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She moved like water. Swift. Adapting. She struck like lightening. Sudden. Abrupt. She had changed since he had left her. Harder than she had been. Her cheekbones sharp against her face and her eyes dark. She wore her face still and he was thankful that they had let her. He would not have been able to recognise her any other way. He wondered what name she went by now. Surely, they would not let her call herself Arya Stark. It was a name with history. A name filled with memories. He doubted that she was that girl any longer. However, to let her keep that name would mean to let her remember who she had been. They would never allow it.
Forward. Forward. Back. Back. Fighting an invisible enemy. A thin sword in her hands. He wondered who would win if he challenged her. He had had more experience, but she ... she was something else. Even when he had first met her he had found her engaging. Someone different. The sudden stillness of her feet brought him back to the present. She stretched her arms behind her head before throwing the sword in his direction. He moved. It crashed into the wall behind him.
‘I know you’ve been watching me the whole time.’
Her voice was strangely neutral. None of the passion he remembered remained.
‘Just as you should. However, you lost your only weapon.’
She leaned forward as if daring him to attack her. He saw the glint of a throwing knife in her hand. She was wilder, more daring.
‘What are you doing here?’ She asked in the same voice.
‘I’ve come home.’
It was home after all. Where else would he go after all this time? She relaxed and nodded in understanding. She went to move behind him to retrieve her sword. He should have let her go. There was never a good reason to bring up the past, but he couldn’t stop himself.
‘Did you fashion your sword after the one you used to own, Arya Stark?’
He heard her gasp and her feet move as she turned to face him.