Chapter Text
Clack, Clack, Clack!
“Dead.”
Bran groaned.
“This is not a greatsword that is needing two hands to swing it, boy,” Syrio Forel said calmly. The Braavosi stood with an infuriatingly relaxed posture, his own practice sword held loosely in front of his front leg. You are not holding a battle-axe, Arya intoned internally, you are holding a needle. You are holding Needle. “You will take the blade in one hand.”
“Easy for you to say!” Bran flared in frustration. His shoulders twitched. “It’s too heavy!”
“It is heavy as it needs to be to make you strong, and for the balancing,” Syrio explained, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. He tapped his own sword against the stone floor. “A hollow inside is filled with lead, just so. One hand now is all that is needing.”
“This is so stupid,” Bran muttered under his breath, but his words did not go unheard.
“Nine years Syrio Forel was first sword to the Sealord of Braavos, he knows these things.” His tone brooked no argument. “Listen to him, boy.”
Bran sighed long-sufferingly.
From where she sat on a worn stone bench, resting her own sore legs and arms, Arya smiled smugly. Bran had been under the tutelage of Ser Rodrik for years, learning the heavy, methodical sweeps and strikes of knighthood, yet the Water Dance had defenestrated all of that hard-earned knowledge right through the window, reducing him to a state of combat prowess on par with Rickon; which is to say, he stumbled with the clumsy, artless gait of a newborn fawn, his steps leaden and his form an unpractised, unbalanced mess.
He was taking it exceptionally poorly.
Most humiliating for him, Arya had taken to the Water Dance like a fish to, well, water. Her lithe, flexible frame and graceful lightness of feet were a natural fit to it, and her lack of preexisting muscle memory worked to her advantage. There were no techniques for her to unlearn, stances to forget, steps to modify. Bran couldn’t even hope to touch her, especially when she stood sideways. Watching him fume filled her with a gleeful sense of satisfaction. To be repeatedly beaten by his sister was utterly emasculating for him, and Arya enjoyed every single second of it. With every setback, his technique further decayed with another surge of boyish rage.
Frustration boiling over, Bran threw his sword-arm back in a wide-telegraphed arc. Syrio lunged with a simple, economical thrust that tapped Bran’s flank with a dull thump.
“Dead.”
Growling, Bran lunged again, swinging his sword sideways in a clumsy sweep to try and break Syrio’s guard. Syrio didn’t even parry; he moved his blade out of the way with a nonchalant flick of the wrist, and returned it straight into Bran’s stomach.
“Dead.”
His face a fierce scowl, the younger Stark tried a desperate thrust, yet Syrio merely took a single step back, grabbed Bran’s wrist with his free hand, pulled him forward off-balance and aimed his sword straight into his eyes.
“Dead again.”
“Skill issue,” Arya’s grin was feline.
“Shut up!” Bran barked, wrenching his arm free from the Braavosi’s grip. His face was the colour of a boiled beet. “Shut! Up!”
“Woah, calm down, little brother. It’s not that hard!” The grin turned devilishly malicious. “You just need to git gud, scrub.”
Bran didn’t. Instead, he just let out a wordless, guttural scream of rage and frustration, threw his practice sword to the ground with a strepitous clatter, and stomped his way out of the room. Maidenless behaviour, Arya snickered.
Syrio was unbothered, merely shrugging as he watched the boy leave. “He’ll be back.” He turned his sharp gaze towards Arya. “Stand up, boy. Your turn has come early.” Arya eagerly leapt to her feet, falling instantly into the sideways stance he had taught her, practice sword held aloft, her body humming with anticipation.
Syrio Forel was a short and squat man, barely a head taller than the diminutive Arya, yet he walked with the swagger of a giant and moved with the impossible grace of a crane. His face was round, helmed by a thick bush of dark curls, and a closely trimmed goatee and moustache framing his mouth. His eyes and nose were like a hawk’s: sharp, all-seeing and dangerous, yet his demeanour was charming and jovial.
His teaching, however, was no laughing matter. The bravo was harsh and demanding, tireless and ruthless, and never pulled his punches. Arya was sore all over, a tapestry of nasty bruises blooming on her entire body, yet she was happy; happier than she ever would have thought possible in this accursed city of lies and human waste. When they practised, she was free. Joffrey, the Queen, even herself, they all vanished. There was only the Dance.
Their euphemistically called “dancing lessons” had just begun last sennight, barely days after they first arrived at King’s Landing. She didn’t know how Father had managed to get the former First Sword of Braavos to come to Westeros only for their sake, but her love for him had grown tenfold. During the long, weary trip south, she’d begun to fear he’d forgotten his promise. A part of her had even feared he never meant to keep it, like the promise about Joffrey, though she understood the king had forced his hand with his drunken announcement at the feast. She could only wonder what kind of fortune he was paying to make this possible.
They had barely been dancing for a couple of minutes when the door opened once again.
