Game of Thrones - Daenerys/Arya - Knife
Title: A Gift
Prompt: Drabbletag 5 - Daenerys/Arya - Knife
Fandom: A Song of Ice and Fire
Pairing: Arya/Daenerys
Word Count: 250
When Arya crosses back over the Narrow Sea, she finds a changed land, a name no longer her own, a dragon queen in King's Landing. The Stark girl is dead, and in her place is Arry, Cat, Weasel - the lanky bastard boy, the peasant girl, names and faces to assume and cast off like so many old cloaks. Arya knows who she is. It is not who she was, but no matter. She knows what crowns conceal, and tyrants die as easily as anyone else.
She tests the blade of the knife with her thumb, pleased at its sharpness.
But when she slips past castle walls to find her target unguarded, it is no tyrant she sees but a woman - not so much older than Arya, not so much crueler, no less weary. The arrogance she wore in city streets is gone, as if it too is only a mask to be discarded.
Arya steps closer, and the queen watches, hair spilling pale across her shoulders, lamplight playing over her face. Not defenseless, no. But not so different, a stray voice whispers, from a lost wolf, a forgotten daughter.
“Is it death you mean to offer me?” she says, and Arya's mouth goes dry. The blade is light in her hands.
“A warning,” she says, “and - ”
A kiss, almost gentle the way her gift always is, steel pressed cold to the throat.
“All must serve,” she whispers. “Even queens. Remember that, and we won't meet again.”
Prompt: Drabbletag 5 - Daenerys/Arya - Knife
Fandom: A Song of Ice and Fire
Pairing: Arya/Daenerys
Word Count: 250
When Arya crosses back over the Narrow Sea, she finds a changed land, a name no longer her own, a dragon queen in King's Landing. The Stark girl is dead, and in her place is Arry, Cat, Weasel - the lanky bastard boy, the peasant girl, names and faces to assume and cast off like so many old cloaks. Arya knows who she is. It is not who she was, but no matter. She knows what crowns conceal, and tyrants die as easily as anyone else.
She tests the blade of the knife with her thumb, pleased at its sharpness.
But when she slips past castle walls to find her target unguarded, it is no tyrant she sees but a woman - not so much older than Arya, not so much crueler, no less weary. The arrogance she wore in city streets is gone, as if it too is only a mask to be discarded.
Arya steps closer, and the queen watches, hair spilling pale across her shoulders, lamplight playing over her face. Not defenseless, no. But not so different, a stray voice whispers, from a lost wolf, a forgotten daughter.
“Is it death you mean to offer me?” she says, and Arya's mouth goes dry. The blade is light in her hands.
“A warning,” she says, “and - ”
A kiss, almost gentle the way her gift always is, steel pressed cold to the throat.
“All must serve,” she whispers. “Even queens. Remember that, and we won't meet again.”