He was watching her, as he often did. She knew he was there, though she never spoke to him or turned to look at him. Arya knew when someone was watching her.
It was almost a game at this point. Every day since he made his oaths to Daenerys, Tyrion had come here, to stand in the shade, mostly hidden, behind one of the stone pillars that decorated the courtyard of Daenerys' palace. Arya would practice her water dancing every afternoon under the sweltering Meereen sun, and she would completely ignore him.
While her passive refusal to acknowledge him was not the reaction he might have hoped for, it was better than the expected reaction of killing him. Then again, he had been present when Daenerys had ordered Arya to leave Tyrion unharmed in every regard. The emphasis she'd put on the last part still left him with a tinge of worry, but he was considerable sure that Arya would keep her word to Daenerys, at least for now.
She would not talk to him or admit to his existence, but she was also not going to harm him. He liked to think he could work with that. Tyrion still remembered the young child who had captured his mind at Winterfell, and wanted to find glimpses of that girl in the woman she'd become and yet also wanted to know this woman in front of him. This Arya was no longer the child that wishfully watched her brothers play at swords; but a woman that practiced her own, deadly, art. This Arya no longer pulled and tugged at dresses, but wore shirts and britches as if they were a second skin. She had evolved so much from the young child he once saw, and now enticed him more than she had previously.
Tyrion sighed as he watched her. He could see why it was called dancing, for it was graceful and fluid and, without the blade in her hand, it would look like a quick stepping foreign dance. She spun in all directions, jumping, rolling, and swiftly moving across the courtyard, her sword shimmering in the afternoon light.
She is definitely enticing, Tyrion mused, but not in the way that women usually allured Tyrion. She was beautiful; there was no denying that. The horse-faced young girl had grown slender, toned, and developed curves in all the right places, despite the loose clothing she wore that almost hid her maturing form. Regardless, Tyrion reminded himself again, she was lovely, but in a deadly way.
While the bodies of most women gave a promise of delicacy, of soft caresses, and loving hands, Arya's body did not suggest any of this. She promised a fight in bed, a battle for dominance, scratching nails, and a deep hungry passion. Of course, he didn't know for sure, but he imagined that this she-wolf was all bite in bed. He was not, however, interested in finding the truth of this theory. That could be a braver man's endeavor.
She had stilled now, Tyrion noticed, sweat glistening and drying on her skin, drenching her shirt. He observed Arya walking over to a servant and speaking briefly, then closing her eyes as the servant left.
Arya remained outside in the sun, head thrown back to let the sun shine right on her face, as if she were a pale flower, absorbing the light. With her eyes still closed, she slid the sword back into the scabbard, and rested her hand on the other sword on her belt: a small, child-sized sword. She just stood there in the sun, her hand softly caressing the hilt, frozen but not for that stroking hand.
Her statuesque appearance was disrupted when the servant returned to set two goblets on a stone bench, pouring wine before leaving once again. Arya followed in the servant's steps. Without halting stride, she picked up one of the silver cups, took a sip, and then disappeared through the open doorway into the dark shadows inside.
Now, with the courtyard to himself, Tyrion walked over to the bench to find the goblet of wine waiting for him. He allowed himself to laugh as he sat on the bench and picked up the wine, swirling it contentedly.
At least, he thought as he sipped the wine, this counted as acknowledgment.