Disclaimer: ASOIAF, GoT, whatevs, is not mine. I am borrowing the characters and their world.

Summary:

AU. First Part of a Trilogy, telling the story of Cadenzsa Forel, Syrio Forel's only child.

Cadenzsa's mother has decided it is time for her child to marry. Since no man in Braavos would dare touch her for fear of her father's sword - and Cadenzsa's, of course - the clever Syrio has relocated to Westeros in hopes of finding a man deeming worthy of his precious only daughter.

He has gone to King's Landing to find a Lord, or a Prince, or a Knight that will give Cadenzsa the life of adventure that she deserves. Cadenzsa, the clever girl, has decided to sail first to the North, and travel down through Westeros, in order to see the land for herself, and to learn of its people. She finds herself, though, soon stuck in the Hold of Winterfell, prey to the charms of the three young men that live there.

Cadenzsa

She awoke to a blade across her throat, in the sunny patch of her bed, with the open air flying in from o'er the great Capital. It felt cold and hot all at once against her skin, and the smooth metal of Valyrian steel could end her quite quickly. The blood would spill out all over the pillows and she wouldn't even have a chance to get out from under the blankets before her time ended. Fortunately, today was not the day she was to die. Why was this?

Because, like most Bravos, Cadenzsa slept with a blade under her pillow, which she quickly flicked out and - with a single motion - let it fly away into her father's meaty thigh, which allowed her enough time to roll over and grab the sword at her bedside. Gold-handled with a flourishing, oh-so-Bravosi hand-guard that swelled and flourished and curved in a "C" shape which went from top to bottom on the handle, in the shape of a golden tortoise shell, the name "Cadenzsa" carved into the hilt. Now, why would that be, considering most people name their swords something ferocious or eloquent that is most certainly something other than their own name? Because, like all Dancing Masters, Cadenzsa was a sword. Not a woman, not a man; a sword. She and her sword were one, and as long as Cadenzsa had a good grip on herself, she knew she would be alright.

She assumed the Water Dancer's stance on the other side of the bed.

"You are afraid?" asked her father in the Bravos-tongue as he plucked her dagger from the meat of his thigh. A bit of blood ran down his trouser leg and onto his knee.

"Never," said Cadenzsa in her home language.

"That one should be afraid, for she could have been killed in her sleep."

"Nobody would ever kill Cadenzsa Forel in her sleep."

"And why would that be?"

"The kind of man who would dare challenge me would want me to kneel before he slays me."

"Just so." And her father lunged at her over the bed. Cadenzsa quickly took the sheets and threw them up over his face and stabbed through the fabric. The blade came out clean, so she tumbled over to the side, her night dress tearing slightly at the seam of her shoulder from catching on her knee. The sheets then came towards her like a shadow, and she cut through them before grabbing and swirling them around as a shield. Clangk-clangk went the swords against each other. Clangk-clak-SWOOSH went the swords as Syrio Forel's blade grazed just by Cadenzsa's ear. Step-step lunge went Cadenza against her father's advance, who parried her thrust.

Clangk-SWOOSH-clank-clack-THWACK went the swords against one another as the Dance heated. Speed was a Water Dancer's greatest strength, for a Water Dancer can get two or even three blows in before a Knight even begins his dance. Cadenzsa was fastest. She wasn't necessarily the strongest - though she was quite strong - but she was the fastest. But her body was built for being strong, for where other girls were slender willows, she was a mighty oak. Her legs were sculpted with muscle, as were her arms, and back, and belly, which was curved and flat all at once.

The wonderful thing about a Dance was that you could think of nothing else as you flipped and struck and thrusted and tumbled. You couldn't think of what color your gown would be for dinner while you were being as swift as a deer, and you certainly couldn't think of which masques you would attend that summer as you were being quick and as deadly as a snake. And while you were those things, you twirled your dancing sword , your opponent was dead, for his sword was down and across the floor with that flick of her wrist. And the silver hairs that began to peek through the black beard of Syrio Forel, First Sword of Braavos, glimmered in the stream of sunlight that peered through Cadenzsa's bedroom curtain. And he bowed to his daughter.

"I bow to a skill superior than my own."

