Arya kept the face of the traveling magnate, a man named Lord Hascarl of Pentos, preserved in a special wax and herbal concoction. When she peeled the thin layer of skin from the pouch, it was cool and disturbingly pliable, smelling faintly of the man's expensive, cloying perfume—rosewater and something sickly sweet.
A girl is no one, she recited in the dead, cold voice of the House of Black and White. The ritual was old, dark magic, and it was still the most unsettling thing she'd learned. She carefully placed Hascarl's face over her own. It adhered instantly, smoothing out the sharper angles of her chin and jaw, softening her hard eyes beneath padded lids, and giving her a nose better suited for sniffing wine than for taking in the wind off the sea.
She touched the results. The skin was foreign, but the nerves were her own. The weight of the flesh felt like a mask, and the memories of Hascarl—his irritating laugh, his greedy calculations, the way he constantly fussed with his silks—were now disturbingly close to the surface of her mind.
She rose, no longer Arya Stark. She was a Pentos trader who had sailed too far west, seeking a forgotten market.
Her clothes were next. She pulled on a tunic of fine, if slightly rumpled, dyed linen beneath a heavy, fur-lined travel vest—a stark contrast to the dark leathers she usually wore. She hid Needle securely in a sheath sewn into the thick wool lining of the vest, a familiar weight against her ribs.
The path to the monastery was steep and heavily guarded. Approach by water was suicide; the monks watched the sea with uncanny vigilance. Infiltration required a lie they could swallow.
She waited for the sky to darken fully. When she finally stepped out from the shadows of the ironwood, her stride was no longer the silent, hunter's gait of a wolf, but the slightly pompous, rolling swagger of a man who believed his money made him welcome anywhere.
She moved along the coastal path, making no attempt to hide. When she spotted the first patrol of robed monks, she didn't duck away; she straightened her posture and began to loudly clear her throat, a sound she remembered Hascarl making when preparing to conduct business.
The two sentries, standing like carved jade statues, lowered their curved blades the moment they saw her. Their eyes were cold and assessing.
"Halt!" one commanded in the ancient Valyrian dialect. "Who travels on the path of the Silent Ones?"
Arya—or rather, Hascarl—put a hand over his chest and forced a jovial, overly warm smile onto the unfamiliar face.
"Forgive me, good sirs! Lord Hascarl is my name, of Pentos. A storm carried my small ship far off course, and I have lost my bearings. I saw your... monastery? Truly a marvelous piece of architecture! I mean no disrespect, I am simply seeking aid and direction back to the known seas. Perhaps a place to stable my weary feet for the night, and I am happy to pay handsomely for your charity!"
The guard's gaze narrowed, studying the expensive, slightly sweaty face of the Pentoshi lord. Arya knew the test was already underway. Hascarl's life depended on selling the lie that his wealth mattered more than their secrecy.
The sentry exchanged a look with his partner, a look that promised death if a single word proved false. "We do not deal in coin, Lord Hascarl. We deal in silence."