A Requiem of Ash and Stars

CHAPTER 10: THE MASK OF MERCY

The Faceless Man wore his current face as if it were a well-tailored garment: comfortable enough for everyday use, yet never fully revealing the self beneath. In truth, there was no single self at all. He existed in the flickering spaces between, a servant of the Many-Faced God, assigned by the will of Jon Snow—though Jon now claimed the name Jaehaerys Targaryen. In King's Landing, a city where guile ruled as often as steel, the Faceless Man found a natural stage for his arts. And though he normally took little joy in protection duties, this task was different. It was about Arya Stark.

He stood on a narrow balcony overlooking Flea Bottom, the city's poorest quarter. A scorching sun hung overhead, bathing the cramped rooftops in relentless light. The air stank of smoke, filth, and old sweat, the stench of thousands of souls packed too closely. Voices rose and fell in an unending cacophony—vendors hawking questionable meats, children squabbling over crusts of bread, drunkards cursing the midday heat. In the midst of it all, the city bustled with intrigues. And the Faceless Man listened, sifting small truths from the swirling rumor.

He had chosen a lean, nondescript face for his time in King's Landing—a face neither handsome nor homely, with short brown hair and muddy hazel eyes. Tall enough to command mild respect but never standing out in a crowd. The perfect disguise to slip through back alleys, approach hush-lipped informants, and linger outside small council sessions without drawing suspicion. In this guise, he could fade into the tapestry of the city as easily as a shadow at dusk.

An urgent knock sounded on the door behind him, drawing him from his watchful reverie. He left the balcony, crossing a cramped chamber that served as his temporary lodging in a half-abandoned inn. The boards creaked underfoot. With a fluid motion, he drew the latch, letting the door swing open. Standing there was a girl of nine, maybe ten, with a spare build and keen grey eyes. Arya Stark.

At a glance, one might not guess she was a highborn child. She dressed in rough breeches and a worn tunic, her hair pulled back in a messy braid, a wooden practice sword thrust through a makeshift belt. Dust clung to her boots from whatever escapade she'd just returned from. And the spark of determination in her gaze blazed like a candle in a dark hall.

The Faceless Man inclined his head, stepping aside to let her in. She shut the door behind her, then turned with an excited grin. "Come on, I've been waiting ages for you. Syrio Forel said I'm getting better, but I want to practice with you. You promised, remember?"

He nodded, voice measured. "I recall. But you're early. The sun still rides high."

Arya shrugged, dropping onto a rickety stool by the little table. "Syrio ended the lesson early, said I was ready for… for real sparring. And you said you'd teach me the next step. Something about 'fast strikes' or… oh, you used a fancy word."

He permitted a tiny half-smile. "They call it 'the silent blade.' A technique of speed and stealth, focusing on an opponent's weakest moment. But it's dangerous, even in practice."

Arya puffed her cheeks. "I'm not afraid of danger. Besides, I'll need it. I'm going to be a knight. A real knight, not like those pompous fools in the Red Keep. I'll ride with my brother Jon and fight injustice. One day, you'll see."

The Faceless Man allowed a soft laugh, though it carried no mockery. "A high ambition, but not impossible. If you wish to bring about great change, you must shape yourself carefully. The city is full of pitfalls—both literal and metaphorical."

Arya's grin widened. "Good. Because I hate sitting around. I want to see everything. Not just the keep with all those stiff courtiers." She hopped off the stool. "So, can we go now?"

He considered. He had errands to run this afternoon, eyes to gather from a few informants near the Mud Gate. A fresh rumor claimed that Petyr Baelish was smuggling alchemical ingredients, possibly for a quiet murder or blackmail scheme. He also needed to confirm the movements of certain Lannister soldiers around the Bay of Crabs. Yet, Arya was his priority—Jon Snow's explicit instructions required him to guard her from hidden threats and teach her survival skills. And beyond that, he found himself… not fond, precisely, but quietly protective of the girl. She reminded him of another child from a life he barely recalled, an echo of innocence that too often died young in these streets.

"Yes," he said, unhooking a small belt pouch from a peg on the wall. "We'll go. But not just for sword practice. I have tasks. You'll stay close, keep watch, learn to see the real city."

