[It's the kind of smile Arya can appreciate, the sort that tells a lot but never enough. No lady's smirk for her, just promise. There's a lot of promise in a smile. Arya turns her knife, stands sideface again, and lifts it, ignoring the blood on the glass blade.]
Yes. [It's mostly true; she's afraid, always, that they will leave her like so many others have. She still tells herself that she doesn't need them, that she'll be okay on her own, and that's true - she would be all right on her own.
She just doesn't want to be, anymore. ]
They're good. And I'm good to them. [They need me, is what she doesn't say out loud; she doesn't let herself think, and I need them.]
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Yes. [It's mostly true; she's afraid, always, that they will leave her like so many others have. She still tells herself that she doesn't need them, that she'll be okay on her own, and that's true - she would be all right on her own.
She just doesn't want to be, anymore. ]
They're good. And I'm good to them. [They need me, is what she doesn't say out loud; she doesn't let herself think, and I need them.]