"You let me win," said Cadenzsa, her sword still pointed.

"I wouldn't slay my own daughter."

"I wouldn't slay my own father."

"So I let you win. The First Sword of Braavos bows to you."

Cadenzsa wanted to smile, but she instead shrugged and lowered her shining blade to her side. She went and threw a dressing gown over her night shift and sat at her vanity.

"It doesn't matter," said Cadenzsa. "It will never matter. Nobody in all of Westeros cares about a woman Dancing. They don't have the First Sword of King's Landing."

"They do, but they are called Knights and Gold Cloaks."

"And no women are allowed."

"No, kitten, no women are allowed." Syrio came from behind and kissed his daughter on the top of her head. "And that's alright. Do you know why this is?" Cadenzsa shook her head. "Because Westeros needs Ladies like you. And this is proof."

In her father's gloved hand she saw a scrolled parchment, the kind that a raven carries. He unfurled it and read aloud in the Commontongue:

"Syrio,

We are to arrive in King's Landing in a fortnight, and if you and your daughter are still there, I should like to see you both. It seems that my Sansa has taken a bit more of Cadenzsa's temper than I thought she would. For when her direwolf Lady's life was threatened, she screamed louder than I thought possible, and took off her sandal and threw it at Prince Joffrey's head, and screamed 'I would rather die than to see my Lady's fur on that spoiled, selfish cow.' They almost ran away in the night with their wolves, but I caught them before they could. I could use your council and my daughters, Arya and Sansa alike, could use your Cadenzsa's, I think.

Lord Eddard Stark"

Cadnezsa could hardly believe it. Sansa? Sweet, perfect little Sansa? Throwing a sandal at the Prince of Westeros? And Cadenzsa thought that Sansa of House Stark of Winterfell becoming the Queen someday was a shocking piece of news!

"A...spoiled, selfish cow?" Cadenzsa began laughing; slowly, at first, but then it grew to a dizzying hysterical cackle that wrenched at her gut from lack of air coming in. Syrio put his arms around his only sweet babe and held tight to her. "I hope Lord Stark's not angry with me..."

"I doubt it is an angry letter." He leaned against her vanity and brushed the wild curls away from her face. "My Cadenzsa will change the world. I always knew she would. But enough. I should congratulate you. For I have found you a Home and a House to keep you. And it is a House that values its mighty women."

Cadenzsa frowned.

"I have brokered a union with House Martell of Dorne. As it turns out...I had saved Prince Doran Martell's life, by introducing him to his wife, many, many years ago."

"What?"

"Mellario Martell, Lady of Dorne, is from Norvos. I studied there for a time, and my uncle knew her father. We were friends for a time. She was almost your mother." Cadenzsa shifted uncomfortably. "When she heard I was searching for a suitable husband for you, she sent word to Prince Doran Martell about it. And now, my starfish, you are to wed her son, Quentyn Martell. And do you know what is so wonderful about Dorne? Not only do they follow many of the Essosi customs, and they play Cyvasse, but if the firstborn of of a Highborn house is a woman, then she will become the new Lady of the House, no matter her gender."

"Oh..."

"Oh? You are not happy?"

"Oh, no, Papa, it's not that!" insisted Cadenzsa. "It's just...I've never met Quentyn before. I don't know if I'll like him."

"Can I tell you a secret?" Cadenzsa nodded. "Sometimes, love isn't always about liking the other person."

Cadenzsa laughed. "Don't you like Maisi?"

"I love her," said her father. "But that doesn't mean I like her all the time. Sometimes, I can't stand the sight of her. But I love her. So I stay. You may not like him very much when you first meet, but you could fall in love with him at any time. Love is most exciting in that way."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean love is like a flint. Only the thing that strikes the spark of flame is a lover's touch. And that kind of thing can happen at any time, when you least expect it."

"Maisi says love grows like a tree."

"Your mother is wrong. Love is a fire that burns."

"Fires die," said Cadenzsa flatly.