She brightened, grabbing her wooden sword. "All right. But if I see a chance to test my moves, don't hold me back."

He shook his head, half in exasperation, half in admiration. "Your spirit might be your greatest strength, or your undoing. Remember: caution."

She gave a short laugh. "I've got caution enough. Let's go!"

He slung a worn cloak around his shoulders, ensuring it concealed the slender dagger sheathed at his hip. Then he stepped out, Arya at his side, forging down the creaky stairs of the inn. The proprietor, a thin man with sallow cheeks, barely acknowledged them. The Faceless Man preferred it that way—unnoticed, unremarked.

Outside, King's Landing sprawled under the blazing sun. Walls of plaster and timber rose crookedly above narrow, winding lanes. Muck and refuse littered the edges of the cobblestones. The city stank of fish from the harbor, waste from the gutters, and sweat from too many bodies cramped together. Yet commerce thrived—hawkers cried wares from corners, urchins darted between passersby, pickpockets scanned for easy prey. Arya wrinkled her nose but pressed on.

They walked south, heading for an area near the city gates where minor lords and traveling merchants often conducted business. Along the way, he kept a subtle watch, noting every armed presence, every suspicious gaze. At times, a Lannister guard patrol ambled by in gold cloaks. He signaled Arya to keep her face down, just enough to avoid being recognized. She complied grudgingly—Eddard Stark wanted her mostly confined to the Red Keep for safety, but Arya often slipped out.

After a few blocks, they paused before a shabby stall selling skewers of grilled mystery meat. The merchant behind it had watery eyes and a perpetual sneer. The Faceless Man stopped, made a small gesture. The merchant nodded subtly, jerking his chin for them to come closer.

Arya frowned. "You're not really going to eat that, are you?" She sniffed at the greasy skewers, face contorting. "Smells like horse offal."

He placed a few copper bits on the stall. The merchant handed over a pair of skewers, glistening with fat. In a low voice, the Faceless Man asked, "Any news?"

The merchant's eyes flicked to Arya. He hesitated, but the Faceless Man gave a barely perceptible shake of his head, as if to say she was trustworthy. "Word is the Lannisters plan to provoke Lord Stark soon," the merchant muttered. "They're raiding the official finances. Some say the queen's brother roams the city, dealing with any threat to their secret. And there's talk of a new rumor: a Targaryen across the sea, raising an army. But that might just be old fishwives' tales."

The Faceless Man nodded. "Understood." He handed a bit more coin, then turned away.

Arya scrunched her nose. "I can't believe you're giving me that." She eyed the skewer he held out.

He chuckled softly, leading her away from the stall. "We won't eat it. Not unless you're starving. This is just the price for information."

She relaxed. "Oh, good."

They wove deeper into the city's bustle, heading for a nondescript building near the Mud Gate. On the way, Arya kept peppering him with questions: "Why do you want that rumor about the Targaryen? My father doesn't talk about Targaryens, except that we fought them once."

The Faceless Man measured his response carefully. "Information is always valuable. Your father might not share everything with you. The city hides many truths. Perhaps the Targaryens aren't all dead."

She frowned. "Hmm. I guess so. Jon used to say everything in the world is complicated. He was right. I wonder what Jon would think of King's Landing. Probably hate it."

He found a slight smile. "Your Jon indeed has many thoughts about the realm. Perhaps he's seeing more than you imagine." Of course, he knew exactly how much Jon saw from across the Narrow Sea. The spy network reported to him daily.

They reached a small courtyard off the main street. It was quieter here, the din fading behind sagging walls. A battered well stood at the center. The Faceless Man halted, scanning the upper windows. All seemed still. Then he motioned Arya to follow, stepping inside a neighboring door that hung slightly ajar.

Inside lay a cramped corridor, dusty in the half-light. Arya looked around, baffled. "What are we doing here?"

He put a finger to his lips, guiding her forward. The corridor opened onto a dim parlor. A single occupant waited—a plain woman in a drab dress, hair pulled tight in a bun. She rose at their entry, her face revealing neither warmth nor surprise.

"A new face again?" the woman remarked in a hushed tone. "Your transformations amuse me."

He shrugged lightly. "Necessities of the trade." Then, turning to Arya, he gestured. "She's an associate. We exchange messages."

