Two guards stopped Arya Stark, their halberds crossed to form an impenetrable barrier. Cold and resolute, they signaled that no one might advance another step. No one could pass down the narrow corridor.
Seeing Tyrion step from the study, a desperate light flashed in her eyes as she tried to push forward.
The guards let the Little Wolf pass but still barred the man who followed her. He was short and thin, bald, with a hooked nose.
"Tyrion... my lord," Arya said.
"When you call me 'my lord,' it means you have a request." Tyrion smiled at her. "Speak your mind. Does it have something to do with this man?" He raised an eyebrow at the hawk-nosed man.
"He is Syrio Forel, the... dance instructor my father hired for me," Arya said.
"Dance instructor." Tyrion repeated the words. "Syrio Forel, what brings you here? Does Lord Eddard owe you tuition? I won't be paying it."
"Quite the contrary, my lord." Syrio Forel bowed. "Lord Eddard paid me well enough. The young lady's training is not yet finished."
"You wish to continue?" Tyrion turned to Arya. The girl tugged his sleeve, her eyes almost pleading.
"He saved me. He defeated Marlin Trant," Arya declared.
"He didn't save you. You'd still be in the Red Keep, still in the Lannisters' grasp." Tyrion corrected her. "As for Marlin Trant—throw a potato into my ranks and you'd hit at least four men who could defeat him."
Then he looked at Syrio Forel. "Defeating Meryn Trant is hardly an honor. Might I ask, master, have you come to continue teaching?"
"It is owed by someone." Syrio Forel bowed again to Tyrion.
Someone...
"Very well, Syrio Forel. I can speak with you." Tyrion motioned for the guards to stand down. "You carry no weapons?"
"None."
"Bronn, and the girl with the horse face, wait outside." Tyrion turned and walked back into the study. Syrio Forel followed and closed the door behind him.
...
Tyrion sat behind his desk, those green-violet eyes that glittered with sly intelligence fixed intently on the man across from him.
"I remember someone's eyes," Tyrion said. "You are not Syrio Forel. You are Jaqen H'ghar. I saw you at the Night's Watch camp. I left you and two companions at Harrenhal and handed you over to Ser Lorch."
"My lord Tyrion has a good memory." Jaqen H'ghar bowed and stood respectfully five paces away.
"So why have you come to find me?" Tyrion asked. "To repay me? To hand over a few copper coins? If you meant me harm, you need only shout and the men outside would rush in and chop you to mincemeat."
"A certain man owes a debt. A certain man owes three lives," Jaqen H'ghar said politely. "A certain man will not harm Lord Tyrion."
"Three of what?"
"Three lives."
"I see." Tyrion's tone was blunt. "You three were locked in a prison cart, meant to be killed. I saved you, so you owe me three lives?"
"The Red God is the creditor, my lord. Only death can repay life. The lord took three lives that belonged to him, so he must repay with three. You say the name and someone will do the deed."
"From what you say, you're a dangerous sort." Tyrion blinked. He already suspected the man's true identity but weighed whether to call it out.
"You're a Faceless Men." Tyrion finally spoke the truth. "A Faceless Men from the House of Black and White in Braavos. You worship the Many-Faced God."
"Your Lordship is well-traveled." Jaqen smiled. "Nothing escapes your eyes or ears."
"You were simply too obvious." Tyrion said. "Or perhaps you never intended to hide it from me. Jaqen H'ghar, tell me this: name any task, and you can accomplish it?"
Jaqen nodded. "Whether beggar or king, the difference lies only in the time it takes. But we will complete the task."
Tyrion understood well that followers of the Many-Faced God see death as a merciful release. For a price they would take a life as an offering to their god. The cost was usually exorbitant but the meaning behind it mattered more to them. Fees varied with the target's importance and security.
Hiring a Faceless Men to kill a common merchant might cost half what hiring a whole band of ordinary sellswords would, while hiring one to kill a king would cost the unimaginable.
Now that such a trump lay within his reach, Tyrion meant to use it well.
"You have three lives, no more, no less. After the third, we're even. You must think carefully, my lord."
"Before that, I want to ask you a question." Tyrion paused, then asked, "If someone hired you to kill me, how much would they pay?"
"A certain man would not kill someone he knows."
"Is that how a certain man operates, or is that how every one of you operates?"
"Every one of us. It is the teaching of the Many-Faced God." Jaqen H'ghar answered. "But only a certain man knows you."
"Seems I need a grand parade through Braavos's Flower Quarter, so everyone across the Narrow Sea will know my face." Tyrion chuckled and thought for a moment. He did have someone to settle. "I've decided. Vargo Hoat, the Qohor man, leader of the Brave Companions—or the Bloody Mummers. That bastard should die."
Indeed. He'd cut off Jaime's hand, and Tyrion had failed to catch him at the Gods Eye.
"He violated the sacred right of guesthood and meant to betray the Lannisters. He's a murderous villain, guilty of every evil," Tyrion said. "I think your god would be pleased to take that life."
"My lord need not explain why he chooses him," Jaqen said. "Give a name, and a certain man will take care of it."
"Vargo Hoat." Tyrion spoke the name with finality.
Jaqen bowed once more. "A certain man will go. Prepare a second name for when a certain man returns."
He turned and left the room. His movements were smooth and decisive, without the slightest hesitation or lingering.
The door closed softly behind him, a faint, clear click like a silent period, drawing a temporary pause to their conversation.
How did that saying go? Valar morghulis. Valar Dohaeris.