"Only if you don't feed them." He gently brushed her hair back with a smile. "Do something with your hair, yes? Keep it off your neck today. I hear it will be quite hot in the Capital. And you'll have to get used to it. Dorne is full of hot sun and warm sands. And you'll be living in Sunspear! It is the capital of Dorne, and there is a beautiful palace by the sea called the Water Gardens, which is a mere three leagues away from the city. And you'll have an elder sister, Arianne, who is just as fierce-tempered and wild and adventurous as you. I think you'll be great friends."

Cadenzsa laughed.

"The Dornish even look like you! Curly black hair and dark-skinned. You'll fit right in there. Trust me when I say, this could not be better for you. That one understands what is meant?" Cadenzsa nodded with a smile. "Good. Now get dressed and come have some breakfast. Today, we will enjoy the weather."

"I want to go swimming in the sea later today."

"Later," said Syrio. And with that he left the room, and Darry and Qahari came in.

"Good morning, my Lady," said Darry in the Commontongue.

"Good morning, my Lady!" said Qahari, whose Commontongue was now just as good as Cadenzsa's, but still was heavy with the Free Cities.

Darry held up the shredded sheets. "My Lady, were you Dancing with your father this morning?"

"A little," said Cadenzsa. "Qahari, come and brush my hair. And braid it up today. I want to keep it off my neck."

"Yes, my Lady."

Darry chose a night-sky-colored gown of light silk that hugged her waist. Braavos fashion was something that the Westerosi hadn't seen much of, and Cadenzsa rather liked it. For example, you kept your night-shifts clean and white enough to show through the cuts and peeks of your clothes, which were artfully placed on your arms for extra drama. Rather than sleeves which were slender and tight, the Bravos' were puckered and billowed and pillowed out at your shoulders, and then went tight again until the sleeve ended. Sometimes, it would even flare at two, three, or even four places before it ended. And the skirts would always flare and ruffle out wildly at the waist, just above the hip. It was perfect for Cadenzsa, for it was not only dramatic, but it was roomy enough for her to Dance in it if she needed. Not that the Bravos cared about a woman wearing trousers, of course. If she wanted, she could wear Dancing trousers and leather boots and a tight vest with a flowing cotton shirt. Do the Westerosi care? Only if you're a Highborn, it seemed, which was always a rather stupid idea to Cadenzsa...if you were a Highborn, you could do what you wanted, couldn't you?

That was the funny thing about being a Highborn, wasn't it? You didn't have chains of iron, but chains of silk and smiles and good-natured speech. While the Forels weren't at all Highborn by Westerosi standards, they were still one of the most influential and powerful families in all of Braavos, and therefore one of the most-powerful families in all of the Nine Holds of the Free Cities. They said 'Keeping up with the Forels' there in Braaavos, and it was even whispered throughout the Slaver's Bay. Perhaps they were Highborn? Cadenzsa didn't know. Cadenzsa didn't really know what Highborn meant.

"My Lady," breathed Darry as Cadenzsa felt a hand on her cheek. "Crying again?" When Cadenzsa looked in the mirror, she saw herself wearing a red nose and eyes full of tears that had spilled all down her face without her even noticing. "You must stop. Or at least tell us the reason."

"My Lady, please don't say it's because you are homesick again?" Qahari asked, her deft fingers running soothingly on Cadenzsa's scalp. "With your permission, I think it is because Lady Cadenzsa is heart-sick."

Cadenzsa laughed through her tear-stained face and held onto Qahari's hand. Their fingers twined in the mess of her ebon curls. "I think the term is 'lovesick.'"

Darry, ever the loving and faithful friend, knelt at Cadenzsa's feet and held onto her other hand. "It is Lord Greyjoy, isn't it?"

Cadenzsa quickly shook her head. "I don't want to think about him. It's been nearly four months. I shouldn't be thinking about him, anyway. He's probably forgotten all about me by now and is in the arms of some Northern whore."

"My Lady, nobody could ever forget you," said Darry. "And I'm sure that Lord Greyjoy still thinks of you often."

"Probably while he pumps his cock..." The Braavosi Lady shrugged with a sad smirk and said "Even if he did, it's not like it matters now, does it? You heard my father; I'm going to be playing Cyvasse in Dorne before the month is up."

