CHARLIE HUNNAM

                     @laenahs || harold hardyng’s celebration

It had been awhile since Harry had felt at ease at a social event.  Ever since his legitimization, his schedule had been filled with ‘quaint gatherings’ that were anything but, ‘delightful evenings’ that felt like torture, and ‘modest dinners’ which contained more courses than he could count.  The load had lightened slightly after leaving the Reach soon after the doomed wedding, determined to keep a low profile (something that proved a smart idea, as while other were off being ransomed by Ironborn, Harry was at home in Stonehedge, continuing on with daily life), but as things returned to normal and people began to settle, Harry’s father had insisted that he rejoin the ranks of other Lords and Ladies in King’s Landing for the events celebrating the hostage’s returns. --- But as he looked around the dimly lit but nicely decorated tavern, rented out by the Vale’s own Young Falcon, he thought this could be an event he could enjoy.

Despite his fondness of surroundings (a tavern? felt very familiar), Harry’s blue eyes could be seen constantly flicking towards the door, with every coming and going.  He had expected to see her at the event the day before, held by Queen Cersei, as he expected Laenah would most certainly attend the proper, sanctioned event.  But either she had not made an appearance or the two had missed each other.  So there Harry sat, rather hopelessly staring at the door, hoping that her nostalgia for their shared time in the Vale would lead her to the door of a Valeman’s party.

He had no idea what he would say to her, if she were to show up.  He had left rather quickly after the wedding--after going back for her at the wedding-- so quickly, it was almost rude.  He had stayed around just long enough to count her as safe in his mind before he was off on his horse, sprinting down the Roseroad.

His eyes roamed the face of every woman who passed by, somehow wanting to believe that he had just missed her entrance.  But none passed the test, although the more ale he drank, the more they all started to look more and more like her.  

I’m not used to being loved. I wouldn’t know what to do.

F. Scott Fitzgerald, ”More Than Just A House” (via fleurdelecours)

oflioncss‌:

born and raised and educated by the best and brightest her mother could bring to the red keep, myrcella had learned as much about the world as could be expected of a princess. she’d learned such pursuits as dancing and singing, sewing and painting, yes, but she’d learned her geography, too. as a young girl, her tutors and septas had made something of a game out of it, teaching her the names and words and sigils of each of the seven kingdoms’ bannermen. though she’d forgotten many of the finer details, this knowledge had come in handy many a times, when this lord or that lady visited the capital, or when her family traveled to casterly rock or storm’s end.

her education had proved largely beneficial during her weeks in highgarden; myrcella could identify most of the strangers she encountered based on the colors they wore, the embroidered sigils on their silks or the broaches pinning on cloaks. she found herself searching this man before her for any such identifying mark. finding no such thing, she frowned; it was not often that myrcella found herself off-guard, unprepared. the accent proved no more help, thickened with wine though it was, and so myrcella let out an imperceptible breath. if she could not place him, perhaps he could not identify her, dressed in green silks the color of her eyes, so different from the colors of either parents’ house. no, they were complete strangers to each other for the moment.

she could work with that.

the words startled her; it was rare for anyone to speak to her without the vale of politics, of courtesies and diplomacy. based merely on the man’s presence at the wedding and the freedom of movement implied by his hideout here in the gardens, myrcella figured he must be highborn. in a way, it was comforting, to hear someone speak freely, but she couldn’t shake the disconcerted feeling at his response. “to each their own, i suppose,” she mused, lips pursed in something like disdain. “it’s certainly an ideal setting for a royal wedding.”

anxious to change the subject to more neutral footing, myrcella quickly surveyed the belongings strewn around the man on the bench. spotting a book, she relaxed slightly, turning an inquisitive smile on him. “what is it you’re reading, my lord? this is a good place to bring a book - quiet, peaceful.” the irony that she was disrupting said peace was not lost on her, and she found herself drifting a foot or two further away from the stranger.

If only Harry had been paying more attention throughout the events throughout the past weeks, he would have known who she was.  But alas, he had not, and if had, he wasn’t sure his way of approaching her would change that much.  He would have still shared his negative opinion on the roses, but he might have tried to sound a bit more polite, a bit more proper.  But without knowing, his demeanor stayed the same, and anyone who would jest that with manners like his, he must have been raised in a whorehouse, would not be wrong.

Of course, he had been living among the splendor and wealth of Lords and Ladies since a little after his thirteenth name day but he did not feel at home within it, he had been raised poor, dirty and hungry.  This caused an outlook on many things that did not meld well with the outlooks of the people he had been forced to interact with over the course of the past few weeks.

After his first exploratory look to see who had tread upon his quiet, his eyes drifted back down to the work at hand: sharpening his blade.  As she spoke he continued the smooth and routine movements of dragging a blade against whet stone, always finding the motion soothing.  Something could be said that Harry was most at peace when preparing his weapons.  

“Here, Fleabottom, does it really matter where it happens?” He questioned with an almost imperceptible flick of the eyes up to his company.  “All that is cared about is that the wedding happens, that alliances are forged and the wealthy stay wealthy.”  They were words that should not be spoken to a stranger on whom he had no idea of their identity, of their politics or family.  But with the wine coating his tongue and filling his belly, and his general lack of politicking know-how, Harry found himself saying them anyways.

