Eight. Dragon Spam. (Arya)

[wakethedragon]

[The man who fears losing has already lost. Viserys made his way to the deck with his broom in tow. His left hand was wrapped in strips of cloth he had torn from a ragged silk shirt. Fear cuts deeper than swords. There was a bruise under his left eye, and several more older bruises on his arms, hidden under the sleeves of his shirt. He pretended

Comments

[dont_tell_sansa]

[And Arya slipped out from one of those shadows, snaking her own broom out to thwap at his broom sword arm.] You have to be quieter.

[wakethedragon]

[In the beginning, his response would have been a wild swing that had no chance of landing on anything but air. Tonight, he hissed under his breath and hopped away from her, holding his broom at the ready.]

How, exactly? Cut off my feet and float?

[dont_tell_sansa]

[Better, Arya through, bringing up her broom. She was smiling, just a little, and shifted her weight back into a waterdancer's stance.] You just do. You can feel it. You make noise when you breathe, when you walk. Listen to yourself.

[wakethedragon]

[He frowned. He imagined himself slipping into the Kingslayer's private chambers. He couldn't stomp about like an aurochs. He listened to himself breathe as he watched her, waiting for an attack. He had tried to take the offensive in the beginning, only to fail utterly.]