The barracks were exactly what they sounded like: a heavy-timbered, windowless chamber used to hold temporary prisoners or unruly guards. The only exit was the massive oak door, reinforced with iron straps and secured by a thick, heavy bar on the outside.
The scar-faced guard shoved "Lord Hascarl" inside, the trader's padded clothes scraping against the rough wood. "Stay put, Pentoshi. If you try to complain, my Lord Lannister will not be as generous next time." He slammed the door shut, and the iron bar dropped into place with a sickening thunk.
Arya waited. She heard the sound of two men settling outside the door, their voices low and bored, already speaking of wine and watches. They felt safe.
As soon as the noise outside settled into a monotonous murmur, Arya moved.
She peeled Lord Hascarl's face away. The scent of rosewater and decay faded, and she breathed in her own clean air. Her hands, small and quick, went to the thick travel vest she was wearing. In a seam near the armpit, she found what she needed: a small, sturdy lock-picking kit she'd crafted using scraps of steel from her ship.
The barracks had no windows, but that was fine. The light from the single oil lamp hanging in the hallway outside seeped in around the edges of the door. That small crack was enough.
She dropped to her knees. The lock was simple, heavy, and built for strength, not subtlety—a common, large tumbler mechanism. For an apprentice of the House of Black and White, it was a slow afternoon's work.
Arya inserted the finest of her picks. She heard the guards shifting their weight outside, one clearing his throat. The fear she felt wasn't of being caught, but of failing the mission—of letting the secrets Jaime Lannister was hoarding reach Westeros.
Click. A pin settled.
Click... Another pin fought her, tight with rust and age.
After a few heart-stopping seconds, the last tumbler gave way. Arya held her breath, not daring to twist the lock. She had opened the mechanism, but the heavy bar was still holding the door shut. That would take noise.
She returned the tools to her vest, stood, and pressed her ear to the door.
The guards were laughing about a distant ship and their current lack of action. Perfect.
Arya turned her back to the door, leaned down, and took the largest run-up the tiny barracks allowed. She threw her shoulder against the door just above the lock, hitting it with the sudden, concentrated force of a fighter, not a fat merchant.
The heavy door flexed and groaned. The two guards on the other side yelled in startled fury.
"What in the seven hells—!"
"He's trying to break the lock!"
"No," Arya whispered to herself, readying Needle. "I'm trying to distract you."
The guards fumbled with the wooden bar, their voices panicked. When they finally lifted the heavy beam, the door swung inward.
The two monks charged into the dark barracks, ready to subdue the "lost trader."
They found an empty room.
As they stared in confusion, a blade—thin, quick, and silent—flashed out from the shadow of the doorframe. Needle sliced through the thick, linen robes and found its mark on their necks. They dropped without a sound, their panic replaced by final silence.
Arya stepped over them, no longer the trader, but the shadow. She stripped a dagger and the map from one of the fallen guards. She didn't have much time. Jaime Lannister was engrossed in his scroll, but he wouldn't be for long.
The map, scribbled hastily on parchment, marked the key areas: the Barracks, the Courtyard, the Docks, and a large, central tower labeled simply: The Archive.
The secrets were there.