Chapter 1: Epigraph
Chapter Text
❝Love seeketh not itself to please,
Nor for itself hath any care;
But for another gives its ease,
And builds a Heaven in Hell's despair.❞
― William Blake, The Clod And The Pebble
Chapter Text
King’s Landing was different to what Henrik imagined. From his journey on the Goldroad, he’d pictured gold-painted floors and walls of the Red Keep and shiny breastplates of Knights. The reality was much more disappointing.
They had been riding for two days. From the outside, the rolling hills and the warm breeze had quickened his excitement and his longing to arrive quicker.
“Steady your horse, Master Henrik,” said Rubin, his Lord father’s most trusted guard, from his seat on his horse. “The city’s not going anywhere.”
“Where’s your sense of adventure,” laughed Henrik, eyes crinkling as he grinned. “It’s the capital, Rubin! It’s King’s Landing – the seat of Kings and home to knights and Princesses. I mean doesn’t it strike your fancy?”
Rubin sighed though his lips tilted to the side. “So, you’ve mentioned a dozen times on the road.”
“Come on, Rubin, I mean, aren’t you excited to be back?” asked Henrik curiously. “Surely you must miss something from here.”
“If I'm being honest, not particularly. I was too busy with half my face in the mud and wounds across my body to hardly notice the city,” remarked Rubin drily before his face turned solemn. “It wasn’t a pretty sight. We should have stayed in Fair Isle – you'd have been safer there. King’s Landing is no place for a child.”
Henrik let out a dissatisfied noise, a tiny scowl on his face. “I’m hardly a child, Rubin. I’m almost a man grown,” he groused. And why don’t you just go home, if it bothers you that much? I’ll meet his Grace myself.”
Rubin shot him a look that slightly had him feeling contrite. “You know I can’t do that. I promised your Lord Father I’d be here when you swear fealty.”
“Then support me,” said Henrik with a shrug, then took a glance back. “Reckon we can ditch the rest of them.” He motioned with his head as some of the household and one or two guards rolled up behind them. He couldn’t take all of them, but some had been instructed to accompany him.
“That wouldn’t be wise.”
“Oh, come on. When are you going to stop being such a stickler for the rules? It wouldn’t kill you once to let go of all good and proper.”
“When you’ve grown a full beard, Master Henrik,” teased Rubin gruffly, though it was said with a most serious expression. Henrik knew Rubin better, however, having grown with him ever since he was a babe.
“That’ll be any day now,” defended Henrik, raising a hand to his face and feeling soft prickles beneath his fingers.
“If you say so, little lord.”
The closer Henrik drew to the gates of the city, the bigger the pool of excitement grew in his chest. A raven had arrived a few days earlier from the Maester of the city informing them that his Grace, King Robert had passed away and his first son and heir, Prince – well, King now – had been crowned King of the Seven Kingdoms.
His father, Lord Sebaston Farman and Lord of Faircastle, had been invited to the Red Keep to swear fealty to the new King. The Hand of the King had been a traitor, seemingly, declaring the Prince a bastard. Henrik remembered the shock that rippled across all of Fair Isle at the news. It had been the talk on every man and maid’s tongue.
But Lord Stark had been executed, and every Lord had been called upon to swear obedience to the new King to dampen the fervent rumours.
His Lord father had sent his only son and heir, Henrik, in his stead as he was a bit preoccupied with fighting alongside Lord Tywin, their Liege Lord.
Henrik’s father couldn’t refuse, of course. He’d been called to arms by Lord Tywin as Robb Stark had declared war on the Royal Family. The whole of the castle had been talking about it. It was an affront to House Lannister, and everyone knew Lord Tywin wouldn’t stand for it.
Henrik’s father was off near the borders of the Riverlands while Henrik was going the opposite way to the capital city. He wasn’t happy at first, furious that his father would deny him the opportunity to fight in a real battle, with real soldiers, instead of playing at it in the courtyard.
He’d sulked in his rooms for a few days, refusing to come out for meals. What was the point of training with a sword if he couldn’t even use it when the time came for it? He was better than most of the boys in Faircastle – Rubin had said so. Why couldn’t his father see that? He was no longer a green boy. He was a man of five and ten.
Rubin claimed that his father didn’t want to see him hurt. It would be the thing that would rip his heart out. Henrik remarked with hidden bitterness that he was surprised that his father could feel anything much less for him. Rubin had smacked him across the head with a hard stare and said to never catch him saying that again.
Henrik, however, secretly couldn’t help thinking that it was true.
Nowadays, his Lord father didn’t see anything that wasn’t the inside of his bed chambers. He had shut himself up there ever since Henrik’s Lady Mother had died. He only came out when his sister and her husband visited the castle.
Henrik didn’t like going inside his father’s chambers. Once, when he’d been playing with one of his cousins, his ball had landed inside. Henrik had shivered as goosebumps rose on his arm while he stood near the doorway. He hadn’t liked the feeling very much. It was cold and bare, with the windows wide open and the bed made properly. The door creaked ever so loud, and ever since, he avoided it.
So, while his father was preparing for battle, Henrik had been instructed to go to King’s Landing and swear to King Joffrey in honour of House Farman. But it hadn’t all been bad he supposed.
Henrik had always wanted to see the capital. Fair Isle, while considered his home, had become too familiar. He longed to see the world beyond the many safe turrets and towers of Faircastle; to see what the rest of Westeros had to offer – the high mountains of the Vale and the snow-covered region of the North. He didn’t want to spend the rest of his life in Faircastle, no matter how much he liked the people there.
Sometimes, in the middle of his dreams, Henrik set his sights on Essos. He wondered with smothered delight what it would feel like to be bound on a ship to any of the free cities, with nothing but a sword on his hip, the clothes on his back and the taste of freedom in his mouth.
Then the freedom turned into the bitter image of his father looming over him with a stern look, Rubin standing loyally behind him. It was a good dream, he thought, sighing into his pillow, but that’s all it would remain. The reality was clear. His father would never allow it.
But Henrik had been given this one tiny bit of repose. He was the head of his House right now, and he couldn’t help puffing out his chest at the thought.
As the city guards waved them inside the wall, Henrik was suddenly struck with a pungent aroma. He wrinkled his nose in disgust, feeling his stomach churn.
“Best not to breath too deeply, Master Henrik, or you’ll make yourself sick,” Rubin commented, a thin piece of cloth loosely tied around his lower face.
