from me?" The colorful man sobbed, on his hands and knees.
"A confession," the cat replied, knife in hand.
"I did nothing. If you want my money, I have it here," he worked up a hand in an inner pocket and drew out a heavy bag. He tossed it at her feet with a clang and resumed his sobbing.
The cat went to his side, hand on his shoulder and whispered, "Valar morghulis."
The knife opened his throat ear to ear and a red smile opened.
She took off the man's boots and dumped him into the river.
Good boots are hard to find.