Sarraheddle:
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.
More Posts from Ofbracken and Others
☼ & ☾
☼ - 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)
Charlie Hunnam in King Arthur: Legend of the Sword.
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
laenahs:
Her seat had been so far removed from the throng of activity that at first she was not sure what all the commotion was about. It had started with horrified gasps, then shrieks had filled the room even all the way to where she was sat and then sheer panic had broken out everywhere. There was little deduction needed to assume that something terrible had happened but what exactly that might have been was lost on her as she soon found herself caught up in some sort of fray breaking out. Fists were sent flying, tables overturned and while everyone else seemed to have someone else to watch their back, Laenah found herself with no one. As calmly as she could she tried to back away from it all, eyes searching for the nearest exit as she did but to seemingly no avail. Instead she was left quite literally with her back up against the wall hoping that no one’s attention would turn her way.
@ofbracken
After a fairly brief and painful interaction with a northern lady outside the stables, Harry was, what most people would call “in the clear”. He had his horse, an open road uncrowded by people fleeing the party and the opportunity to be off before anyone else saw him. It was only after a few moments on his horse did the sudden vision of thick brows knitted together in confusion, and brown eyes flicking from potential danger to danger hit him. Laenah. She was alone. No husband or father or brother to keep her out of the fray or watch her back. And with barely a thought more, the reins of Harry’s horse were being directed back towards Highgarden, and the heels in the horses side dictated a ferocious pace. Upon arrival, Harry could see that the bedlam had spread from the courtyard where the reception took place, calling out her name to no avail, he suddenly thought the task of finding Laenah in the middle of it all would be near impossible. But he had to at least try. Batting people away like they were nothing more than flies on a hot day, Harry made his way further and further into the madness, the crowds getting thicker and more panicked the deeper he got. A flicker of green caught his eye through the rushing of people, and the breath he didn’t know he had been holding finally rose from his chest.
“Laenah!” He called out, his words accompanied by a waving of his arm as he tried to pry his way through the throng of people. “Stay there!” he couldn’t be sure if he had been able to catch her attention, and if he had, if his words could be heard above the cacophony of it all.
You have such a February face, so full of frost, of storm and cloudiness.
William Shakespeare, Much Ado About Nothing (via ameliathermopolis)
Slow your breath; unclench your fist. Even in sleep you are ready for war.
The Golden Wing (via ladystigmata)
Why have enemies when you can have friends?
trc + richard siken;;
wishbone + kavinsky
Regions of Westeros → The Riverlands
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A CHAMELEON SOUL, NO MORAL COMPASS POINTING DUE NORTH, NO F I X E D PERSONALITY; JUST AN INNER INDECISIVENESS THAT WAS AS W I D E AND AS W A V E R I N G AS THE OCEAN.
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