The more they rode inside the city, towards the Red Keep, it wasn’t just the smell that attracted his attention. All around, people’s haggard and ravenous expressions were visible. Their eyes were sunken with a deep sense of hunger within them. Shock ran through him, and he noticed most of them were children, years younger than him, while they pleaded with their eyes as they rode in.
“Go on, off with you,” sneered one of the city guards, shoving along a group of them with a wave of his sword as they lingered too long. “Shoo. No begging here, you know that.”
“Rubin, what –” he began with a note of shock in his voice.
“Don’t think about it too much, Master Henrik. The capital’s a much different place. We’ll reach the Red Keep soon enough.”
As they approached the Red Keep, a massive structure of red stone that sat on Aegon’s Hill and overlooked the mouth of the Blackwater Rush, the number of well-fed nobles in opulent clothes lengthened. Their chattering gossip filled all around the towns and streets.
So, he was finally here then. Henrik fought to keep the smile off his face.
Notes:
Let me know what you thought. Apologies for any mistakes or inconsistencies - I do not live in the world of Westeros.
This fic is rather to satisfy my self-indulgence. Sansa Stark deserved someone better, okay! Someone brave, gentle and strong, and I'm going to give that to her.
This chapter mostly introduced our main character, Henrik, but I'm confident we will progress.
Chapter Text
The heavy wooden doors that led to the throne room creaked loudly as two guards opened them.
After he had reached the inside of the Red Keep, Henrik was ushered in by servants to lead him to his bed chambers. Rubin was given quarters to share with some of the Gold Cloaks.
Henrik was then instructed to rest and change as they would be having an audience with the King the next day. He felt glad about it. His bones were weary from riding, and he was all ready to collapse on the floor of his bed chambers, his eyes drooping. He was sure to snap at the King himself and lose his head for it.
Henrik paused in his thoughts. He was exaggerating. Obviously. The King wouldn’t execute the son of a noble Lord for something as minor as that. The Mad King, yes, but King Joffrey wasn’t that cruel, he surely hoped.
Moments before meeting the King, Henrik was dressed in his finest tunic and doublet. His hair was combed back and – to his utter dismay – the tiny prickles of hair on his upper lip and chin had been shaved off until Henrik was left looking like a boy of seven. Or at least that’s what it appeared like to him.
Rubin would hear of no other. Henrik was a Lord’s son, heir to Faircastle and would be Lord of Fair Isle one day, so he must dress like one, especially in the presence of the King and the Queen Regent. Henrik didn’t argue with this logic. He would do his duty to make his House proud.
And yet, he still fought the urge to fidget and tug on the collar as he caught Rubin's stern eye. His groomsman often made his doublet too tight around the top, and it had Henrik restless like there was a knife pressing against his throat.
He bit back a sigh. Gods, he couldn’t wait until this was over.
He knew he was representing House Farman, and his father would be furious if anything untoward happened. So, it was best to suck it up. Henrik sharply inhaled as one of the servants introduced him.
He tilted his head up as he walked in, sensing the multiple eyes on him from the rest of the Lords and Ladies. It was daunting, he had to admit – almost like he was the main puppet at a child’s playhouse, everyone eager to get a glance at him. He heard the whisperings echo and tried hard not to listen. The steady, warm presence of Rubin behind him settled his nerves somewhat.
His gaze landed on the infamous White Cloaks of the Kingsguard in the forefront. Henrik stared, fairly in wide-eyed awe, at their shiny armour and the long swords strapped to their waists. Every boy in Faircastle knew of the Kingsguard since they could hold a sword.
And now Henrik could see one up close.
“All Hail his Grace, King Joffrey of the House Baratheon, First of His Name; King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm,” boomed a messenger.
Henrik peered at the slouching boy on the Throne. His hair was spun golden, and a crown rested on his temples. And, though his thoughts might sound treasonous, there was a tilt of something arrogant in the King’s lazy smirk as if the whole court was beneath him. Most of all, the King looked bored. He wasn’t even looking at his new arrivals and his gaze trailed across the throne room.
Henrik couldn’t help the disappointment that struck him suddenly. The King seemed so. . . unimpressive. Not at all like the past Targaryen Kings and Queens.
Henrik had read up on their history and liked the idea of how mighty and regal they were with their silver hair and violet-smeared eyes that hailed from Old Valyria. It had delighted the young mind of Henrik, who used to tug on the Maester’s robes and implore him to tell more stories, particularly of Prince Daeron the Daring.
Even King Robert was said to have been a mighty, handsome warrior in his prime despite Henrik never having laid eyes on him.
King Joffrey looked anything but a King – he was a boy. He reminded Henrik of one of his cousins from his aunt Jeyne: Ronas, a boy of two and twenty. His Lord Father had forced them to learn their letters and fight in the courtyard together, hoping it would make them as close as brothers. But Henrik would rather face Dragonfire head-on than declare Ronas as anything close to that.
Ronas was known very much for his malicious teasing and propensity to bully the servants and maids in Faircastle. Ronas was older which made him think he was wiser and superior. He’d shoot Henrik a smug glance from the corner of his eye when the Maester would praise his writing and call Ronas a clever young man with an eye for talent.
Henrik believed that Ronas was a strutted-up pig. He certainly had the nose for it, all short and pudgy.
The worst part was no one would believe him if he said a word against his cousin as the latter was skilled at putting on a mask. They’d just think he was slandering his cousin for attention.
His father admired Ronas, mostly because he was born from the womb of his beloved sister, which infuriated Henrik to no end. How could his father not see how much of a prick Ronas could be? Was he truly that blind, or did he merely turn a blind eye to everything but his son?
During most castle visits from his cousins, he had to endure his father smiling and nodding proudly at Ronas and at how far he’s progressed with his education. Henrik dampened down his resentment, staring holes in the ground, and often bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood.
Everyone at Faircastle knew Lord Sebaston Farman was far different from his son, Henrik. The Lord preferred the weight of a quill in his hand to the heavy metal of a sword – an aspect Tywin Lannister valued. Henrik often believed that was why his father and Ronas got along so well.
But if there was one thing Henrik could confidently get the better of Ronas for, it was sword fighting. Every time he kicked Ronas to the dirt with a swish of his practice sword, he couldn’t help gloating and puffing his chest out in unbidden glee.
