Disclaimer: GRRM owns almost all characters and their world. This is merely an homage to his fantastic story.

I should probably say that there are possibly spoilers for every book until The Winds of Winter, whose available chapters I have not read yet. I suppose that makes this slightly A/U because anything that has occurred with the characters in WoW will not be part of the reality of this particular fic.

The girl sat on one of the black stone benches beneath the shade of a fig tree in the courtyard garden of the House of Black and White. She was exhausted and her muscles were already becoming sore from her latest training session, which she still referred to as her dancing lesson. While this drew strange looks from some of the Faceless Men who heard her call it such, in her heart, she still held Syrio's memory close and aspired to be the water dancer he believed she was capable of becoming. Syrio Forel, First Sword of Braavos.

Not all water dancers could boast such enviable beginnings, but she had chanced to cross paths with the greatest swordsman of all time, and not only cross paths with him, but to learn from him. Of all of the lessons an acolyte was meant to study under the roof of the House of Black and White, dancing was definitely still her favorite.

As the girl sat on the bench, she fiddled absent-mindedly with her dark, chestnut hair which she preferred to keep short, finding it more practical to do so. It had been five or six moons since she had cut it up to her chin, her preferred length—long enough to tuck behind her ears but short enough to make combing it quick and easy (when she bothered at all). The thick mop grew fast and was now brushing her shoulders, the length at which it began to show a wave and a bit of loose curl. It also sometimes flew in her eyes while she trained; an annoyance.

Time to cut it again, she thought as she brushed the damp strands from her eyes, and then pulled her dagger from her boot. The blade was the sharpest of the three she carried these days. The girl grabbed her hair into a bundle, preparing to saw it off unceremoniously. Jaqen placed his hand lightly on hers, staying it for a moment.

"A girl should grow her hair long," he told her, reaching for the bundle of her thick tresses and freeing them from her grip. He tucked a stray lock behind her ear. "Men like to see a girl with flowing hair."

"What do I care what men want to see?" the fierce girl spat. "Long hair is stupid. It takes too long to brush and arrange, it gets caught in things, and it gets in the way during a fight."

"A girl thinks only of the bad but has not considered the good," Jaqen chided, giving her that look.

"Good? What good?" Arya scoffed. "All that trouble so some bloody man might think I'm pretty? Any man close enough to consider my looks probably isn't going to live long enough to be concerned about the length of my hair. Why would I care, anyway?"

So young, her mentor thought, smiling slightly to himself.

The girl missed his look, occupied now with her own thoughts. She had a brief memory of her sister Sansa in King's Landing, sitting still as a statue on a stool while her maid arranged her long, auburn hair in the Southron style she adopted shortly after their arrival in the city. It took an hour at least. Arya could never imagine sitting still so long, just for some silly looping braids and hair ornaments. What a waste of time! Still, the memory brought a sharp pang with it, a feeling she might have identified as the sadness of loss, had she allowed herself to dwell on it any longer. Arya didn't enjoy feelings any more than she enjoyed sitting still for an hour of grooming though, so she brushed her sister's face away and focused on what Jaqen was saying.

"An enemy sees a lovely girl walking toward him and appreciates her beauty; he is perhaps lulled by it. He does not reach for his sword. An enemy sees a warrior striding toward him and he is not lulled. He prepares to fight."

"I'm not scared of an enemy preparing to fight. I don't need to trick a man to beat him," she declared, insulted.

Jaqen smiled at her a moment, a look she knew well. It was a look that was born of a combination of fondness and consternation. It was the same look her father used to give her. And Jon, she thought, feeling a bit sad then.

"Perhaps not. Perhaps a girl is very brave indeed, but a wise man uses all the gifts he is given. A wise girl should learn to do the same," he advised. "A girl must have sense as well as courage."

She frowned.

"Well, I'd rather focus on my skills with a blade because all the hair in the world won't make me beautiful," the young acolyte sniffed dismissively.

"No," the Lorathi assassin agreed, "it is not a girl's hair that makes her beautiful."

He tilted his head and regarded her with a look that was… indecipherable. This time when he smiled at her, she had a sense he meant something entirely different; something she did not quite understand. She bit her lip as she considered his words but found they made her feel strange. She misliked the feeling, and so put the words out of her mind.

This was to be their last moment together for a time. Jaqen was sailing somewhere, on a mission; something he could not or would not discuss with her beyond his usual prating about doing his duty, serving the Many-Faced god, and the like.

"Jaqen," his apprentice began tentatively. When he turned to face her, sheathing his sword, his eyebrows lifted in inquiry.

