Book 1: Prints in the Snow

Chapter XII • Dancing Lessons

Arya and Lyon stepped onto the balcony, catching Syrio Florel's eyes as they both stepped forward. Arya, he recognized as the one he was to teach to 'dance', however, the golden-haired Lyon- he did not understand her presence.

"You are late, boy. You will be here at midday." He jabbed a finger in Arya's direction. "And you-you wish to dance?" He looked to Lyon now, whose wry grin was growing.

"I fancy myself a decent dancer, my lord."

"We shall see." He said, yet the ghost of a smile was hidden.

Arya crossed her arms. "Who are you?"

"Your dancing master, Syrio Florel." He had a wooden sword suddenly in his hand and flung it Arya, but after she fumbled to grasp its hilt it clambered to the ground. "Tomorrow you will catch it. Now pick it up." Arya attempted too, but Syrio shook his head. "That is not the way, boy. This is not a great sword that needs two hands to swing."

Arya frowned at her dancing master and hefted the sword with both hands. "It's too heavy."

"It is heavy as it needs to be to make you strong. Just so. One hand is all that is needed. Now you are standing all wrong. Turn your body side-face. So. You are skinny. That is good. The target is smaller. Now the grip... Let me see. The grip must be delicate."

"What if I drop it?"

Lyon shrugged. "Then you are dead."

Syrio raised an eyebrow as Lyon sat upon a stair. He shrugged in a haphazard agreement. "The steel must be part of your arm. Can you drop part of your arm? No. Nine years Syrio Forel was the first sword to the Sealord of Braavos. He knows these things. You must listen to me, boy."

"I'm a girl." Arya relented.

"Boy, girl... You are a sword, that is all. " Syrio said. "You are not holding a battle ax. You are holding a-"

"A needle." Arya interrupted, a grin on her face as she lifted the sword up to eyesight.

"Ah, just so."

Watching Arya fight with her needle sent nostalgia rushing through Lyon as her thoughts turned to her brothers, and not for the first time since her arrival in King's Landing. It was clear that the young Stark girl needed diligent practice with each time Syrio batted away her strikes like it was nothing to him. All the while he smiled, and despite the longing she felt for her family, Lyon smiled as well. But Arya visibly improved in their session, even as the sun began to set in the sky.

"Run along now child," Syrio finally ceased their training. Sweat clung to Arya's brow, yet Syrio himself seemed unperturbed. "And remember midday!"

Arya was too excited to pay much mind to the exhaustion aching her tired limbs, but energy sprung forth from them nonetheless. The sparring sword was returned to Syrio and the young Stark girl made to run off. Sore from sitting upon the stairs for those hours, Lyon rose and rubbed at the pangs in her joints. She made to follow Arya, but Syrio Florel had another plan for her it seemed.

"You, girl. Wait."

"Girl, is it now?" Lyon paused upon the stair and flung a look over her shoulder. She found herself turning as she saw a steel blade being pulled from its sheath- a rather familiar blade. "Where did you get that?"

"It does not matter. It is a formidable blade, you know. The question is if you know how to use it." He assessed the steel in his hand, eyeing the silver gleam from pommel to blade. It sparked an attractive gleam in his eyes, and it stayed even as he offered the hilt for Lyon to take.