Ronas might have been good with his practised words and his smiles, but Henrik was the better-skilled fighter, and nor did he miss the opportunity to rub this in his cousin’s scowling face.
“Henrik,” came Rubin’s hissing voice, so quiet that no one else heard it. “Bow.”
Henrik, remembering his courtesies, sunk into a bow, Rubin following behind him.
“Arise, my young Lord,” came a husk feminine voice. “And tell us what your business is today.”
The Queen Regent had addressed him. She was a strikingly beautiful woman, with the same golden hair as her son, emerald eyes, and a slender, graceful figure. Henrik understood why most people hailed her the most beautiful woman in Westeros. Her beauty was hard to deny.
Next to her, with her gaze centred firmly on the ground, sat a young girl with hair the colour of flames. Nobody in Faircastle even had that type of hair colour. Henrik suspected you probably couldn’t even get it as a hair dye.
The girl’s face was guarded, and her hands folded in her lap. She had the straightest posture Henrik had ever seen – not even the Septas at Fair Isle could sit like that. He willed her to look up, his curiosity growing, but she never did.
“Have you come to bend the knee to me?” demanded the King rather impatiently, drumming his fingers against the arm of the throne. “And recognise me as King and Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms?”
Henrik, broken from his thoughts, was taken aback at the brash tone but quickly schooled his features into a polite smile, turning his gaze away from the girl. He bent a knee.
“Yes, your Grace,” he said, managing to keep his voice steady. “I am Henrik Farman. I’ve come to swear allegiance to you on behalf of my father as his only son and heir. House Farman is yours to command.”
King Joffrey instantly looked mighty pleased. “I’m glad to hear that. But why is Lord Farman not here on his knees swearing to me instead?”
“He is indisposed currently, your Grace,” explained Henrik. “We are sworn by our oath to House Lannister, our liege Lord, as I'm sure you’re well aware, your Grace, and so he fights in battle alongside Lord Tywin against Robb Stark.”
There came mutterings of discontent and quiet condemnation from the other lords and ladies at his response.
King Joffrey nodded solemnly, his thin lips pressing together to appear important. “It is a disgrace and farce based on the words of the traitor Lord Stark that good men – loyal men to their King –” He raised his voice and did a great show of jutting out his chin in dramatic fashion. “– must wage a war against a Pretender. But the crown recognises honourable men who keep their sworn oaths. Which is why I hope to serve House Farman well as your King, Ser.”
Henrik bowed his head with a courteous half-smile. He could only offer one thing. “Your Grace.”
The Queen Regent spoke, her eyes glinting with curiosity. “Farman, did you say? I recognise that name. Would you happen to be related to Jeyne Farman?”
Henrik nodded in surprise, turning his gaze. “Yes, my Queen. She’s my aunt. But she’s Lady Clifton now.”
“Yes, I heard she married a Bannerman of Lord Farman. I recalled that she was one of my girlhood companies. She has a dozen children last I heard. And –”
“I’m sure Lord Henrik has heard enough of your petty childhood stories, mother,” interjected King Joffrey irritably before turning back to him. “Enjoy Kings Landing, my Lord.” His voice was dismissive and passive.
The Queen Regent appeared displeased and hissed something under her breath to her son. King Joffrey, however, ignored her.
Henrik wasn’t sure what to make of them. But he bowed for the final time.
“Well, that went better than expected,” remarked Rubin once they were back in Henrik’s chambers. A smile appeared. “You did well, young Master, for someone meeting the King for their first time. Most men tremble, and some piss themselves, would you believe?”
Rubin meant this for Henrik to laugh. But he stared into the fire, a frown on his face.
“I don’t like him,” he declared boldly. “The King, I mean. He feels off somehow.”
Rubin sobered. “Don’t let anyone catch you hearing that. Joffrey Baratheon may not be Mad King Aerys, but you don’t want to push it. It is treasonous talk.” Henrik shrugged carelessly, and Rubin sighed. “One day that amount of recklessness and courage is going to get you killed,” he said with a note of exasperation.
“Good,” grinned Henrik. “Who’d want a boring death anyway?”
Notes:
This chapter came out faster than I thought.
Thanks for reading and for the support. I appreciate it greatly.
I think think this chapter explores much more of who Henrik is and his relationships. Let me know what you think. I hope it wasn't too rusty and that he comes out like a natural character.
Chapter Text
The capital hadn’t been what Henrik was expecting, nor did he know what to make of it. He explored the Red Keep, fascinated by the number of rooms there were. He spoke with some of the nobles, seeing as it was expected of him; servants and maids dashed around constantly as there was always work to be done and guards were dotted everywhere. Henrik couldn’t go by without seeing a swish of a cloak, white or gold, disappear around a corner.
His opinion of their new King, however, was low. Henrik was aware that this type of thinking was treasonous but King Joffrey proved to be nothing more than a spoiled, loathsome boy. Henrik watched most days as he ravingly spouted about the ongoing war to a throng of Lords and Ladies, then chewed out the servants for the state of the food, and complained about how bored he was. King Joffrey was even worse than Ronas, his deplorable cousin, on a bad day.
It was clear to everyone that the Queen Regent couldn’t control him. Some Lords encouraged the King and praised his sovereignty. Henrik scoffed. All he saw was a boy whose crown couldn’t fit on his head and who slouched on the throne, not exactly Kingly behaviour.
King’s Landing, he had come to understand, had its highs and lows. One side thrilled him: the glitzy tournaments, the lavish feasts, the White Cloaks and the Knights with shiny armour; however, the other side, the disease-ridden and poverty-stricken civilians were far more shocking.
While Rubin claimed this was the real Kings Landing, he never permitted Henrik to venture into the lanes of Flea Bottom or Silk Street, saying it was improper for a young lord seen there, rumours will circulate, and it would be better to stay inside the Red Keep. Displeased, Henrik argued with Rubin until he relented, but promised him he would remain on main streets and lanes and not wander into side alleys.
The city was bustling with activity as when they first rode into the gates. At Rubin’s suggestion, Henrik ensured his sword was strapped to his hip in case anyone tried anything, though he couldn’t help rolling his eyes at this notion. Rubin seriously didn’t know how to live and was paranoid about every commoner that came near them. Henrik wondered how he didn’t collapse with exhaustion at following rules every second of his life.