"Yes, child?"

His apprentice bristled a bit at that. She hadn't considered herself a child since she left Winterfell to go south with her father, though she had to admit, perhaps she hadn't known anything about anything back then. But she certainly hadn't been a child since surviving on the streets of King's Landing after… well, after. And then her journey up the King's Road in the company of the Night's Watch, her time in Harrenhal, her cross-country escape with Hot Pie and Gendry (Gendry! Gods!), her brief sojourn with the Brotherhood without Banners, her time as part-captive, part-outlaw side-kick of the Hound, her voyage across the sea to Braavos, and her apprenticeship in the House of Black and White which had begun over two years prior—surely all these things qualified her as something more than a child. Would the Faceless Men allow a mere child give the gift of death?

Jaqen's face was still frozen in curiosity but his fingers wrapping and unwrapping themselves around the hilt of his sword betrayed his impatience and brought the girl back around to what it was she had wanted to ask him.

"How long will you be away this time?"

His look softened and he placed his hand gently on her shoulder.

"A man cannot say," he told her. "Awhile, to be sure."

His apprentice nodded, feeling inexplicably sad. She thought it was perhaps because once again, she was losing her pack to become a lone wolf.

Don't be stupid, she scowled inwardly. You don't need a pack. You're not a wolf. You're no one.

After her master had sailed away, the girl had time to reflect on some of the lessons he had tried to impart. There were many teachers and mentors in the House of Black and White but Jaqen H'ghar understood her better than most, probably better than anyone she'd ever known, apart from her father and Jon. It made what he attempted to teach her especially important to her. As part of her service as an acolyte of the House of Black and White, she collected offerings and lit candles around the still pool in the main temple chamber. It was during these duties when she noted her own reflection in the dark waters, candles imparting just enough light that she could see her own face looking back at her. Her hair was hanging down as she leaned over the water and she decided Jaqen was right about wearing it long. If men were so stupid that they could be distracted by some long curls, then she should not be so stubborn as to give up the advantage. She resolved to grow her hair out that day.

Over time, the other acolytes had taken to calling her the Cat. It was a name that harkened back to her days as the girl who called herself Cat of the Canals, selling the bounty of the sea from a cart owned by Brusco the fishmonger; a name that identified the role she played as she perfected her Braavosi and learned how to not be Arya Stark; a name she used while listening for secrets and mastering coming and going without drawing attention. Like a cat, she was graceful and lithe. Like a cat, she had her sharp claws, though in her case, they were made of steel and had proven more lethal than the claws of the alley cats that had trailed behind her during her days of selling cockles to the sailors in port. Like a cat, she enjoyed being stroked from time to time but mostly kept to herself, coming and going as she pleased, needing no one.

All Faceless Men were known for their stealth but the Cat had a natural aptitude for slipping in and out of rooms without detection (she supposed it was because she had started sneaking at such an early age. How else could a girl avoid what seemed like hours and hours of excruciating embroidery lessons?) Her talent had earned her the grudging respect of her peers and praise from the Kindly Man, principal elder of their order. When moving around undetected, however, it was never the words of those in the House of Black and White she heard in her head, urging her to blend; to be unseen. Instead, she heeded Syrio's voice. Quiet as a shadow. Calm as still water. Quick as a deer. Fear cuts deeper than swords. She suspected they knew, or the Kindly Man at least, that she wasn't always exactly no one all the time. Sometimes she was a water dancer. Sometimes she was a wolf. Sometimes, after waking from a nightmare, she was a mouse again, if only for a moment. And sometimes, when she was alone and saying her well-worn prayer, she was Arya Stark.

With her master gone and only her own burning lust for vengeance and blood to guide her (with occasional direction from the Kindly Man), the girl dedicated herself completely to her study of the various arts particular to the servants of the House of Black and White. When others rested, she drilled and practiced with her blades. When others lingered over their meals, she gobbled and gulped and then worked on perfecting her sleight of hand. When others spoke in Braavosi, she replied in whichever language was her weakest, often baffling the younger acolytes with her rough Dothraki and rudimentary Lorathi.

When others dreamed, she lay awake, staring into the darkness of her cell, seeing the faces of those she longed for; the faces of those lost to her or so far away that they might as well have been. Her father and mother. Her brothers. Her sister.

Jaqen.

Eighteen moons came and went before Jaqen returned to find this Cat, now nearly six and ten; a woman grown in place of the skinny, defiant girl he left behind in Braavos. In his absence, his apprentice had grown more beautiful than he could have envisioned.

More beautiful and more deadly.