This story is a companion to A Girl Too Long Away From Home. It is Jaqen's POV during essentially the same time frame, but has turned out to be much more detailed and therefore, significantly longer.

Oodles and boatloads of heartfelt gratitude to the gracious and lovely Katosade for providing corrections to my German grammar! She's a much better translator than Google!

Have you no idea that you're in deep?

She had never been like other girls. He had sensed that almost immediately upon meeting her, but he supposed that if she had been, he would not have given her so much as a second glance. Instead, he often found himself stopping to watch her for long moments, just as he had the first time he laid eyes on her. There was something about the girl that drew the eye, and something that held it.

Incandescent young thing, Jaqen recalled thinking the first time he ever saw her.

He had just closed the trunk of his car with his elbow after lifting out the last of the cardboard crates he had brought with him when she caught his eye. The girl was crossing her lawn in a languid walk that was a ballet of lean limbs and the unconscious guilelessness found still in the fading light of childhood. She was seeking relief from the oppressive heat of August in New Orleans in the way that children will. An older boy, curly headed and likely her brother by the looks of him, was creating arcs of water with a garden hose while another boy, taller and broader, looked on from the front steps of the large house, sipping lemonade and laughing. The newcomer paused and hefted his burden up higher against his chest, watching as this girl wove her way through and around the cascading drops, catching them with her fingertips and her tongue as they fell. The bright glint of the afternoon sun reflected through the prism of the water and created faint, winking rainbows over her head.

Jaqen had smiled a little to himself then, continuing to the bricked walkway through his gate and then up the steps of his new home. He pushed the door open with his toe and felt the cool rush of the air conditioner hit his face. He hadn't had much to unload, as most of the things (it was hard to think of them as his things; they were more like props than possessions) had already been delivered and unpacked prior to his arrival. A nicety, he supposed, courtesy of the man who was as much father-figure and mentor to him as boss. He surveyed his surroundings, noting that the furnishings were elegant and appropriate to the era of the house. Though his professed and demonstrated tastes varied depending on where he had been sent and the part he was meant to play, he was pleased to note that this interior and décor reflected his true tastes quite closely. Another nicety. He would be in this place for quite some time, so the effort was appreciated, if unexpected.

Danke, Erich, he thought.

There were only a few material things that Jaqen counted as important, and those were what he personally packed, transported, and then unpacked himself. Certain valuable books. An old watch. A smattering of letters and photographs, now yellowed with age. A few objets d'art which were collected over his years of travel and held some special meaning for him. His laptop. A selection of passports and currencies. Weapons. These things, he had placed carefully into a few cardboard crates, the last of which he held now in his arms.

He set the box on a polished, burled walnut desk which had been placed before a large, beveled glass window in the library. The window was east-facing and overlooked the lawn of the house next door; the one with the children playing in the water. The man peered through the glass and let his gaze linger on them only briefly. The scene filled him with warring emotions that he could not quite reconcile; a warm regard for simple joys; a gnawing envy at the lack of both such simplicity and joy in his own life; a sudden awareness of an emptiness that somehow felt sharp and hard inside of his chest. A small frown formed on his face and he made himself turn away.

Later that same day, as dusk began to settle, the newcomer's doorbell rang. He set aside some papers he was sorting and walked to the foyer, noting a familiar figure through the slightly warped and bubbled glass panes of his door. All original (the house was truly an architectural treasure). The girl he had earlier been watching as she played in the water was now standing on his porch with a large box, square and mint green, tied up with a pink ribbon and balanced across her outstretched forearms. He wondered at her sudden appearance and opened the door.

"Hi," the girl greeted, the tip of her dark braid brushing against side of the pastel box. He noted that she was older than he had first thought, perhaps a young teenager. Her petite frame had fooled him. "I'm your neighbor. I live over there." She tilted her head in the direction of her house, the white wooden one next door, a massive Queen Anne Georgian revival. It was an impressive structure, situated on a sizable corner lot next to his own smaller Italianate home. The light streaming through his open door shone on the girl's face and revealed that she had wide, gray eyes.

"Hello," the man said.

"I'm Arya."

"And I am Jaqen," he replied politely, leaning his one shoulder casually against his door frame, arms crossing over his chest.

"Jaqen? That's not a common name," the girl noted.

"No, it is not," he agreed, "but then, neither is Arya."

The girl's face brightened a bit and she smiled at him, saying, "That's true. I guess that's something we have in common."

"I suppose you are right," Jaqen agreed, and he felt a faint echo of those earlier warring emotions as he looked down at the girl.

"We might have something else in common soon," Arya continued.

"Oh? And what would that be?" He sounded almost suspicious.

"A love of doberge cake," she replied with a laugh, lifting the box up to indicate that she carried just such a treat. "My mom sent this over as a welcome-to-the-neighborhood gift. I hope you like lemon."

"That was most kind of her. You must pass on my thanks."

"She does stuff like that. She's sort of the self-appointed social director of the Garden District."

"Indeed?"

The girl made an affirmative humming noise, nodding her head.

"Where are you from?" she asked abruptly. "You have an interesting accent."

"A man has lived many places, but he supposes he is from Germany."

His strange speech pattern drew from her a look of bemusement, but she said, "Well, your English is great. It's much better than my German."

"Does a girl... do you speak German?"

"No."

"Ah," Jaqen said. "Then the standard is not so high."

A silence descended over them then which was less-awkward than it ought to have been. They regarded each other openly, she in her white shorts and navy tank top and flip flops, cradling the box containing a pastry with which he was not familiar and he in his pale blue oxford with the sleeves rolled up and pressed khakis, somehow still pristine despite a day spent unpacking and organizing. As he continued to lean comfortably against his door frame, backlit by the chandelier in his foyer, the girl took a small step forward and extended her arms further, holding up the box for him to take. He did, giving her a polite bow of his head. A folded note card with a small fleur de lis pressed in the center had been slipped between the ribbon and the box top. Jaqen pulled it free and flipped it open with one hand as he balanced the box on the other.

Welcome, from the Stark Family, it read.

"Well, enjoy your cake," Arya said, taking a fluid step backward before spinning with an easy grace that ought to have been impeded by her inelegant footwear.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome," the girl replied as she skipped down his steps. When she reached the brick walkway, she turned her head to call back over her shoulder in a heartbreakingly sincere tone, "And I hope you won't be too lonely here."

That feeling rose in Jaqen's chest again, sharp and hard; empty. It was the way she said it, the too. And it was the look in her eyes as she said it; the empathy that she was too young to have; the understanding that she was too young to possess.

He wished to respond to the girl, perhaps with a laugh as if he mistook her words for a joke, but found he could not. She had rendered him speechless. That was the first time he ever saw what it was that she could do and understood that Arya Stark was more than just a typical teenage daughter of privilege. That was the first time he experienced her unique ability to just know what was inside of people, and to give voice to it without judgment or ridicule. When she spoke, and his words failed him, his head felt suddenly light and if it weren't too ridiculous, he would almost think he was experiencing a near-faint.

His eyes trailed after the girl's lithe form as she exited his ornate wrought iron gate and drifted, almost ghostlike, through her own gate and into her driveway. He stepped out onto his porch, his open door cool at his back, and turned to watch as Arya climbed her steps and then entered her own home without ever looking back. It was only then that his voice returned.

"Lovely girl," he breathed.

Over the next three years, Jaqen became well-acquainted with the routine and involvements of the family next door to him, as he was meant to do. They were pleasant, close-knit, and surprisingly neighborly for people of such sizable wealth. Catelyn Stark in particular made certain that he was invited to all of the important events for which he was suitable (for obvious reasons, he would never make the cut at Junior League and even the well-regarded Starks didn't have enough pull to guarantee an outsider—and a foreigner at that—induction into the Krewe of Rex, though Catelyn kindly suggested that he approach one of the newer societies if it was something that truly interested him. Of course it wasn't, but he could not very well say so to her. Desire for acceptance into the upper echelons of society fit far too neatly into the image he had built here). For his part, Ned Stark was a serious and busy man, but personable enough. They often spoke across the fence which separated their respective properties if they happened to be tending to their lawns at the same time (Jaqen made sure this happened with a certain frequency) or pulled into their drives simultaneously. Then there were the many children in the Stark home, but they only peripherally concerned Jaqen.

Except for one.

He did not allow himself to be troubled by his interest in the youngest Stark daughter at first. "An asset," he told himself as justification. She spoke with him in an unguarded way that he could claim had the potential to be useful. Perhaps he even believed it. He did not bother to acknowledge the percentage of their conversations which revealed more about her than they did about her family. "Relationships must be built," he reasoned. And perhaps he even believed that, too. He especially did not bother to acknowledge the number of their conversations which revealed more about him than was strictly recommended to divulge.

It wouldn't have mattered, anyway. She would have known. That was just what she did. She looked at a man, and she knew.

In the course of his work, both with his military service and with his current position, Jaqen had traveled the world. He had consequently seen and met and beguiled all manner of women—beautiful and interesting and important and sometimes even dangerous woman—both as a matter of duty and in the quest to sate his own needs (never for pure sport though. Jaqen could be supremely dispassionate when required, but he was not cruel by nature). He was, therefore, a man of considerable experience when it came to the art of seduction. How was it, then, that he found himself so completely seduced by this one lovely girl, and seemingly without her even being aware of it?

(But then, perhaps she was aware of it, because Arya Stark was nothing if not aware.)

It wasn't overtly sexual for him (how could it be? She was a senior in high school, and a young senior at that. He had no interest in despoiling virgins or ruining the innocence of children. He did not doubt, however, that if Arya Stark's brothers or father saw the way he looked at her, they would naturally assume the worst and he would find himself on the wrong side of their considerable influence in the city and possibly on the wrong side of a gun). He did think that perhaps someday, she would be an exquisite woman; the rare sort who truly intrigued him. He could not deny that this thought had fueled a particular fantasy of his, but he did not allow himself to hold out any real hope that she would actually have a place for him in her life when that nebulous future finally materialized.

As it was, she was already so lovely that it always nearly stopped him in his tracks when their paths crossed. She was innocence in the extreme, but coupled with a sort of understanding that was rare, even in those who had been schooled in the ways of the world for far longer than she had even been alive. Whenever he saw her, it was as if he had been too long in the cold and the dark and then suddenly he was stepping into the brightness and the heat of day. In that same way, it was hard, almost painful, to look at her, but also hard to resist such warmth. He had somehow become the proverbial moth, unable to combat the pull of this one girl's hypnotic light.

It was mid-October in New Orleans, the time when the Crescent City finally experienced weather that was not just endurable, but actually pleasant. The typical oppressive humidity had lifted, the sun shone warmly but a cool breeze kept the sweat from beading in a man's collar. It was the one aspect of the city's climate that most closely resembled the summers of his youth. Jaqen wasn't one for keeping many specific memories for perusal and recollection, but when he thought of being a young boy in the summer, this sort of fleeting feeling of contentment washed over him, and days like this one brought it all back to him in a rush. He gloried in the simple pleasure of the sun on his skin and the hint of crisp cool in the air as he waited at the streetcar stop directly across from his front-gate.

