After witnessing the executions of Stannis and Selyse, Arya staggered back to the brothel, her stomach churning with the echoes of death. She'd grown accustomed to its presence, even been its architect too many times to count, but standing on the steps of the Sept of Baelor, reliving the moment of her father's demise, was an ordeal unlike any other she'd endured.
The need to cleanse herself of the grim spectacle drove Arya to the nearest bath, where she sought solace in the steaming water, hoping to wash away not just the grime of King's Landing, but the haunting memories that clung to her like a shroud. Her clothes and shoes were dispatched for cleaning, leaving her free of reminders of her father's fate.
As she soaked, Arya's thoughts turned to Tyrion, his impending trial looming like a storm on the horizon. It wasn't the first time she'd plotted a way to save the imp, but each plan seemed to hit a dead end. Rescuing Tyrion from the black cells would require discreet help, something she couldn't orchestrate from her current position. The key, she knew, lay in the trial's aftermath, a window of opportunity between condemnation and discovery.
In another life, Tyrion had confided in Sansa about his trial and escape, but this time around, the circumstances were different. Sansa was absent, and there would be no Shae to betray him. Still, Arya did not doubt his impending guilt; the powers that be would see to that. He'd been given a choice: plead guilty and take the black, maintain his innocence and face execution, or, as Tyrion had opted in the past, demand trial by combat. But with Oberyn Martell en route north, that last option was no longer viable.
Arya's mind raced, seeking a solution where none seemed to exist. Tyrion's fate hung in the balance, and she was determined to tip it in his favour. But with Varys and Jaime both out of reach, her options were dwindling by the day.
An idea ignited in Arya's mind, a precarious gamble teetering on the foundation of Tyrion's animosity toward his father and Cersei. With Jaime's help, it could just work. But first, she needed to gain the skill of forging Varys' handwriting, a task made workable with access to his letters, with the help of Jack. Then, a clandestine meeting with Jaime Lannister would be arranged, where his persuasive powers would be crucial in convincing Tyrion to plead guilty and take the black.
But that wasn't the extent of Arya's scheme. There was the delicate matter of securing Tyrion's pardon in exchange for his cooperation with Jon Snow, a detail she couldn't divulge to Jaime. Yet, as Sansa often reminded her, every lie has a kernel of truth. And then there were the Freefolk, another piece in the intricate puzzle Arya was assembling. Her plan was far from foolproof; countless variables could derail it. But for Tyrion, it offered the slimmest hope of survival.
But before any of that, Arya needed a face. So she waited for the skies to darken before she set to her task.
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Selecting the right face was never a straightforward endeavour, and assuming the guise of Littlefinger only compounded the challenge. His face was notorious throughout King's Landing, making Arya's task twice as hard. Venturing out as Arya Stark risked attracting unwanted attention from those inside the brothel, she opted for a less conspicuous approach – the back window.
In Littlefinger's chambers, one window overlooked a small yard, providing Arya with a discreet point of entry and exit. This access, reserved for Littlefinger or those he invited, afforded Arya the freedom to come and go undetected, provided she descended via rope from the balcony.
Equipped with a sack containing essential tools – rope, knives, and cleaning supplies for the delicate task ahead – Arya left Littlefinger's face in his chamber, hidden in her secret pouch. Then she tied her shoulder-length hair back into a ponytail and donned a humble disguise: a dingy grey linen tunic paired with brown breeches.
She secured the rope to the balcony, hoisted the sack over her shoulder, and descended into the night.
Though Flea Bottom lay a considerable distance from Littlefinger's brothel, Arya would have preferred to find a suitable candidate for her transformation closer to home. Yet, the brothel's location in a more affluent district meant the streets were devoid of the destitution common to Flea Bottom. Here, finding a child whose life was measured in days rather than years proved easier than anywhere else in the Seven Kingdoms.
It took Arya an hour to navigate through the outskirts of King's Landing. Finding herself in the heart of Flea Bottom, where the streets teemed with rats and the stench of sewage permeated the air. Here, in the heart of the slums, decency was a luxury few could afford. Chamber pots were emptied into the streets without regard for those below, and the acrid odour of piss, shit, and vomit hung thick in the air. It was a wonder anyone survived amidst such squalor, the very conditions ripe for breeding diseases that claimed lives with ruthless efficiency.
But Arya had a task at hand, and she wasted no time scouring the familiar haunts where the sick and dying sought refuge in their final days. These were not places frequented by the healthy or the fortunate, but rather by those whose fate was already sealed. It was here that the undertaker plied his grim trade, carting away the lifeless bodies for burial according to the rites of the Faith of the Seven.
