Chapter 27

The nameless one woke from a dream. The dream was so wild and unrestrained that she felt she could taste the lingering hot blood in her throat.

In the dream, she was always the largest she-wolf, leading her gray kin across rivers, over hills, fields, and forests, ranging widely around that great lake. They knocked down warhorses one after another, pursued pedestrians, soldiers, or bandits dominated by fear; regardless of their identity, no one who encountered them failed to reek of fear.

She savored this feeling. In the dream, no one could defeat her, not even armies sent from the city. They thought they could best a pack of wolves, but in the end they proved to be nothing more than fresh food the city had provided. She liked to drive them into traps of their own making, then rip open their throats, listening to their dying screams as hot blood sprayed into the winter air, sending up a bloody mist that stained her mouth and nose. Meat is meat. She ate her fill of what she liked, then left the rest for her gray kin.

Besides hunting, she loved to run, hearing the wind howl in her ears; she especially liked the feel of the icy morning breeze brushing her body. With her running steps she marked out her territory wherever her feet touched, and when pleased she would howl at the sky, her kin answering her one by one. Here she could do anything, supreme and unchallenged.

After waking, she was the nameless one.

She donned the robes of the Black and White House in the dark, washed with clean water to rinse away the bloody taste still in her mouth. A kind person might smell it and grow suspicious.

That liar Jaqen lied to her, so she would not tell them the true secret either.

"Is Braavos far?" she remembered asking Jaqen; he answered "Far." When she asked "How far?" he replied "Very far." She then asked "How do I get there?" and Jaqen answered, "By ship, a very long voyage—a girl who has never taken such a long ship."

That girl had never taken a sea voyage, but no matter how he answered, she did not want to go to Braavos; she only wished to return to Winterfell and reunite with her sister and brothers. So after leaving the hound, she raced to the harbor, desperate to find a ship back to the North, but after asking for a long time she found none.

Once she refused to give up, insisting on knowing where the ship was headed, the captain answered Braavos. At that moment she recalled her sister's legendary tale and Jaqen's reply, but what made her decide was the wolf she had abandoned in the Riverlands; thus she resolved to go to Braavos and boarded the ship—thinking, "If I return to Winterfell, how will I explain to Bran's dog and the little dog that I lost their sister? I still have to go to the Wall to see Qiongen. White Spirit knows I threw Nymeria into the Riverlands; will it bite me? I must find Nymeria and bring her back."

Perhaps I could cross the whole continent and reach Asshai! she recalled thinking on the ship. But when she truly arrived in Braavos, she realized it was actually the nearest exotic city to Winterfell—no need for a "very long voyage" at all. That liar; if Maege knew her far-flung journey was just to Braavos, she would die laughing.

After arriving in Braavos, she originally wanted to send a letter to Winterfell, but she had no ravens, could not ask anyone to carry a verbal message, and moreover, for the sake of study she had promised the Kindly Man she was the nameless one! How could a nameless one send a letter to Winterfell?

I want to be the nameless one; if I can learn Jaqen's face‑changing ability, I can personally avenge my father, mother, brother, and the innocent Northmen who died, and slip into the Red Keep and the Twins to kill them one by one—that is the best way to get revenge, isn't it?

Moreover, if I can learn to change faces, I can gradually search for my wolf in the Riverlands.

She covered her face with a hot towel, imagining it was a new face or a burial shroud.

Ah, they will surely think I am dead. I am not; I hide my name and live in obscurity to avenge everyone. When I finish my task, I will surely tell my story properly before you all—then even my sister ought to admire me!

I went to sea at no more than ten years old, younger than you! I have stories too—if you ask me, I will tell you.

After tossing the towel aside, she rinsed her mouth repeatedly until she confirmed there was no bloody taste, then donned her robes, slipped on soft‑soled shoes, and ran to the kitchen.

The nameless one wolfed down breakfast in the kitchen; the cook gave her two eggs, a cup of lemon water, and a small piece of black bread. She was not picky—while Arya of Winterfell liked lemon cake, the nameless one could eat anything.

