Three years ago, Arya Stark disappeared. There was an article in the paper about it that morning, remembering the strange, unsolved case of the missing then dead girl. Tywin knew that if he read it, the writer would speculate on the terrible luck of the Stark family. A dead father, a crippled son, a missing daughter. And the ones they had left behind still "bravely soldiering on".
It was a good story for the masses, and hardly a month passed without the press digging it all up again. They loved to write about the remaining Stark children coping and failing to cope. They saw Stark Industries as an underdog, somehow, even though it was a multibillion dollar company. And yet the papers alternated between condemnation and praise of the Starks depending on the day.
Tywin rarely read the articles. He ignored the press when he could. They were vultures that one could buy when needed, and Robb Stark didn't know how to control them. That came with inexperience he supposed. If only the Stark boy's inexperience made him less vexing in negotiations. But in business, the boy never showed weakness.
The papers often talked about Robb, the youngest CEO in King's Landing. Or Sansa, the pretty but struggling daughter, Bran the crippled boy who hid from the cameras, and Rickon, who had picked fights with the press more than once. Today, the living Starks were not the focus. It was one of the dead ones. Arya. Missing three years ago. Found dead a year later. Sometimes, he found his thoughts drifting to the girl, wondering what had happened to her and why.
He had interacted with her exactly four times, and he only remembered so well because she made a strong impression each of those times. The first she had been only six, and her father had been forced to bring her to work. An unexpected fight at school or something of the like. Tywin did not remember why he was at Stark Industries or what he and Ned Stark had argued about that day. But he did remember that she had given him a fearsome glare when he left, as if she were fully willing to fight him. The fact that she was six and the size of a doll made the whole experience rather amusing.
The second time was also after she had gotten into a fight, this time with his grandson, which ended with her breaking Joffrey's nose. Tywin remembered feeling annoyed that day when his daughter called him and asked him to go to King's Academy because she was out of town and she did not want to call her ex-husband. He had agreed, if only because he didn't want Robert Baratheon handling the situation either.
That had been another argument with Ned Stark and once again, he never exchanged words with his daughter. But she glared at him that day too, her chin lifted in a challenge of sorts. As if to say 'I broke his nose and I would do it again if I could'.
The third time was in the graveyard. There had been no argument with her father then, because he was dead. And it was the first time he had seen her without a glare.
The fourth time… well that was the last time anyone had seen her alive.
Perhaps that was why it stuck with him. Every time the papers speculated about what had happened to her, he remembered her standing in his office that day, her chin lifted high, daring him to call someone and report her for skipping school.
He wondered absently what would have happened if he had.
The door to his home office opened, and he tossed the paper to the side as his daughter entered. "Myrcella isn't allowed to go out at night again until we've hired a bodyguard," she said without preamble.
Tywin looked up at her, confused. "What?"
"A bodyguard. She needs one, but she doesn't want one. I've overruled her as of this morning." Cersei sat in the chair across from him with a sigh. "Someone tried to slip something in her drink last night when she was out with friends. Luckily, one of her friends noticed, but I'm not risking that again."
Tywin's eyes narrowed. "Do you know who did it?"
"Our security team is working on it," Cersei said. "But if she'd had a guard in the first place, this wouldn't have happened."
Her tone was accusatory, but then again, that was just how Cersei was when she was angry. "By all means hire one. Why haven't you already?"
"She fought me on it." Cersei sighed. "She doesn't want a bodyguard following her around everywhere."
"I'm sure she'd prefer that to any unsavory alternatives," Tywin said. Myrcella was eighteen now. She was technically an adult, but she was still very much a teenager. The same age Arya Stark would be if she lived. If the one who had killed the Stark girl was still on the loose, Myrcella was a prime target.
"Yes, well… I've put out a request now. I just thought you ought to know," Cersei said. "And if you notice her sneaking out, stop her."
"I believe that would be the job of security," Tywin said dismissively.
"It's yours too. You're her grandfather," Cersei said. "At least pretend to care about her well-being."
"I do," Tywin said coolly. "Maybe I would have more time to care about her if you learned to rein in your eldest son."