Arya's curiosity sparked. "Associate? Are you…like him?"

The woman gave a faint smirk. "Child, no one is quite like him. But we share… affiliations." Then she addressed the Faceless Man: "Word from the Red Keep: a certain knight close to the queen seeks an excuse to arrest Lord Stark or any of his family. Possibly Arya. Be cautious."

Arya bristled. "They can't arrest me. That's ridiculous. My father's the Hand of the King."

The woman raised an eyebrow. "In King's Landing, courtesy and power matter more than titles. The Lannisters play a dangerous game. Eddard Stark is too honest to thrive here, so they might trap him in scandal or worse. If they can seize one of his children, they gain leverage."

A chill ran through Arya, though she tried to hide it. The Faceless Man set a gentle hand on her shoulder. "We'll ensure you're not taken. Thank you," he added to the woman, who nodded and moved aside for them to depart. He guided Arya back to the corridor.

Outside, the late afternoon sun glared harshly. Arya's face had grown set, lips pressed in a tight line. "I'm not letting them use me against Father. I'll fight them if I have to."

The Faceless Man's tone turned soft. "A bold claim, but you must survive first. Fight only when it's wise. Understood?"

She huffed but nodded. "Understood."

They meandered back toward a more public thoroughfare, the Faceless Man scanning the crowd. He noticed a pair of gold-cloaked Lannister guards lingering by a fishmonger's stall, their gaze flicking too often at passersby. He nudged Arya, guiding her behind a passing cart. She frowned, but complied, moving stealthily as taught.

Once out of sight, she released a breath. "They're really everywhere, aren't they?"

He gave a terse nod. "And more will appear. Stay alert."

They navigated the labyrinth of King's Landing for another hour, the Faceless Man visiting one contact after another—some disguised as beggars, others as tavern drunks, each providing small scraps of knowledge. Arya observed each encounter with wide-eyed fascination, occasionally rolling her eyes at the coded language. Along the way, she pestered him about practicing sword moves.

At last, near an abandoned courtyard overshadowed by a half-collapsed stable, he relented. "We'll do a quick session. Keep watch for any watchers."

Arya beamed, drawing her wooden sword. "Yes!"

He moved to the center of the courtyard, unsheathing a narrow practice blade from his cloak—one he kept for just such training, not the lethal dagger. She squared off eagerly, bouncing on the balls of her feet, looking every bit the scrappy child who believed she could be a knight. And perhaps, in time, she would be something even more.

He circled her slowly. "Focus. Let your mind sense my intent. Not just your eyes—listen for movement, watch my stance."

She lunged, but he sidestepped with ease, tapping her wooden blade aside. She grunted, tried a second thrust. This time, he deflected and flicked her weapon aside. She spun, driven by determination, attempting a quick slash from the side. He stepped under it, hooking her arm with gentle force, and she stumbled, losing balance.

"Too direct," he admonished. "Use your opponent's momentum, don't just fling your own at them."

She scowled. "I was trying something new. Maybe I'll get it right next time."

He allowed a faint smirk. "Indeed, that's how we learn. Again."

They fell into a rhythm, exchanging light strikes. He never hurt her, only gave enough resistance to test her skill. She was quick, no doubt. Syrio Forel's teaching had honed her reflexes, giving her a smooth economy of motion. Yet she lacked experience and the deeper cunning needed to outwit a truly lethal foe. That was where the Faceless Man's lessons proved invaluable. He taught her to read subtle shifts of body weight, tension in a shoulder, the flicker of an eye. Each time she missed a cue, he lightly disarmed her, or forced her to yield.

Still, after a half-hour, she had learned enough to intercept some of his simpler feints. Sweat beaded on her brow, but her grin showed fierce joy. "I'm getting better, aren't I?"

He inclined his head. "Yes. But never grow complacent. Many foes out there can do worse than me. Always keep a margin of caution."

She sheathed her wooden sword with a dramatic flourish. "When I'm a knight, I'll have to face worse, right? Maybe I'll lead an army, or help Jon with his. I'll ride in shining armor." She turned, gazing at a crack of evening sky above the stable roof. "I'll do real good, not just prance about like some fancy lord."