It was an excuse, really, to use her future travel plans and Theon's theoretical apathy towards her memory to divert her own feelings. An excuse, by definition of Cadenzsa's understanding of the Westerosi Commontongue, was a lie you told yourself to keep from dealing with an unpleasant truth. The worst thing about this kind of lie, though, was that she didn't know if it was a real one or not. She had no idea if he'd forgotten her or not. Cadenzsa only knew that she hadn't heard from or of him in that six month period. And, when Lord Stark came riding to King's Landing with his two daughters in tow, along with the royal family, the last thing she was going to do was ask about how his Ward was doing before asking of the well-being of his sons.

Cadenzsa had indeed thought about marrying Robb Stark for a moment, even if it was only a fleeting thought, when she was in Winterfell. Her father even might have seen what he could have done about it, should Cadenzsa have chosen to love Robb instead of Theon, considering that they had been such good friends. Yes, Cadenzsa could have convinced anyone in that castle that the two of them should marry quite easily. Stark and Forel joining Houses? Surely, they could benefit from something across the Narrow Seas. Their wealth, for one, was a great thing that they could offer to the Starks. Another was their affluence in the Free Cities, and their ships, should they need them for any reason. Cadenzsa's skill as a Master-at-Arms could easily aid the Stark's armies, as well, weren't the Westerosi so backwards and closed-minded. The Northerners weren't ready for Cadenzsa, is all; at least, that's the excuse she told herself.

The real reason Cadenzsa didn't scheme to marry Robb Stark was also the real reason she wanted to marry Robb Stark: being close to Theon.

At the end of the day, Cadenzsa knew herself too well. She'd try to be with Robb and end up sneaking into Theon's bedchambers at night. She would not complain about him being far away or marching off to war, so long as she could ask that Lord Greyjoy be by her side to protect her from...any intruders into her bed while her husband was away. But she would lure him to her, like the brightest flower lures the hummingbird, or the honeybees, and he would drink of her honey any time she pleased him to. And so in love with Theon was she that she promised herself the only way she could be with him was to wed him while he lived free, on his own, in the place of his home. And so affectionate of Robb, sweet Robb, was she that she promised herself that he deserved her utmost respect and friendship. He was too good of a man to be with a woman like Cadenzsa. He needed some blushing Maid of the North to be his Lady, not the sadder-yet-wiser girl from the Free Cities.

The next thing Cadenzsa knew, she was alone, lying on her side, on the sun-warmed stone floor, clutching the dung-spattered cloak of Theon Greyjoy, which she kept in secret under her bed. She didn't know really where Darry or Qahari were, but considering she was fully-dressed, now, and her hair had been braided, she guessed that she had dismissed them while she decided to have a moment of hysterics on her bedroom floor, like some emotionally-disturbed dumb child. She only cared for a moment, then she went back to burying her face in the fur collar that had once brushed against the back of his pale neck.

She thought about burning that fucking cloak hundreds of times. She thought about burying the damn thing thousands of times, too, and she couldn't even begin to count how many times she had contemplated throwing it into the sea, for it must have been well-over a million. But she never did; she just folded it up and stowed it under her bed, and took it out again whenever she missed him. She would lie in it, and hold it, and breathe deep the vapor of his sweat, and his horse's dung, and the smell of wine and leather. She would pretend that it was his arms wrapping around her, instead of the silk-and-fur-lined leather cloak's fabric. The truly sick thing about it all was that she hadn't even grieved this much over Qavo, poor, beloved Qavo, and he had been dead nearly two years, and with whom she'd been in love for nearly three(that is, well, if you can be in love with a corpse). She couldn't even bring herself to shed a tear over Qavo, nowadays, not since the Faceless Men...

Well, she wasn't crying over Qavo this time; she was crying over Theon. It's funny, though, isn't it, how your mind works? You start crying over one lost love, you begin to think about every single lost love you've ever had, and just how many tears you have shed over them, too. Perhaps the mind is defending itself against the heart, she wondered. Perhaps the mind makes you sad all at once so your heart cries out every tear you have left in your body. That way, when the time to cry is most inappropriate, you don't have any tears left. With all the tears she had cried over Theon, she imagined she could have filled a deep sea, and when she imagined that sea, she imagined Theon coming in on that ship of black sails to come and rescue her. He never rescued her from anything terribly dangerous in her fantasies, though. In her fantasies, Cadenzsa was alone. Not in danger, not dying, just alone, until Theon came to save her.