Stopping his movements on his blade, Harry nodded his head to the book, an offer, an attempt to let her know she’d be welcome to pick it up.  “The Nine Voyages.  Maester Mathis. ---The first book I learned to read.  A great way to escape the mundane tasks of every day life.”

Deciding it was his turn for questions, he finally raised his head to look at her, face to face.  “And what about you, m’lady?  What brings you out this far?  Lost or tryin’ to escape?”

♛ ASOIAF | Regions ♛ The Riverlands

Much history—rife with both glory and tragedy—has been made in the lands watered by the river Trident and its three great vassal streams.Stretching from the Neck to the banks of the Blackwater, and east to the borders of the Vale, the riverlands are the beating heart of Westeros. No other land in the Seven Kingdoms has seen so many battles, nor so many petty kings and royal houses rising and falling. The causes of this are clear. Rich and fertile, the riverlands border on every other realm in the Seven Kingdoms save Dorne, yet have few natural boundaries to deter invasion. The waters of the Trident make the lands ripe for settlement, farming, and conquest, whilst the river’s three branches stimulate trade and travel during peacetime, and serve as both roads and barriers in times of war.

xwyllamanderly‌:

The sight of the king’s purpling face would live in Wylla’s mind for the rest of her life.  She had always been so flippant, half-joking about such a thing happening with everyone else for weeks.  A Lannister king, wearing a Baratheon crown, wedding a pretty, ever-scheming Tyrell?  It was a tale, waiting to be told.  But the sight of a man’s life being twisted from his body in such a palatial setting had been something quite different from the joke she’d heard and shared with friends.  It meant the carefully-arranged order of this gathering was gone…and that order had descended into chaos within seconds.

Wylla had stood without thinking, watching the scene unfold before her in a horrible, wide-eyed stupour.  Ser Wylis had carried on the long-standing tradition of Manderly men overindulging at meals, and was slower out of his chair.  Or perhaps it was something else, for he stood beside his daughter with a face gone ghostly white, watching Cersei Lannister hold her dying son…as his own daughter stood beside him.  (And she had always foolishly dismissed her father’s love, the fool.)

Wylla herself, however, was far faster to act, unable to look away but still loudly telling the guards behind their table to go, to help, to move, by all the gods!  Her father, still stupefied, had been slow to react when she’d told him she was leaving the banquet hall, following the example of other nobles.  She had met his eyes just as they turned to hers, and Wylla had left him as he moved as swiftly as his large body could manage to stand by the king in the North.

The crowd leaving the hall was naturally wild with grief and fear, and Wylla was well-rid of them as she turned down a corridor that lead to the western part of the palace.  To the west meant toward the river, and if she could reach the river, Wylla could find the way to the Northern camp.  Or should she go toward the stables?  Ser Loras had promised her the use of a mount, if she needed one, and when better to make good on such an offer than now?  She changed direction, taking unfamiliar corridors and idly looking outside to check the position of the sun to gauge if she was going the right way.

At last, at last, she reached the path to the stables, her feet fast and light in dyed silk slippers.  There was no one about, her mad dash likely circumventing their more meandering route from the banquet hall.  She slowed her steps, skirt still gathered in her hands to allow for speed and ease of movement as she entered the stables and tried to find that beautiful, delicate creature she’d met a few days earlier.  Soon, she’d be on a horse and headed to the camp, well away from any foolishness and able to inform the Northern men what had occurred.

Or she would have been on a horse, had she not been hauled up against a wall by a big brute of a man, and the cold of steel against her throat.

Her cry of alarm strangled in her throat, and Wylla reacted instinctively…with a decisive jerk of her knee into his groin and a feral expression on her face, teeth bared, eyes sharp.

Harry had always been a man to act without thought, and go purely on instinct.  He was nearly never wrong in matters such as this, and if he was, he’d rather apologize later than be on his own deathbed or attending someone else’s, muttering about what he should or could have done.  If he was wrong, the worse that could happen would be the cause of someone else’s death, but at least it would not be his own.  So as he turned on the source of the sounds behind him, he had not thought it’d be a girl, he had assumed it would be an overzealous knight or guard, sure that they had stopped the perpetrator in his tracks.

Within the second of him realizing that unless the Lords and Ladies of the Reach were now employing mere girls to do their bidding, three things happened.  Firstly, he realized he had made a mistake.  Secondly, his arm which had been wrought with tension, relaxed, the blade dropped away from the girl’s throat.  And third?  Third, he received a quick, and probably well deserved knee to his groin.

Harry wished he could say it hadn’t dropped him like a stone down to a riverbed, but it had.  And it took him more than a moment to quell the sudden water that had sprung to his eyes and the ringing in his ears.  Either that girl was wearing armor beneath her gown that gave her an iron knee, or she had experience with the motion.  

For a moment, Harry was unable to lift his hands from his knees, concerned the dinner he had consumed would find itself on the stone ( although, considering what had just happened inside, this could have been of benefit to Harry ).  Finally the confidence that his stomach could remain firm and his mouth closed, Harry slowly unbent himself, sheathing his dagger as he did so.  

