Indiscernible
Fandom: A Song of Ice and Fire
Summary: Arya, Cersei, hate. No pairing.
Note: Just a tiny little drabble. Inspiration strikes at the strangest of times
She claims she is her father's daughter, but there are more differences than similarities.
She grasps, claws, screams, and digs her heels in against the persistent tide, struggling to define herself, regardless of expectations. Determination defines her; it embeds itself within her very bones, much like a harsh winter chill or a sweet summer breeze.
The sands slip from beneath her feet.
They meet each others eyes with equal disdain, faces only barely masking mutual disgust. Were they not in the presence of others, they would not bother with such facades.
There might once have been dreams of love and happiness, but they’ve long since withered away, like a crumbling petal of a flower; all that remains is the sickly sweet scent of burning potpourri and its tasteless ashes.
She wonders if any gentleness remains, hidden behind tatters of the girl she once was.
Cersei turns from the loathsome child, but is ever aware of her shadow’s flicker across the desk, intertwined with the Stark's, impossible to discern or distinguish.
Summary: Arya, Cersei, hate. No pairing.
Note: Just a tiny little drabble. Inspiration strikes at the strangest of times
She claims she is her father's daughter, but there are more differences than similarities.
She grasps, claws, screams, and digs her heels in against the persistent tide, struggling to define herself, regardless of expectations. Determination defines her; it embeds itself within her very bones, much like a harsh winter chill or a sweet summer breeze.
The sands slip from beneath her feet.
They meet each others eyes with equal disdain, faces only barely masking mutual disgust. Were they not in the presence of others, they would not bother with such facades.
There might once have been dreams of love and happiness, but they’ve long since withered away, like a crumbling petal of a flower; all that remains is the sickly sweet scent of burning potpourri and its tasteless ashes.
She wonders if any gentleness remains, hidden behind tatters of the girl she once was.
Cersei turns from the loathsome child, but is ever aware of her shadow’s flicker across the desk, intertwined with the Stark's, impossible to discern or distinguish.