Author's Notes: Well hey, I haven't written for this fandom in forever! Honestly, I wasn't planning on writing for it again, but then this prompt came up and I started thinking about Arya and Jaime more and got hit right in the heart with some feels. What an unexpected turn of events.

reconstructed
what dreams may come

It was in the middle of the night and she definitely shouldn't have been out here, but Arya didn't think she could go back to sleep if she wanted. Nightmares had been chasing her as of late, startling her awake in the middle of the night and making her leery of her bed. She would be the last person to admit that she was afraid of something, especially when that something was as harmless as sleep, but she hadn't enjoyed a good night's rest in a long time. Where were the wolf dreams? Those were at least comforting and familiar; she missed them.

There was nothing like that here in King's Landing, even worse in the Red Keep. Everywhere she went, she was haunted by memories. She was almost certain that she had seen a ghost a time or two. At this point though, she would take a ghost if it meant seeing someone that she loved. Her father had died here, along with Septa Mordane and Jory Cassel. But they weren't here anymore while she was left to walk the same halls they once did under the roof of the very men and women that had plotted their deaths.

The nightmare was about them. She dreamed of them crawling out from their graves, finding her in the Red Keep, pulling at her hair and clothes, demanding answers from her. Why wasn't she avenging them? Why wasn't she fighting for justice? Why was she alive to eat nice food and wear pretty dresses? She was living with monsters and she was doing nothing about it.

"Have you forgotten me?" her father's rotting corpse would ask. "Have you replaced me so easily?"

"Never, Father, never!" Arya would shout, even as she pushed herself away from him, pressing herself against a wall as his fingers grazed against her red and gold dress.

"Are you a wolf any longer - or have you forsaken us and turned into a lion?"

Even as Arya howled in denial, even as she tried to explain that she would always be a Stark of Winterfell, she would turn away from him and catch sight of her reflection. The crimson dress fit her beautifully, trimmed in gold and with golden patterns. Her eyes were always green in the dream. And she would scream.

Those were the kind of dreams that kept her up late at night and had her gasping for air early in the morning. Just thinking about it made her feel sick as she wandered through the castle. She wasn't a lion and her eyes were grey as they had been since she was born. But there were days when she didn't feel like a wolf either. She felt...out of place, like maybe she was a wolf, but she had been taken out of the wild and tamed. Maybe that was why the wolf dreams hadn't come to her in a while.

How could she possibly explain herself to her father's ghost when she could barely figure it out herself? She couldn't rightly call herself a hostage, not anymore. Her mother was once more married to the Hand of the King. By her own choice or out of duty, Arya could not say, except that it had been this way for over three years now. She couldn't be called a ward or hostage to the Lannisters when her mother was one by marriage. What would her father say to that? Arya could not help but wonder if her mother had nightmares of her late husband accusing her of betrayal as well.

Barefoot and in a nightgown, covered up with only a thin robe, Arya found herself in the small godswood where Sansa proclaimed only to have felt peace in King's Landing. It was nothing like the godswood at Winterfell, but the single white weirwood tree made Arya's soul ache. Brown and red leaves crunched under her feet as she walked towards the tree so that she could place a hand on the trunk. It felt like home, but not at the same time. It was out of place too. The old gods did not belong in the South. Maybe that was why so many awful things had happened to them?

The clinking sound of armor caught Arya's attention and she whipped around the identify the source. No doubt she would be dragged back to her bedroom if she was found and most likely scolded the next day for being out in such a state of dress. Most of the goldcloaks were in somebody's pocket and any of her business was relayed to a number of sources. Her mother's husband always seemed to know what she was up to throughout the day.

Better any of them than one of the Whitecloaks though. Arya had no love for most of them, after she learned of what they had done to Sansa under Joffrey's orders. She didn't care if most of them were new; she still hated them. Knights were supposed to protect the innocent, not hurt them. They didn't deserve their swords, much less their cloaks.

When she realized the person was walking towards her, Arya did the only thing she could think to do: she scampered up the weirwood tree to hide. Some people might frown upon that, but the old gods weren't like the new gods in the Faith. They wouldn't be mad at her for climbing the weirwood. Back in Winterfell, when she was little, Jon had taught her how to climb in the godswood. Of course, she was fourteen now, a young lady and no longer a child, so climbing a tree might not look as appropriate, but Arya still had difficulties with being proper.

Once hidden in the tree, Arya stilled herself and held her breath. Hopefully, whoever it was hadn't heard her rustling in the tree and would move along if they didn't see anyone. No one came to the godswood but her and her mother anyways, even though her mother was more in tune with the Faith. She watched from her viewpoint as a goldcloak appeared and walked past the godswood without even glancing inside. Arya breathed a sigh of relief. She wouldn't be found out and hauled away. The goldcloaks were none too gentle with her, claiming she was wild and unruly (which, in all fairness, was probably true), and seemed to enjoy seeing her punished.

"A bit of a strange time to be climbing trees, don't you think?" a voice asked from down below.

Arya started, her feet slipping on the branch, and let out a yelp when she nearly fell out of the tree. Instead, she managed to catch herself, knocking the wind of herself as she slammed into a larger branch and gripping another one tightly. After she regained her footing and balance, she jerked her head to look back, only to see Jaime Lannister leaning against a pillar, arms folded across his chest. He was holding his arms so that neither of his hands were visible. Hand - he only had one true hand, the other a golden farce.

"You aren't wearing any armor," Arya told him accusingly.

Jaime smirked. "An astounding observation."