He visited the vendors, eyes wide as he took in every piece of food and cake sold with each seller trying to shout louder than the other. Children giggled and ran past, chasing pigeons and sounds of laughter and chatter echoed past. He bought some of the best honey cakes he’d ever tasted, (though the Cook at Faircastle would box his ears if she heard him say that) which ruined him for any other.
It was also astonishing to see men and women exchanging shameless kisses and embraces and no one speaking out against it for indecency. It went against everything he’d been used to. In Faircastle, Henrik was taught from a young age how to behave himself in front of a Lady, how to dance with her, and what to say: he should always strive to be proper and honourable.
This didn’t look at all proper but as Henrik watched, some couples looked content and joyful with their arms locked together. He supposed propriety didn’t matter for the common people and the thought sounded thrilling for a moment. If he didn’t have his House sigil sown into the middle of his clothing, if he were a common man, free from duty, he could have easily donned a simple linen shirt and breeches and walked the city for hours. No one would have waved at him each time he went by or stopped him from going to certain places. He’d be free to do things to his heart’s content.
He walked a little further and a street performance was transpiring at the stage set up at the end of the lane. It appeared immensely popular and all people of all ages crammed together to catch a glimpse. He turned to beam excitedly at Rubin and bounded forwards, placing himself near the corner to get a good view. He laughed along at the jokes and watched in surprised delight at the number of crude jokes and phrases in the play.
“Gods, we shouldn’t be listening to such filth,” sighed Rubin, shaking his head, his lips curled downwards as the man on the stage performed some suggestive movements and winked at the audience, who cackled loudly. “What would your father think?”
Henrik scoffed, leaning against a stone column with crossed arms, entirely amused at the colourful language and Rubin’s stiff reaction to it. Perhaps it wasn’t wise to let Rubin know that he’d overheard the stableboys say much worse things at Faircastle. And the phrases that Ronas came out with sometimes would make an Ironborn man blush.
“He wouldn’t think anything — he’d rather reproach me,” he replied, gazing in curiosity as several background actors fell dramatically. “Besides, he’s not even here.”
“Yes, and thank the Gods for that. Honestly, this is what these people call entertainment?”
It’s funny, Rubin, lighten up,” said Henrik, huffing out a laugh as his attention became entirely invested in the play.
“I don’t think I’ve seen this play either,” said Rubin, narrowing his eyes as the men on stage waved fake swords at each other. “I think they are doing Robert’s Rebellion.”
A tug on his doublet made Henrik glance down to see a young boy of about eight, his face dirty with grime and dirt, his mouth turned down, looking up at him pleadingly.
“Please, m’lord, spare a silver stag, if you can, I beg of you,” he implored sadly.
The boy’s soft, desperate expression caused Henrik’s heart to ache. He looked as young as some of his cousins but lacked their joyous expressions. Observing the boy’s thin body, Henrik detected how his bones stuck out while his soiled shirt dropped against his frame. Rubin hadn’t noticed him yet due to the small stature of the boy. Henrik bent down.
“What's your name?” he asked.
“Me mum calls me Alavin, m’lord. Can you spare a silver stag, please?” answered the boy, eyes wide but unsmiling.
Henrik threw him a half-smile and bought out a silver coin. Alavin’s eyes followed the coin hungrily as if he was worried it’d vanish if he took his eyes off it.
“And where is your mother, Alavin?” said Henrik curiously. “Is she here with you?”
“Working, m’lord, like she always does. In Silk Street. She puts me to take care of meself while she does. Would you spare the coin m’lord, please?”
Henrik smiled. “Would you like to see a trick?” Alavin’s eyes looked up to meet his, his tiny brow furrowed. “Watch,” he continued.
He showed the coin in his hand first before placing it straight on his palm. He then transferred it to the other hand and closed his fist before blowing on it. When he opened up his fist, the coin was absent. Alavin’s eyes widened and he stared at Henrik, stunned. Henrik laughed, pleased to have affected the boy, before pointing at Alavin’s ear.
“There’s something behind your ear, take a look,” he motioned.
He reached out and pulled the same silver coin out from under Alavin’s ear. The boy gasped in wonder, his hand reaching out to grab the coin and stare at it in amazement. He rubbed under his ear, blinking repeatedly. Henrik was pleased to see there was finally a sparkle in Alavin’s doe eyes.
“Thank you, m’lord, thank you. Ever so grat’ful. How ever did ya do that?” questioned Alavin, gripping his fist tight over the coin lest anyone took it from him.
Henrik wiggled his fingers and winked. “Nimble fingers,” he grinned, watching as Alavin smiled tentatively before turning to race off into the crowd.
“You shouldn’t give out your coins like that, Master Henrik,” disapproved Rubin, frowning at him as he straightened up. “Otherwise every peasant and beggar and Kings Landing will be clutching at you for scraps.”
“He looked hungry, Rubin. Where’s your sense of compassion? He was only a boy, so I had to help him.”
Rubin eyed him pointedly. “Sometimes you forget you’re just a boy too, Master Henrik. It’s foolish to help any of them, it’ll be a lost cause.”
Henrik scowled, irritation blooming in his chest. “Yes, well, it seems as if your stone heart has forgotten too that I won’t be a boy forever. I’ll be Lord of Faircastle after my father. And it’s my money, I wanted to give it to him.” He pushed off from the column and strode away, though he heard Rubin’s loyal footsteps following behind him.
Henrik was preparing his horse ready when he heard an angry yell and a clash of metal before a pained cry rang out. Gasps and shouts echoed from people in the street. His head raised in alarm but there were too many individuals in front to make out what had happened. He craned his head but was interrupted by Rubin, who was watching him with hawk eyes.
“Ignore it, Master Henrik,” said Rubin with a warning tone. “It’s none of our business and we should be getting back before dark, remember?”
He nodded mindlessly. Any other time, Henrik wouldn’t have listened and pushed through the crowds to see what the commotion was but right now, after a whole day of walking through the city, his limbs felt exhausted and he was eager to get under his warm sheets.
As he clutched the reins attached to his horse, the crowd scattered and Henrik felt his face pale while he froze. A Gold Cloak had his sword out, his face spoiled a red shade of fury as he glared down at the figure lying in the dirt. There was a slack expression on the figure’s face; his mouth parted and his wide eyes glazed over. Under his head, a scarlet pool stained the ground. His hands were open and inside his palm lay a silver stag.
The slashing of swords dinged in the Red Keep’s training yard. Henrik stood in his amour, gazing around upon the scene. Men clashed weapons or nocked arrows to release against a red target. His body thrummed with excitement as his hand lay against his sword.