As Arya combed through the desolate corners, she found only emptiness, save for an elderly woman – a telltale sign the undertaker had passed through the day before, clearing the area of its grim harvest. She knew his routine well: a weekly sweep to rid the streets of the dead, though they filled up again soon after.
For Arya, this meant one thing: if she found a body, it would be fresh, spared the prolonged suffering that awaited those clinging to life in agony. If she had to intervene, she would ensure a swift and merciful end, sparing the innocent from needless pain. It was a justification she clung to fiercely, for she had no desire to spill the blood of the blameless.
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Under the cloak of darkness, Arya finally stumbled upon her quarry: a boy of between five and twelve, his age impossible to discern beneath his emaciated frame and mousy brown hair. His features were obscured by the shadows, his breath laboured, awaiting the Stranger's impending embrace. Arya knelt beside him, her heart heavy with the weight of what she must do.
The boy's eyes met hers, wide with fear as she whispered, "Are you in pain?"
He tried to speak, but all he managed was the sound of wheezing from his dying lungs. Too weak to reply, he managed a feeble nod, tears streaking his dirt-stained cheeks.
"Would you like me to ease your pain?" Arya offered softly. "I can make it comfortable, like falling asleep."
Another nod, barely perceptible, sealed the boy's silent plea.
From her sack, Arya produced a pillow and a vial of milk of the poppy, its contents potent enough to bring relief to his suffering. With gentle hands, she placed the pillow under his head, and administered the sleeping draught, cradling his head as he coughed and sputtered. His weakness was so profound, that he drifted into slumber within a minute. Once Arya was certain he was asleep, she retrieved Needle from her hip, ready to proceed to the final act.
With a tender kiss to the blade, Arya lifted the boy's tunic, the point of Needle poised above his heart. In one swift motion, she drove it home; the blade piercing his flesh and extinguishing his pain in one merciful stroke. And as the life slipped from his body, Arya whispered a silent prayer to the God of Death, a futile offering in the face of such senseless loss, but thanking him nonetheless.
After cleaning Needle and returning it to its scabbard, Arya turned her attention to the delicate task of removing the boy's face. Each step required meticulous precision, from the cleansing rites to the precise incisions, accompanied by silent prayers to the god of death. It was a skill Arya had honed to perfection, her hands moving with practised ease as if guided by instinct alone.
With the face removed and carefully stowed away, Arya methodically cleaned her blades, her focus unwavering until a familiar voice shattered the silence. Startled, Arya whirled around to find Jaqen H'ghar standing behind her, his presence both unexpected and unnerving.
Her heart pounding, Arya stood her ground as Jaqen spoke. "I see a girl has taken a life," he remarked, his tone cryptic yet tinged with familiarity. Arya's grip faltered, and she dropped the blade she had been cleaning.
In defiance, Arya met Jaqen's gaze. "The Many-Faced-God sought the boy's soul. I only helped him," she declared.
Jaqen regarded her with mild amusement. "I see what you've done," he acknowledged. "But I'm curious, how does a girl know to take a face like that?"
Arya's pulse quickened. "Are you here to kill me?" she ignored his question, her voice steady despite the rising tension.
Jaqen chuckled softly. "It depends. Tell me why you are taking faces, and I will decide whether to offer you to the Many-Faced-God."
"To save the lives of others," she replied with a half truth and a small smirk.
"Who taught you such skills?" Jaqen eyed her with curiosity.
Arya's smirk widened. "Jaqen H'ghar," she replied with feigned innocence.
A flicker of surprise crossed Jaqen's features before he regained his composure. "That is a lie. Jaqen H'ghar has never met this girl. What is your name?" he pressed.
"No One," Arya asserted.
"Everyone has a name," Jaqen insisted.
"Not in the House of Black and White," Arya countered, shaking her head. "There, a man must become No One. Were you following me?" she inquired.
"Stories of a girl taking faces pique the interest of those with similar skills," Jaqen explained. "Why are you taking them?" he asked again.
"For the greater good," Arya replied firmly.
"Who is paying you?" Jaqen probed.
"Nobody is. I'm doing it for the greater good," Arya insisted. She knew the conversation was futile unless she told him the truth. And he wouldn't let her go until she gave him a good enough explanation.
"Come with me. I'll tell you what you want to know," she offered, retrieving her blade and stuffing it into her sack. Leading Jaqen from the alley, Arya guided him back to Littlefinger's brothel, where she hoped to find some semblance of understanding.
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Arya left Jaqen in the yard as she ascended the rope back to Littlefinger's chambers. After changing out of her clothes, she assumed Littlefinger's face and slipped into his night attire. Descending the stairs, she ushered him inside and led him back upstairs and into her chambers.
