The water was a freezing, chaotic churn around the struggling vessel. Arya ignored the shock and the pain in her arm. Jaime Lannister had seen her. The docks were about to become the most dangerous place on this continent.
She pushed off the anchor rope and began swimming immediately, driving herself with urgent, powerful strokes toward the mouth of the cove. She kept low, trusting the darkness and the white spray of the waves to conceal her small frame.
From the damaged ship, the cloaked figures were yelling in frustration, grappling with the listing hull. They were focused on the cargo, not the assassin who vanished into the black water.
But the danger was already on the land.
"Archers to the cliff! Find the shadow in the water!" Jaime's voice, amplified by the high stone walls, was a roar of command.
Arya risked a quick glance back. Torches flared along the dock, and she could see Jaime himself, a solid shape of fury, standing near the pier's edge.
She had to escape the sheltered cove before they could sight her. Her arms and legs burned with the effort. Every stroke brought her closer to the open sea, but also dangerously close to the sheer rock walls of the cove entrance.
As she swam, she recognized the metallic tang she had smelled earlier. It wasn't just iron from the docks; it was the sharp, distinctive scent of Pale Metal—the same unfamiliar material used in the guards' curved blades.
Suddenly, a massive shape shifted in the water ahead of her, blocking her exit. It was a net—not a fishing net, but a heavy, linked metal mesh, lowered from the hidden cliffs above. They weren't using arrows; they were trying to trap her in the cove.
Arya halted her frantic swim inches from the razor-sharp Pale Metal netting.
She was cornered.
Jaime's voice, now closer as he moved along the top of the cliff, sounded triumphant. "It's over, girl! Come up now, or drown!"
Girl. He knew. The mask of Lord Hascarl was officially broken.
Arya took a deep, shuddering breath. The monastery guards knew her reputation. They wouldn't assume she was helpless. They had blocked the sea, forcing her only option: the land.
She pressed herself against the cold, wet rock wall, finding purchase on a narrow, barnacle-encrusted ledge hidden just below the water line. The current pushed her relentlessly against the stone.
She saw a flicker of movement above her: a monk, rappelling down the cliff face with silent expertise, carrying a coil of thick rope, intending to secure the net and ensure her capture.
This was no choice between fight and flight; it was a desperate climb.
Arya looked up the black, slick rock face. She was directly under the cliff where Jaime was shouting his commands. It was too steep, too exposed.
Except for one detail. Just above her head, a natural fissure in the rock, almost invisible to a man standing above, angled sharply upward and into the monastery's foundations. It was too small for any of the large monks, and certainly too small for Jaime Lannister.
It was a path only a shadow—only Arya—could take.
With a final, desperate surge of strength, Arya pulled herself out of the deadly water and into the narrow, cold embrace of the rock fissure.
She began to climb, scrambling up the rough stone, the sounds of the search party echoing just inches above her head. She was leaving the "Silence of the Sunset Sea" and entering the deadly labyrinth of its jade foundations.