It was a Saturday and Jaqen was on his way to a small shop on Magazine Street; one that specialized in both hard-to-find, small antique collectibles and rare books. A phone call earlier in the morning had informed him that a set of books he had been awaiting had arrived and was ready to be picked up. Usually, he would have asked for them to be sent over (he was a busy man without much time to spare for these small, personal errands), but today, he found himself both with the time as well as the inclination to enjoy one of the mildest days of the year in his adopted city.

His route required a few blocks of walking after he hopped off the green streetcar at the intersection of St. Charles and Josephine but after only a short time, he was pushing through the door of the shop he sought, the old brass bell mounted on the top of the entryway announcing his arrival. He was excited at the prospect of the find: a rare duo of first editions in excellent condition; one of Faulkner's works, in both English and German, and both signed. They had cost him a small fortune.

The German man was a voracious reader, but mostly nonfiction. History and politics, primarily, but there was virtually no subject about which he hadn't read something. Anything of importance, he knew a little about; enough to make conversation, at least. Of course, some things, he knew everything about. He remembered most of what he had read. Photographic memory was the more familiar and vulgar term people used for it. Complete recall was the way he preferred to think of the gift.

Lückenlose Erinnerung.

It was not his custom to indulge in modern novels, having read only a very few, but he had studied the important classics, anything with which one would need to be familiar in order to be considered culturally literate, especially here, in his adopted home (this was why he had consumed A Confederacy of Dunces just prior to relocating. He had found it both amusing and surprisingly enlightening). Jaqen enjoyed collecting rare editions of the novels that he loved best. In fact, hunting for such books was the primary way he spent what little time was not dedicated to his job. His tastes in reading materials, though, typically ran toward things others might consider dry or boring. He had always felt driven to understand more. His education had not been lacking in the traditional sense but most would still consider him a self-educated man.

At least, in every way that counted.

As Jaqen strode toward the counter to collect his books, he saw a familiar form; a slender girl with long, dark hair, worn loose. Arya Stark. She was conversing with the shop's owner who was wrapping up her purchase in layers of white tissue paper and placing it in a petite handle-bag embossed with the shop's logo in gold foil. That the two customers were there at the same time was a complete coincidence, of course, but somehow, Jaqen felt guilty, as if he had followed her and was encroaching somehow on her territory.

Which was laughable, because if Besh's was anyone's territory, it was his.

And besides that, there was the fact that he had followed countless people in countless situations, so even had he placed himself purposefully in this girl's path, feeling guilt at the occurrence was not an expected response. Or a welcome one. Not for him. So, rather than try to analyze the cause of it, he tried instead to shake the sensation off.

Because being unobtrusively observant was so important to his work and because it was also simply the way he was built, he knew that the bag the girl was lifting from the counter contained a small porcelain cat. Herend, if he had to guess, blue and white like the little pieces of decorative china she kept in her room. The fact that he, a grown man, knew what sort of bric-a-brac a teenage girl kept in her bedroom might strike some people as a cause for concern, he supposed. He hadn't meant to spy on her, exactly (here again, guilt poked at him uncomfortably). It was just that he couldn't help but to see into her room; not when she threw open the french doors which led out onto the small balcony attached to her room and the balcony was situated directly across from the second story gallery off of his own bedroom.

Sometimes he liked to leave his own french doors open, when the nights were cooler and less humid. The arrangement sometimes put her (and her bric-a-brac) into his direct line of sight. Both his training and his personal experience had taught him that it was prudent to make a habit of studying people in his immediate vicinity (usually without their knowledge). Because of this, he argued internally that choosing not to study Arya Stark would be more of an indictment of him than watching her as she crossed his view.

There were those nights when the girl would come home late from her practice, still wearing her fencing whites, her hair damp from exertion and mussed by her mask, wispy tendrils pulled free of her braid. She would throw open her french doors and step out onto her balcony, tearing at the neck of her fencing jacket to open it and cool down. Sometimes when she did this and Jaqen happened to be reclining against his headboard or sitting outside on the second floor side veranda, he could simply look up and read her exhaustion in the way she slumped down, leaning onto her railing with her forearms and dropping her head. Sometimes, he could read her frustration at some failure, real or imagined, in the way she paced and then pounded her fist against the railing. He tried to imagine what had transpired as a girl danced with her epee to warrant such a reaction. Sometimes, she simply threw open her doors and he could not read her at all, because she would quickly disappear back into her room (likely to shower and change, he imagined, and then tried not to imagine). It was at these times that he found his eye drawn toward the bright rectangle of light her open doors created. Directly across from him, her dresser was framed perfectly by the opening of her doors, pushed against the opposite wall. It was on the top of this dresser that her small collection of china and porcelain was displayed.

There were plates and tiles arranged in a cluster on the wall above the dresser. On the top of the dresser sat vases and delicate trinket boxes, a ginger jar and a few smaller pieces shaped like animals, all done in blue and white. His eyes were sharp but still, he was too far away to make out the patterns on the pieces. Chinoiserie, he imagined. And maybe some Dutch farm scenes (he had once read some books on collectible flow blue china when he had needed to briefly pose as the manager of a boutique. It was simply for proximity, the shop being situated near to where he was required to be at a particular time. His newly acquired knowledge had not been tested, but he always liked to be prepared).

From the familiar way the shopkeeper was speaking to Arya just then, Jaqen surmised that the girl had likely purchased most of her pieces from this same antique store which they now both occupied. He imagined that her little collection was probably worth something.

As Arya was about to turn, her neighbor ducked into an aisle, pulling a book from the shelf to inspect, holding it close to his face. As she passed him, oblivious to his presence (he was aided by the shadows in the narrow aisle as well as by her own apparent distraction), he saw her trail her fingers over something on a shelf near the door; a book. She gazed at it for a long moment, tilting her head to the side as a corner of her mouth pulled up. She hesitated, her hand hovering just before the volume, but then pulled the book off of the shelf. Opening it, she found the dark ribbon attached to a small piece of oval cardstock. Jaqen knew from experience that the card displayed the price of the book, written in the shopkeeper's fine, spidery hand. Though he could only see her quarter-profile, it was enough to note the way her eyes widened at the price. Arya quickly replaced the book and hurried out, the bell on the door tinkling to signal her egress. Jaqen waited a moment to be sure she wasn't about to burst back through the door and then walked over to where she had just been standing. He found the book she had inspected.

Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. The binding was in excellent shape and the gold embossing on the cover was barely faded. It was a nice early edition. Not pristine, of course; if it had been, it would not have been left out for just anyone to touch and examine. But still, a beautiful book, with that certain character that could only be found in such rare editions.

Jaqen himself loved these old books. He would read on his phone in a pinch, but there was something about the feel of aged paper between his fingers as he turned turned the pages and the heft of the volume in his hands that added to the experience of reading. Even the smell of them evoked a certain longing in him. He was certain that he would always prefer real books.

The man ran a finger over the gold, embossed rabbit on the red cover before he flipped the book open and saw the oval-shaped card with a black ribbon sticking out from between the pages. The dark ink in which the price was written looked stark against the ivory of the cardstock. The volume was actually priced quite reasonably for such a treasure. Still, he could see why a girl would not want to buy such a thing on a whim, especially if she were not well-versed in the value of such things. Not when she could download the text for free to her reader. His eyes lingered over the yellowed, uneven edges of the pages and then he tucked the book under his arm and finally approached the shopkeeper.

"Welcome back, Mr. H'ghar," the gentleman behind the counter said jovially. His smile was genuine, inspired by the familiar face of one of his regular patrons.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Besh," the German returned politely, shaking the shopkeeper's hand.

"Please, Marcus. We're old friends by now."

"Then you must call me Jaqen."

"Well, sir, you're my best customer. I'll call you Huey P. Long if you want me to." The two men laughed and Jaqen slid the copy of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland carefully across the counter toward the shopkeeper. Eyeing the book, Marcus continued, "An unusual choice for your collection."

"A gift," Jaqen explained.

"Ah." The man smiled as Jaqen began to peel off the bills which would pay for this addition to his purchase. He preferred to use cash unless he was denied the option, but Marcus Besh never denied him the option. It was an old, precautionary habit and one he was never quite comfortable forgoing. The other books, the ones he had originally come to pick up, had been paid for previously. The man behind the counter continued, "You've picked a good one. That's a very fine and unique gift. It must for someone very special."

Jaqen made him no answer and the shopkeeper carefully wrapped the book up in tissue paper and added it the bag which already contained the works of Faulkner. The two men smiled pleasantly at one another as Marcus handed his best customer his purchases. The German bid the shop's owner a polite farewell and then left, a brass bell tinkling in his wake. He became lost in his own thoughts as he walked briskly back up Josephine Street toward the streetcar stop where he would wait for his ride back home. He thought about his impulsive buy; about how he had meant to give it to the girl. However, as he strode up the street in the waning light of the afternoon, he could not decide how such a gift could be appropriate. The expense alone... Such a valuable present would surely raise eyebrows and he could not afford to lose the trust he had worked so long to build.

Perhaps someday he might find a way...

As the German approached the intersection with St. Charles Avenue, he considered the girl's choice of the book and recalled the look on her face as she trailed her fingers lightly over the binding. Alice's Adventures in Wonderland; somehow, it was unexpected, and yet completely perfect. The whimsy of it. The very innocence. Thinking on it, he could almost remember the wonder of his own brief childhood, when a boy's belief had allowed for magic to exist unquestioned; a time when a boy might seek out rabbit holes in hopes of falling into a wonderland to explore. He thought of it, and he had that feeling in his chest again, only this time, it was different. It wasn't so hard and sharp anymore. It might even have been been a little warm. He suddenly felt less... empty. A smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

It was absurd, of course. Absolutely preposterous. It made no sense whatsoever.

Jaqen joined several other pedestrians on the corner, waiting to cross the street in order to catch the streetcar. He was still mentally berating himself for the sudden lift in his mood brought on by a child's book (not allowing himself to admit that the lightening of his spirit had as much to do with other things as with Alice's fantastical adventures) when he felt a light touch at his elbow. The man turned his head to see who had want of his attention only to find himself staring into the wide, gray eyes of the girl whose simple gesture had inspired his uncharacteristic impulse purchase.

So much for being unobtrusively observant, he thought wryly.

"Well, if it isn't Jaqen H'ghar," Arya said, her voice floating up to his ear. "As I live and breathe." She spoke the last bit with a purposefully thick southern accent, the type never heard around these parts.

As I live and breathe. It was not a turn of phrase the girl would normally use, nor did she typically sound like she was Scarlett O'Hara in disguise. She was teasing him. He smirked. He could be a tease, too.

"Arya Stark," the man replied silkily, inclining his head toward her in that excessively polite way of his and reaching for her hand. Curling his fingers around hers, Jaqen lifted the girl's hand to his lips and pressed a gentle kiss to her knuckles, his eyes never leaving hers, looking at her through his lashes. It was a bit of flirtatious theater which he thought would bring a little color to her cheek and neck. He had only a small window to note that he had accurately predicted Arya's response before the crosswalk signal changed and the crowd which had gathered around them began to move en masse to cross the street. Jaqen graciously offered the girl his arm, which she took after an almost imperceptible hesitation. They crossed St. Charles Avenue together and he asked her if she was heading home.