“---I deserved that.” he commented, his voice still pained.  “And you...And that knee of yours will be written in the revised edition of Wonders Made By Man.” He was sure he was being dramatic, but as the breath was still gone from him, he figured that was okay.

Regaining his wits slightly, he decided to carry on with the narrative that he had no clue of the happenings of inside the keep.  “You were rushing---Why?  What’s happening?”

Why have enemies when you can have friends?

laenahs‌:

A feeling of being out of place was not something that was particular unfamiliar to her - in fact it was perhaps quite ironically the one certainty in her life despite how deeply uncertain it made her feel. Being from so many places and yet really none at all left her feeling untethered and as though she had been simply floating from place to place, steered only by her whatever father’s wishes for her were in that moment. 

Her mother had always told her that she would be a daughter of two kingdoms - not quite Dornish but not quite a Westerlander either - but she had never spun it in such a way that Laenah had ever found herself worried about it. Instead her mother had made it seem to be this gift that she had been bestowed, blessed with the chance to understand not just one place but two. ( Little had they both known that it would be four by the time Lewys Lydden’s whims were met ) Though time had sadly not proven her words to be true when so many seemed to deem her blood as more of a curse, never quite sure what to do with the girl who’s mother’s dark looks had erased her father’s fair ones.

It was events such as these that only made what she considered to be hard facts appear starker when she had no core group of people that she could easily slip into and feel included with. Even now that she was back in her father’s home of Deep Den things were more complicated when their land had been deemed part of the Riverlands and not the Westerlands. Stranding her once again in that so frustratingly familiar limbo.

There was something of a longing for a familiar face, one of those who had left an impact on her life. Perhaps there was only handful she would freely class as important to her but her mother had always said that it was quality over quantity that truly mattered. With Jeyne having found her place among the Ironborn and Mychel still within the Vale she knew that she would most likely have to face the remainder of the festivities by herself.

Or at least she thought she would until a voice that brought a hundred memories flooding back all at once, stunning her into silence as her gaze shifted to lay eyes on him. Even with her own sight as proof it still seemed impossible that Harry Rivers was stood before her and not simply a figure in her dreams or past.

Soft, tentative smile touched her lips with such gentleness she was sure that any other might have missed it. The meaning behind his words was not lost on her but she still found herself unable to accept that he could be talking about anything but the scenery that they had both witnessed in their teenage years. “Most would say that all kingdoms have their merits.” Words leave her lips like a sight, barely finding enough air in her lungs to exhale let along made sound. 

A shyness that feels so foreign around him creeps over her but she can’t shake the feeling that perhaps the two of them are more strangers than friends now. So many years had passed and she found it difficult to fathom that his views towards her would not have changed as time drove a wedge between them. Still with all of those worries pushed to the side, all she cared about was knowing more about the life he had had without her in it, hoping that the Seven had been kind to him. “How have you been, Harry?” A little pause settles over her as she remebers the last news of him that she had received.  “Or should I be calling you Ser Bracken now?”

“Always the peacekeeper, Laenah.” He sighed at her response. “One of these days, I’ll get you to share and honest to Gods opinion.  Just once I will get you to say you loathe something.” He couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped with his words as he shook his head.  “But then again, perhaps I’m biased due to my time spent there--although one would think with the scars I earned there, I wouldn’t be, but alas---” He smirked at her as a finger crept up to his shoulder to itch the scar she had given him, before taking a swig of his wine.

He knew that it had been years since they had last communicated, and even longer since they had last laid eyes upon each other.  But all Harry could see as he looked down upon her was his old friend from his formative years, and all he wanted was to scoop her into an embrace, lift her from her feet and swing her through the air, just as he used to do all those years ago.  Despite her stature being longer and leaner than most other ladies, even at their young ages they spent in the Vale, Harry had always towered over her, having practically reached his full height by then, and he always loved to show this off to her, by swinging her around, picking her up, letting her hang off his back as he transported her to and fro.

“That is a deeply complicated answer, my old friend.  Perhaps I’ll enlighten you another time.”  He had never been able to lie to her, and with being unable to announce that all was fine and he was in high spirits, he decided simply not discussing it would be best due to their estrangement as well as their surroundings.

He groaned as the words ‘Ser Bracken’ fell from her lips, and as he brought his goblet up to his own, he quickly downed the rest of the dark liquid.  

“Call me that and I will be havin’ to walk away before even gettin; a chance to ask you how you have faired all these years.  And I don’t want that. --- Speaking of, what do I call you these days?  Lady Lydden or is it Lady H--Forgive me, I can’t remember your lad’s name.”  Unknowing of the man’s fate, Harry couldn’t stop the words, full of bitterness from slipping through his wine primed lips.

aut viam inveniam aut faciam.

i will either find a way, or i will make one;   (via princejackdaw)

darklionheart: 

                                     and behind the mask of m a t u r i t y                                                        that you wear,                                     a pair of eyes belonging to a ( CHILD )                                          stares back at you in the mirror.

                                                 you are not a warrior,                                                           MY LOVE,                                                  you are merely a boy.