"A girl knows how to change her face," Jaqen remarked as Arya shed Littlefinger's visage. "Who are you?" he inquired, his appearance unchanged: shoulder-length red hair with a streak of grey, slightly darker skin, a face both handsome and amiable. Seeing him as a woman, Arya could appreciate his looks, though she knew the face he wore belonged to a dead man. What lay beneath remained a mystery, and she hoped it wasn't the Waif.
"Shall we play the game of faces?" Arya proposed, offering Jaqen a riding whip she kept hidden in her chambers for clients who sought such pleasures from Littlefinger's whores. Its presence ensured it would only be wielded with consent.
Jaqen's smile widened. "Valar Morghulis."
"Valar Dohaeris," Arya responded as Jaqen circled her, a predator assessing its prey. "Shall we begin?" she prompted.
"Who are you?" Jaqen repeated.
"No One!" Arya declared.
Jaqen struck her with the whip. "A lie."
"Who are you?" he demanded once more.
"Arya," she responded.
"And where does a girl called Arya come from?" Jaqen inquired.
"Westeros, the Riverlands. My family's seat is Riverrun," Arya replied, testing his discernment, gauging how much she could conceal from him.
Jaqen lashed her hand with the whip. "A lie."
Realising that honesty might be her only recourse, Arya opted to divulge the truth, hoping the House of Black and White would comprehend her motives for claiming the lives of the sick and dying to assume their faces. "Westeros, the North. My ancestral home is Winterfell. I am the youngest daughter of a noble lord, Eddard Stark. He was executed by Joffrey Baratheon," she confessed, bracing for the whip, but it did not come, prompting her to continue.
"Following his execution, I fled the capital. I had to kill a stable boy, stabbing him in the gut. I sought my mother and brother in vain. They were slain by Walder Frey. An outlaw, the Hound, Sandor Clegane, abducted me. He attempted to sell me but was wounded in a skirmish. He pleaded for death, but I refused. I left him in the mountains to suffer and perish. I hated him."
Jaqen struck her once more. "A lie."
"I didn't hate him. Well, I did at first, but not at the end," Arya confessed. "I left Westeros and sailed to Braavos, where I underwent training at the House of Black and White. I learned the art of preparing bodies, assuming faces, bestowing the gift of death, striving to become No One," Arya recounted, anticipating another blow, but none came.
"Continue," Jaqen prompted.
"I left the House of Black and White..." she began, but Jaqen struck her.
"A lie," he declared.
"I escaped," she corrected. "I returned to Westeros with a purpose. I had a list. People I aimed to kill. I exacted revenge on Walder Frey and his kin for the slaughter of my mother and brother." Jaqen delivered another blow.
Arya frowned. "But it was the truth," she protested.
"It was a lie," Jaqen countered.
Arya deliberated, struggling to comprehend. It was true—she had slain Walder Frey and his sons. Then it dawned on her: she hadn't killed his daughters. "It wasn't a lie, I merely forgot. I killed Walder Frey and his sons, sparing his daughters."
"A lie? Forgetfulness? It is all the same to the Many-Faced-God," Jaqen remarked with a smirk.
"I intended to journey to King's Landing, to finish my list and kill Cersei, but I discovered my brother and sister had retaken Winterfell," Arya explained, the whip striking her arm. "My half-brother and sister," she amended, only to be met with another lash. "He's my brother!" Arya exclaimed.
"Is he?" Jaqen arched an eyebrow.
"Alright, he's my cousin," Arya conceded with a sigh. "But at the time, I believed him to be my half-brother. Upon arriving at Winterfell, he had already left for Dragonstone, seeking help from the Dragon Queen. With the army of the dead marching towards the Wall, he wanted dragonglass and her dragons."
"And did he return with dragonglass and dragons?" Jaqen inquired, surprising Arya with his deviation from his usual line of questioning.
"Yes, he returned with her and her dragons. Although we needed her, I didn't like her, though not as much as my sister," Arya admitted, her gaze lowered as Jaqen ceased his circling. "But it was inconsequential, for we all perished in the end."
"If a girl is dead, then how does she stand in front of me?" Jaqen posed the question.
"My younger brother, Bran. In our other life, he was the Three-Eyed Raven. I don't fully understand its significance, but he gave us some dragonglass daggers, myself, Jon, and Sansa. When the Long Night came, we proved unable to defeat the army of the dead. We had not prepared adequately. Bran told us that if we were being killed by the whitewalkers or the wights, we were to use the dragonglass daggers on ourselves. And so we did. We awoke seven years earlier, as children. We kept our skills from our former life, but we were young again. Thus, we resolved to effect changes—ones that might equip us for survival during the Long Night," Arya recounted.
"A wise choice," Jaqen smiled.
"The only choice," Arya told him.
"Has a girl seen this army of the dead?" Jaqen inquired.
