I Never Even Got To Live My Life…

                    @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?”

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

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

☼ & ☾

☼ - 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)

they made you into a weapon and told you to find peace

unfinished poems iii // s.z  (via petiteblades)

                     @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.  

FORGIVE me, father                                             for i have SINNED

((  but i did it all for YOU                 ))

                                         AND I’D DO IT ALL AGAIN.

I don’t know how to stay tender with this much blood in my mouth

Ophelia, Act IV, Scene V  (via sumiremiu)

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.

make me choose: @histruequeen asked the Stormlands or the Riverlands