Her Blacksmith, His Princess

Arya

Arya loved the Free Cities. They were so radically different than Westeros. So lively, so full of every different kind of person, so many colors and flavors and dangers. She strutted proudly down the market aisles that day. She donned her new cloak of black lion's fur that she had won the night before in a fight. Arya had never really loved being small but in the pits, it favored her. Opponents often underestimated her and she was always faster than they were. She had only ever lost once.

The Faceless Men had trained her well, using her assets they taught her to be faster and more agile, strong and still small enough to squeeze through smaller opportunities. She was very proud.

Arya walked through the merchant boxes casually surveying the various goods, and more importantly, the cost. Lucky for her, the prices were low today so she got herself a bowl of oatmeal sweetened with honey and a skin of wine.

"That's a beautiful cloak, girl. How much." Arya turned to face a man thrice her age with blue hair and pink lace spilling from his piss yellow tunic; a queer sight and yet it amused her. Tyroshi.

"It's not for sale. I won it."

"Did you now? How did a little girl like you get a cloak like that?"

"Like this." In one swift movement Arya had Needle out from its scabbard, slid it up the front of the man's tunic, ripping it open but sparing his skin, and stopped with the point of the blade under his chin. She raised an eyebrow at him.

As Arya was flitting the scene, she counted the gold she had taken from his belt.