Cersei's eyes narrowed, and she sat back in her chair. "Why? What has he done now?"
"Nothing that I'm aware of. But that's exactly the problem. You should be keeping track of him," Tywin said.
"He's nineteen. He has a bodyguard of his own."
"Who he leaves behind at every opportunity."
"Well, do you want me to follow him everywhere he goes?" Cersei asked, running an agitated hand through her hair. She did that when she was losing footing in an argument.
"No. I'd just like you to keep him out of the papers," Tywin said. "If you had learned to control him as a child, this really wouldn't be a problem, would it?"
Cersei's jaw tightened. "How are things with Tyrion, father? Reined him in yet?"
Tywin had no wish to entertain this conversation any further. "I'm busy. So unless you have anything else of importance to discuss, you may leave."
"Of course." Cersei stood, tossing a file onto the desk. "The new contract with the Tyrells. I looked it over and marked the questionable sections." She raised her eyebrows. "Will that be all, Father?"
He slid the contract in front of him. "Yes. That will be all."
He waited until Cersei had left the room before he sighed, rubbing a hand over his brow. He had Tyrion well in hand. He'd cut him off from the family money at the very least, and he knew his son's extravagant and spiteful way of living would leave him penniless soon enough. Then he would come back. There was no need for Tywin to rein him in.
In fact, cutting Joffrey off from his funds wasn't a bad idea. If he got out of hand again, he might enforce that with or without Cersei's approval. Boys like Joffrey made him grateful for Myrcella and Tommen. Compared to him, they did not cause trouble. But even a well-behaved girl like Myrcella needed people looking out for her so long as she was both Baratheon and Lannister.
Otherwise, she would go the same way as Arya Stark.
On most mornings in Braavos, the mist came rolling in just before the sun, covering the docks and cobblestone streets with a fine white blanket. That was Arya's favorite time in the day. A time when the city was only just waking and the first of its people started their days. She would sit out on the western docks, letting her feet dangle just over the water, and watch the ships coming in.
She had come on a ship just like it a lifetime ago, a child looking for answers in a desperate attempt to cope with her father's senseless death. Back then, she had plans to board another ship and return home. But she was naive to think that was an option.
Instead, Arya stayed in Braavos and began her training as a Faceless Man, and that training had marked the hardest three years of her life.
For the first year, she only saw the sky through the holes in the ceiling of the House of Black and White. She was not permitted to leave. It was part of the training, but it was also a security precaution. People would look for Arya Stark and their search could not lead them here.
That was the most difficult year of training. Arya went through a gambit of endurance tests, learning how to go without food, sleep and sight for long periods of time. Her body ached more often than not as they regularly pushed her to the breaking point. In between that, she learned the many arts of the Faceless Men. Disguise, languages, poisons, martial arts. How to go unseen and how to draw attention at the right times. The days blended together and she could tell the passage of time only by the shifting of the beams of sunlight.
Then, one day, Jaqen H'ghar presented her with a newspaper from Westeros. The front-page story said that Arya Stark's body had been found under a bridge. She was dead to all who knew her, especially her family. And thus, Arya could go outside again and continue her training.
She learned to go unnoticed in a crowd.
She learned to gamble at taverns and swindle tourists out of money.
She learned to kill subtly and obviously.
She learned how to become someone else and how to become no one.
That last thing though… that was the most difficult part. She could slip into another skin well enough, but beneath that skin, she was still Arya Stark. She still had Arya Stark's thoughts, and in the moments when she had the time to stop and breathe, those thoughts weighed down with loneliness. Regret. Crippling fear of failure.
And hatred for the one who drove her here. She did not yet know who they were, but she knew that they were out there somewhere. And she would make them pay. That was what all of this was for. They gave her training so she could bring the killer to justice. And in return, she would give them her name. Permanently.
Until they fulfilled their end of the deal, she did not truly have to become no one. So for now, she liked to sit out on the docks at dawn and be alone for a while with her name.
