—At Winterfell—
Arya was feeling restless despite practicing her skills as a Water Dancer in Winterfell's main courtyard. Ser Rodrik and Theon were taking their sweet time at the northern most stronghold in the North, Last Hearth—once upon receiving a messenger raven informing them of Rickon and Osha arriving at Lord Umber's household. The new Lord of Karhold, Harald Karstark, was seemingly less than enthusiastic. With the birth of her newborn nephew Eddard—Robb and Talisa's son, 'Little Ned' she affectionately called him, Arya was more motivated to keep practicing her skills... to protect her family despite her mother forbidding her to do so. "*huff, huff, huff!*" she panted. "Not yet. Just a little more..." Balancing on her toes, Arya spun her body around twirling Needle in hand—moving gracefully through the mud; revolving through the motions of the Water Dance. "Left!" she called, dancing around as she slashed and poked at a wooden dummy. "Right! Left, right, right! Lunge!" Thrusting her small sword Needle forward, Arya pierced the practice target without breaking the tip.
"A girl keeps practicing," someone said.
Startled, Arya quickly spun around and pointed Needle at the person standing behind her. Much to her surprise, she recognized the man as Jaqen H'ghar; the mysterious assassin she met at King's Landing a long time ago had somehow managed to find his way to Winterfell undetected. How did he find me? How'd he get past the guard? she thought. "What are you doing here?"
Jaqen, disguised as a Winterfell man-at-arms, found Arya's confusion quite amusing. "Waiting for you," he answered honestly.
"How did you slip past the guards? Was it hard?"
"After all the things you have seen, this is your question? How a man trekked through miles of mountains, hills and snow is no harder than taking a new name, if you know the way."
"Look, I appreciate what you've done for my sister back at the capital. I haven't forgotten it, but..."
"But?"
Arya looked somewhat hesitant. "But I can take care of the rest. I can look out for my family on my own from now on."
"A girl tells herself that, but a man doubts that her skill alone will be enough," he countered.
"The hell do you know?" she hissed, trying to keep her voice down. "Syrio Forel trained me in the ways of the Water Dance, the former First Sword of Braavos himself, taught me everything he knew about fighting!"
Jaqen still looked amused. "Ah, a man knows the name. But has your dancing master taught a girl how to keep a family whole? The skills she obviously lacks?"
More and more, Arya was getting agitated and angry at the perceived insult.
"Ask yourself: what is a girl's most important thing she values most?" he asked.
"Family," she answered bluntly.
"A girl would do anything to protect them? Regardless of what societal restrictions are placed upon her?"
"Yes."
"And to do that a girl feels as if she must keep honing her skills in the Braavosi Water Dance?"
"Yes."
Jaqen approached, surprisingly calm in the face of danger, yet courteous. Turning his head away just momentarily, he lifted his hand upward and gripped his chin. Arya leaned her head sideways, curious as to what he was doing. To her shock and surprise, he extended his hand over his head and drastically changed his appearance. To Arya it looked as if he had ripped his own face off to reveal someone else. His cheeks grew fuller, his eyes closer; his nose hooked, a scar appeared on his right cheek where no scar had been before. And when he shook his head, his reddish-brown hair with a silver streak had drastically turned into a bluish hue and displayed an ugly facial expression with a large bump on the bridge of his nose. "But what if a man told you that there was another way to better yourself when greater dangers arrive to threaten one's own kin, Arya Stark? Another way a girl can become more than what she is now?"
Arya still stood motionless; her brown eyes still wide before she backed away from him. "H-how did you do that?"
"A girl forgets a man's earlier words," he said quietly, revealing a shiny gold tooth. "It's no harder than taking a new name, if you know the way."
It didn't take long for Arya to understand what he was telling her. "You're... offering to train me?" she realized. "But I'm already a Water Dancer."
Jaqen chuckled. "To be a dancing master is a special thing, but to be a Faceless Man, that is something else entirely."
"A what?"