He studied her youthful earnestness, recalling how the world devoured such innocence if unguarded. "If that's your dream, you must cultivate it carefully. This city, these lords—they might laugh, or try to use you. Keep your spirit, but hide it from those who'd twist it."

Arya gave a determined nod. "I will."

Satisfied, he gestured to the alley leading out. "Enough for today. The hour grows late. Your father might wonder where you are."

She grimaced. "He barely notices me. He's busy with the King's nonsense. But all right. Let's go."

They set off again, winding through twilight-shrouded lanes, the city's lights flickering on windowsills and doorways. The Faceless Man saw to it they avoided gold cloaks whenever possible. Arya, though bold, followed his lead, ducking into side streets or behind carts at his curt signals. The city's pulse changed at night, turning more dangerous, but also more open to those who thrived in shadows.

Eventually, they reached a discreet back entrance to the Red Keep, a lesser-used postern gate. A small bribe to a guard—someone from the North with a soft spot for Arya—let them slip in. The guard nodded politely, letting her pass with only a mild admonition about bedtime. Arya rolled her eyes but offered thanks. The Faceless Man lingered a moment, ensuring she safely entered. He would follow soon, though in a different route, maintaining his secret vantage within the castle. She gave him a wave, stifling a yawn, then disappeared into the dim corridor leading to her family's chambers.

Left alone, he blended into the keep's warren of passages, ascending spiral staircases, eavesdropping on murmured conversations. Every night, he gleaned tidbits about Lannister schemes, Baelish's manipulations, the king's drunken madness. He'd compile these notes in code for dispatch to Jon's network. This was the essence of his mission: guard Arya, gather intelligence.

As he listened near an antechamber, hearing the laughter of courtiers gossiping about Eddard Stark's moral stances, a flicker of reflection passed through his mind: Arya's earnest dream of being a knight, her vow to join Jon in forging great change. The city laughed at that, perhaps, but the Faceless Man found himself… quietly hopeful. That the child might hold on to her spark. For in a world of masks and daggers, that spark might be the beacon they all needed.

He slid away, footsteps silent. King's Landing teemed with secrets, but tonight's gleanings sufficed. Tomorrow, he'd see Arya again, teach her a new technique or caution her about the latest rumor. She'd bring up her knightly ambitions, vow to rescue Jon from the horrors of adulthood, or speak of her father's quiet frustrations. In turn, he'd slip bits of knowledge about how the city truly worked—cynical truths delivered gently, so as not to crush her faith.

Such was life in King's Landing for a Faceless Man sworn to protect a child. Not the typical assassination contract, nor the usual infiltration. But it was a task the Many-Faced God had assigned, via Jon Snow's request. And so he performed it with unwavering devotion. If the day came that Arya's life was truly threatened, he would kill swiftly, cutting down any threat with the calm finality of a practiced hand. For now, though, he guided her along a precarious edge, hoping to keep her innocence while equipping her with the means to survive a nest of scorpions.

Line break.

Days turned to weeks. Each dawn, the Faceless Man ventured into the city to check on leads or purchase fresh intelligence with coin or favors. He returned by midday to accompany Arya somewhere—sometimes training in a secluded courtyard, sometimes sneaking her to the street markets so she could see real people, not the stilted aristocrats of the castle. She devoured the sights hungrily, eyes lighting whenever she glimpsed blacksmiths forging swords, or urchins racing around corners. She declared she would save them all someday, fix the injustices of the world.

He rarely discouraged her. Instead, he showed her the pitfalls. Once, they witnessed a poor woman flogged by a gold cloak for stealing a half-rotten vegetable. Arya nearly rushed in, but the Faceless Man pulled her back, whispering that direct confrontation in public would bring dangerous attention. She fumed, tears brimming, but learned the reality that not every wrong could be righted by immediate heroics.

At night, he roamed the Red Keep's shadowy corridors or the city's underbelly, sending coded messages about the king's drunken outrages, the queen's secret nighttime riders, the small council's frantic attempts to manage royal debt. Occasionally, he overheard glimpses of Eddard Stark pressing Robert about the legitimacy of the royal heirs. Baelish circled with an oily charm, forging alliances in secret. Varys, that spider, might be open to approaching "a Targaryen claimant," though he never named names. Each piece of intelligence traveled on swift wings across the Narrow Sea, eventually landing on Jon's desk. The Faceless Man knew his lord would soon glean the shape of the turmoil that threatened to tear the realm apart.