Arya nodded. "Yes. Now you know everything," she asserted, only to be met with a strike from Jaqen. "What was that for?" she demanded.
"I know nothing. Why are you here?" Jaqen pressed.
Arya had no recourse but to speak the truth; Jaqen would discern any falsehoods. Her concern lay in how he would react to the information. "I told you, for the greater good. We need the help from the Iron Throne," she explained.
"Is that why you bestowed the gift upon the King?" Jaqen questioned.
"How did you know?" Arya exclaimed in astonishment. Jaqen merely shrugged and smirked. "He would have been poisoned regardless," Arya defended. "He died before, at the hands of Littlefinger and Olenna. I made sure history repeated itself," she murmured, keeping her voice low to prevent others from overhearing.
"You believe the new King will aid a girl?" Jaqen probed.
Arya shook her head. "No," she admitted. "We require a King capable of uniting the Seven Kingdoms, someone to lead us through the long night." Recalling Melisandre's words and her prophecy of Azor Ahai, Arya added, "The red god proclaims my cousin to be Azor Ahai reborn," hoping the significance would resonate with Jaqen. Yet, his countenance revealed no hint of recognition.
"And how does a girl know this?" Jaqen inquired.
"He is the son of ice and fire," Arya replied, improvising based on the tales she had heard, injecting her own interpretation. She waited for the whip, expecting Jaqen would chastise her for her fabrications, but they never came. "His mother was my aunt, Lyanna Stark—the embodiment of ice, the rose of Winterfell. Jon's father was a son of fire, a dragon, Rhaegar Targaryen, the rightful heir to the Iron Throne."
Jaqen nodded thoughtfully, then did something unexpected. He settled into one of her chairs, signalling an end to their session by laying the whip aside. Arya knew better than to believe the game had concluded; Faceless Men never ceased playing the game of faces.
"Why did you die before?" Jaqen queried.
Arya furrowed her brow. "We lacked the means to kill him. The night King, the leader of the army of the dead. I owned a dagger, forged of Valyrian steel," she rose and retrieved the dagger, once belonging to Littlefinger, presenting it to Jaqen.
"It is exquisite," he acknowledged, then grimaced. "But it requires fire."
Arya puzzled. "How do you know?"
"This is no ordinary blade," Jaqen explained as he approached an oil lamp, removing its lid and exposing the blade to the flame.
Arya stood beside him, watching as etchings emerged on the blade, inscriptions she couldn't decipher. "Do you understand what it says?" she inquired.
Jaqen nodded solemnly. "From my blood comes the prince that was promised, and his will be the Song of Ice and Fire."
"Jon," Arya murmured.
"Maybe, maybe not," Jaqen replied. "But the Many-Faced-God can offer you assistance," he smiled. "For a price."
Arya was well aware of the steep cost of employing a Faceless Man, yet she pondered what aid they could provide that she couldn't secure herself.
"What can you offer that I cannot?" she inquired.
"We have the power to withhold the gift," Jaqen disclosed. "If your cousin aspires to claim the Iron Throne, he will inevitably accumulate adversaries who may seek our intervention."
Arya comprehended his implication. "Him and those in his inner circle," she acknowledged.
"And when the time arises, the Many-Faced-God will be prepared to aid a girl to say no to the requests," Jaqen affirmed.
"At what price?" Arya asked, dreading the answer. The realm was burdened with debts; repaying faceless assassins seemed implausible.
"Provide us with names, and they shall remain unharmed, regardless of what is offered. And when the long night arrives, the Many-Faced-God will stand by," he assured her once more.
"And what is the cost?" Arya pressed.
"Following the long night, a girl will return to the House of Black and White to complete her training. She will serve the Many-Faced-God for the remainder of her days," Jaqen declared.
"Will these names remain on the list until their natural deaths?" Arya inquired.
"Certainly," Jaqen affirmed with a respectful nod. "I require only a list of their names. We will do the rest"
Arya harboured no desire to return to Braavos, yet if it meant safeguarding the lives of those she cherished, she deemed it a sacrifice worth making. Extending her hand, she agreed, "I'll do it."
Jaqen shook her hand. "Excellent. A girl must now give me those names," Jaqen urged, prompting Arya to approach the desk and scribble down the names of those whose lives needed preserving until the Long Night.
Once she had completed her task, she handed him the paper. "Here."
"There is one more stipulation," Jaqen informed her. "You must not divulge your plans to anyone. We will be aware," he cautioned.
Arya nodded solemnly. "I won't," she promised.
"Very well, we have an accord," he smiled. "Valar Morghulis."
"Valar Dohaeris," Arya reciprocated. With that, Jaqen departed, leaving Arya alone to ponder her future.