Laenahs‌:

                    @sarraheddle || Inn at the Crossroads

The thought had come to him whilst sitting in the dining hall of Stonehedge, listening to and interrupting his half-sisters’ bickering.  He wished that this wasn’t all his family.  He wished his mother was still around.  He wished his life had been simple with a mother and a normal father.  He wished he didn’t have to deal with Barbara’s withering looks any time he dared to take a breath too loudly, or chew too noisily.  

It was then, when a memory he hadn’t perused for several years, came to the forefront of his mind.  It was a memory of his scrawny ass sat outside a door closed to him, being told it would not be appropriate for him to be inside.  It was a memory of screams and groans that seemed to be endless, until finally they were replaced with the screeching cries of a newborn.  It was his mother letting him name his baby sister (he had chosen Visenya, having recently been told of the dragon-riding Queen by patron of the brothel).  His mother told him it was a perfect, strong name, and that little baby Visenya would need the strength for her travels, as she would be living with another family.  “Just like all those fancy lords and ladies do” she explained, but also telling Harry that while Visenya would always be his little sister, he may never seen her again.  At only 11 years, Harry did not understand, and he could feel tears pricking at the corner of his eyes, but as he told himself to be the man of the family, to be strong for his mother, he stopped.  And that was the second to last time Harry ever cried.

He was brought back from his memory as Barbara barbed him with some searing insult of his lack of intelligence, inability to pay attention to their conversation, or something of the like.  But Harry couldn’t find it in him to care.  He had never gone looking for his sister, because what would have been the use?  He had nothing to offer, except perhaps the shattering of what she thought was her own history.  But now?  Now he could offer her stability, or perhaps even a position, if she so craved it.  Now he didn’t feel as if finding and meeting her would only be for his benefit.  So he set out to find her.

It had been hard, seeing as even if his mother had told him the details, there is no way that he remembered it over two decades later.  So he started with the brothel, finding any of his mother’s old friends that were still in work or even still alive, and charming the information out of them.  Although, that part wasn’t hard.  Many of them still remembered him and his time spent patrolling the rooms of the brothel, threatening to beat any man who laid an unkind hand on the women.  It also didn’t hurt that with his newfound status he was able to pay them generously for their information.  But even then, he didn’t turn up much that led to anything.  He got no names, only vague descriptions.  They were from the Riverlands, although no idea where, and they were bakers.  Nothing more.

But finally, he found the puzzle piece he was missing, because he simply hadn’t thought it possible.  One of the ladies mentioned that the old proprieter of the brothel was still around (something Harry found surprising as he remembered her as impossibly old even when he was a child all those years ago), and with her usually taking care of the women who found themselves with child either by giving them a concoction or sorting something out, of course she would have the information he so desperately looked for.  And even more surprisingly, she remembered every bit of information.  It got a little tricky once he had found out she had already married and changed her name, but after asking kindly around, Harry found what he needed to know.

And that is how he found himself sitting on a rickety stool in the Inn at the Crossroads, eyes searching every feminine face for a resemblance, but found himself disappointed, until a harried woman came out from the kitchens, hair blonde as his pulled back to reveal a face that resembled his their mother’s so closely that it had quite felt like someone had taken a fist to his gut.  It had been near upon two decades since he had seen that face, and he could feel the painful nostalgia building inside him already.  He had thought the hard part was finding her, but now he realized that was no longer the case.

Despite having thought of what exactly to say to her, Harry’s mouth was now dry, and his tongue was like lead.  

Walking up to the bar, he smiled politely at her, biting back the urge to cut straight to the point, ever the tactless politician.  But instead, “Hello, Miss---Bother you for a mug of ale?”

☼ & ☾

☼ - appearance headcanon

Some would marvel how a man with as many scars as Harry was still standing.  Or some might wonder if he just scars easily.  Regardless, one fact is true, it seems as is every part of body has at least one scar to mark it, most are faded and not something one would take note of.  Even fully clothed, many are visible.  A crescent above his brow, a forked line under his jaw, a long stretch starting behind his ear and running down his jugular, all given to him by a left handed man in a tavern.  Slices on hands and forearms, accrued from one too many close calls with daggers and longswords.  And that’s only the beginning of the list.  Most are from mundane tasks and moments in his life.  But shh, don’t tell anybody that.

☾ - sleep headcanon

Harry is a light sleeper, but can sleep in almost any position.  Most of his nights were spent at his mother’s brothel, sat in a chair in the tavern below, eyes closed but ears primed for any noise of discord.  

Chairs, bales of hay, rocky outcrops and river banks all had been called home for Harry’s sleeping body (if laying down, he tends to curl into a surprisingly small ball)

tag drop

I want to go home. I want to go home. I can feel it in my fingertips how I want to go home.

but i don’t know where home is (November 13th, 2015)

♛ 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.

Memories do not always soften with time; some grow edges like knives.

Barbara Kingsolver  (via wordsnquotes)

Waves crash along Battered lonely lighthouse Tomorrow she's gone And if not, some, they somehow Are, these, hands, alwaysWell this side of, mortality is Scaring, me, to death

laenahs‌:

Her seat had been so far removed from the throng of activity that at first she was not sure what all the commotion was about. It had started with horrified gasps, then shrieks had filled the room even all the way to where she was sat and then sheer panic had broken out everywhere. There was little deduction needed to assume that something terrible had happened but what exactly that might have been was lost on her as she soon found herself caught up in some sort of fray breaking out. Fists were sent flying, tables overturned and while everyone else seemed to have someone else to watch their back, Laenah found herself with no one. As calmly as she could she tried to back away from it all, eyes searching for the nearest exit as she did but to seemingly no avail. Instead she was left quite literally with her back up against the wall hoping that no one’s attention would turn her way.

@ofbracken

After a fairly brief and painful interaction with a northern lady outside the stables, Harry was, what most people would call “in the clear”.  He had his horse, an open road uncrowded by people fleeing the party and the opportunity to be off before anyone else saw him.  It was only after a few moments on his horse did the sudden vision of thick brows knitted together in confusion, and brown eyes flicking from potential danger to danger hit him.  Laenah.  She was alone.  No husband or father or brother to keep her out of the fray or watch her back.  And with barely a thought more, the reins of Harry’s horse were being directed back towards Highgarden, and the heels in the horses side dictated a ferocious pace.  Upon arrival, Harry could see that the bedlam had spread from the courtyard where the reception took place, calling out her name to no avail, he suddenly thought the task of finding Laenah in the middle of it all would be near impossible.  But he had to at least try.  Batting people away like they were nothing more than flies on a hot day, Harry made his way further and further into the madness, the crowds getting thicker and more panicked the deeper he got.  A flicker of green caught his eye through the rushing of people, and the breath he didn’t know he had been holding finally rose from his chest.  

“Laenah!” He called out, his words accompanied by a waving of his arm as he tried to pry his way through the throng of people.  “Stay there!”  he couldn’t be sure if he had been able to catch her attention, and if he had, if his words could be heard above the cacophony of it all.

▼ - childhood headcanon

▼ - childhood headcanon

His mother, mainly working at night, would sneak home every morning and wake Harry up with a start.  Despite years of this, he never got used to it, but he always forgave her.  On clear days, she would wake him and steal him away to a hilltop somewhere or the banks of the Tumblestone and they’d watch the sun begin it’s course throughout the sky.  If it was storming, they’d marvel at the lightening dancing above them.  And if there were nothing notable about the morning other than how utterly uninteresting the shade of grey the sky was colored, she’d bring him a sweet.  Sometimes Harry still wakes with a start, and his eyes dart around, half expecting to see his mother standing over him with her wicked grin.