Violence Does Not Always Take Visible Form, And Not All Wounds Gush Blood.

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?”

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).

tag drop

              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 ]

♛ ASOIAF | Regions ♛ The Riverlands

Much history—rife with both glory and tragedy—has been made in the lands watered by the river Trident and its three great vassal streams.Stretching from the Neck to the banks of the Blackwater, and east to the borders of the Vale, the riverlands are the beating heart of Westeros. No other land in the Seven Kingdoms has seen so many battles, nor so many petty kings and royal houses rising and falling. The causes of this are clear. Rich and fertile, the riverlands border on every other realm in the Seven Kingdoms save Dorne, yet have few natural boundaries to deter invasion. The waters of the Trident make the lands ripe for settlement, farming, and conquest, whilst the river’s three branches stimulate trade and travel during peacetime, and serve as both roads and barriers in times of war.

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

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

The Golden Wing (via ladystigmata)