Arya Stark
The Titan of Braavos was the city's greatest wonder—a colossal statue at the entrance to the bay, a man set astride the water with his legs braced wide, raising a broken sword toward the sky. His feet rested upon two islands, and ships sailed between them as they entered the harbor.
The Titan's head was hollow, its eyes like great caves. Fires were lit within, so that at night his burning eyes could be seen far out at sea, serving as a beacon for sailors and travelers alike.
By the place where the Titan's sword cast its shadow—and by the length of that shadow—the locals told the time.
She disembarked at Ragman's Harbor. The ship's captain bade her a polite farewell and pointed her toward the House of Black and White. After a while, she found it.
The House of Black and White was a temple of the Many-Faced God—a dark gray building without windows, with doors made of white weirwood and black ebony. People came here to part with their lives, or to ask the Faceless Men to take someone else's.
She knocked on the door for a long time.
At last, a stern and silent man emerged from the temple, cloaked, his hood drawn over his head. She showed him her coin.
It had no effect.
They did not let her in at once. For several days, she remained on the temple steps, sustaining her resolve through sheer will—and her thirst for revenge.
Not so long ago, Joffrey had been so close. They had spoken. Yet she had not been able to take her revenge. So be it. Her time would come.
Sunrises gave way to sunsets, and those, in turn, yielded to night. The stars drifted overhead. Arya went over the names on her list, imagining how she would kill them.
She had grown thin, and she did not smell her best. Just when it seemed all was hopeless, the black-and-white doors opened. They let her inside, gave her water to wash and food to eat. A kindly man received her, but whenever she asked about Jaqen, he only shrugged.
And her training began. For a couple of days, she scrubbed floors and cleaned rooms and halls. On the fourth day, she was allowed outside and ordered to study the city. On the sixth day, she was given a cart—and now, for nearly a week, she had been pushing it through the streets, selling cooked oysters and crabs.
That evening, she was once again returning to the House of Black and White. She had earned a fair amount of money, but that wasn't the main thing. She had been given a task—to learn about a certain fish merchant, to observe whom he met with and what he spoke about.
She walked along Crooked Lane, pushing a small cart before. It was always quiet here, and near deserted. High fences and tightly shut gates seemed to say that idle wanderers were not welcome. The gathering dusk had already washed most of the day's color away.
At one place, a plum branch hung over the wall. Arya could not resist—she jumped, snatched a fruit, and popped it into her mouth.
A turn lay ahead, and just beyond it the lane ended, opening onto the square before the House of Black and White. Few people cared to linger near so grim a place.
A young man stepped out from around the corner toward her. He staggered from side to side, and even from a few steps away Arya caught the heavy smell of wine. He looked young, dressed in flashy, expensive clothes, with a sword at his hip and several daggers hanging from his belt.
Almost at once, she recognized him as a bravo—dangerous, carefree men who were quick to reach for a blade at the slightest word. During her time in the city, she had already learned many things—and how to recognize a bravo among them.
There were many in Braavos. They lived bright, beautiful lives—and brief ones. Their days were a never-ending chain of fights and duels, drinking bouts, dubious feats, and visits to brothels. Few lived to see thirty. But there were exceptions, and those lucky few became wealthy and respected men.
"Hey!" The bravo, reeking of wine, spun around, nearly stumbled, and lurched straight into Arya's cart, almost tipping it over as he grabbed at the edge to keep his balance.
"Go your own way," Arya said calmly. All week they had told her that a true Faceless Man never showed his emotions. He was no one, and no one had no emotions. And if there were no emotions, there were no weaknesses.
"Seriously?" The drunk hiccupped and lifted his head, squinting blearily as he tried to make out who stood before him. At last, he managed it. "Oh—you're a girl. Pretty… hello!"
"Let me pass," Arya said, trying to pull the cart free, but it was no use—the drunk clung to it like a tick.
"Ah, wait," he hiccupped, yawning, then belching. "You're not bad. Come with me. I'll treat you to fruit and sweet southern wine… and afterward we'll make love. I promise, you'll be pleased!"
"Fuck off!" Arya snapped. Despite all her lessons, the irritation was plain in her voice. "Sleep it off first."
"Hey, what's your problem? Why play hard to get? Just once!"
"In your eye!"
"I'll pay well. I've got coin, don't you worry."
"Go jerk off in a corner—cheap and easy," Arya shot back, her tone rough.
"Bitch." The drunk took a step forward, nearly stumbling. He spread his arms and ended up right in front of her, close enough to touch.
The stench of wine and cheap rotgut grew almost unbearable. The bravo's bright, once-fine clothes were smeared with wine and blood alike,and it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began.
"Hic—" he swayed again, almost losing his balance, his right hand dropping by accident onto the hilt of a dagger.
Then he suddenly raised his head.
(End of Chapter)
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