She almost touched him, almost, so close it made her grin. A strand of hair dangled in her eyes, limp with sweat. She pushed it away with the back of her hand.
Left, Syrio sang out. "Low." His sword was a blur, and the Small Hall echoed to the clack clack clack. "Left. Left. High. Left. Right. Left. Low. Left!"
The wooden blade caught her high in the breast, a sudden stinging blow that hurt all the more because it came from the wrong side. "Ow," she cried out. She would have a fresh bruise there by the time she went to sleep, somewhere out at sea. A bruise is a lesson, she told herself, and each lesson makes us better.
Syrio stepped back. "You are dead now."
Arya made a face. "You cheated," she said hotly. "You said left and you went right."
Just so. And now you are a dead girl.
But you lied!
My words lied. My eyes and my arm shouted out the truth, but you were not seeing.
I was so, Arya said. "I watched you every second!"
Watching is not seeing, dead girl. The water dancer sees. Come, put down the sword, it is time for listening now.
She followed him over to the wall, where he settled onto a bench. "Syrio Forel was first sword to the Sealord of Braavos, and are you knowing how that came to pass?"