Arya slunk down a sidestreet of Fleabottom. Yes, slunk, like a cat, the cats she used to chase for Syrio, a lifetime ago. Quiet as a shadow, light as a feather.

She was filthy, certainly, her training clothes stained and muddied with grime, and blood where she'd tried to clean the stableboy off her blade. Her wooden sword thumped against her ( Read more... )