"The way it works, a girl goes to the Faceless Men and tells them who she wants killed, and we negotiate the price," he explained. "The more prominent the target, the more difficult they are to get to, the more dangerous for the assassin and the guild, the higher the price."
"You're... assassins? But assassins have no honor!"
Jaqen raised an eyebrow. "But a girl finds it honorable to employ the use of an assassin in the protection of a sister not once, not twice but three times when it suits her whims?" he countered, finding Arya's response hypocritical.
Arya bit her tongue. She bitterly lamented that Jaqen had a point in his statements; she did employ him to kill all three Kettleblack brothers back in King's Landing to protect her sister from Cersei Lannister's cruel, vicious machinations. She signed with resignation.
"A man can offer you this."
"You can teach me how to be a Faceless Man?"
"The girl has many names on her lips. Those who mean to inflict harm on the ones she cares about, the names of those she yearns to safeguard."
Robb, mother, Bran, Rickon, Jon, Sansa, Arya's tomboy face switched from fierce to softened. Sansa, Little Ned, Lyonel, Cassanna... While normally she would abundantly refuse outright, Arya thought of her niece and nephews; no matter how far away they were, she absolutely loved all three of them very much. "No one's ever safe for long," she spoke, "and with winter here, we'll need to look out for one another. You're sure you can teach me?"
Jaqen nodded. "A man has said. If you would learn, you must come with me."
"Where?"
"Far away, across the Narrow Sea to Braavos."
"But my family..."
"Will be none the wiser," he said, pressing a small coin into her palm. "Here."
Arya examined the strange form of currency. She hadn't seen anything like it before; it was square-shaped and made of iron, minted with the image of the Titan of Braavos on it. "What is it?"
"A coin of great value."
"What am I supposed to do with a coin?" she asked.
"Should you ever decide to take up on a man's offer, just present that coin to any man from Braavos and say these words to him—valar morghulis (all men must die)."
"Valar morghulis (all men must die)," Arya repeated. It wasn't hard. Her fingers closed tight over the coin. "When do you leave?"
"Now."
That wasn't enough time for Arya to pack some of her belongings, but she's managed with far less. Her thoughts once again turned to her family; as much as it pained her, Arya once again had to make one of the hardest decisions in her life. She looked up at Jaqen, another flame burning in her eyes.
"Valar morghulis (all men must die)," she said once more, but with more certainty.
Jaqen interpreted it as a 'yes'. "Valar dohaeris (all must serve)," he answered back. "If a girl is absolutely certain, she must leave with a man now. She must not have unnecessary baggage. A ship leaves from White Harbor to Braavos."
The following nightfall it was decided. Believing that this was to be her path forward towards improving herself as a fighter, Arya followed Jaqen H'dgar out of Winterfell under cover of night past the Stark guards and rode deep into the woods—occasionally glancing back at her home once more. Arya told herself that all she was doing was simply for the benefit of the family, it still didn't make leaving that much easier. "Sorry, mother. Robb," her voice crack. "And... I'm sorry, Little Ned. Forgive your auntie for doing this. Auntie will be back home soon, better than ever before. She'll protect you safe, just like mama wolf does with her pups."
—Dorne—
Sunspear — The Water Gardens...
The next day had passed since the failed assassination attempt.
Daveth sat on an orange bench having a small view of the Water Garden below whilst House Martell's maester Caleotte finished stitching up his left arm and shoulder. The Dornish maester applied a medical ointment known as firemilk on the Young Stag's arm and shoulder to clean the wound, though it still burned on contact. Other ointments applied contained substances such as mustard seeds, nettles and mold of bread which were helpful to fight off any potential infection when the Bastard's Boys vicious hounds bit into him. Shoulder and left arm were mauled bloody, but Daveth still fought off the assassination attempt with help and some likely unexpected assistance from the Sand Snakes.
"Almost done, Your Grace," Caleotte informed him. He steadily put the vial down and finished the last remaining stitch.
