DON’T LET THIS BE A CLOSE CALL…

Regions of Westeros → The Riverlands

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.

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

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

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.” 

the reason i sin is because there’s a stairway to heaven and a highway to hell and i sure as shit ain’t climbin no stairs

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

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

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)

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

Ophelia, Act IV, Scene V  (via sumiremiu)