The Master-At-Arms at Faircastle, Ser Devron, hadn’t permitted actual swords to any of his students until they’d learnt to best him in a fight. Henrik had been the quickest fighter in Fair Isle history to gain a sharp metal sword, much to his Lord Father’s astonishment. Henrik anticipated this to be the moment when his father would grin and clap and tell him he was proud of his achievement and Henrik would bask in his praise.
But his father, when staring down from the battlements, had merely nodded and walked away, chatting with one of his visiting bannermen. Henrik’s face dropped and his sword hand wilted. Ser Devron then reminded him, after he kicked his arse into the dirt, to never lose distraction in a fight otherwise it’ll be his downfall in a fight.
Here, Henrik noticed that there weren’t a lot of boys around his age in the practice yard. Most of the men were older and the majority were Gold Cloaks. There weren’t many nobles either as they mostly spent their time in their chambers or the throne room. Rubin noted, shaking his head in disgust, that the times had changed since he was a boy as well-fed nobles would rather listen to useless gossip and stuff themselves fat with lavish, excess food than better themselves with a sword.
A glimpse of red caught the corner of his eye. In the small battlement above, striding across, was the girl he noticed in the throne room, the one next to the King and the Queen Regent. He shaded his eyes from the glare of the sun as he watched her walk, her two maidservants following behind, though it was clear that those two were more interested in pointing and giggling coyishly at some of the men in the yard than attending to their lady.
Henrik had discovered the girl to be Lady Sansa Stark according to some nobles and she was the King’s betrothed. People whispered that Lady Sansa was a traitor, like her pretender brother, and shouldn’t marry royalty. Henrik believed that the King was a pompous and obnoxious little prick who didn’t deserve such a girl as beautiful as his future Queen. Anyone with eyes could see that.
Still, his gaze lingered as the girl walked gracefully, causing him to follow her movements. It seemed too graceful for some reason.
To his shock, Lady Sansa turned her head and her eyes ran across the yard until they settled on him. A tiny thrill shot through his chest as he saw that she didn’t look away. He stood frozen, unable to make out her expression. Her eyes were the bluest he’d ever seen, as blue as the summer sea he wished to sail across in his dreams. He shot a tiny smile at her, and Lady Sansa tilted her head at him, her expression unchanged.
“Are you going to stand there gawking all day?” chimed an amused voice, approaching Henrik and breaking his concentration. “Or is the young Lord just here to look at the pretty swords?”
A man with a comely face and light-brown hair approached, eyeing him curiously with amusement glinting in his eyes. Henrik looked back up but saw that Lady Sansa had disappeared. He narrowed his gaze on the newcomer and unsheathed his sword.
“And you are?” he asked.
“Ras at your service,” said the man with a mocking bow. “Member of the City Watch.”
Henrik smirked mischievously. “Good,” he stated. “At least I’ll know who I’m kicking into the dirt then.” He readied his weapon.
“You’re a bold little Lord, aren’t you?” Ras lifted an eyebrow. “Let’s see how well you fare then.”
Henrik transformed immediately from a carefree smirk to a look of complete concentration. His body tensed in anticipation, his eyes focused, knowing that it didn’t matter who the opponent was or how skilled they were. Ser Devron had taught him that their strength, size or gender didn’t matter: blades were all that existed.
Ras strikes first, exactly what Henrik was waiting for. He retreated into a defensive position. His stance was ideal, and his instincts guided him through dodging and parrying. He waited for a weakness, something to catch Ras off guard, a wrong step or swish. The other man was unrelenting, his force fierce and strong. Henrik was counting on him getting tired sooner or later.
Henrik was fast and lithe and his movements agile as he twisted his body round to block each swing of Ras’s sword. He could tell Ras was getting frustrated and in turn sloppy. Then he saw his opportunity. Ras hesitated for a split second and it was all Henrik needed for him to twist his sword hand around in a circular motion and send Ras’s sword tumbling down to the ground with a loud clatter. His swordpoint jutted out an inch from Ras’s heart, and the latter held his hands up in surrender.
“I win,” declared Henrik simply.
“Yeah, alright, you might have got me there. You’re a good fighter,” admitted Ras, his smile more genuine now. “What’s your name, my lord?” The tone of his voice had shifted to something more respectful.
“Henrik of House Farman,” said Henrik, spinning his sword. He held out his free hand in greeting, which Ras reached out to clasp firmly.
“Honour to meet you, Lord Henrik. I’ll spare you again if you’re up for it?”
Henrik grinned and gripped the handle of his weapon tighter, his blood burning with exhilaration. Sparing in the capital was everything he dreamt of, and he only desired to know how his skills fared against the White Cloaks themselves.
Henrik strolled through the gardens, his hands clasped behind his back as he breathed in the scent of the roses wafting from the bushes. His mind felt troubled ever since he saw Alavin lying there in the middle of the street. Rubin claimed it wasn’t his fault, that there was nothing he could have done, and that these things were unfortunate. Many beggars and commoners die every day in the city, and Henrik couldn’t go around saving all of them.
Yes, he knew it wasn’t his fault, and yet guilt remained, churning and twisting in his gut like a voiceless monster unwilling to leave. When he closed his eyes at night the vacant black eyes of Alavin appeared, tormenting him.
Of course, he was no stranger to death. He has witnessed animals being sacrificed and lame dogs struck down in Faircastle. That was all a part of life. Some thieves from the town had snuck into the castle, hoping to steal some silver or gold plates, which resulted in their hands being chopped off as punishment. His father once made him watch the guards execute a man whose crime was murder and warned him that death and punishment were a common part of life as a Lord of a Castle. Henrik’s gaze remained glued until the man’s head finally fell, dirty, bloody, and dead before it rolled over to land beneath his feet, its eyes staring up at him. He recalled feeling completely numb as his father patted him on the shoulder.
But that had been just. Crime and sin beget punishment. Where was the justice in killing a boy of eight in a crowded street? What had his crime of begging in the street been?
Henrik raised his head and suddenly noticed that he’d wandered far from the gardens. The place seemed unfamiliar to him.
Ahead a figure kneeled with her hands clasped together and her facial expression soft. Henrik stared. The crinkle of the leaves beneath his feet signalled his presence and he cursed inside his mind. The girl’s breath hitched and she turned around to lock eyes with him. Lady Sansa had been caught off guard and her expression slackened into genuine shock, her eyebrows raised and her hands unclasped.