Arya, for her part, kept pestering him about leaving King's Landing altogether. "We should slip away and find Jon," she'd say with stubborn pride. "He'll let me fight at his side, I know it. Or at least he'll find me a teacher who doesn't scold me for skipping ladylike chores."

He'd only shake his head. "Your father needs you near, if only for your safety. Let him do his duty here. In time, you may cross the sea, but not yet. You're too young to roam Essos chasing armies."

She'd pout, but eventually relented. Her sole consolation: training with him and Syrio, building her sword skill day by day, and glimpsing the city's hidden corners. Under his watch, she blossomed from a brash novice to a cautious but bold student, blending Syrio Forel's water dance with the Faceless Man's cunning.

Line break.

One afternoon, a scuffle erupted near the Dragonpit ruins. Word reached the Faceless Man that Lannister guards had cornered some Northman squire carrying a message from Eddard Stark. Sensing potential harm, the Faceless Man rushed there, Arya in tow (she refused to be left behind). They arrived to find two gold cloaks menacing a trembling youth. The youth clutched a small sealed letter.

Arya's eyes flared with outrage. "They're from my father's retinue! We can't let them do this!"

Before the Faceless Man could caution her, she stepped forward, wooden sword brandished. "Stop that!" she yelled.

The guards spun, sneering. One advanced. "Run along, brat."

Arya set her jaw. "I'm Arya Stark, daughter of the Hand. Let the squire go."

They laughed, exchanging glances. "Hand's daughter, is it? Perfect. We can bring her in, earn a bonus." The second guard lunged.

The Faceless Man moved like liquid shadow. In a heartbeat, he was between them, flicking out a short steel blade. He disarmed the first guard with a neat twist, sending the man's sword clattering to the cobbles. The second guard cursed, stepping back. The squire cowered by a wall, wide-eyed.

"Take the letter and run," the Faceless Man murmured to Arya. She darted forward, seizing it from the squire's trembling hand. The guards tried to grab her, but the Faceless Man angled himself, deflecting their grasps. A swift kick sent one guard sprawling, and the other he pinned with a wrist lock.

Arya stared, impressed. "That was so quick!"

He gave her a curt nod. "Go, get the squire out of here. I'll handle them."

She hesitated, wooden sword up. "But—"

"Now," he snapped. She obeyed, helping the squire to his feet. They hurried off down the alley. The guard beneath the Faceless Man's grip spat curses, squirming. The assassin twisted, applying pressure that forced a whimper of pain.

"I could kill you," he said calmly, eyes cold. "But that would cause trouble for Arya. So you'll do nothing except forget this incident. Understood?"

The guard paled, nodding hastily. The other guard scrambled up, nursing bruises. Together they retreated, cursing under their breath, but not daring a second confrontation. The Faceless Man watched them vanish around a corner, heart steady. Then he turned, bounding after Arya. He found her near the street, returning the squire to the relative safety of the Red Keep's gate. The grateful lad mumbled thanks, scurrying inside.

Arya exhaled in relief, turning to the Faceless Man with shining eyes. "That was incredible! You moved like a ghost. I want to do that."

He slid the blade back into a hidden sheath. "It requires years of practice, and a certain acceptance that when you strike, it may be lethal. Are you prepared for that?"

Her face wavered. "I… I'm not sure. But I have to protect people, right? If those men had taken that letter, it might've hurt Father's investigations."

He regarded her quietly. She had a point. "Yes. Then you did well. Still, be cautious. Running into danger can cost your life."

She squared her shoulders. "I'll remember. But I won't stand by if someone from the North is threatened."

He let a small, rare smile touch his lips. "Stubborn, but honorable. Come, let's get you back before more guards appear."

They departed, weaving through the labyrinth of King's Landing again. Arya's excitement simmered, but he sensed she had a new layer of understanding about violence. She wasn't trembling with fear or cackling in triumph, but quietly reflective. Perhaps, he mused, that was progress.

Line break.