"I am. I just ran down here to pick something up for mom's birthday. It's not until next weekend, but I had a little free time today and I have so many practices coming up that I wasn't sure if I would have the time to get a gift before her party if I didn't do it today."

"So much practice," her neighbor remarked. "A girl has become quite deadly with her swords, yes?"

She tried to hide her small smile at his syntax error. Over the last few years, he had learned that though Arya was not easily charmed, this one thing seemed to do it. He was judicious with the employment of such slips, a calculated decision on his part, but he sometimes wondered at the pains he took with the feigned affectation, especially when considering the rewards he reaped for his efforts. He was paid only in the girl's smiles, and even those, she usually fought to disguise by biting her bottom lip. But even while knowing this, Jaqen still persisted. What would Erich say to that?

"Well, fencing foils aren't exactly meant for killing people," she laughed, "but I like to think that if it were 1750 and someone challenged me to a duel, I could hold my own."

They arrived at their stop but had a few minutes yet before the next streetcar would arrive. She made no move to pull her arm away from him and he made no move to release it. They stood that way for a little while before Arya noted that the bag her companion was carrying matched her own; a navy paper sack with muted gold ribbon for handles, stamped in the center with a small, round logo featuring an open book and the words "Besh's Rare Books and Antique Collectibles" surrounding it in gold embossing. She looked up at Jaqen, confusion marring her face.

"Were you at Besh's today?"

"Yes. I stopped in quickly to pick up some books that the owner had located for me a few weeks back. I was already down the street, having lunch with a friend when I got the call saying they had come in," Jaqen lied smoothly.

"That's so strange," Arya remarked, her features relaxing. "We must have just missed each other."

"And yet, we still found each other waiting to cross the street," the man replied. "The hand of fate is indeed fickle."

"Well, I found you, anyway. You were so lost in thought, I don't think you would have seen me if I hadn't announced myself," the girl remarked. Jaqen smiled at her, unable to deny the truth of her words (and feeling a certain consternation at that, too, as it was not his custom to be so lost in thought, as she put it). His companion flicked her eyes at his bag once again and then asked, "What did you get?"

"Do you mean what books did a man purchase?"

Arya bit her lip but it could not hide her smile. She nodded.

"William Faulkner," the German replied. "Two volumes, both The Sound and the Fury."

"Wait... you bought two of the same book? Wow, you must be making a killing at your firm," the girl remarked. "I checked out one of those books while I was in there today and I could hardly believe the price! And it wasn't even one of those really valuable ones they keep locked up in the glass counter!"

Somehow, she just knew that the volumes Jaqen had purchased would be the type that the shop would keep locked up behind the counter. She mentally calculated what he must have spent and whistled. Jaqen arched one eyebrow in an inquisitive gesture, smiling lopsidedly at her impressed display.

"I was just thinking about how much your collection must be worth," Arya told her neighbor. "You have the most complete private library I've ever seen."

"It is far from complete, lovely girl."

"But why two copies? Do you always keep a spare?"

"The story is the same. The language is not."

Her mouth formed a little o and then she said, "One is in English and the other is German."

"Just so."

She smiled again, this time not bothering to try to hide it from him. Before she could respond, though, the familiar green streetcar rumbled up to their stop. It looked pretty full, which was unsurprising, considering the weather. Jaqen stood aside, allowing the girl to board before him, and then placed a protective hand in the small of her back, guiding her first up the steps and then down the aisle, a chivalrous throwback. The gesture felt natural to him. To her, the feeling was altogether different, but there was no pulse to be felt where he touched her, and so he did not know.

Thankfully, despite the crowd, enough people hopped off at Josephine that there was now an empty row near the middle of the car into which Arya and Jaqen slipped. The two neighbors settled back into their seat, their sides pressed against one another in the close space, and the girl pulled her small shopping bag into her lap. The man placed his on the floor between his feet.

Jaqen's eyes drifted over the back of the seat in front of them, admiring the rich, heavily lacquered wooden slats and the rounded slope of the top edges. To him, it seemed that the streetcar's interior reflected a time long past, when things which were utilitarian were also made to be beautiful. In fact, so much of New Orleans, with its wrought iron balconies and tiled street markers and ornate lamp posts, evoked that very same feeling. He cast his eyes out of the open window, Arya's profile blurry in the foreground of his vision, and traced the vertical lines of the fluted, black iron poles which held the lines powering the car. These were yet another example of the wholly unnecessary embellishment, the sheer decadence, which made the city a study in both graceful beauty and the sin of ostentation. In fact, as far as Jaqen could tell after three years residing below sea level among the natives of this place which prided itself in being and having and doing always too much (too much food, too much drink, too much sex, too much hospitality, too much crime, too much optimism), those were probably the two most quintessential characteristics of New Orleans: beauty and sin.

As they began to move, the youngest Stark girl turned her head in the same direction in which her neighbor was looking, taking in the same scene—The City That Care Forgot on a perfect October afternoon—and sighed wistfully. For Jaqen, hearing the sound of it was like hearing what was inside of him spilling forth harmoniously from another and the man felt compelled to speak.

"Even after more than three years here, I continue to find this place to be..."

Jaqen's voice trailed off. It wasn't so much that his English had failed him, it was that he was having trouble finding the word to describe how he felt about it all in any language.

"A girl knows," Arya murmured softly, still facing the open window. Still teasing. "Me too, and I was born here. I'm not sure that ever goes away. Once it's in your blood..."

"There is no cure," he finished quietly.

She turned her face to him, her look almost adoring. Something jolted inside of him at the sight of it, and something also settled.

"Just so," Arya spoke quietly, her eyes seeming to smile before the rest of her face. "There is no cure. And why would you ever want one?"

One corner of Jaqen's mouth turned up and he shook his head slightly before he replied to her rhetorical question.

"A man would not."

It was about an hour after Jaqen's return from his spontaneous outing that he received the call saying that he should prepare for a visitor. No reason was given, but then, such things would never be said explicitly over the phone, no matter how secure the line was thought to be. Erich's secretary had simply rattled off his itinerary and when Jaqen asked if he would need to be at the airport to greet his boss, she told him that the transportation had already been arranged.

"Erwarten Sie Herrn Weber heute Abend um sieben Uhr."

You may expect Mr. Weber at seven o'clock this evening.

Jaqen paced in his library, his newly purchased books sitting on the desk by the window, the quaint shopping bag and tissue paper discarded. He had meant to find a place for the volumes on his shelves somewhere, but the task was interrupted by the call from Berlin and he was then too distracted with the prospect of Erich's imminent arrival at his home to bother with Faulkner (or Lewis Carroll) just then.

His measured pacing brought him back across the room once again and he looked down at the desk, noting that the aged Alice edition sat atop the newly placed stack. He stared at the scarlet cover and furrowed his brow, wondering what on Earth he had been thinking. Snorting lightly at his own folly, Jaqen shoved his hands into his pockets and looked up, gazing over his side yard and across the Stark's driveway. A familiar car had just pulled in next door and two boys—men, he mentally corrected himself—were just getting out of it. The older son, he thought as he saw Jon's head of curly, dark hair. The adopted one. And that friend of his.

A frown formed involuntarily upon the German's face.

The newcomers bounded up the steps of the Stark home and entered without knocking. Their body language suggested that they were in good spirits. Jaqen's own spirits were less cheerful. His eyes flicked to a clock on the desk. It was nearly seven now. When he looked back up, the door to the white house next to his was closed, the visitors now on the other side of it. After a few more minutes, the man exited his library and walked to his front door, throwing it open and stepping onto the main gallery. He placed his hands on the smooth wrought iron railing, leaning over it and gazing down the avenue. A dark car slowly made its way toward him and he knew instinctively that Erich sat inside. As the sedan pulled to a stop in front of Jaqen's gate, he heard laughter and voices drifting across the lawn next door. Instinctively, he turned to look.

Arya was skipping towards Jon's car, right on her brother's heels and that boy brought up the rear. The girl's half-jog seemed to be an effort to escape the large, dark haired boy's grasp. As Jaqen watched, the young man caught up to her, reaching out and winding his thick arms around Arya's waist. She squealed in surprise as she was lifted off the ground, and then he was swinging her around in a circle while she alternated between admonishing him and laughing.

"Put me down!" the girl cried loud enough for her neighbor to understand the words as clearly as if she had been standing next to him.

"Not until you say the magic words!" her brother's friend vowed while Jon laughed at their childish display.

"Gendry, I swear to God!" she threatened.

Gendry. Yes, that was his name.

"The magic words, princess, or else!"

"Ooh, I hate when you call me that!"

"I know," Gendry snorted, "but those aren't the magic words!"

With that, the young man hoisted the girl easily over his shoulder, pinning her legs to his chest so that she couldn't kick him. All of her long hair hung down toward the ground and she was screaming wildly at her friend with a combination of delight and frustration. The scene confused Jaqen. He had thought that the girl had plans for the evening. She'd said as much on their trip home aboard the streetcar. As the man watched Arya's brother urge his companions to hurry ("Come on, you two! You'll make us late!"), the pieces fell into place and Jaqen realized that these were her plans.

They had ridden together from Josephine Street until their stop, just across from Jaqen's house. After their exchange regarding the unique draw of New Orleans, Jaqen and Arya had sat together for long stretches of companionable silence, interrupted occasionally by idle small talk. Just as they passed Louisiana Avenue, the girl had looked up at her neighbor and asked him about his plans for the evening.

"A quiet night with my books," he had told her. "I am a boring old man."

"You're not old, Jaqen," Arya chided, rolling her eyes. "You're not much older than Robb and Jon, for that matter. As for boring... the jury is still out."

"I am, in fact, several years older than your brothers, sweet girl."

"Excitement keeps you young, you know. You should go and do something fun. It's Saturday, for goodness sake!"

"Well, what excitement does a girl have planned for tonight, then?"

"I'm going to a concert with my brother."

"Delightful. You must be sure to have enough excitement for us both."

It somehow seemed less delightful to him now that he saw her leaving with her brother and his college roommate, and as for her experiencing enough excitement for the two of them, he now wondered at the wisdom of such an exhortation. This boy—man—had not been to the Stark home in quite some time and he had not been considered important to the overall mission in any way, which was why Jaqen had not immediately recalled his name despite his otherwise excellent memory.

Perhaps he was more important to the mission than Jaqen had realized. And just like that, Gendry Waters had made Jaqen H'ghar's list of things potentially too dangerous to ignore.

Jon's roommate gently set the squealing teenager in the back seat of Jon's Acura and then jumped into the front passenger seat as Arya's brother started the car. They backed out of the driveway just as Erich climbed the steps of Jaqen's house and joined the younger man on his porch.

"Mein Oberst," Jaqen greeted with a crisp and respectful bow of his head. A keen observer might have noticed how the younger man stiffened slightly at Erich Weber's approach, taking on the posture of a soldier standing at attention. Another old habit; one that Erich's protégé had struggled unsuccessfully to shed.

