She moved around the floor flawlessly, with the grace of a dancer, a deadly dancer, with a long silver sword acting as an extension of her arm, delivering death wherever she wields it. Each strike took a piece out of the thick wooden dummy, but always at precise locations, the throat, the groin, the kidney.

She knew the moment she was no longer alone and rotated toward the door. "Valar Dohaeris, my friend," he said as he entered, approaching quickly without seeming to rush.

"Valar Morghulis," she answered back, slipping her blade back into her scabbard before she used the back of her hand to wipe the sweat from her face.

"You are getting much better," he said, a single finger peeking out from the wide sleeve of his robe and pointing to the damaged training dummy and the chunks of discarded wood haphazardly arranged on the floor.

"I still have much to learn," she answered quickly, bowing her head slightly to show her respect.

The older man chuckled, a dark but sincere sound. "We all still have much to learn," he promised. "The Water Dance can not be perfected, because not two people dance the same way. We must only continue to improve."

Silence hung between them for a few seconds. "The Many Faced God requires your service."

As those words sank in, her body visibly reacted. She stood up straighter, her muscles tightened in preparation for battle, and her hand inched closer to the sword hanging from her waist. "I will serve. Who will be getting the Gift?"

R-C

"Seven Hells its hot!" she cursed as she swiped at her forehead with the back of her hand. The oppressive sun felt as though it was aimed directly at her as she moved through the streets searching out a spot of shade, however small. With one hand she pulled at the thin grey cloak she wore, separating it from her already overheated flesh. Although the cloak did nothing but add to the heat, it was a necessity, to hide not only her identity but the many weapons she was concealing.

For a brief moment while she cursed the heat again her mind travelled back years to her childhood. Before she was No One she had been a child of the North. Winter was coming and wolves weren't meant to be this far South.

As quickly as that thought began, she wrestled it back into its cage, where it belonged. Arya Stark was gone, she was as dead as her father and her mother, as dead as any of the faces she wore. Arya was just one more in a long line of masks. Remembering wouldn't help anybody. Arya Stark may have been raised in Winterfell, a true Northerner who preferred snow to sun and for who life at court couldn't hold the appeal of battle but she was not Arya any longer, she was No One. No One wasn't fenced in by Arya's past, she could be anyone she wanted or needed to be. She could enjoy the sun and thrive on the sport of political backstabbing if that's what it took for her to reach her target.

Focusing on the job helped to keep Arya Stark's memories at bay. The Many Faced God had sent her on a task of the upmost importance. Apparently one of the few surviving slavers in Meereen, a pig named Nazir had come to Braavos and attempted to hire a Faceless Man to assassinate the Dragon Queen. The contract was refused of course, not only because he couldn't afford the fee, but because the House of Black and White abhorred slavery and would not kill the Breaker of Chains without cause.

No One had been sent to not only give the Gift to Nazir, but also to warn the Queen of the danger. Although she'd never admit it to anyone but herself, this was the type of job the assassin would gladly do for free. Just like the names on her list, she truly believed the world was better off without certain people in it, people like Cersei, the Mountain and Nazir.

R-C

She found him drinking in a tavern on the fourth night of her hunt. With a whore on his lap and a drink in his hand he regaled anyone who would listen about the 'good ole days.'

Before she went inside she slipped into the darkened alley and closed her eyes. With a silent prayer to the Many Face God she traced the thick, jagged scar that started at her temple and stretched across the entirety of her forehead before it disappeared up under her overgrown hair. It burned at first, but only for a moment as the skin, muscles and bones shifted.

With a grunt of effort and pain it was over. She didn't need a mirror to see, she could feel it, the face she wore was no longer the lost girl from Winterfell but that of a man, a soldier. The grey cloak she wore to hide her weapons would also conceal her limited figure.

Walking into the tavern she felt the eyes on her. She took a seat close to Nazir and ordered a round, and then another. It was during her second drink that she commented, agreeing with something the drunken slaver was saying.

