Foul stench of rot churned the girl's stomach and made her nostrils flare. 'Weasel' swept silently through the remains of Harrenhal castle, scraping her fingertips along the rough, cold stone wall that she knew had been baked by dragonfire more than three hundred years ago, going about her daily business of fetching water, wine, food and running errands for her new 'master'. Yoren had been killed during their capture by Lannister men some five months prior. Taken to Harrenhal, she had almost lost Gendry too. The one who they called The Tickler had chosen to interrogate him about some 'brotherhood without banners'. She was now the cup bearer of Commander Tywin Lannister, her brother's enemy. Arya listened closely to battle tactics while she served, desperately drilling her head for ways she could contact Robb, hating the fact that she knew almost everything but could say nothing.

Her one and ten name day had come and gone, the girl didn't feel any older or stronger. On the contrary, she felt even smaller amongst these brutal men; and much, much more vulnerable. She would hear the sounds of women being dragged into the bushes and assaulted. Their screams of horror and agony made her heart shrivel in despair, the way those sadistic soldiers laughed cruelly at pain and humiliation made her rage. She could only hope that her body would not develop anytime soon. Each night she lay with her head in the hay, repeating those names like Yoren had taught her; Joffrey, Cersei, Illyn Payne, The Mountain, The Hound, Polliver, The Tickler. It disgusted her. To think that she had been reduced to reciting the names of her enemies like a bloody prayer, as if she was surviving solely on her hatred and her life meant nothing else. What has become of that cheerful, innocent, happy Arya Stark? Oh that's right, the girl thought sarcastically, Arya Stark died the day they slandered her father's name and executed him before an angry crowd. Only the body of Arya Stark remains, a body full of hate, anger and vengeance. I am no longer Arya Stark of Winterfell, I am nobody.

As the girl turned turned a corner, she noticed four tall, strong-looking men in red and gold armor, one of them with strange strands of silvery-white littered amongst the head of red.

Jaqen?

It was the first time she had come face to face with him in five months. He had called himself her friend and so she had helped him. How stupid she felt. Seeing him in the Lannister armor forced the hurt of betrayal to grow in the pits of her stomach, fury burn in her head. I had helped him, she thought, and now he has become one of Lannister's dogs, staining his sword with the blood of my brother's men. He joined them, he joined those men who killed Yoren. And I was the one who helped him. I should have let him burn.

She lowered her head as the four men drew closer, casting large shadows one by one over her small frame as they passed, for she knew the only way of survival was to stay unnoticed and out of trouble.

Arya made her way down to the water barrel as she was bid and found a tall figure leaning against the barrel with his long legs crossed over and his arms folded before his chest. Jaqen. How did he get here before I did? She gave him a look of pure contempt and turned to walk away when she suddenly felt a grip on her arm. It was firm and sure. Unable to shake off the grip she turned and looked at the man, her face wearing an uncomfortable expression, his face unreadable.

"A girl says nothing...a girl keeps her lips closed, no one hears, and friends may talk in secret, yes?" he said in the foreign accent that she once welcomed. She nods her head once in response and he let go of her arm.
"A boy becomes a girl." he said, almost teasingly.
"I was always a girl" she retorted.
"And I was always aware" he replied casually, "But a girl keeps secrets, it is not for a man to spoil them."
"You're one of them now, I should've let you burn" she said accusingly, voicing her previous thoughts.
"And you fetch water for one of them now," Jaqen stated matter-of-factly, "why is this right for you and wrong for me?"
"Because I didn't have a bloody choice?!" rage creeping into her voice.
"Ah sweet girl, you did have a choice, I had a choice, and here we are." he replied calmly, taking a step towards her, backing her into the stone wall, closing in and towering over her. Their position much too intimate.
"W-what do you want." she stuttered uncomfortably, eyes wide and shifting.
"A man pays his debts. A man owes three"
"Three what?"
"The Red God takes what is his, lovely girl, and only death may pay for life" At that moment she felt her body freeze, blood running rapidly from her fingertips to her muscles, numbing her body, her eyes widened in terror. Fear cuts deeper than swords Arya, fear cuts deeper than swords...only death can pay for life?! Is he going to kill me?! I saved him, how can he do this? I thought he said he was a friend, not a foe! She instinctively positioned her arms defensively around her torso. He smirked. Moving his face closer to her ear, he whispered in that smooth baritone
"Sweet girl, I only want three names." Arya looked at him quizzically.
"Names?"
"You saved me and the two I was with," he said, withdrawing to face her, "We stole three lives from the Red God, I have to give them back. So speak three names lovely girl, and a man will do the rest. Three lives I will give you, no more, no less..."