Daveth simply remained still, holding his breath and slightly gritting his teeth to ignore the feeling of the needle threading in and out of his skin to seal the wound closed. Cotton bandage cloths were wrapped around his shoulder and chest; his faint scars were visible as Caleotte began wrapping bandages around his arm.
Ser Lucius stood guard. "You're lucky those mongrels didn't tear your arm off, lad," he remarked.
Jaime nodded. "Good thing we arrived when we did," he agreed. "Imagine what would've happened if we weren't there. Heard those dogs were specifically bred to track down and kill wolves."
"Judging by the look of those hounds, they look like they haven't been fed for a few days," Olyvar theorized. "Probably starved 'em so they'd be extra vicious."
"Are you certain it was Roose Bolton's bastard?"
Daveth didn't move. "Locke is one of Lord Bolton's best hunters, but he's more in league with Ramsay Snow's line of thinking. Just as cruel and malicious, though one holds the leash and barks orders while the other merely responds to the call."
"Pitiful," Lucius spat. "In my days, assassination attempts were done in secrecy and more effectively, not out in the open and loudly. Youngins these days have no discipline."
"Well, they'll find out it failed sooner or later," remarked Jaime. "Still, I think it'd be best if we inform the Small Council about the attempt on His Grace's life."
"No," Daveth shook his head. "Not yet."
Olyvar looked confused. "Not yet? Why not?"
Even Ser Lucius and Daveth's uncle Ser Jaime were curious.
"Think about it: if we informed the council about the attempted assassination, then all eyes would immediately turn to Dorne. They would firstly accuse House Martell of deliberately sabotaging the peace talks which could potentially further escalate tensions and spark another war."
"So we do nothing?"
"On the contrary, we'll do the exact opposite. Varys has his little birds stationed everywhere both in Westeros and across the Narrow Sea, and I have some old contacts who owe me a few favors."
Lucius pieced the puzzle together. "Meaning we'd respond to the crisis to uncover the mystery in a quick yet effective manner, but just discretely enough so as to avoid alerting the enemy of our intention."
Daveth nodded. "Exactly."
All four men debated back and forth as Maester Caleotte finished wrapping the final bandage around the Young Stag's arm. "We're done," he said.
Standing from his seat, Daveth examined his left arm and gave a quick flex of his muscle—the medicinal ointment burned beneath the cotton and the stitched-up wound was itching, but the Young Stag still retained the use of both his arm and shoulder.
"Are you in pain?" Caleotte asked.
Daveth shook his head. "Maester, I've been beaten, stabbed, clubbed, riddled with arrows, nearly lost an eye, almost drowned at the Sunset Sea and was routinely tortured for almost a year when I was 8. Getting bitten by a dog? This pales in comparison."
Olyvar was just as puzzled. "How can you be so calm when someone, some groups of people, literally just tried to kill you?" he asked.
"Listen to your squire, nephew. Don't dismiss such things so lightly," Jaime warned. "No one is invincible, not even you."
"I'm well aware of my limitations."
The Young Stag eased himself back into his spare attire of loose, layered golden Dornish attire, taking certain precautions to ensure the stitches don't come undone. Even then, it still slightly agitated him. Slipping one arm through each sleeve, he didn't even notice someone else entering the guest room.
"That doesn't mean you should keep pushing your luck," a feminine voice broke the silence.
Daveth turned and noticed his wife, Sansa, standing in the doorway. Judging by the look on her face, she appeared to be quite upset—whether scorn or worry, he couldn't tell. Maybe it was both? The Queen had come a long way since arriving from Winterfell to King's Landing, growing and maturing to be a capable player in her own right. A pang of guilt struck the Young Stag as his wife approached him, possibly expecting to hear words expressing her disappointment—but much to Daveth's surprise, Sansa quickly closed the gap and wrapped her arms around her husband. She held him close. "I heard what happened," Sansa buried her face into his chest. "Thank the Gods, you're all right. I was really worried, you stupid idiot."
Daveth held his wife close, using his good arm and patted her back. I... suppose I deserved that, he admitted.