After breakfast, she routinely went to the temple, searching among the dead in the dim light of flickering red candles; people sometimes came at night seeking solace, so they had to tend to the aftermath in the morning. But today, shortly after he entered the hall, she saw two people push open a side door and slip in—one wore iron greaves on his legs and a soldier's garb, the other had smooth, brown hair combed neatly, looking like a refined merchant.

They were not here to seek death, she thought.

But Arya had no intention of dealing with them; her duties did not include reception, nor speaking with strangers.

"Is this the hideout of the faceless men?" the soldier whispered in the common tongue to the merchant. Though he spoke softly, she heard him clearly. It was a Northern Westerosi accent, which piqued her interest.

"Of course. But usually they have other, more secret ways of receiving clients, since no one wants to reveal this secret." His voice was even lower, yet she could still hear it.

She stopped what she was doing and remained still in the dark corner, silent as a shadow.

She felt she could even hear the crackle of the burning candles.

"Where would that usually be?" the soldier asked.

"A secret outpost, but only open to former clients; newcomers come here." He seemed to know.

"But there's no one here." He spoke like a Northern farmer, having deliberately lowered his volume yet still sounding coarse and loud. He was unfamiliar with this setting, lacked reverence, and kept looking around.

The nameless one thought she would be exposed, but the soldier merely gave a quick glance, never noticing her—or perhaps taking her for a statue.

"Let's look at these statues. They'll eventually come out; we just wait." The merchant walked forward to the water's edge.

The soldier followed up. "May I drink?" he asked, "I'm thirsty."

"You must absolutely not drink it," he said. "This is for the dying. To drink is to offer everything to the Many‑Faced God."

"Offering it to other gods would not do." He walked away, examining each idol in the temple, but soon returned, lacking patience, and told the merchant, "I come with the duke's authority. Someone must receive us—at least let us try a cup of red wine."

"We'll just wait," the merchant chuckled. "You've already waited a month; evidently you can wait a bit longer."

"Your last quote was too high; the lord doesn't have that much." He said, "This time I bring the lord's new proposal."

"Divine aid is never cheap." He brushed a lone red candle with his hand. "Stay calm, don't rush. Ahead there may be the god you believe in; you can pray before them. To the far side are the Seven; folk from Westeros always go there—well, you can choose the warrior, he's over there."

"Hey, spare me—the Seven are the Andals'. We Northerners are descendants of the First Men and follow the old gods." His tone was full of pride, which made her even more interested.

"You Northerners of Westeros are the strangest—do you mean the old gods are trees? Hehe."

"The heart tree."

"The heart tree is indeed different from other trees, but it has no power here." He walked around the pool, "Did you see the temple door? The white half is made of heart tree."

"Of course I know. That door panel feels much like the heart tree in my village, but turning it into a door I don't like." The soldier scratched his head impatiently. "Hey, how much longer must we wait? This place makes me uncomfortable—why do they shut themselves in this dark house?"

The merchant began to wander about; she sensed he would soon notice her, so she pretended to sweep the floor with a broom.

She succeeded in drawing the attention of the two, but she had no intention of engaging them.

The soldier approached and asked, "Are you here to attend to us?"

"I am here to search for corpses." She pretended not to hear the soldier's words and continued sweeping nothing.

The merchant smiled and said nothing.

"What the hell is this?" the soldier pointed at her.

The merchant smiled, shook his head, and remained silent.

The soldier, now out of patience, poked her. "Hey hey hey, kid, who's the manager here, the head monk?" he asked.

She could no longer pretend they weren't there, so she lifted her head and looked at him.

A gray sheepskin jerkin, over which a brown leather jacket of calfskin was sewn, with a flayed man's sigil etched on each side of the collar. An ordinary face bore an ordinary beard.

A Bolton, she thought.

The Kindly Man would not see you, nor agree to trade with you, she thought. She glanced at them, clenched the broom in her hand, and went on with her work.

Speaking with you is not my duty.

