–– House Bracken Of Stone Hedge ; The River Kings Of Old.

FORGIVE me, father                                             for i have SINNED

((  but i did it all for YOU                 ))

                                         AND I’D DO IT ALL AGAIN.

I think he’s very lonely. Lonelier than he lets on. Maybe lonelier than he even realizes.

The Royal Tenenbaums (2001), Dir. Wes Anderson (via wnq-movies)

Regions of Westeros → The Riverlands

I keep wondering, how many people do you need to be, before you can become yourself.

Iain Thomas, I Wrote This for You  (via wordsnquotes)

laenahs‌:

One glance around the crowded room had been enough to confirm her fears that she would be left floating listlessly in the sea of unfamiliar faces with not one person to anchor herself to. A breath had been needed to steady herself as a reminder echoed in her head that with her father still barely able to summon the enthusiasm for anything but battle and a brother too young to attend such things, there had been little choice in the matter. House Lydden had needed represented despite its weakened standing that had come with the Riverlands claiming it for their own and the mantle had fallen upon her shoulders.

Soft steps carried her to the fringes of the room wondering in some vain hope that perhaps she was not the only one feeling out of place or without someone to pass the time with. But of course it was in vain when they all had countrymen to sit and laugh with, Laenah from too many places to be able to call any of them home. Bottom lip had been worried nervously as the time had drifted past before she decided that she might look less conspicuous with a drink in her hand. With a gentle grasp she smoothly took a goblet of the Arbor’s finest from the tray nearest to her.

A sip of wine was taking as though she could somehow summon courage from it and without waiting to see if it would have had the desired effect, she musters the nerve to turn to the person nearest her before she allows herself to be reduced to nothing more than silence once more. “They truly have picked a beautiful location do you not think?” Words slipped softly from her lips, surprising herself at how she had managed to set tentativeness aside even if it took her until half way through her speech to turn to face whomever had been in earshot.

Never in his life did Harry think he’d be in attendance of an event such as this.  His name was Rivers and he assumed the title of bastard ( legitimized or no ) would bar him from this echelon of society.  And yet, here he was.  The Brackens held one of the largest retinues of soldiers in the Riverlands, so it made some amount of sense as to why they had been invited to what seemed to be a union that would find itself nestled in the books maesters would teach their students in the future.  

Despite his father’s words, telling Harry that he belonged there, that he was now the heir to Stone Hedge, Harry knew this not to be the truth.  He doubted many of the attendees would treat him differently than his surname encouraged them to, even with his newer standing.  

And even if they did, Harry did not talk as they did, he did not hold himself as they did, and he did not act as they did.  And he sure as hell did not want to interact with them.  As such, he found himself lingering on the outskirts of the event.  He was not sure if this was in an attempt to avoid conversation all together, or perhaps find someone similar to him, allowing him to take a breath.

If this were any other event, Harry could be found in his cups and having a grand time, making a fool of himself but also making comrades ( and perhaps a few enemies ). But he had been warned by his father and his advisors, and suddenly Harry felt himself doubting his actions more than ever.

Some may describe the area he had posted himself at as a ‘dark corner’, but he relished in it for a few moments, collecting himself before launching back into the fray.  It was as he looked up from the dark contents of his chalice did he see her.  It was a silhouette he was not likely to forget.  It was one he thought about whenever reminiscing on his time spent in the Vale.  It was a long and lean body, with a graceful neck and a sharp angular jaw.  It was dark abysmal eyes fringed by equally dark lashes.  It was a sloping nose, ending in a point. 

Before Harry could stop himself, he was out of his corner and making his way over to her.  But upon arriving at her side, he froze.  The man so usually confident in these situations, paused.  So much time had passed.  Nearly two decades.  And despite the occasional correspondence, she was no longer known to him anymore.  Would she even recognize the man he had become?

As her words floated through the air, Harry finally found his tongue, but he presumed that was only due to the fact she had not looked over at him yet, the feeling of anonymity emboldening him.  “Perhaps.  But not nearly as beautiful as the sights of the Vale.” he replied.

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)

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?”

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?”