ooc | Prompt table

[fearcutsdeeperthanswords]

001.	Lively	002.	Remorseful	003.	Dismiss	004.	Heavy	005.	Forward
006.	Prowl	007.	Cut	008.	Compromise	009.	Impulse	010.	Hush
011.	Morals	012.	Engage	013.	Voice	014.	Awkward	015.	Lower
016.	Plead	017.	Caring	018.	Believe	019.	Found	020.	Shield
021.	Open	022.	Tactile	023.	Journey	024.	Scowl	025.	Hero
026.	Writer's Choice	027.	Writer's Choice	028.	Writer's Choice	029.	Writer's Choice	030.	Writer's Choice

Comments

24 | scowl

[fearcutsdeeperthanswords]

She didn't like the pot-shops. They'd been a blessing when she first discovered them, but they were always packed - and in Flea Bottom, she didn't much care for crowds. A person could blend in inside a crowd, could disappear - but she'd learned early on, and quickly, that crowds had their dangers. People grabbed at her, people shoved at her, people trampled those that had the misfortune of stumbling on the their way to the Street of Flour, or the Sept, or the Mud Gate or the Red Keep.

But the pot-shops had food - if it could really be called that - and when she was hungry enough, Arya could screw up her face and down the 'bit-o-brown' she was served. It was easier, the longer she spent trying to stay alive in King's Landing. What didn't get easier was dealing with the people who frequented the pot-shops. They eyed her, watched her like they watched everyone who entered, like everyone was a potential mark, like everything you wore was up for grabs for whoever was strong enough to take it.

She'd tried to be intimidating when dissolving into the sea of faces had failed. She scowled like she was a new-caught murderer being dragged to the dungeons. Stay away, her face said, I'm dangerous. That was what she wanted it to say, at least; the result must have been very different, because the first time she left three men had followed, and she'd run almost as hard as she had when fleeing the gold cloaks from her dancing lesson.

As she walked wearily through winding streets that night, she'd lifted her eyes, looking beyond the narrow streets, at the roofs that seemed to reach inward.She wished, she wished she could climb like Bran did, like it was as easy as shooting up a ladder. He'd always been so fast until he fell, and now he'd never be fast again. Above the streets, she'd be safe from the grabbing and pulling that you risked whenever you walked near the alleys. Above, she'd be largely out of the sight of gold cloaks. She'd be nearly invisible. Like Syrio had told her. Silent as a shadow. Swift as a deer. Light as a feather.

Fear cuts deeper than swords.

It was true, but sometimes, fleeing through the narrow, winding roads of Flea Bottom, heart pounding fit to burst, it was difficult to remember that.