“Oh. . .” she exclaimed, her pink lips parted.
There was a few seconds of awkward silence. Henrik stared at her, acknowledging how much prettier she looked up close. She wore a dress of pale pink and her hair was styled in a southern fashion. Despite a previous distaste for that style, Lady Sansa managed to make him appreciate it in a new light.
He bowed in recognition, not forgetting his manners to a lady. “I sincerely apologise for disturbing you, my lady,” he said sheepishly.
Lady Sansa’s face instantly became guarded and unreadable as she rose from her kneeling position. Henrik’s curiosity grew all the more. He wondered why she seemed so withdrawn.
“I didn’t realise you prayed to the Old Gods too. I beg pardon, my lord, I’ll just go,” she said, dipping into a curtsey, her voice softer and more delicate than the roses he’d passed.
“No!” he cried, causing her to pause mid-step and blink. He lowered his tone. “Please, stay, it’s my fault. I caught you unawares, I didn’t mean to wander so far.”
Sansa’s brow furrowed. “Oh. . .”
Henrik threw her a tiny smile. “Yes, I did not realise this even existed in the Red Keep. I’ve seen many Septs, but, to tell you the truth, I’m not much of a religious devotee —” he huffed out a laugh “— so I don’t visit as much. I have to admit this seems much quieter.”
“Well spotted, my lord,” said Lady Sansa quietly, standing as stiff as the trees behind her.
Her previous words registered with him and he peered at the tree behind her. This wasn't just any old tree, however. Its bark had been carved into the shape of a heart, giving the spirit of something else. . . something older. Henrik shivered, not quite understanding why he felt unsettled the longer he stared at the trees. It was as if he was being judged.
“You worship the Old Gods, yes?” he began inquisitively. “Like all Northerners do?”
He realised that he shouldn’t be alone with a lady. He should say his courtesies and turn back. And yet, he still stayed.
Lady Sansa sealed her fingers together demurely. “Most Northerners do, my lord, yes, you are correct. My mother didn’t.” She pressed her lips together as if she said something wrong.
Henrik hummed. “Sounds like a marvel. So your mother kept the Seven, I assume.”
Lady Sansa’s breath grew heavier. “You assume correctly.”
Henrik shook his head, his tone one of wonder. “I’ve never met someone from the North. What’s the place like? I’ve always been curious. I’ve heard rumours that can be quite beautiful.”
“It’s. . . cold,” replied Lady Sansa hesitantly. Her voice turned firmer at her next words. “But the North are all traitors, my Lord, including my treacherous lady mother. I’m loyal to the one true King, King Joffrey,” she said quietly.
Henrik raised an eyebrow. He didn’t know what to say to that. “Are you now?” Her words were perfectly delivered as there was no sign of doubt, but something still felt strange, he just couldn’t place it.
“Yes,” nodded Lady Sansa. “Was there something else you needed, my lord? I beg pardon, but my maidservants must be waiting for my return.”
“Hmm, oh, no, not at all, my lady. Feel free to leave. Your company has been a pleasure.”
“You are most kind to say, my lord,” muttered Lady Sansa and she dipped into a final curtsey.
Henrik called out before she could disappear, an urge welling up inside him. “Lady Sansa,” he said, and the red-haired girl paused to turn around with a polite, expectant expression. “If I get a chance someday, I sure look forward to seeing if the North is as cold as you say it is.”
He flashed her a grin and watched in delight as her blue eyes widened and her mouth parted.
Notes:
Thanks for reading. Hope this was okay.
Chapter 5: Henrik IV
Notes:
Because this is Game of Thrones, this is an M-rated chapter for a specific scene near the end.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The day dawned bright with a fair breeze when Henrik awoke from his chambers in the late morning. Excitement buzzed through the air and no expense had been held back for His Grace’s nameday.
As he strolled past tents and pavilions to find his seat, Henrik looked dapper in his newly tailored clothes. The stands were full for the much-anticipated tourney held in the name of the King. It was all anyone could speak about the past few days, common folk and nobles alike, ever since it was announced. Henrik was looking forward to seeing an actual joust take place, not a farce one with the Knights at Faircastle. A few years before, he’d been disappointed that most tourneys only allowed Knights to participate instead of titled lords, and his excitement had dimmed somewhat.
And even if it were, his father nor Rubin wouldn’t ever allow him to take part as he wasn’t of age yet, but mostly because he was his father’s sole heir. It’d take a small fly-away spear point pierced through his heart and it’ll all be over, or that was according to Rubin. Henrik liked to believe he was more skilled than that. Besides, that wouldn't be the best way to die: struck down before he could prove his worth. Oh, no, Henrik hoped for a far better, grander and more courageous way.
Still, the lavish preparations and the sight of men and young boys in polished armour walking past caused his blood to quicken and to stare in wonder. He might not be taking part but he’d placed his bets on the champion, out of earshot from Rubin, of course.
Yet, he couldn’t help but fantasise as he gazed at the gallery and lists in the outer bailey. He pictured himself for a moment, lance in hand, sitting victoriously on his horse after unseating his last opponent, a broad grin on his face as he soaked in the cheers and adoration from the lords and ladies, the sweet taste of glory and success in his mouth. He shook his head. It would’ve been nice but it remained a mere dream.
Among the spectators, the majority were guardsmen wearing the gold cloaks of the City Watch, while the nobles were few. Ras nodded at him as he caught his eye and Henrik gave a curt nod back. He liked to believe they were friends after the number of times they fought in the practice yard despite Ras being older by a few years. He finally reached Rubin, who was waiting for him.
Rubin raised an eyebrow. “You’re late, Master Henrik. Woke up late, did we?” he said. “I pray you might be on time one day.”
Henrik scoffed. “I am not,” he protested. “The jousting hasn’t even started yet. Men are still putting their armour on.”
“No, but it will be soon. You are also expected to wish His Grace well on his nameday, which you haven’t yet I might add.”
Henrik groaned, his head falling back. “Do I have to?”
Rubin's expression was as hard as stone. “Yes, it is required, my young lord. As you are well aware ─”
Rubin should've been a Maester instead of captain of the household guardsmen, Henrik thought. Before Rubin went on his long-winded lecture, Henrik interrupted with a sigh.
