Ofbracken - Bastard Boy

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?”

aut viam inveniam aut faciam.

i will either find a way, or i will make one;   (via princejackdaw)

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

Barbara Kingsolver  (via wordsnquotes)

                    @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?”

                     @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 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 ]

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

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CHARLIE HUNNAM

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