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@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?”
