Regions Of Westeros → The Riverlands

Violence does not always take visible form, and not all wounds gush blood.

Haruki Murakami (via quotemadness)

☼ & ☾

☼ - 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)

Slow your breath; unclench your fist. Even in sleep you are ready for war.

The Golden Wing (via ladystigmata)

❝  everyone’s a  M O N S T E R  to someone.                      if you’re so convinced that i’m yours - I’LL BE IT.  ❞ 

––– the barbed and the bastard ; the eldest children of jonos bracken. @ofbracken

Why does tragedy exist? Because you are full of rage. Why are you full of rage? Because you are full of grief.

Anne Carson, in the preface to Grief Lessons: Four Plays by Euripides (via the-first-of-her-name)

sarraheddle‌:

Sarra had always lived a simple life. It was full of love, heartache, and comfort. She knew her parents weren’t biologically hers, but she never cared. They loved her as their own, and were always forthcoming, something that caused her to be the blunt, straightforward woman she is, even if that wasn’t always the best of her personality. Still, part of her wondered where she might’ve come from, her parents did leave that part out, likely to spare her the heartache of the truth. She knew they meant well. What she didn’t know, was that the life she did know was about to forever be changed. She never really desired to seek her birth parents, but in the very depths of her mind and soul, she continued to wonder.

After Jon’s death, however, her mind turned towards the present and future and veered from the past, at least the one that existed before he came into her life. Losing her husband changed her, the curious mind that once existed was now filled with despair and worried thoughts of how she would handle the inn all on her own. She knew if she lost it, she would be failing him. She was doing everything in her power to avoid that, even if it meant doing all of the work on her own. Her parents, as sweet as they were, often helped her bake the bread and pastries she sold in order to bring in another source of profit.

During the days, when the inn was more quiet, moreso on this particular one, Sarra was constantly at work in the kitchen preparing for the busy evenings that always came. She wiped sweat from her brow as she exited the kitchen to realize a man was sitting at the bar as he asked for a mug. “Oh, so sorry I didn’t hear ya come in.” She explained hurridly, feeling a bit awful for how long he might’ve waited. She quickly made him up a mug and slid it in front of him. “D'ya need me to set ya up with a room or are ya just stoppin’ by for a mug?”

It was extremely disconcerting, just how much the girl looked like their mother, and even more so talked and moved like her.  Harry felt much like a child again as he looked at her, and the surroundings not too different from the brothel he had grown up in. For a moment, it was all a bit much, and he found his head swimming, unable to pay attention to the woman’s words or offer a reply, despite knowing that he probably seemed like a loon, or at the very least rude.  Panic gripped his insides as he floundered on what to say.  He felt the easiest way would to be ask for her, for ‘Sarra’, and then continue on that way, but seeing her, the spitting image of his mother, and knowing it was her so obvious as the light of day, that way felt dishonest.  But, he also could not bring himself to blurt it out, a small part of him...Nervous? 

 It had been quite awhile since he had felt that particular emotion, so he couldn’t be sure, but he had a thought that is what the feeling in his guts could be attributed to.  His search for her had been borne out of dislike for his half sisters and the dislike they bore him in return, so perhaps he was nervous this sister would not like him either.  And if that were the case, it’d be obvious, with him being the only common factor, the issue was him.

It took him a moment to process what she had said in response to his request, and he hurriedly offered an answer.  “No, thank you, home is not even a day’s ride.”  Which was another thing that struck him, that the two hadn’t been far apart at all.  “But---”  he took a deep breath, deciding on his course of action and taking it before he had a chance to second guess himself.  

“Is your name perhaps Sarra?”  He knew the question was a jarring one to be asked, and in his own history upon being asked it, had bolted from the room, but he figured the question was a happy medium between the two options he had considered.

Charlie Hunnam and his back in King Arthur: Legend of the Sword (2017).

I don’t know how to stay tender with this much blood in my mouth

Ophelia, Act IV, Scene V  (via sumiremiu)

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?”