A staff landed beside Arya on the docks, interrupting her peace. It was her only warning before a second staff nearly knocked her into the water. She narrowly rolled to the side, scooping up her staff and getting into position. The Waif was facing her, a cold little smile on her lips.
"Hello, stupid girl."
The Waif was in her fifth year as a Faceless Man, and she had reached the point where she barely remembered her old name, and she certainly did not go by it. She was simply the Waif. To the other Faceless Men, to Arya, even to herself. Arya knew that eventually she too would have some title, but until then, the Waif gave her nicknames of her own. Stupid girl. Slow girl. Silly girl. Always some insult. Arya had grown so used to them; they had lost their touch.
"Morning," Arya said. "Why are you here?"
"Because you are. And you need training," the Waif replied.
Arya could not help but let a smile cross her face. "Did you miss me so much?"
The Waif tilted her head to the side, observing Arya like a snake might watch a mouse. Then she struck. Arya only narrowly dodged her first two strikes and blocked the third before it could crack her over the top of her skull.
In the beginning, this kind of training had been brutal. Arya had always been good at sports and she had taken a few martial arts classes here and there. She was quick and strong for her size. But the Faceless Men pushed her to the very brink of her abilities and then kept going until she could not sleep at night she was in so much pain. Slowly, her body had hardened and her skills had sharpened. But still… still she was not fast enough to beat most of the other Faceless Men.
The Waif was no exception. Her skill with a staff was as good as her skill with a gun-practically flawless. Finding a gap in her defenses was a trial. Arya could only work to minimize the bruises.
She backed down the edge of the dock, ducking and weaving between the waif's blows, smacking the weapon away when she had to.
"You're not attacking," the Waif sneered. "Just running ."
Arya's eyes narrowed, and she advanced, twirling her staff upward and trying to slam one side under the Waif's chin. She bent backward and knocked the staff from Arya's hands, sending it rolling down the dock. Then she stabbed out with her own, nearly backing Arya off of the dock. Arya grasped tight to the staff to keep from tumbling over the edge. If the waif released her weapon, she would plunge into the water.
"You're too slow, girl," the Waif said. "Always too slow. And predictable."
Arya's eyes narrowed. Am I? Her hand shot forward, and she grabbed the waif's arm. Then she pushed backward off the pier, dragging her opponent into the water with her. The sea was icy cold and drove the breath from Arya's lungs. But at least, for one moment, she could say that she caught the Waif off guard.
She resurfaced a moment later and found that the Waif already standing on the dock again. She was soaking wet though, and she looked irritated, which was enough for Arya.
"Feel better?" the Waif asked icily.
"Yes," Arya replied.
"You shouldn't. Only an amateur stoops to a sacrificial play like that," the Waif said.
Arya clambered up onto the planks opposite the waif. "It worked."
The Waif observed her disdainfully, her lip curling slightly over her teeth. "You are not ready. And yet he still means to give you an assignment. You will fail."
"An assignment?" Arya's eyebrows shot up. "I'm being given an assignment?"
"Yes," the Waif's mouth twisted into a smug smile. "The Kindly Man is looking for you. If you don't hurry, he will be cross."
Jaqen. Arya cursed the Waif for not telling her sooner. She swept up her staff and hurried back toward the House of Black and White.
Nearly three years she had been here, and they never gave her a true assignment. Only practice. So whatever the Waif said… perhaps Arya was finally ready.
Even three years later, Arya found it hard to enter Jaqen's office without feeling nauseous. She had met many Faceless Men since she came to Braavos. The Hawk, who taught her how to use a firearm. The Doctor, who saw to all injuries and, when necessary, plastic surgeries. The Gambler. The Snake. The Apothecary. The Waif, her most frequent tormentor. All of them were dangerous in their own way. But none of them scared her as much as Jaqen.
To everyone else in the House of Black and White, he was the Kindly Man. But to Arya, he would always be Jaqen H'ghar, the name he used when plucked her from her life. The Kindly Man did not suit him at all, for he was not kindly. He had a pleasant demeanor, of course. His expression was soft and his voice gentle. And they stayed that way no matter what. When he gave orders. When he gave punishments. When Faceless Men died. Always the same face. Always the same voice.