The fat elderly man with a thick beard laughed heartedly and kicked out a chair from his table, inviting her to sit. She did and introduced herself as Arry a sell-sword looking for work. For an hour they drank and told stories until Nazir was ready to leave.

They walked out together and the assassin noticed Nazir intended to walk. "No horse?" she wondered aloud.

He spat on the ground. "Not anymore," he slurred, drunk. "I lost everything when that Dragon Bitch came here."

This was it, her moment, she could sense it, and it excited her in a way few things did anymore. Her blood moved through her body with a greater speed, feeling like it was bubbling under her skin. "Oh I hate that stupid whore," she responded, doing her best to sound as drunk as he was. "If I knew where she was, I'd gut her for free that meddling little twat."

Stumbling down the street, using the wall of a building for support Nazir stopped abruptly, looked at his newest friend and smiled. "You would?"

"Of course. I had a good thing in Qarth until that whore showed up. She ruined it."

The drunk slaver put his hand on Arry's shoulder. "I like you boy. I'll tell you what, I have a job for you. Meet me here tomorrow and you might just get your wish."

A tiny smirk graced the soldier's face for the briefest of instants. "I look forward to it," she said sincerely, to herself and Nazir alike.

R-C

For once in her life everything felt like it was coming together perfectly. Not since her time with the Khal had she been so truly happy. She'd freed her people and they loved her for it. Now armed with a fleet of ships, an army of loyal soldiers, Ser Jorah, Ser Barristan and Tyrion it was time for her to take back her throne.

With a smile on her face she slipped from her tent and savored the taste of salt in the air, coming from the nearby bay. Moments after she appeared Missandei was by her side, as she always was. "Do you need something Khaleesi?"

She shook her head and felt the hair moving behind her in the breeze. "It's a lovely day," she declared. "Missandei let's take a walk."

As he always did Jorah agreed to go with her and in addition he brought along one of Grey Worm's men and Kovarro, a Dothraki that had been with her since the beginning. They were an eclectic group that definitely drew attention.

"Are you sure about this Khaleesi?" Jorah wondered as he took note of all the stares.

"Soon we'll be aboard a ship, sailing for Westeros. After months at sea I bet you'll wish to go for a long walk," she countered.

Bowing his head in both agreement and surrender he led the group through the market, past the smiths and toward the food vendors.

R-C

She stayed at the rear of the formation, watching the others closely. There were five, in addition to her, all hardened soldiers, all hired by Nazir and all very clear on their objective, to kill the Queen.

While they waited in an alley the killer prepared to attack, but before she could one of the men held out his thick finger and pointed. Approaching was a group that included two women in cloaks, some soldiers and a Dothraki savage, it had to be the Targaryen girl.

The oldest of the sell-swords barked orders and Arry was sent with one of the others to secure the potential escape route through the alley. The man she was with reminded her of her brothers, not so much in appearance but in the way he carried himself, strong and dependable.

She felt a flicker of guilt as she urged him into a desolate alley first, only to draw a blade from up the sleeve of her cloak to slice his throat. He gasped, reached for his wound and collapsed. She whispered a prayer to the Many Face God before she returned the dagger to its hiding place.

With one dead there were still others left to kill. She took off running through the streets, searching for any sign of them. She was nearing the docks when she heard it, the unmistakable sound of an arrow being loosed, and then another. Immediately she tensed, bending down as if to tie her boot while her eyes swept from side to side for danger. She was entirely No One now, Arya's childhood forgotten, because while that little girl couldn't fight, couldn't kill, couldn't survive, No One could, and would.

Her trained ears picked up the sounds easily, steel meeting steel, grunts of effort, a woman's gasp. The sounds propelled the killer faster, racing through the labyrinth of alleys until she reached the right place.

She understood automatically what had happened as she stepped into the mouth of the alley. Although she hadn't been there to see it, she could picture it with amazing clarity just the same. The remaining sell-swords against five travellers, three men and two women.

