“High,” Syrio Forel called out, slashing at her head. The stick swords clacked as Arya parried.

“Left,” he shouted, and his blade came whistling. Hers darted to meet it. The clack made him clickhis teeth together.

“Right,” he said, and “Low,” and “Left,” and “Left” again, faster and faster, moving forward.

Arya retreated before him, checking each blow.

“Lunge,” he warned, and when he thrust she sidestepped, swept his blade away, and slashed at hisshoulder. She almost touched him, almost, so close it made her grin. A strand of hair dangled in hereyes, limp with sweat. She pushed it away with the back of her hand.

“Left,” Syrio sang out. “Low.” His sword was a blur, and the Small Hall echoed to the clack clackclack. “Left. Left. High. Left. Right. Left. Low. Left!”

The wooden blade caught her high in the breast, a sudden stinging blow that hurt all the morebecause it came from the wrong side. “Ow,” she cried out. She would have a fresh bruise there by thetime she went to sleep, somewhere out at sea. A bruise is a lesson, she told herself, and each lessonmakes us better.

Syrio stepped back. “You are dead now.”

Arya made a face. “You cheated,” she said hotly. “You said left and you went right.”

“Just so. And now you are a dead girl.”

“But you lied!”

“My words lied. My eyes and my arm shouted out the truth, but you were not seeing.”

“I was so,” Arya said. “I watched you every second!”

“Watching is not seeing, dead girl. The water dancer sees. Come, put down the sword, it is timefor listening now.”

She followed him over to the wall, where he settled onto a bench. “Syrio Forel was first sword tothe Sealord of Braavos, and are you knowing how that came to pass?”

“You were the finest swordsman in the city.”

“Just so, but why? Other men were stronger, faster, younger, why was Syrio Forel the best? I willtell you now.” He touched the tip of his little finger lightly to his eyelid. “The seeing, the true seeing,that is the heart of it.

“Hear me. The ships of Braavos sail as far as the winds blow, to lands strange and wonderful, andwhen they return their captains fetch queer animals to the Sealord’s menagerie. Such animals as youhave never seen, striped horses, great spotted things with necks as long as stilts, hairy mouse-pigs asbig as cows, stinging manticores, tigers that carry their cubs in a pouch, terrible walking lizards withscythes for claws. Syrio Forel has seen these things.

“On the day I am speaking of, the first sword was newly dead, and the Sealord sent for me. Manybravos had come to him, and as many had been sent away, none could say why. When I came into hispresence, he was seated, and in his lap was a fat yellow cat. He told me that one of his captains hadbrought the beast to him, from an island beyond the sunrise. ‘Have you ever seen her like?’ he askedof me.

“And to him I said, ‘Each night in the alleys of Braavos I see a thousand like him,’ and theSealord laughed, and that day I was named the first sword.”

Arya screwed up her face. “I don’t understand.”

Syrio clicked his teeth together. “The cat was an ordinary cat, no more. The others expected afabulous beast, so that is what they saw. How large it was, they said. It was no larger than any othercat, only fat from indolence, for the Sealord fed it from his own table. What curious small ears, theysaid. Its ears had been chewed away in kitten fights. And it was plainly a tomcat, yet the Sealord said‘her,’ and that is what the others saw. Are you hearing?”

rcat, only fat from indolence, for the Sealord fed it from his own table. What curious small ears, theysaid. Its ears had been chewed away in kitten fights. And it was plainly a tomcat, yet the Sealord said‘her,’ and that is what the others saw. Are you hearing?”

Arya thought about it. “You saw what was there.”

“Just so. Opening your eyes is all that is needing. The heart lies and the head plays tricks with us,but the eyes see true. Look with your eyes. Hear with your ears. Taste with your mouth. Smell withyour nose. Feel with your skin. Then comes the thinking, afterward, and in that way knowing thetruth.”

“Just so,” said Arya, grinning.

Syrio Forel allowed himself a smile. “I am thinking that when we are reaching this Winterfell ofyours, it will be time to put this needle in your hand.”

“Yes!” Arya said eagerly. “Wait till I show Jon—”

Behind her the great wooden doors of the Small Hall flew open with a resounding crash. Aryawhirled.

A knight of the Kingsguard stood beneath the arch of the door with five Lannister guardsmenarrayed behind him. He was in full armor, but his visor was up. Arya remembered his droopy eyesand rust-colored whiskers from when he had come to Winterfell with the king: Ser Meryn Trant. Thered cloaks wore mail shirts over boiled leather and steel caps with lion crests. “Arya Stark,” the knightsaid, “come with us, child.”

Arya chewed her lip uncertainly. “What do you want?”

“Your father wants to see you.”

Arya took a step forward, but Syrio Forel held her by the arm. “And why is it that Lord Eddard issending Lannister men in the place of his own? I am wondering.”

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

“My father wouldn’t send you,” Arya said. She snatched up her stick sword. The Lannisterslaughed.

“Put down the stick, girl,” Ser Meryn told her. “I am a Sworn Brother of the Kingsguard, theWhite Swords.”

“So was the Kingslayer when he killed the old king,” Arya said. “I don’t have to go with you if Idon’t want.”

Ser Meryn Trant ran out of patience. “Take her,” he said to his men. He lowered the visor of hishelm.

Three of them started forward, chainmail clinking softly with each step. Arya was suddenly afraid.

Fear cuts deeper than swords, she told herself, to slow the racing of her heart.

Syrio Forel stepped between them, tapping his wooden sword lightly against his boot. “You will bestopping there. Are you men or dogs that you would threaten a child?”

“Out of the way, old man,” one of the red cloaks said.