"Jaqen, my boy," the white-haired gentleman said, smiling with a warmth that did not quite reach his eyes. He placed his hand on the younger man's shoulder and squeezed before turning ninety degrees to watch the tail lights of the Acura fade away in the Autumn darkness of St. Charles Avenue.

"Shall we go inside, Erich?"

"Who was that little one?" the colonel asked, ignoring the invitation momentarily. His companion gave him a manufactured look of confusion and so Erich obligingly clarified, "The girl." He sounded interested. Too interested.

"Her?" Jaqen asked, his voice bored. He gave a slight shrug. "She is no one"

Erich Weber turned around then so that he was facing his protégé head on.

"No one?" the older man questioned, a trace of amusement in his tone. "Oh, I doubt that very much."

Much later that night (so late that it was, in fact, morning), long after Erich had said his goodbyes and left in another dark sedan identical to the one in which he had arrived, Jaqen found himself out on the gallery off of his bedroom, perched on the edge of an intricate cast iron garden bench painted white. He was clad only in boxers, the cold iron of the bench chilling the backs of his thighs through the thin material, and he was smoking, something that he hadn't done in years. Two fingers of bourbon, neat, sat untouched in a Mignon Faget double old fashioned glass, part of a set gifted to him on his last supposed birthday by the family at whose house he now stared. The man took a slow drag of his cigarette, the glowing red tip the only indication to a passerby that anyone occupied the shadowed gallery on that cool, Autumn night. He finally tasted the bourbon and leaned his head back against the wall behind him.

As he took another swallow of the whiskey, an electronic whirring noise caught his attention. He leaned forward and saw the automatic gate of the Stark driveway begin to swing open. He glanced down the street in time to see a car approach the large, white structure and then turn into the drive. Jaqen did not recognize the vehicle, an old sports car that was no longer made. Some sort of two-door Nissan. He was instantly alert and narrowed his eyes, trying to make out the plate number as he wondered if he should go for his gun. When the driver killed the engine and opened up his door, Jaqen rose from his seat, eyes scanning for threats.

"Wait," Jaqen heard the driver say as he stepped out of the car. The voice was familiar. Jaqen squinted as the new arrival stepped into the pool of light thrown by a motion lamp mounted on the near corner of the Stark home. Gendry Waters. "I'm gonna get your door."

The young man jogged around the front of the car but before he could reach the passenger's side, Arya Stark popped out, saying, "Like hell you are, Waters. I don't want to sit here all night and I'm not some dainty little prom queen!" Her voice was teasing; it was a tone Jaqen knew well.

"Yeah, you're more like some dainty little serial killer," Gendry retorted, laughing. He closed her door as Arya punched his arm.

"And don't you forget it!" she huffed.

They walked to the lit side-porch of the Stark home, the girl clad in some ridiculously oversized jacket, and she seemed to be fishing for her key in her pocket. When they spoke, their voices echoed off of the walls of the house, rendering their conversation just audible to a man sipping bourbon and smoking outside of the french doors to his bedroom.

"Why don't you just keep one under the mat?" Gendry wondered.

"Sure, stupid. That way anyone could murder us in our sleep."

Jaqen could practically feel the girl rolling her eyes. He blew out a long stream of smoke and snickered quietly.

Arya finally retrieved her key and then shrugged off the large jacket, handing it to her equally large friend.

"Thanks for that," she told him.

"You're always so cold. Maybe if you weren't so skinny, you could hold in some heat," he replied, laughing and then saying, "Ow!" as the girl growled and pinched him.

"I'm not skinny!" she insisted.

"Yes you are. You're a skinny little squirrel!" he teased, poking her in the ribs playfully.

"I always hated when you and Jon called me that! I was six, damn it!"

"The strangest six year old ever," Gendry snorted. "What six year old reads books on taxidermy, you little weirdo? And then asks if she can trap a squirrel from her yard to stuff? As a Thanksgiving centerpiece?"

This time, Gendry caught her fist as it flew, saving himself a bruised arm. He seemed to hesitate a beat and then wrapped his fingers around her wrist, pulling her close into him, looking down at her as his laughter died. Jaqen's grip on his glass tightened slightly as he watched the young man bend down to kiss Arya Stark. At the last moment, the girl turned her face, presenting her cheek to her would-be suitor. Gendry took what he was offered, kissing her cheek lightly and then chuckling as he released her from his arms. The girl cleared her throat.

"Well, thanks for the ride, Waters."

"No problem. What was I gonna do, let Jon bring you?"

"Yeah, well, tell him I said he holds his liquor like a freshman sorority girl."

Gendry snickered at that, promising he would pass on her message verbatim and then turned to leave.

"Goodnight, princess," he called back to her with a grin, slipping on his jacket (his jacket which now undoubtedly smelled of lavender and honeysuckle and every sweet thing that ever made a man's head feel light) as he descended the steps.

"Goodnight, stupid," Arya called back as she unlocked the door and slipped inside of her house. The boy, still grinning, got into his car and backed out of the driveway into the empty street. He shifted gears and then sped away, heading towards the Warehouse District.

A minute later, the light in the girl's room flipped on and she carefully opened one of her French doors so as not to make much noise, and then stepped softly out onto her small balcony. Placing both hands on the wooden rail and wrapping her fingers around the edge of it, she leaned back as far as she could, looking as if she was stretching, and stared at the night sky. Even though the night was clear, the glow of the city rendered the stars all but invisible. Still, she stared straight up, almost as if waiting for some satellite or shooting star to cross her view. Jaqen's eyes wandered past her briefly, into her well-lit room and over to her blue and white porcelain collection. It brought to mind an earlier conversation, another of the ones that they had while sitting next to each other on the streetcar, rocking gently together with the rhythm of metal wheels on metal rails.

"What did a girl purchase for her mother's birthday?"

Arya laughed, saying, "I'm not sure it's any of your business." She was teasing, of course.

"Come now, you must play fair. You know what is in my bag."

Of course, the girl didn't know everything that was in Jaqen's bag. She didn't know about the book with the red cover and gold embossed rabbit wearing a waistcoat.

"Oh, very well then," she sighed dramatically in a mocking gesture of surrender. "It's a porcelain cat. Herend. Do you know Herend?"

"Of course."

"Of course," she echoed, mimicking his accent perfectly. "A man knows everything."

"A man knows many things," Jaqen corrected, "but not everything."

"Well, my mother and I both collect little pieces of blue and white china, porcelain, things like that. But then, you already knew that, didn't you."

It hadn't been a question. He wondered if she was about to unleash a tirade against him for peering into her room, spying on her, and prepared his defense mentally. Instead, she just laughed lightly.

"Because you do, in fact, know everything. And also, you've seen my mother's collection in the curio in our foyer."

He relaxed slightly, saying, "Indeed."

"It's about the only thing she and I have in common, so I thought this would make a good gift." Here, she raised her small bag slightly. "It's a cat, because that's what all of her old friends call her."

"You are most thoughtful, lovely girl."

After another minute, the girl on the balcony heaved a great sigh and then pulled herself upright, her thighs pressed into the balustrade. She stared straight ahead. The sound of her sigh snapped the man out of his memories and his eyes left her small display of collectibles and moved back to the girl's slim figure, silhouetted by the light spilling forth from her bedroom. Slowly, deliberately, Jaqen placed the cigarette between his lips and pulled heavily from it, causing the tip to glow bright red, announcing his presence from the shadowed shelter of his seat. The girl watched intently, almost seeming to lock eyes with him (though he knew realistically she could not see his eyes and therefore could not engage them purposefully). He thought he could make out a faint smile and then she touched her two fingers to the corner of one arched eyebrow in a saucy approximation of a salute.

For his part, Jaqen leaned forward out of the blackest part of the shadow and lifted his glass to her, returning her greeting.

"Goodnight," she called softly across the space which separated them. With that, she turned and reentered her room, pulling the doors closed behind her.

Jaqen leaned back and took another sip of his drink, swirling it in his mouth for a moment before swallowing. When the bourbon hit his throat and warmly slid down, he whispered, "Gute Nacht, schönes Mädchen."

The next morning, the Starks attended the early mass, as was their habit. As the family pulled out of their drive in a silver Range Rover, Jaqen thought briefly about slipping over his fence near the back corner of his yard and sneaking into his neighbors' back door to check Ned Stark's desk, briefcase, and computer for any new documents that might prove to be of interest. He discarded the plan as quickly as it entered his mind, however, because even though that area of their respective yards was somewhat sheltered by trees and shrubs, he would have to cross a segment of open lawn which could be seen from a few of the second story windows of the house behind the Stark home. Whatever he might find wasn't worth the risk of an early morning tangle with NOPD if an alert neighbor caught sight of him picking a lock. Such things were really better left to a time when he would have the cover of darkness to aid him or a legitimate excuse to be on the property, anyway. So, instead, he went for a run (partly to clear his head after his visit from Erich the previous evening and partly in penance for the cigarette he had indulged in after the colonel had left. Oh, na gut. Es waren zwei Zigaretten).

Jaqen ran along St. Charles toward Audubon Park. His home sat just a few blocks away from the entrance of the popular local destination and he always enjoyed running under the canopy of live oaks which lined the jogging path. It was perfect weather for such outdoor activities, so the German passed a larger than usual number of runners who had apparently had the same inspiration as he had, most with their ear phones plugged into various devices pumping out music and podcasts and encouragements. Listening to music while running was not something he ever indulged in himself; there was too much risk of being caught unawares if distracted and there was a very real danger presented by voluntarily surrendering one of the senses to something frivolous. He might have need of his ears for something more important than pacing his morning run to "Dragula." There were times , however, when the man wore headphones without actually playing music, simply to give the impression that he could not hear what was going on around him. It was amazing what people felt comfortable saying out loud if they had even the slightest indication that no one around them cared enough to listen. And, of course, there had been those missions when he had worn devices that had the appearance of ear buds for an iPod but were actually two-way communication earpieces.

He had no need for such a device now, however. He was not tailing anyone, not surveying a perimeter, not trying to draw a target out. He was simply exercising and enjoying the cool breeze which set the gray drapery of Spanish moss to swaying in the trees. The morning dew was still heavy on the grass but would soon dry beneath the press of the sun which shone through the oaks and created a path of dappled, shifting light and shadow along his route. As Jaqen traced the pattern with his eyes, his gaze was drawn further down the tunnel created by the overarching branches of the trees and he spied a friend in the distance, approaching from the opposite direction. Well, perhaps not exactly a friend.

Arya looked up a moment after Jaqen discovered her, and when her eyes met his, her face lit up with a genuine surprised smile. She trotted over toward him and he slowed to a walk.

"So you're playing hooky from church, too, huh?" the girl asked, pulling the headphones from her ears and letting them rest against her neck like a collar.

"It has been many years since I have been in a church, lovely girl," Jaqen replied. For services, he did not add. "But how is it you are here instead of at mass? Your mother is quite strict on this rule, yes?"

The girl pinched the front of her t-shirt just below the v of the neck, shaking the material back and forth a few times in an attempt to fan herself and cool down. From the looks of her, she had been at this quite a bit longer than he had.

"Yes, but I'm going to a later mass with Jon and Gendry. I wanted to get my run in first."