First she took note of the arrows she'd heard, the first landed in the dirt, feet from where the travellers had been walking, likely to stop their progress. The second arrow was lodged in the neck of one of the male travellers, a soldier who had been guarding the Queen. Apparently he didn't listen and now he was dead or dying, another offering to the Many Faced God.

Quickly assessing the situation, she could see that one of the guards, a broad, topless savage with dark skin and darker hair was battling one of the sell-swords, while another bled out at his feet. Across the alley the third guard, an older pale man was combatting two sell-swords of his own but losing.

Drawing her sword, she shrugged back the hood covering her shaggy hair and slipped into the battle with a single graceful step, dodging a wide blade and slicing an arc across the sell-sword's middle. The stunned look on his face at being betrayed was priceless and she savored it as she dodged an attack. The older man she'd stepped in to aide met her eyes for an instant before he turned back to his opponent. "Who are you?" he shouted.

With a playful smirk she danced under another slash and delivered a strike of her own against her enemy's leg. "Later!"

As she fought she felt the ease that only combat could bring, the comfort. She knew what was expected of her now, kill or be killed, this she understood, this she could do.

Her dance was coming to an end, and though she'd been cut along the forearm and dropped her weapon she had others. Before long she stood behind the kneeling, unarmed sell-sword she was battling, holding his golden hair with one hand, and a dagger to his throat with the other. Keeping her eyes open she said a quick and silent prayer to her Many Faced God, before she presented him with an unrequested offering.

Before she could draw the blade across his bobbing throat, a woman's cry commanded her attention. She looked up, toward the women and saw the smaller of the two, in her white cloak, trying to push past the other to get to her friend. As they struggled the taller woman's hood fell to her shoulders, exposing rich brown skin and loose curls of dark hair. Arry's eyes shifted to the other woman, in white. She was the Queen, had to be.

Following the Queen's eyes, she saw the reason for concern. Her savage was down, on his back, bleeding from wounds to his chest and back. While his eyes stayed on the man above him, his hand felt around in the bloody dirt for a weapon, any weapon. As the women cried the assassin knew what would happen next. The Dothraki had lost his battle, all that was left now was the final blow.

Suddenly she felt conflicted. On one hand she knew this was a battle and in battle people died, but on the other hand she'd been sent to protect the Queen, to aide her and didn't that include the others too? Her eyes flicked back to the Queen and even with the hood covering part of her face, even with the distance between them she could see the pain in her eyes. It didn't seem right for a woman who had done so much for so many to be in such anguish.

Without time to fully contemplate her reasons she simply acted. All at once she kneed her captive, sending him face first into the dirt. Narrowing her grey eyes, she took aim, turned the dagger over in her hand, and threw. It sliced through the air, moving end over end until it met its target, the sell-sword's throat.

Successful as she was she didn't have time to celebrate. "Look out!" a feminine voice called from the rear of the alley. Instinctively she knew it was meant for her. With no time to look she dove to her left, but felt the telltale burn of a cut in her side anyway.

As she popped back onto her feet she became aware that the man she'd bested in combat was once again standing, and holding a sword. Her decision to save the savage might prove costly.

From the corner of her eye she could see the two women were huddling around the wounded Dothraki, tending to him, while the elder guard attempted to stand, only to wobble and stagger before dropping to one knee.

"Stay down," she insisted. "I'll be fine."

The two men laughed. "Fine," one said to the other, clapping him on the shoulder. "Hear that, he'll be fine. Bastard betrays us but he'll be fine."

The laughter seemed to awaken something and the woman in the white cloak stood tall and regal as she marched straight for the men who wanted her, without fear. "I demand you let us go!" she called. "Do you know who I am."

As fruitless as it was, the assassin had to admire the Queen's courage. "M'lady, perhaps you should wait with your friends until this is over."

One of the two remaining sell-swords turned his attention to the Queen. "Listen here," he spat, closing the distance between them in a single stride.

He reached out with one hand, until he was just about to push back her hood, but the assassin's words stilled him. "Come on boys," she teased. "You can't have her, till you're finished with me."

