Ofbracken - Bastard Boy

I like the sea: we understand one another. It is always yearning, sighing for something it cannot have; and so am I.

Greta Garbo (via icequeenwrites)

         i have scars on my palms and the insides of my fingers.                    there is blood in my mouth and staining my clothes.                             i have died too many times to count and come back again stronger.

                 ( are you proud of me, momma? are you proud of me, pappa? )

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)

☼ & ☾

☼ - 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)

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.

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)

trc + richard siken;;

wishbone + kavinsky

                     @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)

King Arthur taking care of his Round Table.