"So you are going to church with your brother and his roommate?" the German asked as they began to walk along the path together. There was something in his voice, faint but unmistakable, if one knew how to listen. It was something like disapproval.

The girl did not play coy.

"Listen, Jaqen, what you saw last night..."

He should have let her off the hook. He should have told her that she owed him no explanation; that it was none of his business. He should have said something like, "No worries, lovely girl" while waving his hand in a dismissive manner or at the very least, smiled and winked at her, saying something about once being her age, too. He should have, but he did not. Instead, he looked at her expectantly.

"It's not like that between us, you know. I've known him forever, like my whole life, and he's one of Jon's best friends. He was just being nice by bringing me home because Jon had too much to drink," she explained, and then, looking at Jaqen's skeptical expression, added, "Gendry doesn't see me as... like... dateable."

"A man knows exactly how this boy sees you."

"Oh? And how could you know that?"

"A girl said so herself: a man knows everything, remember?"

Arya had pursed her lips when she heard the tone of judgment in his voice, but she found it difficult to maintain her mask of defiance under his onslaught of a girls and a mans. Abruptly, the girl changed the subject.

"Who was your visitor last night?"

This drew Jaqen up short. He had not realized she had been paying any attention to the man walking up to his house as she was being manhandled by Gendry Waters. He raised his eyebrows and looked at her for a moment.

"I had not realized you had paused your flirting long enough to notice that I had a visitor."

"I have excellent peripheral vision," she sniffed. "And I don't flirt, Jaqen."

"Oh, a girl flirts," he assured her.

Her lips twitched slightly but she fought off the smile, remembering that she was supposed to be vexed.

"Well, maybe in very limited circumstances," she conceded. "But I wasn't flirting last night. And you didn't answer my question." The companions walked in silence for a few moments longer, and then Arya guessed, "Was it your father?" Jaqen sighed.

"No, but I suppose he is the closest thing to one that I have."

Even his very posture radiated a reluctance to discuss the matter further and so the girl switched gears once again.

"I've never seen you smoke before."

"That's because I don't."

"Could have fooled me," she snorted. "Those things will kill you, you know."

"Many things will kill you," he replied quietly. His words sounded so ominous that she narrowed her eyes and looked sharply at him. Sensing that he had perhaps gone too far, he laughed, shrugging. "A terrible habit that I quit years ago. Still, sometimes, the craving returns." Times like when Erich Weber shows up with short notice on his front porch to discuss matters with him.

She wanted to ask him more; he could feel her wavering, the words burning on the tip of her tongue. She bit her lip and considered, but instead of saying whatever it as that she had been thinking, she nodded sagely, as if to say that she understood all about cravings that were difficult to resist. With that, she seemed to let it go, relaxing. A slow, impish smile curled her mouth. He braced himself.

"I'm not sure how things are done in Germany, but here, running around outdoors practically naked will get the cops called on you."

"A man was not running around," he sputtered, and then added, "and neither was he naked. Besides, how could you possibly see that, anyway?"

"Do you mean how could I see you skulking in the dark?"

"I do not skulk!"

"Just like I don't flirt."

Jaqen drew in a deep breath and then had to laugh a little.

"Touché, Arya Stark."

"Now you're speaking my language."

"French?" the man asked, confused.

"Fencing."

"Ah," he said, then continued, "I apologize if you were offended by my attire."

"Or lack thereof," she muttered under her breath.

"I did believe I was well-hidden in the shadow."

"Oh, you were," she acknowledged. "I just have excellent night vision. Sort of like a cat."

"Excellent night vision. Excellent peripheral vision. Is there anything a girl cannot see?"

Arya turned to gaze at Jaqen's profile as they walked along the path, tilting her head slightly and saying, "No, not much." As she said it, the man felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle a bit, an early warning sign, but of what, he was not sure. After a minute, he did not allow it to trouble him any further.

The next several months passed for Jaqen as they always did: as a series of memorable moments alternating with and sometimes bleeding into the fulfillment of his duty. First there was Thanksgiving with the Starks, because Catelyn would not hear of him spending the day alone when she learned that Jaqen was not returning home for the holiday to be with family ("We had no pilgrims in Germany," he told Mrs. Stark, "but this turkey is delicious." Later, after dessert and boisterous conversation which included several references to stuffed squirrels, he had managed to obtain the information Erich had wanted so desperately when he had visited nearly six weeks earlier. Fortunately, Ned Stark liked to bring work home over the holidays).

A spare two weeks later, there was an invitation to Bran Stark's birthday dinner (during which Sansa and Arya taught Jaqen how to make bananas foster over the massive Viking stove that dominated the large kitchen. The dessert was her brother's favorite, Arya told him, and since he was the birthday boy, they were obligated to make it for him, even though the youngest of the Stark children, Rickon, was mildly allergic to bananas). This was followed almost immediately by Celebration in Oaks, the traditional Christmas light display in City Park (Jaqen had seen much more of Ned Stark's back than the lights, but he also caught glimpses of the youngest of the Stark girls laughing with her brothers and so it had not felt much like work).

New Year's Eve came and went and shortly after that, the first, second and even third floor exterior balustrades of the Stark home were festooned with bunting in purple, green, and gold. Then the Mardi Gras parades began (there was even one where instead of tailing the family, he had accompanied them and Arya had somehow ended up on his shoulders, snatching beads and trinkets and even a Moon Pie from the air—she later insisted that he eat the half-crushed treat. "You'll never be one of us until you do," she told him and then pinched off a bite and fed it to him with her own dainty fingers).

Through an unexpected turn of events, Jaqen's Easter was spent helping Arya Stark with her senior project. The holiday doubled as spring break at the girl's expensive private school and so she had a full week to complete the assignment. She had had several false starts throughout the year, then had allowed a particularly intense period of fencing competition to take precedence, and so found herself between the proverbial rock and hard place come spring break. She rang her neighbor's doorbell, seeking his help on Good Friday. He had invited her in and offered her a ginger ale which he served her in a high ball glass which was part of a set he had received from the Starks on his most recent alleged birthday. The two neighbors drifted into the library and Arya eyed the glass before she sipped.

"My mother?"

"She has lovely taste," Jaqen said, swirling his own glass so that the ice cubes clinked against the side.

"She does love her Mignon Faget."

"Tell me about this project. How can a man help you?"

"It's a career project. All I have to do is spend twenty hours shadowing someone then write a paper and do a presentation on their career field, using my first hand experience and observations as the primary reference material."

"Sweet girl, your father is the CEO of..."

"If I do it on the shipping industry, everyone will know I did it at the last minute and took the easy way out!" she interrupted in a near-whine.

"But you are doing it at the last minute," Jaqen pointed out.

"Yeah, but no one else needs to know that! Besides, I don't think anyone else in the class has access to someone in international maritime law. It'll be unique!"

"It will be boring and your classmates may throw rotten tomatoes at you."

"Yes, they will throw rotten fruit at me. Because my school is actually an 1890s vaudeville review," the girl deadpanned. "Come on, Jaqen! Please?"

"You live in a neighborhood filled with with wealthiest, most powerful, and most interesting people in this city, lovely girl. Writers. Famous actors. Oil executives. Why not ask one of them?"

She looked at him skeptically.

"The Landrieus?" he suggested. "You'd have your pick of the mayor or the U.S. Senator. Your father could make a call. Surely they would be happy to dedicate a little time to a curious young mind."

"The Landrieus are powerful, yes. Political, yes. But altruistic? Hardly."

"Altruistic?" Jaqen smirked. "Such a big word for such a little girl." He took a sip of his drink.

Arya crossed her arms over her chest. "Hey, Herr H'ghar," she drawled with irritation. "I'm not a little girl anymore. And, in case you hadn't noticed, I'm pretty smart."

"Pretty smart?" he mimicked, feigning confusion. "Yes, of course. A man knows that a girl is both pretty and smart."

"That's not what I meant!" she protested, her face coloring.

Jaqen merely laughed, and then he considered his options for a moment. Finally, he seemed to reach a decision.

"Be at ease, Arya Stark. You must give me two days to clear some projects from my desk, then you may come to the office."

Two days should give The Conclave enough time to arrange something convincing.

She threw herself at him, catching him off his guard and he had to hold his glass up high to keep her from knocking into it and spilling his drink. She wrapped her arms tightly around his neck, squealing and saying, "Thank you! Thank you, thank you, thank you!" Tentatively, he slipped his free arm around her, leaning over slightly to set his drink on his desk.

"Wednesday morning, lovely girl. And drink some caffeine beforehand. Otherwise, you may be bored to sleep in the first hour."

The girl released her neighbor from her grip but found his arm still rested across her back. She looked up at him, biting her lip, and then carefully extricated herself from Jaqen's grasp.

"My mother expects you at four on Sunday. Drinks before dinner. She's making lamb, of course," Arya said, trying to cover her awkwardness. The man nodded his understanding and accepted her glass when she thrust it at him. Before he could say anything, the girl turned on her heel to leave. "Thanks again," she mumbled before scampering out of the library. Before he even made it to the hallway, Arya was crossing his front lawn in a trot. He smirked at the sight. For all that Arya Stark understood about what writhed and roiled and hid itself deep inside of others, she certainly seemed to be struggling to comprehend what was taking place inside of herself, he thought. He breathed in and out deeply just once before he fished the phone from his pocket and made a call. Shortly after he ended he communique, money was being moved in the most untraceable of ways.

Two days later, as Jaqen chewed a portion of perfectly roasted leg of lamb in the Stark's impressive formal dining room, a small team of people worked diligently to create a convincing conversion of some nondescript office space in the Central Business District. The place already existed on paper but the visual was less-convincing than the documentation. When Arya had begged for his help with her project, it had pushed The Conclave to invest more fully (both literally and figuratively) into Jaqen's New Orleans identity (Erich initially argued that the house on St. Charles was proof enough of the group's commitment to their agent's success, but the colonel's resistance was halfhearted at best, especially after the benefits they had reaped from Jaqen's intelligence obtained the previous November). In this way, the small office used intermittently by the forward support team was converted to the elegant offices of Weber, Hartmann, Richter, and Klein Seerecht Internationalen Partnern (referred to casually as Weber SIP). Just over a week after that, Arya was presenting an impressive project exploring the world of maritime law, seemingly oblivious to the true occupation of the clerks who had greeted her as she arrived at the office every day and paralegals who had given her talks on different aspects of their business and even Jaqen himself. And why would she suspect that anything was amiss? The German was well-read and could speak at length about the intricacies and pitfalls of maritime law.

Arya's excellent grade on the project had earned her neighbor yet another positive mark in Catelyn and Ned Stark's accounting of the man's worth and an invitation to the girl's graduation party which they sent Arya herself next door to deliver. The celebration would be rife with the gentry of the Crescent City as well as a rather sizable portion of the girl's family and friends.

"I'm not sure how Robert Baratheon's appearance is going to go over," the girl was saying to Jaqen as they stood together on his porch, "but he's one of my dad's oldest friends and when I said maybe we shouldn't invite him, you would have thought I was suggesting that we commit war crimes as party games." She rolled her eyes.

"There will be so many people there, lovely girl. Why should this one man bother you?"

