Arya melted away from the well, using the massive, tiered stone staircases to descend rapidly toward the sea level. She didn't have time to be silent; she needed to be fast. Her boots barely kissed the stone steps as she plunged down, her stolen map burned into her memory.
The docks were on the southwestern side, hidden from the main courtyard. She could hear the shouts of the pursuing guards drawing closer, their heavy armor clattering—they were fanning out through the compound.
She found the access corridor to the docks—a dark, narrow passage that smelled of fish and stagnant water. As she entered, she heard the loud, unmistakable snap of a sail being unfurled.
Too late. The tide was already turning.
Arya exploded from the passage. The harbor was a small, natural cove sheltered by high rock walls. A single, sleek, black-hulled galley was positioned at the dock. Its massive mainsail, dark as pitch, was already catching the sea wind, and a handful of cloaked figures were scrambling aboard, carrying the last of the sealed chests and scrolls.
Her target was the ship. Her deadline was now.
Two guards stood between her and the dock, their backs to her as they watched the vessel, ensuring the final cargo was loaded. They were distracted, congratulating each other on a job well done.
Arya didn't call out. She didn't use a subtle approach. With the alarm ringing, stealth was a fleeting luxury. She threw Needle.
The thin blade flew true, burying itself deep into the throat of the nearest guard. He pitched forward without a sound.
The second guard whirled, startled by the sound of his companion falling. Arya was already on him. She dodged his clumsy, broadsword swing and slammed the heel of her boot into his knee. As he crumpled, she seized his own dagger and drove it upward under his ribs.
Silence returned to the small dock, punctuated only by the creak of the ship's rigging and the growing shouts from the monastery high above.
Arya ran onto the wooden pier. The black ship was already pulling away, the ropes casting off.
"Hold that ship!" she yelled, her voice raw.
The hooded figures on the deck paused, looking back at the sudden appearance of a dark-clad stranger on the pier. One figure, taller than the others and wearing a heavy, sea-stained cloak, spoke, his voice muffled by the hood.
"The tide waits for no man. You are too late, assassin."
The ship continued to drift out. Arya knew she couldn't outrun it, and she couldn't swim fast enough to catch it. She needed to disable it immediately.
She spotted the anchor rope, thick and taut, running from the bow of the ship back to the mooring post. It was too thick to cut quickly with a dagger.
There was only one other way.
Arya braced herself on the dock. She took two steps and launched herself off the pier, not toward the ship, but toward the black, churning sea between the vessel and the rocks.
She hit the water with a violent splash, the cold instantly leeching the heat from her bones. The current was rough. She fought her way toward the anchor rope. Just as she reached it, pulling herself up with painful effort, the ship's speed increased.
Above her, from the high windows of the monastery, a new sound split the night: a shout of triumph, followed by the sight of Jaime Lannister standing at the rail, silhouetted against the torchlight. He had found the bodies.
"She's on the anchor line! Cut her down!" Jaime's voice carried clearly across the water.
The cloaked figure on the deck raised an axe.
Arya knew the man would sever the rope, leaving her to drown. She had no time to climb. Instead, she used her sudden momentum and her full body weight to pull down on the thick, wet rope with all her strength, just as the axe swung.
The shock was brutal. The rope snapped, not where the axe hit, but where the enormous tension met the sharp edge of the hull.
The heavy, iron anchor, still secured to the severed end of the rope, plunged instantly to the seabed. It yanked the ship's bow violently downward, wrenching the rudder and causing the black hull to ground hard against a hidden bank of sand and rock.
The ship shuddered, listing dangerously. The black sail flapped uselessly as the vessel was brought to a grinding halt, trapped by the receding tide and its own weight. The transfer was stopped.
Arya released the rope and was swept into the rough, frigid water. She broke the surface, coughing, and looked up at the damaged ship—a victory bought dearly.
But her gaze was instantly drawn to the cliff face above. Jaime Lannister was gone from the window. He would be heading to the docks.
Arya had to move now. She had disabled the ship, but the monks would protect the cargo, and Jaime would be furious. She still needed to get back to her own ship, hidden miles away.