She heard the soldier sighing and complaining beside her; when she finally reached the exit she quickened her pace and hurried away. Normally, after searching the front yard, when the time came one would go to the kitchen to help. The head cook might be waiting now!

But she stopped. She felt a sense of worry.

"Who are you?" the Kindly Man always asks her, and her answer is invariably "the nameless one." She knows this fools no one; he has repeatedly promised that if she tells her name or proposes other terms, he will send her back to Winterfell. In fact, several times she has almost blurted "I want Nymeria," but she holds back, and the Kindly Man seems to treat this as her imminent surrender.

She occasionally feels that the Kindly Man will never teach her the true face‑changing art; she has never actually experienced it. Here she merely studies language, learns cooking (chopping fish and slicing vegetables), learns poison and lying from street urchins, and occasionally dons a mask to go out.

The Kindly Man knows who I am, knows I still have a sister and brothers—how could he teach such magic to someone with a family? If I were him, I wouldn't either.

But he couldn't drive her away.

At lunchtime, she was with the kindly man, and she very much wanted to ask about the 'business' of the House of Black and White and House Bolton, but she knew this wasn't something she should ask, and the kindly man would certainly not answer her. She ate quickly, drank two bowls of turnip-boiled beef soup, ate a piece of cheese cake and several slices of bacon, and didn't touch the bloody steak at all.

After everyone had finished eating, she rose to clear up, but the kindly man stopped her, so the chore of clearing the dishes fell entirely to the waif.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"No one," she replied, utterly resolute.

He laughed. "No, you are Arya Stark of Winterfell. If you speak that name, we will send you back, all right?"

No. "I am no one."

"You're lying," he said, still smiling. "Since that's the case, I can't drive you away. Would you like a new identity?"

"Yes," she said.

"You need to think of a new name, a girl's name fit for selling oysters."

"Kitten," she said without hesitation.

"Hmm, that really is a good name for a fishmonger," the kindly man said.

So he had her follow. In the dimness, the kindly man pushed open a stone door, she followed him down the stairs, counting each step as she went; there were no lights here, but the kindly man still made steady footsteps ahead, and she heard the sound echoing in the space. The deeper they went, the colder the air became; she walked in darkness, as if traveling through time, communing with unknown spirits, until finally, when she had counted to three hundred forty, they stopped.

"We never light a fire down here. It wasn't dark before, but no matter, it is dark now, and you must grow used to the darkness. From today onward, until some day, you are to become 'Kitten.'" the kindly man said.

"I will," she said. What exactly she would do, she did not know.

"Put it on," the kindly man said.

In the darkness she could see nothing, but the kindly man seemed not to need sight; he appeared to know where each face was, or perhaps he could see in the dark.

From the outside, the House of Black and White appears to be a windowless stone hut, but only upon entering does one realize it is far larger than it looks. So Arya guessed they were actually inside the mountain beside the temple, or perhaps the people of the House of Black and White had hollowed out the whole mountain, just as their ancestors had hollowed out the fiery peaks of the dragon kings.

She finally put on a face again; it felt, in her memory, as if ages had passed since the last time.

"Every face has its own story; grow accustomed to their presence, do not let them influence you—that is the first step," the kindly man said.

"They won't influence me," she said.

"Who are you?" he asked in the darkness.

She wanted to press her lips together, but she knew even in the dark he could see, so she restrained herself; after actually putting on the new face, she felt she had lost that habit. That habit belonged to Arya of Winterfell, not to her.

"Kitten," she said.

"Good." Even in the darkness she knew he was smiling.

That night she returned to Brusco's daughters' rooftop hut. They merely glanced at her in surprise, then accepted her as if she had just come back from selling fish outside. At night she huddled under the blanket shared by Telya and Brea, warm and comfortable, but when deep night fell she still felt her back grow cold enough to raise gooseflesh; perhaps her two sisters needed an extra blanket. Arya of Winterfell had once slept with her sister (the one who dreamed of being a princess queen), but after her sister began to dislike her constant fidgeting, she never again shared a bed with anyone. Kitten's true identity is that of an orphan, but who says an orphan cannot call the children of her foster father brother and sister?