"Well, even though he gives me creepy looks and calls me by my dead aunt's name whenever he's had a few too many, it's really not me he'll bother, it's Gendry."

That boy again. So he had been invited to the party as well. Of course he had.

"And why should Robert Baratheon's presence bother Gendry?"

"Oh, didn't you know? He's Gendry's father."

Jaqen was surprised at this and more than a little irritated. It was information that he should have had long before now. A grave oversight. He would have to speak to Erich, and soon.

"They do not get along?" Jaqen probed.

"No. It's understandable, though. Robert has pretty much whored around the whole South. Who knows how many kids he really has? He doesn't concern himself with any of them, not even the ones he was peripherally involved in raising. Gendry didn't even know who his dad was until his mom died and he got farmed out to a great uncle. That's who told Gendry about Robert."

"But surely he has to take care of the boy. There are laws..."

"Yeah, the money doesn't mean much to Robert. He has more than enough of that. After he found out, he was generous with his financial support, just not his affection."

"Problems between fathers and sons are as old as time itself, lovely girl," the German said sagely.

"I know. It doesn't make it suck any less when you're the son, though."

A man knows, he thought.

"Well, I've got to get over to Trashy Diva before they close," the girl said suddenly. Jaqen's face seemed to blanch.

"Trashy..."

"Trashy Diva. It's a dress shop. They're holding my graduation dress."

"Trashy Diva?" he asked in disbelief. "Lovely girl... a man's English sometimes fails him, but if there were two words he would not choose to describe you..."

"Relax, grandpa, it's just a name. They actually have really nice things."

"Do my ears deceive me?" the German asked in faux astonishment. "Did Arya Stark just refer to a dress as a nice thing?"

The girl's face pinched a little and she replied somewhat defensively, "Girls are required to wear dresses to graduation. At least mom allowed me to pick one that I liked. And besides, there's more to me than just a fencing tomboy, you know."

"A man knows," Jaqen said, sounding almost too serious. Arya's ire drained from her immediately and she made an excuse to scamper away, leaving her neighbor in her wake with a small smile playing on his lips.

Jaqen was able to judge for himself how little like a tomboy the girl seemed two weeks later at her graduation party. He was also finally able to justify giving her the book he had bought in the Fall; a volume which had sat, neglected, on his library shelf long enough that he could truthfully claim it was something from his collection that he found he did not need but thought she might enjoy. Inside, he had placed a bookmark depicting one of the historic lamp posts on Canal Street, a beautiful paper creation purchased from a local artisan who specialized in the use of an antique letterpress. Rather than inscribe a note inside the cover of the book and risk lowering its value, he wrote on the bookmark.

I hope that you have wonderful adventures but that you do not lose your head. J.H.

He wrapped the book in colorful tissue paper and tied the package together with a ribbon, but he did not leave it among the pile of gifts he saw obscuring a rather large table in the foyer, wanting to hand it to the girl personally for some inexplicable reason. He saw her, standing near a rarely used fireplace in a parlor off of the foyer and rather than getting a drink first as Catelyn had suggested when she greeted him at the door, he decided to go and speak to the graduate. Arya's dress was indeed a nice thing, he thought, with a black top held up by thin straps and a high-waisted yellow printed skirt featuring some sort of city scene. The silhouette called to mind the 1950s, an ironic era for the rabidly independent girl to emulate. Still, she looked lovely. He approached her so that he might tell her so. Before Jaqen could reach the girl, a large, dark haired man approached and bent to place a kiss on her cheek.

"Congratulations," the German heard Gendry Waters say, his large hand lingering on the girl's side. "I hear you're leaving us for the Old Dominion at the end of the summer. Are you trying to break a guy's heart?"

"Oh, please, Gendry, as if," Arya snorted dismissively. "Don't even pretend like you and Jon didn't have a parade of girls trooping through your apartment on the regular at LSU. I can't imagine much will change at your fancy new condo."

Gendry laughed sheepishly, rubbing at the back of his neck with one hand. The other, Jaqen noted, did not stray from the girl but instead, slipped to her small waist cinched by the high, wide band of her skirt.

"The Warehouse District, Waters? Really?" she continued, seemingly unaffected by the boy's touch. "Could you be any more predictable?"

"You should come by and check it out. We're mostly settled in now."

"Will I have to kick a pile of ladies underthings out of the way to find a place to sit? Cuz that's just gross."

"You wound me, princess!" Gendry declared, clutching dramatically at his heart and laughing.

Jaqen turned and left the two old friends to their banter, deciding he did indeed need a drink. Though summer had not yet begun officially, this far south, the weather was already far warmer than many places in the country ever got. It made the sweating julep cup he accepted from the bartender feel particularly appropriate in his hand as he wandered out onto the back lawn, joining a smattering of guests who sought respite from the crowd and the noise. The German took a sip of his drink and, watching another guest light up near the fence line, wished suddenly that he had a cigarette, too.

Nur eine. To take the edge off.

Before he could contemplate it further, he felt light touch in the small of his back. He turned to see Arya Stark, looking cool despite the warmth of the evening. She was wearing an amused smirk and an interesting pair of wedged sandals that gave a bit of height to her petite frame. He did not have to look down quite so far to meet her eyes.

"Herr H'ghar, weren't you even going to say hello?"

Jaqen took a long swallow of the julep and then said smoothly, "Hello, Arya Stark."

Her lips twitched but she noted the tissue-wrapped package tucked under her neighbor's arm and asked, "What's that?"

"A gift," he replied, "for a lovely girl." He held the present out for her and she took it hesitantly.

"You didn't have to," she began, turning it over in her hands.

"I know. But I wanted to."

She smiled at that, not meeting his eyes but looking at the gift in her hands. "Should I open it now?"

"Your choice, sweet girl, though a man has always been of the opinion that waiting for satisfaction only increases it."

Arya bit her lip and flicked her eyes to Jaqen's quickly, trying to unravel his meaning. His face revealed nothing and so she tucked the book under her arm and told him she would wait to open it until later, when she was alone. He bowed his head as if deferring to her judgment and then suggested that she return to the party, as her guests were sure to be missing her.

"Thanks for coming tonight," the girl said. "It means a lot."

"Of course," Jaqen replied graciously. "I would not have missed this." And could not have, even if he had wanted to. The colonel's directive had been quite specific and sometimes, the easiest way to obtain something of value from someone who was not inclined to give it was to use a crowd as subterfuge. After Arya reentered her house, her neighbor finished his drink and then followed her inside, drifting from room to room, making small talk along the way with friends, neighbors, and the occasional Stark. It wasn't long until he had located what he needed and then he made his excuses to his hostess, kissing Catelyn lightly on each cheek in that continental way that always charmed her so.

Later that night, after the last of the guests next door had departed and the necessary information had been encoded and sent to The Conclave, Jaqen sat on the iron bench which graced his second floor gallery just off of his bedroom. He was finally having the cigarette he had been coveting earlier, trying not to think about the sudden and intense craving that drove him to it. He hadn't felt anything like it in months, not since a certain October night. And prior to that, it had been years. Jaqen did not wish to dwell, but he was no fool. He understood very well what each instance had in common; what two things. Or rather, what two people.

Erich and Arya.

The stresses imposed on him by either, he could handle. Both at once, though...

Jaqen took a long drag then and then stood to flick his ash over the rail. When he did, he saw the french doors across from him open and then Arya walked out onto her small balcony. Her neighbor stood motionless, just watching. He could see that the girl was noticeably shorter, having shed her tall shoes, and she was carrying a gift with her; the book he had given to her, still wrapped. She turned it over in her hands a few times, looking at it in the light flooding from her room. After a minute, she pulled at the ribbon, untying it and letting it flutter to her feet. Without that restraint, the tissue was beginning to pull away from the book. A second later, it,too, was falling to the girl's feet, revealing the scarlet cover of the book.

The German watched as Arya hesitated, and then ran her palm lightly over the book, tracing the embossed rabbit with one fingertip. She flipped open the cover and found the bookmark her neighbor had inserted. Pulling it free of the book, she turned, presenting Jaqen with her profile as she examined the bookmark in the wedge of bright light which spilled onto her balcony, flipping the long rectangle of cardstock over and reading it. After a moment, she replaced it and closed the cover of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. Cradling the book against her chest, the girl pressed her knuckles against her mouth and stood very still for long enough that Jaqen began to wonder if she was quite well. He pulled the cigarette from between his lips and narrowed his eyes, staring across the space between them and willing her to look at him so that he might know her thoughts.

As was so often the case, Arya Stark did not concern herself with the expectations of others and simply turned her back to Jaqen, reentering her room and closing her door.

Jaqen stood there for a long time, finishing his cigarette, then having another (after a small argument with himself. Es ist nicht die Schwäche, he had insisted unconvincingly. Still, he tapped the pack against the wrought iron rail and pulled another out. And then another. And another, all while watching for the girl's light to go out. It did not dim and after a time, he began to feel sick and a little jittery from all of the nicotine).

"Sei nicht dumm," he told himself, speaking out loud. "Sie ist einfach ein mädchen." Don't be stupid. She's just a girl. Again, he had trouble convincing himself and sighed, stubbing out what was left of his last cigarette. He walked back into his bedroom and then into his shower, where he applied shampoo to his head three times in an effort to rid himself of the smell of smoke.

The next morning, Jaqen was surprised by a knock at his door. He had just set coffee to brew and hadn't even had a cup yet. He grimaced but answered it anyway, still wearing plaid pajama pants and a white t-shirt.

Arya Stark looked at least as tired as he felt, but she had managed to change out of her pajamas.

"My mom said I should write my thank you notes as quickly as possible," the girl said without preamble. "She said it's polite to acknowledge gifts as early as you can. I stayed up most of the night doing that."

Without a word, Jaqen stepped back, pulling his door open further, allowing the girl inside. She walked in and continued speaking without waiting for him to greet her (which was just as well, because on this particular morning, he wasn't sure if he was capable of greeting anyone before he had consumed at least one cup of coffee).

"But when I tried to write my note to you, I just..." She stopped for a minute, taking in her neighbor's uncharacteristic disheveled appearance, and said, "Rough night?"

Jaqen gave an abbreviated grunt, then asked, "Coffee?"

"Sure. If you have milk. Or cream. Or half-and-half. I only do cafe au lait."

"Mach dich nicht lächerlich," he grumbled. Then, noting the girl's confused look, he said, "Of course I have milk. What kind of savage do you think I am?"

"Sorry. I didn't realize you were so sensitive about your dairy. You just strike me as a black coffee kind of guy."

"And so I am. But do you think I eat my cereal out of the box with my bare hands?"

"Well," the girl considered, "that's how Jon and Gendry do it."

"Gendry," the man scoffed. "Do you now compare a man to a brutish college boy?"

The girl whistled and said, "Wow! You really did wake up on the wrong side of the bed this morning. And Gendry isn't a college student anymore. He graduated. He and Jon are working blokes now."

The smell of coffee began to permeate the kitchen and instinctively, Arya inhaled deeply and then turned to see the pot on the stove.

"Excuse me, but is that a French press?" she asked, laughing. "You do know that they make machines to do that now, right? Some of them will even spit out a cup of coffee in like fifteen seconds."