On another day, after a fruitless morning of eavesdropping near the White Sword Tower, the Faceless Man decided to grant Arya's request for a broader view of the real city. She wanted to see how the poorest lived, how the downtrodden survived. So he led her into Flea Bottom's depths, far from the Red Keep's polished halls. The stench grew unbearable at times—open sewers, rotting refuse, cramped hovels. Stray dogs prowled, and starved children rummaged in piles of scrap.

Arya's face hardened at the sight. "This is worse than I imagined. Does Father know it's this bad?"

The Faceless Man shrugged. "Likely not the full extent. He's consumed by politics in the castle. Even a good man can't fix everything in a single day. That's how the powerful often remain ignorant of the people's suffering."

Her hands clenched. "Then I'll do something about it when I'm older. I'll tear down these conditions. Give people a fair chance."

He regarded her with cautious admiration. "A noble goal. But remember, each step is fraught with risk. The city's lords benefit from this misery, whether they admit it or not. They might fight you fiercely if you threaten their profits."

She set her jaw. "I don't care. Let them fight. I'll stand with Jon, or with my father if he stops being so blind to the city's rot."

He offered no retort, only guided her around a corner where gaunt-faced women huddled, nursing diseased children. Arya grimaced in sympathy, her eyes glistening. She knelt, offering a small pouch of coin from her belt. The Faceless Man allowed it, though he quietly watched for thieves or opportunists. Indeed, a shadowy figure approached, but a single glare from the Faceless Man sent them slinking away.

"A coin might buy them bread for a day," Arya murmured, tears threatening. "But what about tomorrow?"

The Faceless Man touched her shoulder gently. "If you wish to change the world, you must confront that question every day. The realm's cruelty is vast."

She stared at him, then brushed tears aside with the back of her hand. "I won't forget."

Line break.

In this manner, the weeks progressed: a cycle of shadow-lurking, gleaning intelligence, training Arya, and letting her see King's Landing's truths. She grew more skilled with a blade—still no match for a grown knight, but swift and cunning enough to disarm careless opponents. She learned stealth, how to lose a tail in a crowded bazaar, how to slip through lesser-known passages in the Red Keep. The Faceless Man watched her metamorphosis with a mixture of pride and worry. Each skill gained might preserve her life, but also cost her innocence.

Occasionally, Syrio Forel joined them for a shared lesson, the flamboyant Braavosi twirling a slender wooden sword with panache. He recognized the Faceless Man's presence but never pried. They seemed to share an unspoken understanding: both taught Arya, each in their own style. Syrio gave her fluid footwork, the water dance. The Faceless Man imparted cunning and a willingness to vanish when odds turned ill. Arya loved every moment of it.

Meanwhile, the political storms brewed overhead. Eddard Stark came dangerously close to exposing the royal children's parentage. The queen's brother, Jaime Lannister, prowled the keep like a lion waiting to pounce. The Faceless Man heard whispers that King Robert might ride out on a boar hunt soon, leaving the city vulnerable to a Lannister coup if Ned pushed too hard. Tension thickened daily.

One day, Arya confided in the Faceless Man her fear for her father's safety. "He's so honest, he doesn't see how cunning the queen is," she said, pacing in his small lodging. "If he tries to arrest her, or the king finds out about the incest, everything might explode. I want to stop it, but how?"

He studied her anxious expression. "You can't force him to abandon his honor. He must walk his own path. But we can keep watch for ambushes. If trouble arises, I'll intervene—if it won't jeopardize everything. But your father might be the key to a bigger reckoning."

She sank onto a stool, hugging her knees. "It's so frustrating."

He nodded. "Indeed. But take heart. If the realm descends into chaos, you have the skills to escape, and your father will likely command you to flee if the worst happens. I'll see you safe." He paused. "Or we stand and fight. We'll see."

Line break.

Finally, the day arrived when the Faceless Man received a coded raven from across the sea, detailing that Jon Targaryen (as the message called him) had completed the freeing of Astapor, forging a new stronghold. The infiltration at the Citadel was imminent. The next stage of Jon's plan might come soon, possibly drawing the realm's attention. The letter also mentioned how, in due time, Jon might reveal his claim to the Iron Throne or attempt to unify Westeros under the threat of the White Walkers. The reading made the Faceless Man's heart quicken. Events were converging faster than predicted.

Arya found him reading the letter, her curiosity piqued. "Is that from Jon? Wait, can I see?"