“Yes, okay, I understand,” he muttered. “No need to repeat yourself.”
With a wrapped gift in Rubin’s arm, they walked towards the King’s canopy, and Henrik’s gaze fell on Lady Sansa. Her alabaster skin looked lovely against the light purple dress she wore. Her eyes were downcast, her hands placed gently in her lap, and her spine as straight as ever as if someone had placed a steel ruler against her back. She looked so tall and regal like what a Queen should look like. She didn’t look up when Henrik approached.
“Ah, Lord Henrik, what brings you here,” asked the King lazily, breaking Henrik’s gaze with the Northern lady. “Come to offer your congratulations on my nameday?”
Joffrey’s leg was thrown over the arm of the chair he lounged in. Henrik could make out the sight of the Hound, a giant of a man with a burnt face, standing behind him. His eyes lingered curiously on the burnt face before moving away. The Queen Regent was noticeably absent but the Prince and Princess were there. The two children looked up shyly when he appeared. Henrik gave them a soft smile before addressing the King.
“Good morning, Your Grace,” he said with a shallow bow. He motioned to the gift, as Rubin placed it in his arms. “May I offer happy tidings for your nameday? Our King is a man grown. How fortunate we all are to be reminded that we have such a brave King.” There was a tiny hint of a smirk at the edge of his mouth as if he was masking his amusement while he took in Joffrey’s petulant and arrogant gaze. “Are you taking part in the tournament, Your Grace?”
Joffrey frowned. “My Lady mother believed it to not be fitting. But rest assured, my lord, I would have been champion compared to these lot.”
Henrik pressed his lips together to not laugh. “Of course. Without a doubt, Your Grace. Your skills would have been fearsome and. . . memorable, the stuff of songs, I’m sure.”
The fact that people whispered about the King’s pitiful talents with a sword sat firmly in his brain as his lips quirked upwards. He heard Rubin inhale sharply behind him. Rubin had known him long enough to sense the meaning behind his words. Henrik kept his eyes peeled and his posture courteous.
“Yes,” said Joffrey disinterestedly, waving a hand, but Henrik noticed the pleased glint in his eye as he puffed his chest out like a plump horse. “What is that you’ve brought?”
“A gift. We hope it’s worthy enough for Your Grace.” Henrik believed Joffrey deserved to be presented with horseshit on a stick but he maintained his polite smile.
“Good,” declared Joffrey. His head turned back to the Hound. “Dog, take Lord Henrik’s gift and place it with the others.” He quickly dismissed Henrik, running his eyes towards the field. “Enjoy the tournament, my Lord.”
“Thank you.” Henrik paused, his eyes flickering over to the Lady. He couldn’t make out her expression. He couldn’t help saying, “You look exceptionally lovely today, Lady Sansa. His Grace must be very delighted to have such a beautiful, mannerly Lady for a bride.”
When Lady Sansa lifted her head to stare at him with her peony-coloured parted lips, he felt satisfied. He was aware of Rubin burning a stare into the side of his head, but he ignored it.
Joffrey frowned when she didn’t reply. “Did you not hear what Lord Henrik said, my lady?” he demanded sharply. “Aren’t you going to answer him?”
“Forgive me,” murmured Lady Sansa. “You’re very kind to say, my lord, I’m honoured.”
Henrik gave a half-smile, hands crossed behind his back. “It is not being kind if I'm merely pointing out a fact. Is that not so, Your Grace?” he said, turning his head to the King. “Would you not agree?”
“Henrik,” hissed Rubin behind him, but he ignored him once again.
Joffrey scoffed. “Yes, but it’s a shame she’s a traitor’s daughter,” he spat, “So that makes her the fortunate one. A King, such as myself, marring a stupid girl, a traitor’s daughter. She should be honouring me with her praises.”
“Your honour is well known across all the Seven Kingdoms,” said Henrik dryly.
Joffrey continued as if he hadn’t heard him. “And her traitor brother still runs wild. If he was here I would have challenged him to single combat and struck the blow off his head.” His eyes were wide with ruthlessness as if lost in a memory.
Henrik furrowed his brow. This was especially cruel and distasteful to speak about her brother in that manner while she was sitting next to him, even if Robb Stark was rebelling against the crown. And ─
There it was! A flash in her gaze and a bristle from Lady Sansa. Henrik raised an eyebrow. Well now, he thought. It was gone just as quickly as the King turned his gaze towards her.
“I should like to see that, Your Grace,” she muttered with a hollow undertone. Henrik eyed her curiously, disregarding the firm nudge from Rubin.
Joffrey’s eyes narrowed at her and Henrik jumped in before he could question her.
“Lady Sansa raises a good point. The Realm would’ve been better off for it, Your Grace, seeing your talents with a sword. I hope you have a lucky nameday.” He bowed. “We should be off now, Your Grace, the tournament is going to start.”
“Oh, yes. . .” Joffrey blinked before his expression cleared as he nodded proudly. “Yes, that’s true.”
A blare of trumpets sounded as they walked away. Yet, Henrik noticed that Joffrey settled back in his seat like he was a conquering hero, and took Lady Sansa’s hand in his. A frown pulled at Henrik’s lips.
“What in the name of the Gods were you thinking, Henrik,” fumed Rubin in his ear. “You’re playing with fire, and you know it. Enough of your impulsiveness, this is Kings Landing. I won’t have it, disrespecting the King like that. It is treasonous ─ he could have your head.”
“I don’t know what you mean, Rubin,” said Henrik coolly, watching as Ser Meryn Trant of the Kingsguard was announced. “I have the utmost regard for our gracious King.”
Rubin scoffed, shaking his head. “You know perfectly well what I mean, Henrik. And what was the need to speak to that traitorous Stark bitch.”
He caught Rubin’s eye, the humour wiped from his face. “I am not in the process of explaining myself to you of all people. And show some respect, do not speak to Lady Sansa or me in that manner again. She is a highborn lady, the King’s future Queen. You may be important to me, but I will be your liege lord, you understand? So mind your tongue.”
“Forgive me, my lord, I spoke out of turn,” muttered Rubin, lowering his tone, but the small scowl on his face remained.
The tourney didn’t end up being that impressive. None of the Knights looked valiant or skilful enough and it ended up being a few squires and elderly men who unhorsed each other. Henrik felt rather bored watching it and wished he was spending his time in the practice yard right now with a sword in hand. The most noticeable thing that occurred, however, was the arrival of Ser Dontos. Henrik laughed with the crowd as the Knight was so drunk that he missed his horse’s stirrup. Ser Dontas gave up and asked for wine as he forfeited the match.
