The guards were silent after their warning. The one who had spoken—a tall, lean man with a scar tracing his jawline—looked her over once more, his gaze cold enough to freeze blood.
"The Silent Ones do not tolerate intruders, Lord Hascarl. Your coin means nothing here. But a lost traveler... will be directed to safe haven." He nodded to his partner. "Escort him to the outer barracks. Give him water and a direction east. He leaves at first light."
A direction east. That meant they were letting her live, for now, but not without suspicion. It was a partial victory.
"Most generous! My thanks!" Arya forced Hascarl's booming, relieved voice, bowing low and rubbing her hands together in a display of humble gratitude.
She was led through a massive gate of black, polished ironwood that swung open without a sound. Once inside, the Jade Monastery was not a tranquil place of worship. It was a military compound.
The courtyard was a tiered maze of green stone, with walkways and arches crisscrossing overhead. Monks in linen robes marched with the rigid purpose of Unsullied, and every shadow seemed to conceal a watcher.
As her escort guided her quickly toward the western wall, Arya used the fat man's slow, waddling pace to scan everything: the precise placement of guards, the flow of traffic, the high windows. She was searching for the scrolls and texts she knew they were hoarding.
Then, she saw it.
In the center of the courtyard, near a deep well, three of the robed monks stood with their heads bowed. They were not speaking Valyrian. They were speaking Common Tongue, albeit with the precise, clipped accent of scholars from Oldtown.
But it wasn't the language that made the foreign face on Arya's head tense with sudden, sharp recognition. It was the man standing across from them, overseeing their work.
He was dressed in the simple linen robes of the Silent Ones, but the fabric couldn't hide his build: tall, broad, and moving with the careful, compact strength of a trained killer. He was sorting through a chest overflowing with rolled, sealed parchments, his hand resting casually on the hilt of his curved blade.
His back was mostly to her, but the set of his shoulders, the thickness of his neck, and the way he commanded the attention of the surrounding men were terrifyingly familiar. Arya's heart hammered against her ribs. She was forced to focus on not letting Hascarl's face twitch, not allowing his eyes to betray the truth.
This was not just a hidden society of scholars. This was a trap.
Because the man standing in the courtyard, the one managing the flow of Westeros's secrets from this uncharted coast, was someone Arya had thought was locked away forever.
It was Jaime Lannister.