This prompt was taken from the lovely GOT community of tumblr. Specifically from notpreparedforthepain.
"It's true."
He set his hammer on the anvil. He was only repairing some arrow heads. They could wait for a moment - wait for the slip of a girl who wasn't a girl anymore, and never really was, leaning against the entrance to the forge.
His forge. The Starks had gifted it to him, for as long as he wanted, telling him he always had a home in Winterfell.
"Arry?"
He'd gotten his tongue wrapped around only one "M'lady" since he'd finally stumbled into her ancestral home, and found himself face first in the snow. There could be no pretenses between them now, after everything.
"Everyone wants to appear tougher than they really are. Apart from you."
He crosses his arms before his chest - she still marvels at how he manages it - and gives her that smirk she's remembered countless nights since their days with the Brotherhood. "And how do you figure that?"
"You're bloody massive Gendry," she scoffs and walks further into the forge. "But you slouch even when you walk and somehow manage to bleed into the background."
He shifted. He slouched. He looked at the ground and the tips of her boots as she got close.
Sweet little fingers that were wicked with a blade touched his chin.
"You're always looking down. If you were smart I'd say it was to hide those Baratheon eyes, but we both know better."
"What are you doing, Arry?"
"Why do you do it?"
"Do what?"
She smiled. She loved his temper. "Try to make yourself look so meek? And small."
He just looked at her a moment. All grey eyes and pale skin and the beautiful frosts of winter. "Because I'm no one. No one for all these lords and ladies to look at anyway."
One of her hands gripped Needle and the other took his wrist and her eyes, her jaw and lips, all hardened tight and sore.
"You are not No One."
"Not to you."
She shook her head. Gendry thought she looked dazed. She swayed and let go of Needle and brought that other hand to grip the strap of his leather apron.
"Am I No One?" It wasn't breathless. Not the way some ladies might fish for was like she truly didn't know.
He uncrossed his arms and planted his hands firmly around her waist. He grounded her. He centred her.
"You are Arry." She finally looked at him, pleading as much as the She-Wolf of the North could. "You are Arya. You are the skinniest little pain in my arse and the one I would follow anywhere. You are M'Lady, and I am… I am yours."
She let one long breathe out through her nose, eyes clearing from that awful stormy grey and her hold on him became firmer, less desperate.
"You are mine."