That was why she hadn't heard him. She had been too focused on the goldcloak to notice another person coming up from behind her. She imagined that Syrio Forrel would have berated her for being so oblivious and ignoring the world around her, but she could barely conjure his voice anymore.

Scowling, Arya grumbled under her breath as she climbed out of the tree. It was a lot more awkward than climbing up it. Dresses, even nightgowns, weren't made for tree climbing. By the time she was back on the ground, her robe was out of sorts and a few leaves stuck out of her hair. Her mother would be horrified at the sight of her, her lord husband probably exasperated. Honestly, Arya was trying to be more of a lady now, for her mother's sake, but it was so hard sometimes and she got so tired. She just wanted her mother to be happy, but it made her less happy.

"What were you doing up there anyways?" Jaime asked.

"Hiding from nosy bastards," Arya told him flatly.

Instead of getting angry and correcting her for her insolent behavior, Jaime barked out a laugh. He was a strange man. Whenever she acted out of line, he didn't bother trying to fix her or tell her off. He didn't tell her that she needed to be a proper lady or to work on her etiquette; he didn't sneer at her when she tripped over the hemline of her dress; he didn't pick at her or point out her flaws; he didn't remind her that it would not be long before her mother's lord husband betrothed her. He always laughed if she made an off color comment and would roll his eyes whenever the Queen Regent, his twin sister, snipped at or chided her.

Most importantly though, Jaime never told her to leave whenever she would sit and watch him practice swords. It had been three years since his sword hand had been cut from him, but the sword had been an extension of his right hand, not his left, and so he was forced to learn it again. He was a far better swordsman than most, but with only three years of practice, he was not nearly as good as he had been before. It must have frustrated him greatly - to have all that knowledge in his mind and have to relearn the language with his left hand.

Arya would sit to the side, a forgotten stitching in her hands. She brought it to pretend like she was working on it instead of watching Jaime practice. He had a different type of style than the water dancing she was taught, but he was fluid and skillful. He was an aggressive swordsman, doing his best to not give any of his opponents time to breathe. She could see why he had been allowed to join the Whitecloaks at such a young age, even if he wasn't as good as back then yet.

"Well, that's one place most of the little birds around here wouldn't think to check," Jaime said, referring to the many spies that worked in the Red Keep. Whether the nosy, little gits were in Cersei's pocket, Margaery's, or even the great Tywin Lannister's, all of them were an annoyance. Arya would not doubt that her mother had gained one or two in the time since she had been brought to King's Landing and later married Tywin. She was good at this game, even if she acted like she didn't want or like to play. She did it to protect Arya.

"What are you doing here?" Arya demanded. This was her place. No Southerner had a right to the godswood. It was of the North, like her. Mostly though, she was embarrassed about getting caught and almost falling out of the tree.

Jaime shrugged his shoulders. "I could not sleep."

"So you think to wander around and frighten the first person you find?"

"I thought nothing frightened you," Jaime pointed out.

"I wasn't!" Arya denied hotly, her cheeks turning pink. Jaime gave her a disbelieving look, that smirk playing at his mouth again. She folded her arms across her chest and glowered back at him. She hadn't been frightened by him, merely caught off guard. There was a difference. "Are you going to escort me back to my bedchambers?"

"I'm more than certain you can find them yourself," Jaime responded. "Besides, I'm off duty."

Arya eyed him, but didn't move to uncross her arms. His reputation said that he was not a trustworthy person. He had fought against Robb and lost, killed the Mad King he was supposed to be protecting, watched as her grandfather and uncle had been murdered. And yet he also would toss a sweet her way after Cersei made a snide comment about Arya gaining weight and didn't tattle on her to her mother or his father if he caught her playing with swords. There were times when she didn't really know what to think of the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.

"But it is late and you should be getting to bed if you plan on waking early."

Arya furrowed her brow in confusion. "What for?"

"Your lessons, of course," Jaime answered, like she should've known exactly what he was talking about. Arya didn't know what to say to that. She didn't have to wake up early for her lessons. Her dancing lessons weren't until the afternoon and she wasn't do to see the Septa tomorrow. "I think it's high time that you step off from the sidelines and learn how to fight like a Westerosi. You can't do that from just watching. A lady should know how to defend herself."

Unable to contain herself, Arya's heart jumped, even though she knew it was futile to get hopeful. "But Lady Catelyn and Lord Tywin-"

"Don't have to know," Jaime interrupted.

Arya bit her lip. Excited as she was over the mere idea of getting to train with swords for real, Arya felt a spark of hesitancy. She did not want to be picky, especially about something she loved and was truly good at, but she could not be as strong as her mother. She could not control her emotions so well. "I don't want to train with Ser Ilyn Payne."

He'd killed her father with his sword Ice. She could not train with him. The thought made her feel sick. She would rather not train at all.

Though he hadn't been there to witness it himself, Jaime knew of the circumstances. He considered her words for a moment before nodding his head. "Then I'll train you. It'll be good practice to look at it from a different viewpoint."

A tremulous smile appeared on Arya's face. It would feel so good to have a sword in her hands again and do more than pretend. She would feel at peace and perhaps more like herself. Maybe she would feel like a wolf again once she regained a piece of who she was. She bid Jaime a good night, forgetting to thank him, and turned to walk back to her bedchambers. The entire walk was a blur as she was lost in thought about the upcoming day. Playing with swords wasn't ladylike, but she wouldn't be playing. When she laid in bed, though she was excited, sleep found her quickly and the wolf dream came to her once more.