Before dawn she had to rise, rowing with Brusco's children along the Long Canal, past the Sweetwater Canal, to Mudtown. There they poled the canal to the fish market, where the day's freshest seafood was always found. Brusco would procure there, buying oysters, clams, scallops, and crabs, deciding how much to buy and what kinds based on the day's market price and his judgment of the situation. They would then load all the seafood Brusco had chosen onto the boat; Kitten felt that before long she would become as strong as her brother Little Brus. On their return, Brusco would assign a small cart to each of his few daughters and to Kitten, so they could ply the streets and alleys of Braavos selling their wares.

"Oysters, scallops, clams!" she cried out in Braavosi, practiced, up and down the streets.

The cats took a liking to her; she merely called as she walked, and soon a crowd of felines gathered behind her. In Braavos's streets and alleys there are plenty of cats, treated well here; captains and sailors gladly give them whatever little fish and shrimp they catch, and if they have time they'll snag the rats aboard ship for them.

Kitten would sometimes toss behind her any catch she deemed subpar, perhaps unsuitable for her customers.

She was certain one of the cats had recognized her, for otherwise it would not have calmly leapt onto her little cart, witnessing her sell out every scallop and hearing every story and piece of news she heard.

By custom, each time she returned to the temple she had to bring the kindly man three new pieces of information. But with people around she could easily bring him thirty or even three hundred a day—this was simplicity itself for her. For instance, she could say that Brusco never offered hot sauce with his oysters, so his trade could only be a third of a competitor's; a tailless old cat possessed far greater wit than ordinary felines, calculating how many scallops Kitten needed to sell to finish her task, the remainder she could give to the cat; the owner of the Green Moss Rice Shop always bought a dozen oysters, believing they had special potency; the crew of the great sailing ship Giant Crab liked to take sheep along on their voyages, thinking that if danger arose they could jettison the livestock to ensure smooth sailing. And so on. But the kindly man would judge whether such information was useful. Thus Kitten had to analyze and select carefully.

But today she had learned something absolutely useful.

"Lord Walder Frey's head has been brought to King's Landing by the she-wolf." This was news brought by a crewman of the Wind's Child from King's Landing; the crewman had bought three scallops from her here. She begged him to tell her Westerosi news, and he bluntly said this; after hearing it, she gave the crewman a clam.

Arya of Winterfell might be pleased or regretful, but Kitten had nothing to do with it—Kitten only wanted to fling her little cart into the canal. If Kitten sold scallops every day in the streets and alleys, when the day came that she could discard her mask and assume a new identity, the she-wolf would appear at her side and say, "Oh, my little sister, you still can't change faces? I have taken Braavos, seized the House of Black and White, so I'll teach you!"

That night he slipped out unseen from Brusco's rooftop and returned to the temple; the kindly man was already waiting for her there.

"Compared to last time you left, what have you learned?" the kindly man asked.

"I know that in King's Landing they say old Lord Walder Frey is dead," she said.

"Knowing this is useful. Tell me, does it concern you? You look rather regretful!"

"I am no one," she said.

"You're lying."

She needed neither to purse her lips nor to rebut; Kitten only launches into vehement mockery when faced with a thug.

"What's the second?" he asked.

"I know that all of Lord Walder Frey's descendants in Riverrun have been hanged—that's a lie," she said.

"Is that a fact, or just your guess?"

She repressed the urge to purse her lips, acknowledged that the kindly man's question was reasonable, and had to admit it was mere speculation.

"You can state another."

"I know the Red Peony on Pleasure Street wants more comic actors to come to Braavos, so she can invite the tall Lysian every day to judge the performances."

"People's desires can change; knowing this might be useful or perhaps the opposite. If you wish, I can take this as the second." the kindly man said. "What's the third?"

"I know the temple has granted Bolton's request," Kitten said.