Arya dreaded him, and whenever he called her 'lovely girl', the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end.
She forced herself to appear calm, however, as she entered his office and took a seat in front of him, awaiting her orders with a straight back and a flat expression.
"A girl will return to Westeros. To King's Landing," Jaqen said without preamble, and Arya's heart leapt and plunged all at once. It had been three years since she had been home, and though she shouldn't have, she missed it dearly. Yet she knew that she was not returning as Arya Stark. That name did not belong to her anymore.
"Who will a girl be when she goes?" she asked.
"Beth Rivers," Jaqen handed her a file across the desk. "A poor young woman who has recently lost her uncle. She has no family to return to, and she is desperate for a job. She has little education. But she is strong and quiet and observant. Adept with firearms and self-defense."
"And what kind of job will Beth Rivers get?" Arya asked.
"She will become a bodyguard," Jaqen said. "For the granddaughter of a wealthy family. A reputable agency will propose her as a candidate, for she is the perfect fit, though she has little field experience."
Arya nodded once, flipping through the file. "What family?"
"There will be more information waiting for you when you cross the narrow sea," Jaqen said.
Arya glanced up at him. "Why can't I know now?"
"Because a girl must learn patience," Jaqen said, his mouth twisting into the slightest smile. It was not warm though. Nor was it cold. It was something in between and it always felt like a threat. "She asks too many questions."
Arya swallowed down her fear. "Sorry. I know."
"However…" Jaqen leaned forward, steepling his fingers. "The Faceless Men still have a debt to pay to Arya Stark. Beth Rivers is looking for work. But where she works, she may find the one Arya Stark seeks."
Arya's eyes widened. The one she sought. The one responsible for her father's death. "You're… going to give me answers then?"
"Beth Rivers will give you answers," Jaqen said. "She will watch and listen, just as she has been taught. And if she is truly a worthy student, she will find the truth herself." His head cocked to the side as he studied her. "Use what you have learned, lovely girl. But do not forget who you are."
"I'm Beth," she said. "Beth Rivers. Not Arya Stark. I only know Arya Stark from the papers. She's been dead for two years."
He nodded once. "Good. You leave this evening. Prepare yourself for they journey."
Arya nodded, standing from her seat and hurrying from the room. She could feel her whole body shaking even despite her claim that she was Beth. Because this… this was exactly what she had been waiting for. This was the point behind these three years of training. Of loneliness. Of pain. Maybe it would finally be worth something.
My name is Beth Rivers.
I am twenty years old.
I never went to university because I didn't have the money, and I never graduated high school, though I try not to tell employers that.
I ran away from home at sixteen because my father was an alcoholic and my mother was too narcissistic to notice him hurting me.
I stayed with an uncle for a while. He worked as a bodyguard and he taught me to fight and defend myself. He trained me to follow in his footsteps.
He died five months ago protecting a client and left me a bit of money but its running low.
I need this job.
I am ideal. I remain calm under pressure. I don't drink or touch drugs. I have an open schedule and will work odd hours. I have never had a criminal record.
My name is Beth Rivers.
Arya repeatedly rehearsed the story in her head, trying to fade completely into her new name and story. That was the key, they said. To rehearse so much that the truth melted away, and the lie consumed everything. To paint over the old picture until not one bit of it was visible.
Beth Rivers shared many things with Arya Stark. They were only two years apart in age. They didn't drink or do drugs. They hadn't graduated from high school, though for different reasons. They were desperate for this job for different reasons. They were avoiding their families for different reasons.
But Beth Rivers was quiet and reserved and did not speak unless spoken to. People told Arya that she was too loud and asked too many questions.
Beth hated her parents and Arya missed hers every day.
Beth was just a new bodyguard and Arya was so much more.
Most important was the look. To make sure no one in Westeros recognized her, Arya had to transform herself. Her hair was short, but too similar to her old color, so she pinned a red wig to her head and made sure none of her dark hair showed. She slipped color contacts into her eyes-dark brown instead of grey. And she carefully changed the shape of her face with makeup.
