Irritation nearly caused her to slip on the icy stone ground of her refuge, her ears pricking at an old name, a false name, a correction on her tongue and past her lips before she could stop herself. Childish petulance twisted her face into a pout, a trait that had not much changed with all the blood she'd spilt and changes she herself had undergone. She was sneaky; how was it her fault he was too stupid to be caught off-guard? The she-wolf bared her teeth and stepped out from behind the pillar, her eyes feral, snow melting in her hair.
"It's not Arry," she quipped, unable to help herself, her voice cracked from disuse, tongue heavy with the effort of trying to speak again. "It's --" What was her name? Cat of the Canals? Arya Stark? Arry? Beth? No, not Arry. And not Arya. Arya Stark was dead, dead and gone and turned to ash, a child whose life ended before she'd gotten half a chance to live it. But she'd never thought of herself as Arry to him. She'd told him who she was. He'd known her. The use of her borrowed name only stung and reopened old wounds, reminded her that he should've chosen her, not the Brotherhood. They were both alone but they could've been alone together but he'd said no. He was her pack and he left and she'd needed him but he'd gone, gone, and she left too, dragged away screaming, until she found freedom and lost herself.
His...was that a reprimand?...that she was not half so sneaky as she'd as she thought nearly had her running across the forge to hit him. Had she been but a whelp of a girl still, she might have done. Might've crossed that stone floor and hit him square in his stupid, bullheaded face, and he might pull her to the ground and they'd wrestle and he'd tell her she was a nice oak tree---
She paused, blinking, her mind having drifted away into memories of childhood. No, that wasn't now. That was then, the before, when she was Arya Stark of Winterfell and not a wraith, a ghost, a faceless girl with no home and nothing of her own. She couldn't even be sure those memories were real. He was real, but how could any of the rest of it be? She was faceless, nameless, a howling spirit that ran with wolves. She wasn't a child anymore but a woman grown and those fights and squabbles with him were Arya's. Not hers.
Her grey eyes studied him in her peevish silence, taking in the way he seemed to be even bigger than she remembered. Hadn't he been a man grown when he'd chosen the Brotherhood over her? How could he be even bigger? Gendry'd seemed so much older to her then, but now, she saw he wasn't much older than herself, but older than he had been. Thicker muscles formed his arms and shoulders, and the planes of his face were sharper, less rounded with boyhood. There might have even been the beginnings of lines around his eyes. With the dim light of the spot she chose as her own, it was hard to tell. But he was taller, a man for true now, with soot on his cheeks and under his nails and even more bitterness in his eyes.
Part of her wanted to ask where it'd come from, all that bitterness and anger. She felt she ought to speak, knowing that her silent staring unnerved most people. But he wasn't most people but she'd come here with a purpose, a purpose she'd now forgotten. So, she tried to find her tongue, to form words in the Common Tongue, when she was so used to the speech of wolves.
"I am sneaky."
The silly, worthless contradiction to his words slipped out, her eyes narrowing at him as she crossed her arms.