Arya froze on the spot. No one was supposed to enter the Small Hall while they had their lessons; Father had ensured so with a permanent guard detachment that kept vigil on the doors. Who could have…?
Bran stomped into the hall, blue eyes thundering in determination and victory. Behind her brother stood an old but powerful man, his closely cropped hair and beard the colour of fresh-fallen snow. He was clad in pristine plate armour, enamelled white with gleaming golden scales, silver chasings and clasps. From his shoulders cascaded an immaculate white cloak, pure and unblemished.
She should have guessed. Bran was utterly starstruck by the elderly Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, eyes wide and gleaming in boyish worship, to the point he had taken to following him like a puppy. If Ser Barristan noticed it, he had the grace to avoid calling attention to it. Arya certainly showed no such lenity, teasing and mocking her younger brother tirelessly. This time, however, he spoke before she could jape.
“This is Ser Barristan the Bold, the greatest knight alive in the entire world!” Bran introduced the man. “And there is no way in the seven hells you’d ever be able to defeat him with your stupid water dancing!” Ser Barristan Selmy looked utterly befuddled, evidently wondering what exactly he was being dragged into.
Arya’s temper flared. How dared he call Syrio stupid?! “Of course he would! Syrio would skewer that old man without breaking a sweat!” To her credit, she only took three seconds to realise she had said that right in the aforementioned old man’s face. Her dismay must have shown, for Ser Barristan merely chuckled as he shook his head.
“I may be old, my lady,” he bowed his head respectfully, “but I have not yet gone to rust.”
“Bold words for a bold man,” Syrio said, slouching atop his wooden sword like it was a cane. “Care to join us?”
Ser Barristan tilted his head to the side, unconvinced. His right hand tapped the sword at his belt. “Wood and steel make not a fair match.”
Syrio straightened his back and tossed Ser Barristan his sword, an indulgent smile in his face. “Boy,” he told Arya, without even turning to look at her. Understanding his request, she wordlessly tossed him her own practice sword, to replace the one he had given away. Syrio caught it effortlessly, and flourished it with a flick of the wrist. “Wood against wood, just so,” he said, clack clack, tapping the floor for emphasis.
Ser Barristan seemed to consider it for a second, then sighed good-naturedly. “Let’s see what the First Sword of Braavos can do, then,” he said, walking forward to join Syrio at the centre of the Small Hall.
Both men stood, Ser Barristan in a simple two-handed plow guard while Syrio took a bravo’s sideface stance, his free hand folded behind his back. Their swords held high, they gallantly saluted each other.
“This is the best thing ever,” Bran whispered to Arya, his eyes shining like stars.
The action was instant. Ser Barristan struck immediately, two tentative slashes directed at Syrio’s sword hand. The bravo was not caught off-guard, quickly stepping backwards to regain distance from the knight’s onslaught. However, fearing leaving himself overextended, Ser Barristan declined to push on the advance. Seeing an opportunity, Syrio lunged a thrust, which Ser Barristan parried to his right, but when he attempted to riposte, Syrio had already wound back for a remise on the old knight’s left, which he deflected with an upwards slash that interrupted the bravo’s offensive.
Syrio feinted a thrust towards Ser Barristan’s face as an attempt to spook him, but the westerosi’s only reaction was a controlled swipe that would have struck the bravo in the neck had he not leaped back. Pressing on the offensive, Ser Barristan lunged forth, a thrust directly towards the eastern man’s chest, but Syrio was light on his feet and faded backwards yet again. Both men were warily circling each other, appraising their opponent.
Ser Barristan struck with a sideways sweep, yet this time, Syrio did not retreat, but rather hunched upon himself to dodge the kingsguard’s sword and struck the old knight on the knee with his own horizontal slash. Instead of counter attacking, however, Ser Barristan stepped back, breaking stance.
“Good strike,” Ser Barristan said gallantly. “Had it been live steel, you would have taken my knee. I concede to you this round.” And without saying anything else, he took a long point guard, and a new fight began.
Forel feinted a thrust. Selmy parried. Syrio lunged for a thrust, yet this time around, Ser Barristan was the faster of the two, angling his torso away from Syrio’s thrust and bringing his sword down on a chop on the bravo’s back before he could step away from the knight’s reach.
Syrio laughed mirthfully; if he was pained, he did not show it. “A-ha! This one is yours, Ser.” He turned to look at both Starks. “Are you paying attention, children? You might learn something.”
As the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard and the former First Sword of Braavos faced off again and again and again, the smacking noise of wood on wood sweet as song, Arya found herself agreeing with her little brother.
This was the best thing ever.
Their excitement lasted long into the night, long after Ser Barristan had bid them farewell and their lessons with Syrio came to a close. Anyone unfortunate enough to cross their paths had been subject to a grueling, step-by-step recount of the deeds of arms they had been witnesses to. By the time dinner was served, poor Jory Cassel was slowly banging his head against the oaken table, the endless excitable chatter of children loud enough to be heard from Dorne to the Wall. Never had Arya seen him happier to see Father, rising to his feet with an almost desperate quality to the movement.
