The chamber in that corner of the Red Keep was quiet except for the soft thump of my tail on stone.
Arya stood in the middle of the floor with the practice sword Ned had given her clutched in both hands. The thing looked too large for her, and she held it like she meant to argue with it until it obeyed. Her brow was drawn tight. With Arya, that usually meant tears, temper, or both.
I lay near the wall and let [Detection] murmur at the back of my mind. Two small heartbeats stirred somewhere beyond the stone. Little birds, likely. I paid them no mind, while the man at the door was worth watching.
He was black haired, sharp-featured, and dressed in worn leather that had seen years of use. A wooden blade rested easy in each hand.
"You are late, boy," Syrio Forel said. His voice carried that smooth Braavosi accent.
"I'm a girl," Arya shot back.
"Boy, girl... You are a sword, that is all." He came a step farther into the hall. "What shall I call you?"
"Arya."
"And I am Syrio Forel. And you will be doing what I say."
He tossed her a second wooden blade. Arya caught it badly, nearly lost it, then set her feet again.
"It's heavy," she complained.
"It is as heavy as it needs to be to make you strong," Syrio said. "Now, to your post."
He began with stance and balance, not strength. No knight's chopping blows. No grand flourishes. He taught her where to place her feet, how to hold herself and how not to lean before she moved. The Water Dance, he called it. Arya hated it at once, which meant she needed it.
While he worked with her, I began my own drills.
Pride will not save Ned Stark when the betrayal comes. Men like to pretend otherwise, right up until the knife slides in. If I want to get him out alive, I would need more tools at my disposal than now.
A crossbowman shows signs before he fires, if you know where to look. A swordsman has some tells before he draws. Choice has signs before the decision. That was the instant that mattered.
The Gold Cloaks would have crossbows when the trial happens, Ilyn Payne his great sword. If I was going to grasp an opportunity at that moment, I would have to move before the shot, before the swing, before the man had finished deciding.
So I worked on the turn even though I'm still a puppy.
So I started at the edge of the room, called [Quick Attack] into my legs, and drove toward a pillar. At the last instant I twisted hard, cut to the side, and let my claws dig for grip. The first try was poor. Too wide, too slow at coming out of it. I reset and did it again. Then again. Forward burst, hard pivot, new direction. No wasted motion, just a repetition of motions.
Syrio stopped talking.
"The four-legged one," he said, gesturing toward me with his wooden blade. "He has the spirit. See how he moves, Arya?"
Arya glanced over, flushed and sweating.
"He moves from the core," Syrio said. He watched me as if I were another student and not some odd beast haunting the edge of the hall. "Good footwork. Just so."
Then he turned back to Arya.
"A dog does not think 'I am a dog.' He just is. You must be the same. When you move, you are not a girl. You are the wind. You are the water. Now, again!"
Arya muttered under her breath and raised the blade.
The lesson found its rhythm after that. Wood struck wood. Arya missed, corrected, lunged, overreached and learned. Syrio never wasted a word. When he praised her, it was dry, a husk of a thing. When he rebuked her, it hit like cold water.
I kept to the far side of the room, running the same turn until my legs felt exhausted. The chamber felt removed from the rest of the castle, and that was enough. In here there was only a hard-headed girl, a foreign swordmaster, and me.
Three things out of place.
Arya's fear began to leave her by degrees. Not all at once. It thinned instead, giving ground to concentration. Her eyes sharpened. Her shoulders loosened. She stopped watching the blade and started watching the man.
"Dead," Syrio said softly, tapping her in the ribs.
Arya hissed out a breath.
"You are dead now. Why?"
"I was looking at the stick," Arya panted.
"Just so. You must look at the man. The stick is a lie."
That, more than anything, was the lesson.
I sat back for a moment, breathing through the ache in my legs. The small heartbeats beyond the wall had gone still. Even the birds seemed to be listening. My paws grew strong. The new strength from Level 15 had settled well enough, but I knew better than to trust it. Speed was only one piece.
Fire was the other.
When the time came, [Incinerate] could not be something I reached for in panic. It had to be there at once, clean and ready. No hesitation. No fumbling. No hope and prayer and desperate luck.
Syrio called an end at last.
Arya let the practice sword fall to the floor with a clatter and leaned herself against the wall beside me. Sweat had plastered dark strands of hair to her face. She looked wrung out, sore, and happier than she had any right to be.
Syrio dipped his head in a Braavosi bow.
"Tomorrow, we begin again. And the hound... he will practice his turns. He has the heart of a dancer, even if he has the face of a hound."
Arya gave a tired snort, then reached down and buried her fingers in the fur at my neck.
"We're going to be okay, aren't we, Red?" she whispered.
I nudged her hand and looked toward the door.
The real world waiting beyond it. Lions, Stags, Roses, Dragons and many more.
When I looked back, Syrio was still there.
He met my gaze and gave me the smallest nod before he went. That fearless man, I was not the only one in this castle who knew how quickly a lesson could turn into a fight.
[Level 15]
[Agility: Increased]
[Status: Training with the First Sword]
The game was moving faster.
So would I.