"Hold your tongue, heathen!" Jaqen admonished gruffly, looking affronted.

"Whoa, I never took you for a coffee snob, Herr H'ghar."

"Would a girl eat canned gumbo from the supermarket?"

"Point taken."

Arya dropped into a chair at Jaqen's small kitchen table. Without a word, the German set a mug in front of her and then retrieved the milk from the fridge.

"Whole milk?" she asked as he dropped the carton unceremoniously next to her mug. "Might as well be bacon grease. Are you trying to clog my arteries?" Another sour look from the man shushed her. He got the sugar bowl down from a cabinet and set it on the table as well. She heaped sugar in her mug and poured a generous portion of milk over it, stirring the two together and patiently waiting for the coffee to be done. A minute or so later, Jaqen pulled the silver pot from the stove and poured some of the contents into each of their mugs. After three or four sips, he finally spoke.

"You were saying?"

"It's delightful coffee," she conceded, her accent more appropriate for a morning room in Victorian England.

"No, when you first arrived."

"Oh! Yes..."

She leaned back in her chair, looking at Jaqen across the table, her thumb rubbing nervously at the handle of her mug.

"Lovely girl, you came here for a reason," the man prompted, a trifle impatient.

"I did," she agreed. "I was just going to write a thank you note, but I started it four separate times and none of them seemed... well, let's just say that mother had my stationery custom-engraved at considerable expense, and it didn't seem right to waste any more of it trying to tell you..." She stopped, dropping her eyes to floor and taking another sip of her coffee.

Jaqen, his mood improving, decided to make things easier on her.

"Sweet child, you don't have to..."

"But I do," Arya said quietly, raising her gray gaze to meet his. "I do. Because that gift... that book... I just..."

"A man knows."

"And what you wrote, on the bookmark, I mean..."

"Yes," he agreed. "A man knows."

The girl sighed and Jaqen leaned forward, placing his hand atop hers, saying, "I consider myself duly thanked. Do not concern yourself with it any longer."

"How can I not?" she asked in a near-whisper. "The expense..."

"Is nothing. That book sat on my shelf collecting dust. Better for someone who could enjoy it to have it."

She pursed her lips and looked at him, not buying his explanation.

"And just the fact that you knew..." she continued. "That book..."

Jaqen withdrew his hand from hers, leaning back in his seat and lifting his mug to his mouth. He smiled at her for a fleeting second before taking another sip. As he set his coffee back down, he said, "I am most pleased that you are pleased."

But just at that moment, Arya didn't look pleased. She looked melancholy.

"And you hope I have adventures?" she asked.

"I do."

"Is that your way of saying goodbye?"

The question surprised him and he looked at the girl thoughtfully, wondering now if it was the gift which had her so flustered, or her uncertainty about what was meant by his inscription on the bookmark. He had not meant much by it, in truth. It was meant to be just a clever play on some of the themes of the book, really. But as he considered what she was asking, he thought perhaps he should have meant it as a goodbye. It was what was best for her, he realized. And, if he was being honest with himself, it was best for him as well.

"It is my way of saying... that I... understand what it means to be young and to be free to live your life."

"And is that your version of being noble? And selfless?"

"Lovely girl, what do you..."

"No, don't," Arya said. "Don't try to pretend that you don't understand my meaning. And don't play the part of the self-sacrificing martyr."

"I wasn't. I... wouldn't."

"There's nothing wrong with wanting things for yourself, Jaqen."

"Sometimes there is, sweet girl."

"What does that even mean?" she demanded. Jaqen sighed, drawing his hands over his face and scrubbing. After a moment, he folded his arms across his chest.

"It means that you are seventeen, and just barely that, and no matter how clever you are, you cannot truly know what it is that you want. It means that you have everything ahead of you and it is not my place," here, he paused for a moment and thought of Gendry before amending, "or anyone's place to stand in the way of all that is to come."

Arya studied the man's posture and then raked her eyes across his face. Finally, she asked, "So, that's really what you think?"

"It is."

"I see."

Her words were quiet and her shoulders stiff as she rose from her seat.

"Don't be angry, Arya," Jaqen pleaded. "Please, sit..."

"No, I really have to go," she interrupted. "I still have those notes to write or my mom will hound me relentlessly."

"Lovely girl," the German started, his voice a protest, rising from his seat. Arya scrambled away from the kitchen quickly, avoiding his grasp as he reached out to still her movements.

"Thanks for the coffee, Jaqen," she said, heading for the door. Seeing that he was following her down the hallway, she added, "You don't have to bother. I'll see myself out."

"Arya," the man called again as she opened the front door. His voice was a mixture of soothing and scolding. Once on his front porch, she turned around to face him, her eyes pinning him there in his doorway. He stood frozen, wearing his pajama pants and t-shirt, wanting to reach out for her but not daring.

"You know, the least you could have been was honest," she said a little sadly. "If you had said that you were afraid, I wouldn't have thought any less of you. If you had said that it was too much of a distraction, and that I'm not the reason that you're really here, I could have even accepted that."

Her words chilled him to his core and he cursed his own smug certainty that his cover was too complete, too solid to ever be questioned. Arya Stark just looked at a man, and she knew. Had he not realized this early on? Why had he chosen to ignore it when it came to his mission? Did he delude himself into thinking that she only saw what was in a man's heart, not what drove his every deed? His face paled and his words froze in his throat. The girl barely noticed, because she was on a tear.

"Even if you had said that you didn't want to risk your own feelings because you know it could never work out, I might have thought it was cowardly, but I would have at least understood it. But instead, you sat there and told me that it was for my own good, because I'm so young and naive that I couldn't possibly know what I want out of life, and that you're worried I would throw away my future for something I would later regret..." Her voice trailed off briefly as she dropped her eyes to the ground, her shoulders sagging. Then, in an instant, she had thrust her palms upward, shrugging in a questioning gesture, sputtering, "Because, what, life is usually so predictable? And I'm too weak to pursue more than one dream at a time? Or, I'm just too stupid to know what's good for me? Well, thanks for the neighborly advice, Herr H'ghar. Message received."

Inside of Jaqen, a feeling returned, sharp and hard and empty. This time, he did not try to stop her as she ran down his steps and through his gate, bound for home, and for the rest of the summer, whenever Jaqen looked across the space which separated his room from hers, all he saw was an empty balcony with french doors closed fast against his gaze. He kept thinking that eventually, the ice between them would thaw, but when he was invited over for the Stark's Fourth of July cochon du lait, he found no opportunity to mend fences. In casual conversation, Ned mentioned that his youngest daughter had opted to spend the day on Lake Pontchartain with Jon and Gendry.

"A nice day day for boating," Jaqen remarked mildly with polite interest which belied the deep disappointment that burned inside of him.

July passed quickly, the girl mostly busy with her fencing and the German traveling some, his trips frequently coinciding with Ned Stark's own business travels. In early August, Jaqen was running in Audubon park shortly after dawn and thought he saw the girl ahead of him, under the oaks, but was unable to catch her to tell for sure. A week later, as he stepped out onto his porch to retrieve the mail, he saw both Stark girls waiting at the streetcar stop directly in front of his house. He waited, watching, meaning to wave if either of them turned around, but the streetcar came and the girls boarded without ever looking back.

Jaqen told himself that it was better this way; that just as Arya had said to him that day, he didn't need the distraction and though it should have been him who stopped this... this... whatever it was before it became a problem, he should be grateful that the girl had put an end to it, however petulantly. He told himself all of this, repeatedly, but that did not stop the small surge joy the pierced him when his doorbell rang that late August night and he saw that it was the younger of the Stark girls standing on the other side of his door, fidgeting in the light of the gas lamps which were mounted on either side of the entryway.

"Arya Stark," her neighbor said in surprise as he opened his door.

"Can I come in?" she asked shyly.

"Of course."

He led her to the library and offered her a seat, perching himself on a tufted ottoman opposite her.

"I'm leaving tomorrow," she began, "for school."

"I have heard."

"I didn't want to leave without telling you how sorry I was," Arya continued and the look of contrition in her gray eyes fairly made him ache.

"There is no need."

"But there is. I behaved... well, like an ass. I had no reason to say those things to you and I'm sorry for the summer-long cold shoulder."

"Sweet girl..."

"No, let me finish," she begged, "or else I might lose my nerve. Believe me, I thought about just slinking away tomorrow morning and hoping you'd move away sometime during my Freshman year so I'd never have to face you."

Jaqen chuckled, telling her that he had no plans to move anytime soon.

"So this is more of a long-con, then?"

"What are you talking..."

"Maritime law, Jaqen? Really?"

"Why would you say..."

"I'm sorry. That's not what's important, but I just don't want you to think that I'm a total idiot. If it makes you feel any better, no one else suspects anything."

Jaqen laughed but it sounded uncomfortable, even to his own ears.

"Look, I didn't come here to play who's better at keeping secrets with you. I just wanted you to know that I understand your position, and it was bratty of me to behave the way I did. In a way, I even proved your point."

Jaqen stood and walked toward his desk, leaning on it by placing his palms flat against its polished surface. He gazed out of the window for a long time, trying to process everything the girl had said. He wondered if any of it meant he would need to abandon this mission and he wondered if any of it meant he need not abandon her.

"The day I arrived here, I stood in just this spot," he told her without turning around. "I looked out of this very window and saw children playing on the lawn next door; a girl and two boys. Everyone seemed so happy but it left me feeling almost... bereft."

"Bereft?" Arya repeated softly. "But... why?"

"I felt a longing for something that I had only tasted. Something ripped away from me at far too young an age. Innocence, I suppose. Simple joys. Happiness unpolluted by the evils of the world."

"Jaqen..."

"That longing, that emptiness was something I never wanted for you. It was something I never wanted to be responsible for causing."

Jaqen felt her small hands on his back then and he marveled at how quietly she had risen and crossed the room. He dropped his head toward the desk and closed his eyes.

"Please do not touch me, lovely girl. You make it too hard."

Her hands drifted away and she retreated from him, saying, "I'm leaving early tomorrow, so I thought I would say goodbye now."

"Goodbye, Arya Stark," the German said, lifting his head to gaze into the darkness outside of the window. He did not turn to look at her.

"Goodbye, Jaqen H'ghar."

She slipped from the room and was gone.

The next morning, Jaqen awoke before the sun. He hadn't intended to, but there it was. He made his coffee and put it in his favorite mug, a black ceramic piece with a white fleur de lis made entirely of tiny skulls. He had purchased it at a voodoo shop on Bourbon street, an impulse buy really, but something about the black and white design of it appealed to him (ironic, since very little about his life was black and white, he thought. He lived in one giant gray area).

Taking his coffee into the library, he had drunk only about half of it when he noted the Stark family walking out onto their front porch, Arya at their center. He saw the girl embracing her brothers, her sister, her parents, and something stirred in him. He left the room and walked outside, rounding the house and moving toward his fence. The girl's car, an Audi that had been her mother's until Arya announced her plans to attend a small school in Virginia and had the vehicle gifted to her, was parked just opposite him. He watched as Arya tossed her leather messenger bag in the passenger seat and then climbed in, snapping her seat belt into place. As she started the car, she leaned down slightly and gazed through her passenger window at her neighbor. She gave him a little wave. He gave her a small salute with his coffee mug and then smiled over top of it as she put the car in reverse. A minute later, Arya Stark was driving down St. Charles Avenue, heading for the interstate. It would be another nine months before she would see Jaqen again.