“My lord,” Jory greeted. The rest of the guard had risen with him. Each man wore a new cloak, heavy grey wool with a white satin border, a hand of beaten silver clutching the woolen folds of each cloak and marked their wearers as men of the Hand’s household guard. There were only fifty of them, so most of the two-hundred capacity Small Hall was left empty.
“Be seated,” Eddard Stark said. “I see you have started without me. I am pleased to know there are still some men of sense in this city.” His words had a weary, irritated undercurrent Arya rarely heard in his voice. The southern heat and courtesan schemes got on his nerves like nothing she had seen before.
“Only the ones you brought with you, m’lord,” Longbeard Anders quipped, to which Father chuckled appreciatively.
“The talk in the yard is we shall have a tourney, my lord,” Jory said as he resumed his seat, eager to get a word in before the children could mob their father with their tales.
“The talk in the yard has the right of it,” Father said simply as he took a seat.
“And the talk in the Small Hall,” Arya interrupted, much to Jory’s dismay, “is that Syrio can beat Ser Barristan the Bold in single combat!”
“NUH-HUH!” Bran nuh-huh’d. “He won as many fights as he lost!”
“Who won first, though?!” Arya barked back.
“Who won better?!” Bran shouted, much to the amusement of the men who weren’t sick to the death of listening to this exact same exchange of words.
“Children!” Father raised his voice, quieting them both instantly. “What is this all about?” he asked, taking a drink from his red must.
Arya and Bran shared a glance, and then spoke, their words tumbling out of their mouths excitably.
“Ser Barristan is the coolest fighter ever—!”
“So Bran was being a huge bitch—!”
Father choked on his drink. Coughing, he raised his right hand to silence his children while covering his mouth with the left.
“Arya, don’t — cough cough! — insult your — cough! — brother!” he chastised her, but Arya could see that he was laughing.
“But it’s true! He got all pissy and angry because he sucks at water dancing so he went to get Ser Barristan to beat Syrio!”
Bran was mightily offended by Arya’s entirely truthful, accurate and unbiased retelling of events. “I did not! I only went looking for him to show Syrio that his water dancing is silly and can’t defeat Westerosi knights!”
“But he did defeat him!” Arya protested.
“And Ser Barristan won every other bout! If anything, they’re tied!”
Father frowned. “Bran, did you bother Ser Barristan while he was on duty just to satisfy your own entertainment?”
Bran paled. “He said it was fine! He even said I could always seek him out if I wanted!”
“That is true,” Arya grumbled, validating her brother’s excuses. “He said he had a great time sparring with Syrio.”
“He even said he was in need of a new page!” Bran yelled.
Father’s eyebrows rose. “Did he, now?” he asked, to which both children nodded furiously. He hummed. “Hmm. I might even take him up on his offer. If you’re up for it, that is. It is no easy duty, you know that, right?”
Bran nodded frantically, his eyes shining with unshed tears of pure joy and anticipation.
Father was not blind to Bran’s excitement. He smiled softly. “I’ll speak to Ser Barristan on your behalf, then.” Before Bran could explode in a million incoherent thank yous, however, he spoke again. “Now, if you’re done with your food, get going to your quarters. You are to write letters to Winterfell,” he instructed them, “to your siblings and your cousins, telling them all about the bouts between Syrio and Ser Barristan and just about anything else you want; it’s been too long since you wrote to them, after all.”
Arya could see Father’s ploy: he was trying to redirect their excitement elsewhere, as he was too exhausted to deal with it himself right now. She almost would have been offended if she wasn’t still vibrating out of her skin wanting to tell Jon all about what she had seen.
“Yes, father!” Bran shouted, and bolted for the door. Not to be outdone, Arya raced after him as the men laughed.
Her letter to Jon was mostly a nonsensical verbal diarrhea, but she knew her brother would be able to understand it nonetheless. Briefly, she wondered whether she should send it to Winterfell or Palewood, but the thought made her heart ache, so she settled for Winterfell; if he wasn’t there, Robb would pass it forwards until it reached Jon’s hands.
And as Arya finally settled for a blissful sleep, she noticed that the feet of her bed were wolfless. Idly, in her final lucid thoughts of the day, Arya wondered where Nymeria was. Probably in the Godswood, she decided; if her direwolf wasn’t at the living quarters at the Tower of the Hand, she and Summer liked to dwell in the small but dense acre of forest that overlooked the Blackwater Rush. Since the only people in the Red Keep to worship the Old Gods were the Hand’s northern household, the two direwolves had the entire place to themselves. Part of Arya wished she could join them, dwelling beneath the whispering leaves, far away from the Queen’s emerald gaze and the Prince’s pouty lips.
The Gods granted her her wish: that night, Arya dreamt she was a wolf.