Arya Stark
Arya had just enough time to go cold with the realization that he was going to kill her, here and now. Her heart slammed in her chest. Time slowed. In some strange way, she noticed the sudden sobriety in his gaze—sharp, intent. And his hand had already drawn the dagger.
Needle was hidden back on the shore, tucked among the rocks. How she could have used it now!
Arya moved in a flash, like a true water dancer—stepping back, spinning on one foot, and breaking into a run. She almost made it…
The bravo seemed to know all her tricks. He took a long step, snatching her by the hair, and yanked her around to face him.
His knife was razor-sharp. A subtle, elegant motion—and Arya felt a searing pain like burning pepper tear her throat open. The air, suddenly cold, rushed into her lungs. She coughed, choking, a rasp tearing from her ruined throat. Blood—young, fierce Stark blood—spilled out onto the dusty cobblestones.
Arya Stark fell onto her back, both hands trying to press against the wide, gaping wound. Tears filled her eyes. She tried, and failed, to draw even one more breath, to taste the air again.
Something rang in her ears, then began to pound like a great drum. Boom. Boom. Boom. Each beat was her heart—and the blood leaving her body with it.
Through a haze, she saw a blurred shape lean over her. He watched in silence, without a trace of feeling, as she bled out.
Dreams and plans flashed before her eyes in a long, glittering ribbon, like cards in the hands of a skilled cheat. Life had begun, and life was over.
And in a sudden flash of clarity, she understood that her life might have turned out very differently, that not all people were as she had thought them to be. No more would she trade sharp, laughing words with Sansa. Never again would she hear Bran's or Rickon's laughter. She would never embrace her brother Jon, and he would never ruffle her hair and call her "little sister." She would never tell Edric what she felt, never return his kiss, never see the fairytale towers of Starfall…
It had all been so close—if only she had been patient, if only she had found a little sense and reached out her hand. She was a girl, not a killer. She had wanted, had dreamed, to love and be loved, yet for some reason she had buried it deep inside, showing the world only a fierce temper, a stubborn will, and a sharp tongue. She might have had a pack—her pack—but she had chosen the path of vengeance and solitude.
The lone wolf dies…
Why hadn't she waited a month? Why hadn't she stayed with Edric? Why had she been in such a hurry? What had she proven, and to whom?
Beautiful—and, alas, unrealized—visions flared and scattered like ash from a burned page, carried off by a gust of wind. That page had been her fate, and she could have written anything upon it. Anything… How strange that sounded.
Why had these thoughts come to her so late? Why had she never thought of them before?
And Death, the great comforter, bent over Arya Stark, took her hand, and drew her away. The girl gave a last weak kick, turned her head to the right, rasped through her torn throat—and died.
Far, far away, on another continent, in an autumn forest, a great direwolf lifted her head to the sky and let out a mournful howl…
***
The killer's name was Nadeo Kopin. He cast a calm glance along the quiet street, making sure there were no witnesses, then bent over the body of the unknown girl and wiped his dagger on her clothes.
Turning sharply on his heel, he set off down the street—quickly, but without drawing attention.
At the Laughing Titan inn, he had already paid for his room earlier that day. Now he changed into different clothes, tore off the false mustache from his face, and within half an hour he was at the harbor.
There, he boarded a ship with the curious name Future Lord, owned by his uncle, Asio Kopin.
Two weeks earlier, Asio had summoned him and given him another assignment—to kill a girl in Braavos. Nadeo never learned her name. He did not ask who had ordered the killing or why. Asio did not like to discuss such matters. But from his hints—and from the fact that over the past year his uncle had dealt almost exclusively with King's Landing—Nadeo understood where the order had come from. One thing was certain: the girl was no commoner. King's Landing would not order the death of a fisherman's daughter or some serving girl.
Nadeo had not asked questions. Sensible men already knew that King Joffrey had created a new service, and it was best not to ask about it, nor speak of it. Those who grew too curious were sometimes found floating in the water, their bellies slit open.
Nadeo received a full description of the girl. He was told she was clever, quick, moved well, might carry a narrow sword—and was very dangerous. That was enough.
The rest did not take long. He rented a room at the Laughing Titan and spent several days observing the House of Black and White. It was an eerie place—where they raised future Faceless Men. The girl, it seemed, had run away from home and decided to become a great killer.
Nadeo spotted someone matching the description on the third day. Another two days went to weighing his options and settling on a plan. After that, it was only a matter of execution. All the more so since, for the past six months, that was all he had done—learn to kill under Asio's watchful eye.
The job was done—cleanly and efficiently. Nadeo himself felt a quiet pride in how well he had organized and executed everything.
He cast one last glance at the fading silhouette of the Titan of Braavos disappearing into the night, pulled his cloak tighter about him, drew a few deep breaths, and made his way back to his cabin to sleep.
(End of Chapter)
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