Arya arrives to her “dance lesson” in King’s Landing.
Syrio Forel: You are late, boy. Tomorrow you will be here at midday.
Arya Stark: Who are you?
Syrio Forel: Your dancing master, Syrio Forel.
Syrio throws a wooden sword to Arya, she does not catch it, but drops it.
Syrio Forel: Tomorrow you will catch it. Now pick it up. That is not the way, boy. This is not a great sword that is needing two hands to swing it.
Arya Stark: It's too heavy.
Syrio Forel: It is heavy as it needs to be to make you strong. Just so. One hand is all that is needed. Now you are standing all wrong. Turn your body side-face. So. You are skinny. That is good. The target is smaller. Now the grip... Let me see. The grip must be delicate.
Arya Stark: What if I drop it?
Syrio Forel: The steel must be part of your arm. Can you drop part of your arm? No. Nine years Syrio Forel was first sword to the Sealord of Braavos. He knows these things. You must listen to me, boy.
Arya Stark: I'm a girl.
Syrio Forel: Boy, girl... You are a sword, that is all. That is the grip. You are not holding a battle-axe. You are holding...
Arya Stark: A needle.
Syrio Forel: Ahhh… Just so. Now we will begin the dance. Remember, child, this is not the dance of the Westeros we are learning... The knight's dance, hacking and hammering. This is the Bravo's dance... The water dance. It is swift and sudden. All men are made of water, do you know this? If you pierce them, the water leaks out and they die. Now you will try to strike me.
Arya takes several attempts as Syrio turns his back, defending her and disarming her constantly. She begins picking up on a few things, but still needs much work. Ned enters in the doorway and his smile turns to a grimace watching his daughter swordfight.
Syrio Forel: Up! Dead. Dead. Very dead. Come. Again, faster.
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