He smiled faintly, folding it away. "It's coded, child. And yes, it's from him. He's done great deeds in Essos. Freed an entire city of slaves. The Wolf Pack stands at his side, along with thousands of Unsullied. He grows stronger."

She grinned, eyes shining. "I knew it! Jon's unstoppable. One day, I'll ride to join him, help him free more slaves or fight monsters or—whatever. I'll prove my worth."

The Faceless Man found her excitement contagious. "He'd be proud to see how far you've come. But we must remain vigilant here. If Ned Stark or you become pawns in a Lannister game, Jon's efforts could be hindered."

Arya's expression sobered. "I understand. Then we keep training, keep watching. I'll be ready."

He placed a hand on her shoulder. "Yes. You'll be ready. And if you ever truly need me, just call my name. I'll find you."

Line break.

As twilight deepened that night, the Faceless Man accompanied Arya back to the Red Keep once more, ensuring she slipped in unseen. She parted with him at a side corridor, exhausted from the day's lessons. "Goodnight," she whispered. "And… thanks."

He gave a small nod. "Goodnight, Arya Stark."

She vanished into the gloom, footsteps softly echoing. He lingered a moment, the corridor quiet around him. Then, with a silent pivot, he headed toward the castle's eastern side, where a certain corridor overlooked the Queen's personal apartments. He had one more vantage to check, gleaning whether Cersei Lannister had made any new moves to ensnare Ned. The city's labyrinth of secrets never slept, nor did his duty to keep Arya safe.

Thus, the chapter of his daily vigil continued. By day, he trained Arya, gathering whispers in the streets. By night, he haunted the Red Keep's hidden passages, sending coded intelligence to Jon's network. Through each moment, Arya's resolve shone like a candle in a dark room—she would be a knight, she would stand with Jon, she would bring change. And in a world of cunning and cruelty, that conviction might prove more powerful than any sword.

The Faceless Man, drifting through the city's shadows, silently hoped she would retain that spark. For if she did, perhaps King's Landing itself stood a chance of evolving, even if blood had to be spilled first. And all the while, he remembered his true loyalties: to the Many-Faced God, yes, but also, by extension, to Jon Targaryen, who had commanded him to protect this girl. An assassin's role, yet twisted into guardianship. The irony never ceased to amuse him.

He thought of the day Arya might truly cross the sea, reuniting with Jon. Then, perhaps, the realm would see how a young wolf of House Stark could shape destiny, forging a future that even the thousand intrigues of King's Landing could not crush.

Line break.

In the weeks that followed, the Faceless Man's routine became a steady dance of espionage and mentorship. He refined Arya's footwork, helped her perfect a quick thrust, taught her to read an opponent's stance. She progressed rapidly, though she still lacked real-world experience. Meanwhile, he quietly eliminated minor threats that strayed too close to discovering her secret outings. A guard or two who pried too closely might find themselves with a slit purse or a quiet whisper that turned them aside. The Faceless Man seldom needed to kill—intimidation or small bribes sufficed. But he was ready to end a life if necessary.

Arya gradually gained a sense of caution. She no longer ran straight at every injustice. She learned to bide her time, gather information, then strike with minimal fuss. The city changed her, but she kept her dream alive: to become a knight, to fight injustice, to one day join Jon across the sea. After each small success, she'd grin and say, "I'm one step closer. Just wait until Jon sees me. He'll be so impressed."

The Faceless Man suspected Jon would indeed be impressed. He also suspected Jon might fear the corruption that came from this city's lessons. But that tension was inevitable. Arya was no mere child—she was forging a path under the watchful eye of an assassin.

Line break.

Then came the day the Faceless Man intercepted a frantic message from a hidden contact near the royal court. The queen and her allies prepared a trap for Ned Stark. Some alleged that Ned planned to reveal the truth about the royal children at the next council meeting. The Lannisters wouldn't let him do so freely. This might lead to a confrontation in the throne room or a more subtle ambush on the streets. The Faceless Man realized Arya could be a prime target.

He raced to find Arya after her session with Syrio. She was in a small courtyard within the keep, practicing a lunge. At the sight of his face—expression grim—she lowered her wooden blade. "What's wrong?"

