"I must report to my captain at first light, as you commanded," Arya, wearing Hascarl's face, declared loudly to her escort, raising her voice just enough to carry across the crowded courtyard. "But before then, I simply must find a moment to offer my compliments to your foreman! He is organizing that cargo with the precision of a master shipwright! It warms my Pentoshi heart to see such competence!"
She didn't wait for the guard's permission. She pulled away with a dramatic flourish, already waddling toward the central well.
The scar-faced escort cursed under his breath but was forced to follow, perhaps wary of causing a scene in front of their commander.
As Arya approached the knot of men, Jaime Lannister finally turned fully.
He looked older. Not just the gray dusting his hair, but the lines carved deep around his eyes, lines that hadn't been there when she last saw him at the Battle of Winterfell. He still wore the rich, familiar gold of a Lannister, but here, in the simple, jade-green robes, he looked like a lion caged in a garden. The golden hand was gone, replaced by a simple, sturdy glove of dark leather—but the way he used his left hand was still stiff, a constant, nagging injury.
He saw her approaching—a plump, colorful merchant man invading his space—and his eyes, the deep green she remembered, narrowed with immediate irritation.
"Who is this?" Jaime's voice was low, and though it lacked the casual arrogance of his youth, it still carried the weight of command.
"An unwelcome traveler, my Lord Lannister," the scar-faced guard gritted out. "Lord Hascarl of Pentos, lost on the sea. He leaves at dawn."
Jaime's gaze settled on Arya's eyes beneath the borrowed face. It was the moment of most danger. Arya focused on being Hascarl: greedy, loud, and utterly harmless.
"Lord Hascarl, you say," Jaime mused, a faint, cold smile touching his lips. "And what does a man of Pentos find so compelling about our... library?" He gestured to the chests of scrolls.
Arya forced Hascarl's laugh—a high-pitched, wheezing sound. "Not the books, my Lord! Though I am sure they are fascinating. No, it is the organization! The structure! I, too, deal in precious cargo—silks, spices, fine woods—and efficiency is life! Tell me, friend, is your system of documentation entirely secure? I lose half my profits to misplaced ledgers! I would pay handsomely for a glance at your methods, a simple consultation—"
Jaime cut her off with a flick of his real hand. "There will be no consultation, Hascarl. Our system is ancient and not for the eyes of foreign traders." His eyes remained fixed on hers. "You are clearly far from Pentos. A storm might have brought you here, but curiosity is what guides a man through uncharted seas. And curiosity is a luxury we do not tolerate."
He took one slow step closer. Arya didn't flinch. Jaime Lannister was now close enough for her to smell the faint scent of charcoal and old leather. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a dangerous near-whisper only she could hear.
"You look familiar, Pentoshi. Not your face, but the look in your eyes. Tell me, are you lost, or are you looking?"