fight like gods. asoiaf

THIRTY FOUR

XXXIV
ARYA
"the water dance"
⚜️

"You are dead now."

From where she lay against the dusty, cold stone floor, Arya made a face. Her cheeks were a bright crimson, both from the exertion and the embarrassment of falling over so obviously. Syrio loomed over her. 

"You cheated," she insisted because he had. "You said left but you went right."

There would be a bruise on her back in the morning, she knew. An ugly, purple bruise that she would try and observe through Sansa's dressing mirror. It would be fresh and sore, but a bruise was a lesson and a lesson she could learn from easily. The bruises meant she would get better. In Winterfell, Syrio would make her the best fighter the North would ever see. 

She wondered if father would let her travel to Castle Black. Jon would be impressed. He would admire Needle and say she could do far more than just stick them with the pointy end now. Father would let her. It would be mother she would have to convince, but maybe Sansa's complaints of being back in Winterfell would dull her mother's iron enough to make her consider. 

"I am thinking that when we reach this Winterfell of yours, it will be time to put this needle in your hands," Syrio said as Arya finally planted herself firmly on two feet. Her Sword Master had finally allowed himself to smile and the sight made Arya grin like a cat. 

The doors of the Small Hall blew open with a slam, making Syrio stand from where he'd leaned against the pillar, allowing her to catch her breath. Arya's eyes drew down to the other side of the hall as guards flooded threw. They were easy to determine- two Goldcloaks and three Lannister men. One man led them threw. 

She knew his droopy eyes and red beard anyway. Permanently cast on his face was a look of indifference, and in such banality, Arya saw cruelty. Ser Meryn Trant of the Kingsguard, garbed in the enamelled scales of the uniform and holding beneath his arm a helm of sunburst gold, stood at the doors of the Small Hall. 

"Arya Stark." His voice cast far against the room, sending chills down her back. "Child, come with us."

She eyed them wearily, seeing the way Syrio moved in front of her, his hand stopping her from moving with him. "What do you want?"

"Your father wishes to see you."

"Why is it that Lord Eddard sends Lannister men in place of his own?" Syrio said, and the knight looked toward him with a stare. 

"Mind your place, dancing master," Ser Meryn said. "This is no concern of yours."

"My father wouldn't send you," Arya said instead, lips pinched and chin raised. 

Not after Jaime Lannister had accosted him in the streets of King's Landing and slain his honoured friends. 

"Put down the stick, girl," he said, laughter lingering in his voice. "I am a sworn brother of the Kingsguard, the White Swords."

But that meant nothing to Arya Stark. 

"So was the Kingslayer when he killed the old king." She stomped one foot like a horse, holding her ground. "I don't have to go with you if I don't want to."

Ser Meryn bore his teeth and pulled his helm upon his head. "Take her."

The two Goldcloaks were first to advance forward across the vast room. Syrio shifted into an easy position, bent back against his knees. His hand was held on the pommel of his sword and all the while, Arya's stomach churned as if she was on a ship. 

"Are you men or dogs that would threaten a child?" The swordmaster said, voice calm despite Arya's panic. He used one hand to push her back.

"Out of the way, old man," a guard said. He wore a gold cloak and was short and stocky. No match for the water dancer.