"I'll take whatever the fuck I please," he vowed, his hand once again moving toward the woman hidden under the hood. "Nazir just wants her dead, he didn't say I couldn't have fun with her first."

For the killer something shifted. Anger surged through her and she wanted nothing more than his blood. A threat she didn't even consider making escaped from her dry lips. "Touch her and I'll take your head!"

All around them startled eyes locked in on the stranger, turned savior turned warrior, but the killer never once looked away from the man she now intended to kill.

"You're hardly in a position to make threats," he reminded her with a chuckle. "That's going to leave quite a scar," he said pointing the tip of his sword toward the gaping wound on her side.

The pain she felt faded to the background and all there was, was death. With a wicked grin she stepped forward until they were face to face. She reached up and traced a bloody finger over the spot where her scar usually sat.

"Well if it does scar, at least it won't be my first one, but you know, it's like we always say in Braavos, Valar Morghulis"

"You're…" he stopped, unable or unwilling to continue. The House of Black and White and the servants who lived there were famous for their skills, on both sides of the sea.

For a long moment he was stunned silent and that tiny window was all she needed. Leaping for him she grabbed his wrist and twisted violently. Every living thing in the alley heard the snapping sound and the clatter of the weapon hitting the ground as he was forced to release. After a brief struggle she delivered a knee to his groin and sent him to the ground. Standing over him she felt only rage. She grabbed his throat and squeezed, ignoring the voices calling to her in the background.

She was No One, a servant of the Many Faced God, she was a killer, an assassin, a phantom. She kept squeezing, lost in the violent haze. She couldn't hear the cries of the others in the alley, she couldn't feel the sun on her skin, or the pain of her wounds, it was all too deeply buried under her fury.

Everything came rushing back the instant the blade entered her back. Then it was all suddenly real again, the unforgiving heat, the pain, the sound of someone screaming.

Aware the blade was still in her body, she acted fast, throwing her right arm back as hard as she could, in a violent elbow toward her attacker's face. She felt a small measure of comfort as she heard him groan in pain, before she fell forward.

Her eyes felt as though they weighed a ton each as she commanded her body to roll over, only to find it struggling to complete the most basic commands.

She was dying, she knew it. Whether she was Arya Stark, No One or someone else entirely she didn't know, but whoever she was, she was dying.

She heard voices, people were talking, but it sounded so far away, as though she were very deep underwater. Her right hand, the only one working at the moment inched toward her boot, where the weapon would be. It took far longer than she would have liked to reach for her blade, but the talking around her continued as she struggled.

Not long after she got her hand on the weapon she managed to make sense of the words she was hearing too. "Let us go, leave her be, and I'll spare your life. You have my word."

"She's already dead," he said, kicking the fallen assassin for good measure, "your friends too," he said looking to the wounded. "I'm going to kill them all and then me, you and that cute little friend of yours can have some fun together." He laughed darkly. "I bet I can make her scream."

Again rage filled up the space where everything else should be. She didn't feel the pain as she pushed herself up. She didn't feel the dizziness as she swayed, first on her knees, then her feet. She didn't feel the extra weight of the blade still buried under her shoulder, or the chill that the blood loss was causing.

It was the Queen's gasp at seeing the believed dead woman rise that alerted the sell sword, but she didn't care, she'd kill him regardless. "You again," he said with another dark laugh.

She grinned back at him as though she didn't have a care in the world. "Me again."

Off to her right the elder of the guards attempted to stand again, to aide her, but it was pointless and slow. The killer waited until her opponent got close enough, and then pretended to stumble. In response he grabbed her cloak and pulled and she went willingly toward him, embracing him in an awkward hug as she struggled not to fall. "Pitiful," he spat in disgust. "I thought they trained you better at the H…"

He never got to finish as the small three-inch dagger from her boot was lodged into his neck. His grip on her loosened and he staggered back weakly, grasping at the injury. For her part the woman who killed him stayed conscious just long enough to be certain he was dead, before she collapsed next to him.