And so there was one less name to hate. It seemed as though The Tickler had accidentally fallen from Wailing Tower. The sight of is distorted neck gave her a strange thrill of satisfaction, as if revenge had been taken and justice had been done. Arya looked up, not surprised to see Jaqen looking right back at her, the corners of his lips pointed upwards and dimples appeared as a small smile widened across his face. He flicked his hand from his temple, saluting towards her with an outstretched index finger. One down, two to go.

"How did you do it?" she asked
"How did I do what?" he asked in return, watching her silhouette dance with the blazing flames. It was eerily quiet. There were no counts of rape, or drinking or brawls that night, not after the mysterious death of the Tickler. Arya found Jaqen sitting alone on an empty barrel, absently watching the fire.
"How did you kill him so swiftly without anyone suspecting or noticing?" she asked again.
He gave her his signature grin and continued,
"Ah, lovely girl, I serve the Red God. A man must do what must be done. He keeps the delicate balance between life and death as the Red God commands." She responded with a face of bewilderment. The girl has not lost all her innocence, he thought, she is still just a child. He laughed and patted the barrel next to him, signalling for her to sit. Once she was seated, he continued,
"Let us just say a man is good at his trade."
Her eyes widened in realisation, her childish looks returned to her face and she no-longer had the demeanor of an under-grown adult. The girl was quite adorable.
"You're an assa-"
"A keeper of balance, yes" he interrupted
"You trained a lot?"
"Just so."
"I want you to train me" she sounded almost pleading.
"No, sweet girl, that was not part of the deal, there was only lovely death." he said in a voice of silk and steel.
"Yes, but-" she protested.
"No buts. The names you have on your lips every night, I presume they are the reason you want to train?" he asked.
"Jaqen, you do not understand" she replied sharply, "I want them to die, I want to see them die, more than anything, but it is more than that. I want Death to take them by my hands. Seeing the Tickler's death delighted me. My father told us that if we were to condemn a man to death, we owe it to him to kill him ourselves; to look him in the face and hear his last words..." there was a pause and a sigh,
"I want to learn your trade." After staring into his eyes for a long, hard moment, Arya turned her head to look into the flames. She could feel Jaqen's cold grey-blue eyes on her, obviously weighing his words. The girl has much potential, he contemplated, but her sense of identity is much too strong.
"Lovely girl," he said, "you know that anyone can die and all men must eventually die, one must simply wait. This Joffrey, Cersei, Illyn Payne, The Hound ;The Red God will claim them one by one, with or without your offering."

She was overcome by a sudden feeling of sadness and despair. Mesmerized by the fire, her vision began to blur, a single tear unknowingly left her eye and rolled down her cheek, followed by another and then another. Arya did not know she was crying until a foreign wetness washed over her face and trickled onto her neck. She hastily willed the fountain of tears to dry, without success. The girl brought both her hands up to wipe the tears off her face. Jaqen beat her to it. He slid his fingers along her slim jaw and tilted her face toward him. Startled by the contact, Arya looked at Jaqen and held still. She's just a child who needs to be comforted, he told himself, no more, no less. His thumb caressed her cheek, wiping away the delicate tears as he drew her towards his chest and placed a soft kiss on her forehead.
"Hush, lovely girl, your master would be displeased to see red swollen eyes tomorrow morn." he whispered while lightly patting her on the head.

She didn't punch, she didn't kick, she didn't squirm, she just cried. The hollow in her chest caved in and out as she struggled to breathe. Arya felt as though she had never properly mourned the loss of her father and her separation from her family. It occurred to her how ironic and absurd that she would never let her bestfriend Gendry see any moment of weakness, while she poured all her sorrows, instead, into the bosom of a mysterious assassin, one who she could barely trust. But nevertheless, this man had attacked her emotional defence mechanisms and she willingly let her guard down. So much for not being weak.

After a while the girl stilled and her breathing evened out, the poor thing had cried herself to sleep. Careful not to wake her, he carried her to the to the 'bed' she had made for herself amongst the other servants. He set her down slowly and again stroked her cheek. She stirred a little.
"This really is no place for a lady" he murmured under his breath, absent mindedly.
"I, Arya Stark of Winterfell, am not a lady," she whispered in her sleepy, slurred speech.
"No, you are not," he agreed, "You are a warrior, a young wolf." He smiled to himself, spontaneously leaned forward and planted a trail of soft kisses from her forehead, brow to her eyelids and down her cheek. The girl sighed and smiled contently.
"Good night, Arya Stark" he whispered. Jaqen squeezed her hand once more and retreated into the darkness.

He noted the distinct taste of bitter tears on his lips as he walked into the howling winds of the night.