Few things could cause a man to cry, for tears to well in pools of blue and threaten to downpour. It was not caused by the blood of his father or any of his relations still left alive. Harlon learned long ago to keep emotions shoved down deep to where the darkness couldn't even find them, but there was one subject that could shoot all those feelings and stick them there in his throat. How long had he ridden? How long had he traveled, and how much of a wreck did he look when he scaled garden walls past guards and thorns to sit there on Maid Madaelyn’s sill? Only gods, he didn't pray to know, and though he doubted their existence, it was by divine power he'd made it this far. "My.. my lady ... my..." the flowers could barely speak, hanging onto a chair as he handed her and old letter in his father, the lord tarly's handwriting. It mentioned a woman he was fond of - a lady from far away ( which he would not know until later was not his mother ) written about an affair had dated just a year before his birth.. "this may be my mother" // @opposedwills