He spoke quietly, scanning for eavesdroppers. "Your father is in grave danger. The Lannisters move soon to entrap him. You must be on guard. If they seize you, they'll use you as a hostage."

Arya's eyes flashed. "Then I'll run, or fight. I can't just hide!"

He set a hand on her shoulder. "Perhaps you must. Wait for my word. I'll stand ready to spirit you out of the keep if things go ill."

Her fists clenched. "But Father—"

He nodded solemnly. "I know. We can't protect him if he insists on confronting the throne. But if you survive, you might regroup with him or… your brother across the sea."

She bit her lip, tears threatening. "Why must everything be so complicated?"

He sighed. "Because power never yields easily. Keep your spirit, Arya. I'll watch over you."

Line break.

That night, tension hummed in the Red Keep like a coiled viper. The Faceless Man patrolled corridors, gleaning hints of the queen summoning certain lords, gold cloaks receiving hush orders, the king off on a hunt and thus absent from the capital. Eddard Stark had fewer allies in the palace now, alone save for a handful of household guards. The trap was nearly set. The Faceless Man resolved that if the worst occurred, he'd spirit Arya away that very night, perhaps using a secret postern gate or a boat from the Blackwater.

Arya recognized the peril, pacing restlessly in her small chamber. She refused to sleep. He sat across from her, scanning the corridor for footfalls. The hush stretched. "If they come for you," he told her in a measured tone, "I'll hold them off. You run, find the hidden corridor near the armory. We practiced that route. Then meet me at the southwestern wall. Understood?"

She nodded, face pale. "Yes. But… what about Father?"

He exhaled. "We can do little if they arrest him. The Hand stands or falls by his own decisions." It pained him to say so, knowing how it crushed Arya. But that was reality.

They waited, tense. Night wore on. Eventually, no alarm was raised that day. The confrontation would come soon, but not tonight. Arya dozed off near dawn, curled on a padded seat. The Faceless Man kept vigil, his senses honed. He recognized the small respite, but soon the realm would shatter. In the swirl of politics, one bright spot remained: Arya was learning to survive. And the messages he relayed to Jon ensured that if war exploded, the Targaryen across the sea might intervene in time.

Line break.

Thus ended the chapter of the Faceless Man's daily life in King's Landing: a mosaic of training Arya, gathering intelligence for Jon, and dancing along the edge of a looming storm. As the sun rose again, he considered how quickly it might all unravel. Arya's eyes held hope for a future of knighthood and alliance with Jon. For now, he guarded that hope, playing the silent sentinel behind a borrowed face, ensuring her survival until the day she might truly break free of the city's snares.

In the back of his mind, he recalled Jon's commands: protect Arya at all costs, send crucial intelligence. He had done both faithfully. If Eddard Stark fell, the city might erupt. He'd whisk Arya away, lead her to safety, and perhaps in time, place her on a ship bound for Essos, where a larger destiny awaited. She might wear armor, fight for freedom, stand beside the brother she idolized. Or perhaps she'd find her own path. The Faceless Man wouldn't see it as his place to shape her future beyond survival.

But for now, in the hush of morning, the city stirred to life once more. The Faceless Man, watching from a narrow window slit, saw gold cloaks mobilizing at distant barracks, Lannister men arming themselves, servants bearing anxious expressions. The day promised new revelations, new peril for House Stark. Yet Arya Stark remained safe under his watchful eye, practicing her stances, dreaming of knighthood. A small island of determined innocence in a sea of cunning lords.

He touched the edge of his borrowed face—a reminder that his true identity remained hidden. He was no one and everyone, a blade in the darkness. For Arya, he served as protector and teacher. For Jon, he was spy and messenger. For the Many-Faced God, he was an instrument of final justice. If all converged in violence, he would be ready, slipping a dagger between the ribs of whoever threatened his charge.

And so the nights and days continued, each spinning the threads of a grander tapestry. Arya's future, Jon's war, the secret conspiracies… all inexorably drawing closer to that moment when masks would be cast aside, and the realm would face the truths lurking in its shadows. Meanwhile, the Faceless Man remained in King's Landing, fulfilling a duty unlike any he'd known—watching over, protecting, and shaping a young wolf-girl who dreamed of being a knight. A dream that might just reshape the realm, if she survived the city's perils.