As Arya Stark, she almost never wore makeup. Beth Rivers did not either. Not noticeable makeup anyway. But Arya could use shadows to make her nose seem smaller and her eyes narrower. The Braavosi sun tanned her skin, but she added freckles to her cheeks to change it further.
And then there was changing how she carried herself. Arya slouched and sat cross-legged on the ground or sprawled across the chair. Beth Rivers carried her shoulders back, her head held high, and she crossed her legs when she sat. She was a professional. She was poised. Arya practiced moving as Beth during the entire two-day voyage back to Westeros. By the end, she did not even have to think about it. Beth felt natural to her.
This was the real art of the Faceless men. Blending into the role. Leaving one's own name behind and becoming someone else.
It was hard not to feel like Arya Stark though, as she paced the deck of the ship, looking up at the stars. Three years ago she had sailed in the opposite direction, not understanding how much she still had to lose. A silly child who thought she could avenge her father with money alone. Now she was returning to Westeros for the first time. How strange it would be… to walk the streets of King's Landing again.
And then there was what Jaqen had said: "Beth Rivers is looking for work. But where she works, she may find the one Arya Stark seeks. She will watch and listen, just as she has been taught. And if she is truly a worthy student, she will find the truth herself."
And she planned to do just that.
Beth Rivers' apartment was located in the slums on the west side of town. It was furnished to look like it belonged to a girl who was trying to stretch her last dollar as far as it would go. A mattress on the floor, almost nothing on the walls, a desk and a chair with a wobbly leg. There was food in the fridge, sparse but fresh, and a clear reminder to Arya that another Faceless Man could access her apartment at any time.
Most importantly, there was a folder on the desk with the information she needed about the job. And that was when she found out her potential client's name. Myrcella Baratheon.
On paper, Beth Rivers was an ideal fit. They were around the same age, so Beth could blend into crowds and amongst Myrcella's friends. But the family created issues for Arya Stark.
The Baratheons had long been allies of the Stark family, in part because of her father's close friendship with their old CEO Robert before he died. Myrcella was Robert Baratheon's only daughter. But it wasn't the Baratheons searching for a bodyguard. It was Myrcella's mother. She was a Lannister. And that was a problem.
Arya had not interacted with most of the Lannisters. She had never exchanged words with Jaime and Tyrion. Her parents kept her well away from Cersei's war path in the few instances where Arya had knocked her son into the dirt, so the woman had only seen her a few times in passing. Myrcella was in Arya's year at school, but they almost never had classes together and they ran in different social circles. Tommen did not know Arya either. Most of them would not prove any issue.
But Joffrey… Arya had interacted with him many times and in a very negative way. They argued, they clashed, and once she had even broken his nose. But he wasn't the brightest bulb and hopefully, his intense self-focus would distract him.
And then there was Tywin Lannister.
Arya Stark had interacted with the Lannister patriarch exactly four times in her life. Once when she was a child, and they did not even exchange words. Once when she was fourteen and got suspended for punching his grandson in the face. They hadn't exchanged words then either.
And then twice after her father died. The graveyard and his office.
Every interaction had been brief and Arya knew that those encounters were nothing to him. She was just some girl who crossed his path. Three years later, he probably would not notice her even if she went undisguised. But still… it was a little worry in the back of her mind.
At least working on the Lannister payroll would keep her far away from her family, the people most likely to recognize her. The Starks and the Lannisters historically did not get along. They were rivals in business since before Arya was born.
And they would have a reason to want my father dead.
Jaqen had said this job could lead her to the one who killed her father. Any of the Lannisters could have been responsible. They had the money to put out a hit on someone. They had the money to cover it up.
Arya let out a shaky breath, leaning back in the wobbly desk chair and closing her eyes. She was thinking like Arya Stark. Arya, the stupid girl who thought she could make deals with devils without giving up pieces of herself.
I am Beth Rivers.
I need this job.
I need to be patient.
The Faceless Men would keep their end of the bargain and give her answers at the right time. And then she would handle it.