It sickened her, the thing she had become. She was the only thing that could truly save her, and if life had taught her anything, it was that there was no such thing as a Knight in Shining Armor or a Handsome Prince coming to save you and solve all of your problems. The only Handsome Prince you ever needed was the one that you became when you took action and decided to control your own fate. It truly was sickening, the way she thought of him, she thought, as she walked through King's Landing, buying up local produce and fish, holding onto her father's arm and smiling as genuinely as her face would allow her to while her heart was screaming out like a damn harpy from within. It turns out that she was good at lying, even though she hated it, for her father didn't say anything about how much damn time she spent in her room nowadays; or perhaps he did notice and was too polite to ask. No, that probably wasn't it; Papa wasn't really that polite.

"Like some dates, Cadenzsa?" He was holding a plate of dates in front of her; she guessed they had stopped in front of a merchant's stall. The arms of their servants were already full of parcels.

"Hm? Oh, yes, please."

"Cadenzsa."

"Yes, Papa?"

"You hate dates."

"Oh." She put the date down back on the pile, where the merchant had mounded them on a ceramic platter. Syrio paid the man for the dried figs and nuts they had bought and continued walking. Cadenzsa felt his eyes on her, and felt the uncomfortable truth of her unhappiness about to come to light in her father's eyes. "Yes, Papa?"

"It's unhealthy to keep secrets."

She gulped, but kept her eyes forward. "I don't know what you mean."

"Don't be coy," said her father. "Tell Papa why you're unhappy. He will make it better."

"Who said I'm unhappy?" Her voice cracked, even though she was smiling.

"You said you were unhappy with the way you sob yourself to sleep. And I can hear you pacing back and forth in your room at all hours of the night. You know you've been acting this way ever since you've left Winterfell. It's only gotten worse with each passing day. Now either tell me what's wrong or stop doing it, because I won't allow you to in Dorne."

Cadenzsa didn't look at him, but looked around at the market at the stalls. They were getting close to their house, now. Cadenzsa didn't want to talk about it. She just wanted to go swimming.

"Cadenzsa..."

"I'm just homesick, that's all." A beat. They stopped in front of their modest manse in King's Landing. It was a hovel in comparison to the Isle of Flowers, but it would do for the short time they were there. "I miss Gran. I want to go back home."

"No, you don't."

"No, I don't miss Gran? Or No, I don't want to go back home?" Cadenzsa let go of his arm and walked inside, parting the doors and walking through their tiny stone courtyard. A Dancing Sword came flying with the fury of a God and stuck into the wall just in front of her like one of Theon's arrows. Cadenzsa turned around in shock.

"You would be showing more respect when your Papa tells you something." Cadenzsa furiously pulled the sword from the crumbling mortar and tossed it at her father, drawing her own. "Is it because of something that happened in Winterfell? Someone was unkind to you?" Cadenzsa struck angrily; her father parried. "Oh, no, it must have been the other way. Cadenzsa never cries when an unkindness happens to her; she spits in their face." Cadenzsa thrusted and struck-struck-struck again, but her father parried all four of them. Her hair began to come out of her pretty braids. "So someone there was particularly kind to you. And you miss them. You miss him." Cadenzsa almost screamed when she struck against her father's blade, and all of the servants had quickly disappeared inside the house for fear of the fury of the Dancing Masters' swords. "But there were two of them, Lord Stark's boys...do you miss Robb or Jon?" Her strikes became more deadly, more precise. And each spin and twirl in the Water Dancing stance became more calculated. "Neither of them? Then who...?" Cadenzsa backed away, keeping her sword up high, her hand beginning to shake. "The Ward?" Cadenzsa's eyes became hazy with fury. "The Archer? Balon Greyjoy's boy?"

"I do not miss a boy!" Cadenzsa shrieked at the top of her lungs. Her father advanced, and with a mere five moves, he knocked the sword out of Cadenzsa's bleeding hand. She watched her blood drip off her skin, onto the ground, the drops shattering into many pieces like broken dishes. Her sword was on the ground, far away, and she knew that the Dance was over, for if that had happened to her with anyone other than her father, she would be dead. There was no point in fighting anymore. She crumbled on the ground in tears.