More footsteps were heard, revealing Princess Myrcella Baratheon entering the chamber. Jaime asked to speak with his 'niece' to check her well-being after the assassination attempt and especially how one of them tried to abduct her. The Kingslayer could see how much his 'niece' matured since he last saw her – Myrcella was a spitting image of Cersei when she was younger. Standing there in her pink dress, the Lannister necklace upon her neck, Myrcella's primary focus appeared to be fixed more on her brother.
"'Cella," Daveth acknowledged.
She embraced her brother. "Brother. Are you in pain? Does it hurt?" she asked slightly worried.
"I'll be all right. Really," he reassured.
Myrcella looked down and released her hold.
"How's Trystane?" Jaime asked.
"He'll be all right. Just... embarrassed," she answered.
"Embarrassed about what?"
"That he tried to defend me and well, failed. He can't stop thinking about it. He's very proud, you know."
Proud? Seriously? One hit and he's out like a candle. How could a suitor protect my sister like that? Daveth disapproved but bit his tongue, referring to Prince Trystane Martell's performance in combat.
Olyvar approached. "Were you harmed, Princess?" he asked.
Myrcella shook her head. "No. No, I'm fine. Just... shaken by what's happened. Prince Doran sends his well-wishes, brother. Says he's thankful you protected his son and heir."
That one lapse in security nearly got you both killed.
"Are you... still willing to talk?"
Daveth sighed. "Yes. Yes, Myrcella. I'm still willing to continue the peace talks with Prince Doran. Your engagement to his son... will continue."
Myrcella breathed a sigh of relief. She had desperately hoped that what had happened in the meeting room earlier before the assassins came hadn't derailed the proceedings, but was elated to know this could possibly mean her betrothal would remain intact.
"Are you happy here?" Jaime asked.
"Dorne is my home now, uncle. This has been my home for years," she said. "I didn't want to come here at first, but I did my duty. I did what my brother said. So if you're thinking about wanting to take me away from here, then forget it. I love Trystane, I'm going to marry him and we're staying right here."
Jaime and Daveth both equally raised eyebrows. They could tell right away she's serious. Jaime, in particular, noticed that Myrcella was indeed happy. Soon afterwards, Shae and Brella soon entered the room; each of the Queen's handmaidens carried the young Prince Lyonel and Princess Cassana Baratheon.
"Your Graces," they both curtsied.
Sansa looked at them. "See, children?" she told the twins. "Papa's all right. He's okay."
Each of the royal Baratheon twins babbled in response. As the Wolf Queen picked up Lyonel, Princess Cassana stretched out her tiny arms towards her father—yearning for his attention. Using only one arm, Daveth was given his daughter from Shae. The little girl gripped her father's robe with her tiny fingers.
"Hey, little bugger," Daveth said to his daughter. "Did you and your brother behave for your aunt Myrcella?"
Myrcella smiled. "Lyonel and Cassana have been very good, brother. They're so adorable!" she almost squealed in delight again.
Ser Lucius smiled at the warm sight. Olyvar tried to hide his expression, as did Jaime as all in attendance observed closely.
"*Mmu*", baby Cassana babbled. "Dada."
Both Daveth and Sansa's eyes widened in surprise and looked at each other.
"Did you... hear that?" he asked.
Sansa nodded. "Her first word," she gasped before smiling. "Yes, little one. That's dada. Dada's right here!"
"Aww, how sweet," Shae praised.
"Dada, dada," Cassana babbled again.
Leaning against the wall, Jaime observed as everyone around him nearly swarmed the royal babies. To them it was big news that one of the twins started talking for the first time, even if it's just one word. Slightly dumbfounded and somewhat envious, Jaime had long suppressed his paternal instincts for his 'niece' out of necessity for her well-being. Perhaps what seemed to be the first time, he was slowly becoming more envious about the joys of fatherhood taking place in front of him—but Daveth was Jaime's own nephew and knew it was wrong to feel that way.
Still, Jaime kept his mouth shut and watched the family—his family, coming together even if things are no longer the same.