It would be only four months, however, before Jaqen saw her.

It was an unexpected little sojourn, a stop off in Paris on his way to Berlin. He knew almost every detail he needed to know to find her, without even using any of his considerable resources, so distraught was her mother over the girl's absence at Christmas. It was all Catelyn could talk about. She was agitated, yet proud. It seemed that under Syrio's tutelage, the girl's already considerable talent with various blades was being developed to a degree that had surprised her family.

"Coach Forel is certain she'll make the Olympic team," Catelyn confided one mid-December evening when Jaqen chanced across her as she returned from Christmas shopping. He offered to help her carry her bags and packages into her house, inquiring after her prodigal daughter. "And not only that, but he's sure she'll medal."

"I know that you and your husband are very proud," Jaqen replied genially. "And she is to fence in this qualifying match on Christmas Eve?"

The auburn haired woman gave the good-natured groan of a long-suffering mother.

"Yes! Could the timing be any worse? Ned and I discussed just taking the whole family and flying to Paris so we could support her and all be together during the holiday, but the logistics just couldn't be worked out. It was too last-minute, and with Ned's work and..."

"I understand," Jaqen said sympathetically. "As I am sure Arya does."

"To tell you the truth, I think she's too excited about it all to even think about the fact that she'll be alone at Christmas. Arya always was the most independent of my children. She's never really needed anyone in order to be happy."

The assertion was not surprising to Jaqen in the least and it was Catelyn Stark's words that rang in his head as he considered whether or not to approach Arya after her match in Paris. He wished to congratulate her on her victory (and, though it was harder to admit to himself, he wished to just be near her once again) but ultimately, he decided against it. He had only a little time before he needed to be in Berlin and could not afford any delays. And besides, she never really needed anyone in order to be happy. Best to leave well enough alone. He wavered briefly, though, approaching the girl from behind in her hotel lobby. She was talking with the desk clerk, placing a handful of postcards on the counter top and asking about postage. The German glanced at them, and noted that the one on top was addressed to him. Smiling his enigmatic smile, he managed to tear himself away from the scene and slip out of the lobby unseen, bound for the airfield and his impending appointment with the colonel.

Later that week, when he arrived home, he found the postcard among the mail stuffed into his box. He placed it in his desk drawer, next to the card she had sent him around Halloween (a silly little thing, fronted with a frowning face. On the inside it said, "A grouchy German is a sour kraut." He had texted her after receiving it but she had not texted back).

Jaqen still wasn't sure if his side-trip to Paris had been smart or not. At the time, he could not see the harm in it but after returning home, he found himself thinking of Arya quite often, usually picturing her in her fencing whites, black mesh mask obscuring her features, flying at her opponents; her attacks somehow both aggressive and beautiful, a marriage of grace and intimidation. The confidence with which she moved, and the speed, it was simply gorgeous. And it was something he could not afford to be thinking about; not when Robert Baratheon was due at his neighbor's home any moment.

Jaqen adjusted his ear piece, making sure it was sitting correctly, and sat back to wait. The visit from Ned's oldest friend was ostensibly a social call, but the German knew the two would likely be unable to resist talking a little business. Any insight Ned's stout friend might have on the governor's plan to change inspection frequency at the port would be of great interest to Erich.

As it happened, though, there hadn't been much of importance discussed, Robert downing enough liquor early on to render most of his speech after dinner a slurred mess, but Jaqen had gleaned enough to make a short report to the colonel. They spoke in generalities and code phrases, nothing that would garner much attention should the call be intercepted. And then Erich had said something surprising.

"When the girl comes home, I want you to use whatever influence you have with her."

"The girl?" Jaqen asked.

"The one Syrio is watching for us now," Erich clarified, though, of course Jaqen knew exactly who he meant and Erich knew that Jaqen knew. Syrio was an ex-agent, reactivated just for this assignment and paid handsomely for it. Of course, the request had coincided nicely with his own personal ambitions, so it hadn't been much of a chore for the Italian. He wanted the next Olympic gold medalist to be his, and it seemed as though Arya Stark might just fulfill that role for him. More than that, it seemed that the old codger was genuinely fond of the girl. He treated her like his own daughter; the daughter of a difficult-to-please, demanding, perfectionist father who placed all of his unrealistically high hopes on the shoulders of his children, but a daughter nonetheless.

"Ah, yes. She has not been home in quite some time."

"Syrio has discouraged it. Training. Still, she will come home after her school year ends, and when she does, I will need for you to encourage her relationship with Baratheon's son."

"Baratheon's son..."

"This Gendry fellow. It will give us another avenue into Robert's affairs."

"The son has nothing to do with his father," Jaqen protested.

"A persistent girlfriend might be able to change that. She might be able to encourage a reconciliation. And isn't that what every son wants, really? To be close to his father?"

"Das kann ich nicht wissen."

Erich chuckled and then said, "Jaqen, I need for this to be done."

"How do you know she will do as you wish?"

"My boy, I leave that to you."

"She's just a child," Jaqen protested weakly. "This will meet resistance in her family. The boy is at least five years older than she."

"And how much older are you than her?" the colonel asked slyly.

"That is of no matter. I am not being asked to seduce her in order to control her."

"No, that's right. You are not being asked to."

Jaqen breathed through his nose in irritation.

"She is about to turn eighteen, is she not?" Erich asked. "She's no longer a child in the eyes of the law. Besides, from what I know of this girl, her family's objections will only strengthen her resolve. Syrio reports that she can be quite strong-willed and more than a little defiant."

"If the balance of power is wrong, this boy will be running her, not the other way around. It will be a waste, and I could lose my strongest link to the family in the attempt."

"It's a risk that The Conclave is willing to take," the colonel replied dismissively. "See to it."

"Es ist nicht vertretbar," Jaqen insisted. "It's not."

"That is not for you to say, my boy."

Over the years, Jaqen had grown quite attached to the Stark family. They were hard not to like, but still, it was not an issue he had ever contended with before. He hadn't meant for it to happen but there it was. Normally, he did not care for what another man had. But, this was somehow different; had become different. And then there was the way her felt about the girl; the way he could not feel about her.

He told himself not to be ridiculous; she was like a niece (Lügner) or perhaps a goddaughter (Lügner!) He told himself that anyone with a neighborly relationship to the girl might send her a birthday gift; a gift carefully chosen; one that required a call to Marcus Besh, asking for him to locate a very specific type of planter ("No, nothing too valuable, not Ming. It might break in shipping. But nice. Collectible. Something you might be proud to give a sister. Or, say, a girlfriend."); one that necessitated a drive to the Northshore, to a quaint nursery renown for its variety of rare bonsai trees; one that cost a fortune in shipping, to insure and deliver quickly so that the tree was not harmed or too long without water. He had looked into ordering something local and having it sent over, but he wanted to see the china himself. He wanted to feel the leaves of the tree between his fingers. He wanted to choose each aspect of the gift carefully; personally.

Because she was like a baby sister to him (Lügner! Lügner! Lügner!)

He had not heard from Arya after she received the gift, but he had not expected to, honestly. She was in the middle of finals, all while packing to come home. Still, he checked his phone more often than usual, afraid he might have missed a text and cursing himself for that faint feeling he recognized as hope.

Hope for what, exactly? Had he not sent the girl away from him? It seemed to him that she had managed to move on, and he should be happy about that. What he most certainly should not be doing was hoping that somehow, a postcard and a funny holiday greeting meant more than they should.

Eighteen, he admonished himself. You have your orders.

As it turned out, Jaqen's orders were the furthest thing from his mind when a familiar Audi pulled into the Stark driveway just after eleven on the night before Arya was supposed to return home. It was serendipity that he was there to greet her. He was having trouble settling down to sleep and so he decided to take his bike out for a ride in the night air.

"Welcome home, lovely girl," he called to her when he saw her get out of the car and spin in a slow circle as if trying to take in all of her surroundings. She cried out in surprise and he chuckled. "I am so sorry. I did not mean to frighten you."

She smiled at him and he thought that it was strange how he had not realized until now how much he had missed that smile.

"I thought you were expected tomorrow," he continued. She gave him a strange look, as if she was surprised that he would be privy to that information. He explained quickly that her mother had told him of the girl's travel plans.

"Thanks for the tree!" she blurted out, and then she looked embarrassed, as if she had not meant to say it at all. He bowed his head to her graciously, acknowledging her gratitude. He recalled that the last time the girl had stopped by his house to thank him for something, it had not ended pleasantly.

They spoke for a few more minutes, friendly banter mostly, until the girl made some remark about taking a walk. Though crime was certainly higher in other areas of the city, Jaqen was not willing to let Arya traipse about by herself at nearly midnight. New Orleans was a lovely city, but also a dangerous one. He told her so.

"I'm not scared," she insisted.

"Yes, I know," Jaqen said, placing his hands on the fence. He leaned over it and looked at her keenly. "A girl has always had more courage than sense."

The girl's smile fell from her face but at least she seemed to be listening.

Jaqen looked at her and thought about Erich. He thought about Gendry. He thought about how young was too young and how old was too old and of postcards and rare books and dreams of a girl wearing fencing whites. He thought about duty and want and a girl who saw through layers of deceit, right into the heart of a man.

Jaqen thought and he stared, looking intensely at a spot on her neck, just below the juncture of her jaw and her ear. He wondered how the skin there would taste. Impulsively, he decided he should find out.

"Come over here, Arya Stark."

"Why?" she asked, sounding a little breathless.

He cocked his head, smiling at her as he teased, "And here a man thought you were not scared."

The girl glanced back at the house briefly. The porch light was on, but no lights shone through the windows. Quickly, she grabbed her messenger bag from the passenger seat, slinging it over her shoulder. Locking the car, she stuffed her keys into her pocket and approached the fence near to where Jaqen stood. She gave him look but before he could interpret it, she had hoisted herself over and into his yard. She was standing so close to him that he could smell her shampoo.

Honeysuckle.

"A girl is very brave indeed," Jaqen said, impressed. " And very agile. A man would not have tried it."

"That's because you're old," the girl joked. "You'd break yourself."

He gave her what he hoped was a withering look before hopping onto his bike and handing her a helmet. He instructed her to put it on and climb on behind him.

"Where are we going?" she wanted to know.

Anywhere a man may bask in your light, he thought, but he did not say it. He wasn't sure she would understand. Or, perhaps he was more worried that she might.

"Where does a girl who has been too long away from home wish to go?"

She hesitated for only a second before she said, "I'm dying for a beignet and I only have four weeks to eat my fill."

He suggested Cafe du Monde and she was agreeable. In such light traffic, they could be spilling powdered sugar on their pants in less than fifteen minutes.

As they took off down the street, he felt Arya wrap her arms tightly around his middle and he tried not to think too much about what it all meant. He had time to figure it out.

Do I Wanna Know?-Artic Monkeys