But instead of the anger she had expected, or the scolding she had braced for, her father came and wrapped his gloved hand on Cadenzsa's wound. "Why didn't you say anything?" he asked with genuine concern. "Papa would have made it better."

"By doing what? You cannot change the situation, nor can you change the past. If Theon was still on the Iron Islands and still a Lord on his own lands, that would be one thing. But he's a hostage."

"Theon is an honored guest of the North, much like you were-"

"Theon is a hostage for his father's good behavior! If his father rises in revolt again, Eddard Stark will cut off Theon's head! Do you think Lord Stark would have done that to me? Theon is a Rabble in a throng of Elephants and Dragons and Kings!" Cadenzsa was almost frightened at the sound of her own voice, for it was shrill and panicked and much louder than she had initially intended. When her father stood above her and offered his hand to her, and she realized that she was throwing a tantrum on the ground like a child, she became rather embarrassed and got up. She ran away, and her father did not stop her.

Cadenzsa went to the sea later that evening and threw Theon Greyjoy's cloak off the side of her rowboat and into the waves off of King's Landing's bay. She watched the heavy leather and fur and chain sink into the black water, and she kept her vow of not screaming or crying over it. She imagined herself sinking into the water and the ocean swallowing her whole. She imagined the current carrying it far to the Summer Isles, or maybe - by some miracle or grace of the Gods - it would find its way back to the Iron Islands. Maybe then Theon could have a piece of him that was free?

She wondered why she cared so much, as she rowed back to the shores. After a long walk through King's Landing's winding roads and a few fisticuffs in the streets with some local ruffians, she felt a little better, but only a little. She didn't cry until she got back to the safety of her bedchambers, and when she did it was only on the inside. It seemed that she had run out of tears for Theon, much like she had run out of tears for Qavo some years back. She felt some relief when she didn't cry, for she hoped that it meant she wouldn't ever cry again over Theon; those hopes were dashed when she wrapped her fur coverings from her bed around her shoulders and attempted to rock herself to sleep, and all she wanted to do was cry so she could fill the emptiness within her with the salt of her tearless eyes.

Cadenzsa tried everything; singing to herself, Dancing in the middle of the night, but nothing helped. Cadenzsa didn't cry at all, even when she cut herself on accident or spent her time in the kitchens watching the cooks cut onions. She wanted to cry, but it seemed that as her bitterness grew, her vowing to keep her eyes free of tears for Theon Greyjoy had turned into a dark and terrible curse, which was pending and quiet and horrifying, for its death was one where she must live through the horrors of it. It was a curse of emptiness, where no sadness was felt, and no tears were shed, but she walked around like a phantom of her former self, and while her body knew the Water Dance even without her soul in it, she felt her heart cased in stone try to beat for the thing that once brought her such joy. Cadenzsa couldn't flip and tumble anymore, and she couldn't fly or smile while she danced. Cadenzsa's emptiness consumed her, and she feared - or at least would have feared it, could she feel anything at all - that she would never shed another tear for the rest of her days.

She wanted, on that day when she came to the tower of the Hand to see Sansa and Arya, to instead run into the sea and swim until she found Theon's cloak, and then break the curse she'd put on herself, but she knew that it was probably halfway to the bottom of the Summer Sea by then, and that she would just have to deal with the fact that she would never shed another tear as long as she lived, which - if you thought about it - was very good. If her new Dornish husband never saw her cry, he would never think she was unhappy.

Feelz. Emo. Stabby-rip stab-stab. This was a short chapter, and I know it, but that's okay! Because we're going to be that way for awhile. Know why? KNOW WHY?

Because I'll be entering in NEW POVs throughout! Sure, you'll still see Theon, but you'll also see Arya and Sansa and, of course, more Cadenzsa!

Oh, don't worry, you'll see Jon and Robb and Theon, too! But you'll get a more fleshed-out ASOIAF world in here, as best as I can, while working a full-time job! Sansa's up next for this POV, so expect it soon!