Syrio’s stick came whistling up and rang against his helm. “I am Syrio Forel, and you will now bespeaking to me with more respect.”

“Bald bastard.” The man yanked free his longsword. The stick moved again, blindingly fast. Aryaheard a loud crack as the sword went clattering to the stone floor. “My hand,” the guardsman yelped,cradling his broken fingers.

“You are quick, for a dancing master,” said Ser Meryn.

“You are slow, for a knight,” Syrio replied.

“Kill the Braavosi and bring me the girl,” the knight in the white armor commanded.

Four Lannister guardsmen unsheathed their swords. The fifth, with the broken fingers, spat andpulled free a dagger with his left hand.

Syrio Forel clicked his teeth together, sliding into his water dancer’s stance, presenting only hisside to the foe. “Arya child,” he called out, never looking, never taking his eyes off the Lannisters,“we are done with dancing for the day. Best you are going now. Run to your father.”

Arya did not want to leave him, but he had taught her to do as he said. “Swift as a deer,” shewhispered.

“Just so,” said Syrio Forel as the Lannisters closed.

Arya retreated, her own sword stick clutched tightly in her hand. Watching him now, she realizedthat Syrio had only been toying with her when they dueled. The red cloaks came at him from threesides with steel in their hands. They had chainmail over their chest and arms, and steel codpiecessewn into their pants, but only leather on their legs. Their hands were bare, and the caps they worehad noseguards, but no visor over the eyes.

Syrio did not wait for them to reach him, but spun to his left. Arya had never seen a man move asfast. He checked one sword with his stick and whirled away from a second. Off balance, the secondman lurched into the first. Syrio put a boot to his back and the red cloaks went down together. Thethird guard came leaping over them, slashing at the water dancer’s head. Syrio ducked under his bladeand thrust upward. The guardsman fell screaming as blood welled from the wet red hole where his lefteye had been.

The fallen men were getting up. Syrio kicked one in the face and snatched the steel cap off theother’s head. The dagger man stabbed at him. Syrio caught the thrust in the helmet and shattered theman’s kneecap with his stick. The last red cloak shouted a curse and charged, hacking down with bothhands on his sword. Syrio rolled right, and the butcher’s cut caught the helmetless man between neckand shoulder as he struggled to his knees. The longsword crunched through mail and leather andflesh. The man on his knees shrieked. Before his killer could wrench free his blade, Syrio jabbed himin the apple of his throat. The guardsman gave a choked cry and staggered back, clutching at his neck,his face blackening.

Five men were down, dead, or dying by the time Arya reached the back door that opened on thekitchen. She heard Ser Meryn Trant curse. “Bloody oafs,” he swore, drawing his longsword from itsscabbard.

Syrio Forel resumed his stance and clicked his teeth together. “Arya child,” he called out, neverlooking at her, “be gone now.”

Look with your eyes, he had said. She saw: the knight in his pale armor head to foot, legs, throat,and hands sheathed in metal, eyes hidden behind his high white helm, and in his hand cruel steel.

Against that: Syrio, in a leather vest, with a wooden sword in his hand. “Syrio, run,” she screamed.

“The first sword of Braavos does not run,” he sang as Ser Meryn slashed at him. Syrio dancedaway from his cut, his stick a blur. In a heartbeat, he had bounced blows off the knight’s temple,elbow, and throat, the wood ringing against the metal of helm, gauntlet, and gorget. Arya stoodfrozen. Ser Meryn advanced; Syrio backed away. He checked the next blow, spun away from thesecond, deflected the third.

The fourth sliced his stick in two, splintering the wood and shearing through the lead core.

Sobbing, Arya spun and ran.

She plunged through the kitchens and buttery, blind with panic, weaving between cooks andpotboys. A baker’s helper stepped in front of her, holding a wooden tray. Arya bowled her over,scattering fragrant loaves of fresh-baked bread on the floor. She heard shouting behind her as shespun around a portly butcher who stood gaping at her with a cleaver in his hands. His arms were redto the elbow.

All that Syrio Forel had taught her went racing through her head. Swift as a deer. Quiet as ashadow. Fear cuts deeper than swords. Quick as a snake. Calm as still water. Fear cuts deeper thanswords. Strong as a bear. Fierce as a wolverine. Fear cuts deeper than swords. The man who fearslosing has already lost. Fear cuts deeper than swords. Fear cuts deeper than swords. Fear cutsdeeper than swords. The grip of her wooden sword was slick with sweat, and Arya was breathinghard when she reached the turret stair. For an instant she froze. Up or down? Up would take her to thecovered bridge that spanned the small court to the Tower of the Hand, but that would be the waythey’d expect her to go, for certain. Never do what they expect, Syrio once said. Arya went down,around and around, leaping over the narrow stone steps two and three at a time. She emerged in acavernous vaulted cellar, surrounded by casks of ale stacked twenty feet tall. The only light camethrough narrow slanting windows high in the wall.

The cellar was a dead end. There was no way out but the way she had come in. She dare not goback up those steps, but she couldn’t stay here, either. She had to find her father and tell him what hadhappened. Her father would protect her.

Arya thrust her wooden sword through her belt and began to climb, leaping from cask to cask untilshe could reach the window. Grasping the stone with both hands, she pulled herself up. The wallwas three feet thick, the window a tunnel slanting up and out. Arya wriggled toward daylight. Whenher head reached ground level, she peered across the bailey to the Tower of the Hand.

The stout wooden door hung splintered and broken, as if by axes. A dead man sprawled facedownon the steps, his cloak tangled beneath him, the back of his mailed shirt soaked red. The corpse’scloak was grey wool trimmed with white satin, she saw with sudden terror. She could not tell who hewas.

“No,” sh............