King Arthur: Legend Of The Sword (2017) Dir. Guy Ritchie

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.

CHARLIE HUNNAM

as King Arthur in ‘King Arthur: Legend of the Sword’ | 2017. 

              i wish your mom had been a little stronger.                    i wish she’d stayed around a little longer.                                                                                                            i wish your dad were good.                                                                                                        i wish grown-ups understood.                                                 i wish we’d met before                                           they c o n v i n c e d you                                       LIFE was WAR.                                                                                                         – [ i wish i had more TNT ]

oflioncss‌:

the rose gardens // open

during the years she’d spent living in sunspear, mycella liked to think she’d grown up. physically, this was certainly the case; gone was the little princess, decked constantly in silks of soft pink. at the very least, she had grown into a beautiful young woman, golden curls always perfectly in place even as she’d run through the streets, wine flowing through her veins and a carefree laugh on her lips. yes, she had grown physically while in dorne, but she liked to think she’d matured, too.

when she’d first arrived in highgarden, the excitement of seeing her family once more had kept myrcella going, any nervousness at the reunion replaced by the sheer joy of familiarity. though she loved her mother dearly, it had not taken long for the golden princess to realize just how free she’d been in her absence. scarcely a week in, myrcella found herself sneaking away from the constant eyes of cersei lannister, muttering excuses about leaving her to her wedding planning. luckily enough, highgarden at any time was the perfect place to escape for a bit.

wandering the seemingly endless gardens, myrcella felt her mind wandering to her own pending nuptials. she’d reached an age where she truly should have married trystane martell already. it was all a game of politics, she knew; her mother had never loved the match, but keeping her in dorne kept most of the martell forces at bay and kept myrcella out of harm’s way. a part of her wondered whether her mother wished to find a more palatable match for her while the entire realm was gathered in highgarden - this sole cynical part of myrcella had kept an eye on the men she’d been introduced to, measuring their worth as she dripped pretty words and prettier smiles.

shaking her head slightly, myrcella resolved to abandon this line of thought, if only for the moment. the famous rose gardens were too beautiful by far to be sullied by any negative thoughts. rounding a corner, a smile spread across myrcella’s lips at the sight of someone else enjoying the peace and majesty of the scenery. nothing could drive her from her own thoughts like the presence of another. “they’re beautiful, aren’t they? i can see why highgarden is so famous for them.”

Harry felt out of place as he walked about Highgarden.  He was sure any moment a guard would call out, or a Lord with an upturned nose would ask ‘exactly what he thought he was doing here’.  But it never came.  He almost wished it would, to get over with what he deemed to be an inevitable moment. The feeling was only enforced as he observed the people around him, and how everybody seemed to have something to do, but he found himself wearing a path in the already smooth stone of the hallways.  

The constant torture of waiting for the other boot to drop left Harry in an increasingly foul mood.  His light and sarcastic wit turned into humorless and bitter remarks.  With this turn of mood, the aim of introducing Harry to other nobles, other leaders and heirs of houses went afoul before completely falling by the wayside.  After one too many polite debates turned heated arguments, Harry felt it better to try and avoid any person with a title, for the sake of his own head.

Over the days, Harry had found just the spot to do so.  It took some exploring, but he soon found a fairly quiet nook of the rose garden, where only the most ambitious of strollers would make it to.  He’d set out to his spot in the morning, supplies in hand ( a book, a sword for practicing, an apple, some fine arbor wine, and perhaps a few other things he was able to swipe from the kitchens when the ever present figure of the cook wasn’t lording about ), and could often be seen sneaking back onto the grounds as dusk was falling.  He thought it best this way, he knew returning to Stone Hedge with nothing to show would not impress his father, but he thought it better than Lord Jonos receiving a raven telling him the news that his bastard son had lost a hand for slapping some spoiled pup of a lord around.

So preoccupied with his sword and whetstone, Harry’s usually keen ears hadn’t picked up on the approaching footsteps, although once looking up at her, he could see why.  This was no blundering, drunk Lord ( who --with their companions that their wives most certainly would not approve of, were his most constant guests out this far in the garden ), but rather an obviously high born lady, so it was no wonder he hadn’t heard her advance onto his spot.

With not much idea of who she was, nor much of a care ( he could thank the empty flask of wine for that ) he shrugged in response to her comment.  “Perhaps, if you like the cloying, almost stiflin’ smell of ‘em.---Smells like somethin’ died to me.” 

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)

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?”

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

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

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

Haruki Murakami (via quotemadness)