He's been working so hard of late, hammering out sword after sword till all that is left is a sharp buzzing in his ears and a deep ache in his arms. He wants to stop, he wants to sleep; he needs to sleep. He's loathe to admit it, but he's afraid. He's not sure what terrifies him more- that merely dreaming of her can have such an effect on him or that he wants to sleep just so he can dream of her.
It's a vicious cycle and she comes to him that night, like several others before. The Arya of his dreams is no longer the gangly girl of ten, all awkward angles and limbs. She's a Lady now, dressed in silks so fine that even though the sight of her takes his breath away he fears what he really loves about her- that fighting, rebelling, loyal, infuriating spirit- is gone forever, lost in the sands of time. But then as a gentle breeze lifts her skirts up an inch, he catches a glimpse of the riding trousers she's wearing underneath and the knife strapped to her ankle. The relief rushing through his body is so intense it threatens to crush him. He laughs at his dream self, he can take down men thrice his size but this puny girl, nay, woman will be the death of him.
He opens his mouth unsure of what he's going to say but she beats him to it anyway. I thought you were different. But you left, like Jon and Nymeria and father, you left, she accuses with hurt filled eyes. He wants to apologise, to promise that he'll never leave again, to hold her and never let go but she's gone as quickly as she came and he's left grasping at thin air. Alone. Again.