The King stood up, his face like thunder. “A cask from the cellars,” he declared loudly. “I want to see him drowned in it.”
“Surely he’s joking, right?” muttered Henrik in a shocked tone as keen whispers broke out.
Ser Dontos was a pathetic excuse for a Knight, there was no denying that, but that didn’t mean he deserved to die for simply being drunk. Otherwise almost every man in the Red Keep would be put to death. What was the King doing? Did he truly mean to kill Dontos?
“I think so,” said Rubin but his face looked worried.
Henrik watched from the corner of his eye as Lady Sansa spoke hurriedly with the King, who appeared annoyed. Joffrey’s face changed suddenly as he considered the Knight.
“Did you hear my lady, Dontos? From this day on, you’re my new fool,” Joffrey grinned with a pointed finger at said Knight.
Ser Dontos dropped to his knees with an expression of pure relief. “Thank you, Your Grace. And you, my lady. Thank you.”
Henrik caught Sansa’s gaze as she locked eyes with him, her face unreadable before she turned towards the field. His eyes lingered on her. How odd. Ser Dontas was well on his way to being executed but managed to avoid the sharp end of it. The King was a fool to call Lady Sansa stupid; she was smarter than she was being given credit for. He didn’t know what she told Joffrey but Henrik knew without a doubt that Dontos would have faced his death if not for Lady Sansa.
She was. . . intriguing if he was being honest, a fact he knew ever since he saw her in the throne room. His estimation of her grew. And she was a puzzle, he wouldn’t mind becoming lost in.
Henrik found cyvasse to be an interesting if tedious game. It did well to pass the time but it required patience ─ something which Rubin believed Henrik needed a lot of. The game, however, reminded him too much of Ronas for it to be a game to truly indulge in. Rather than being trapped inside a stuffy chamber, he preferred something physical and the wind whipping in his face.
Rubin swiped one of his elephants. Great, now he was losing, which was inevitable as he’s only won twice in his life at this game. He groaned and sent a longing glance outside the window where the sun was bright and the air sweet. He’d been here for over an hour already and felt restlessness within his bones.
“How long is this going to take?” he grumbled. “Can you just kill my King piece so we can end this?”
“Oh, alright,” sighed Rubin. “You can go, Master Henrik, if it’ll stop you from complaining every two seconds.”
Henrik lit up and in a hopeful tone said, “Really?”
Rubin shook his head. He shut the box that contained the board. “Yes, we’ll play another day when you’re brain is working properly. And that reminds me that I must send a raven to your lord father in the meantime.”
Henrik grinned and rushed out of his chambers, passing the guards outside his door with his House sigil sown on the front. They followed him, making sure to keep a few steps behind. His limbs sang in relief after sitting down for so long. People in the gardens were laughing and conversing while servants carried food plates and cakes. He walked past and waved to lords and ladies that he knew.
A flash of red caught his eye. He paused in his steps, hesitating. Lady Sansa was the only person that sat by themselves on a table with cakes placed in front of her but they were left untouched. Her maids were behind her but chatting among themself. He titled his head. She looked rather sorrowful and lonesome as she stared out towards the view of the city. He instructed his guards to wait on the spot, though they didn’t look pleased with it. He walked closer, and she turned her head to catch his gaze at the sound of his feet. Her eyebrows rose before she formed a polite expression.
“Hello, my lady, good to see you again. How are you today?” asked Henrik with a bow.
“I’m very well, my lord, thank you for asking,” she answered softly, a slant of light falling across her face and reflecting off those wonderfully blue eyes.
Henrik blinked. “Good. . . I’m glad,” he said, almost tripping over his words for a moment. “May I join you for a spare moment?” he motioned towards her table.
“You are more than welcome to do as you please, my lord.”
Henrik got the sense that she wouldn’t have cared who sat in that chair. It could have been the Mad King risen from the dead himself and the lady would be courteous still and offer him a cake. It was sort of admirable in a way that she never forgot her manners. He took a seat in front. A servant instantly approached with a plate.
“Henrik,” he said.
“I beg pardon?” She stared at him with a confused crease in her brow.
“My name is Henrik.” He smiled. “My father is the Lord of Faircastle so that makes him the lord. Let’s skip the pleasantries for now.”
“If ─ if you wish so,” she murmured with a bewildered tone.
“Oh, I do very much,” he shrugged. He peered at the platters. He gave her a questioning glance. “Do you enjoy lemon cakes, Lady Sansa?”
“Yes. How do you know, my lord? Forgive me, I meant Henrik,” she corrected after his pointed look.
Her voice, though soft, held a curious tone and he rather liked how she said his name: neutrally with a hint of curiosity instead of familiar disgust from Ronas, awe from the common folk, exasperation from Rubin, and mild indifference from his father. She couldn't figure him out, which was different from being viewed as an obstinate and headstrong boy by those who knew him.
“A whole platter of just lemon cakes is a bit of a giveaway, my lady, if you don’t mind me saying so,” he motioned with an amused smile.
A tiny pinkish blush spread across her face. He delighted in getting a reaction out of her. “Oh, yes, of course,” she said. “You are right, I do very much like lemon cakes. What about you, Henrik?”
Henrik hummed. “I prefer honey cakes but lemon ones are very nice too.” He wetted his lips. “I couldn’t help but notice that you’re alone, my lady. Surely, that must be a crime in itself: leaving such a pretty lady to entertain only yourself.”
Lady Sansa didn’t smile but she considered him closely. “You are very kind to say, my l-Henrik. But I’m afraid not most people want to share company with a traitor’s daughter.”
Henrik leaned back with a smirk. “What did I mention before about being kind?” Sansa swallowed but didn’t reply. He leaned forwards again, peering at her. His tone lowered to a sincere one as he kept his eyes on hers. “I know we didn’t get a chance to meet properly, my lady, so forgive me for not saying this earlier to you. I’m truly, very sorry for your loss.”
Her eyes widened and her elbow knocked a cake to the floor, but Henrik ignored it though a servant stepped forwards to pick it up.
“My loss?” she whispered in a barely audible voice. She looked around as her eyes fell on her distracted maids. She placed her hands in her lap. “My father was a traitor, my lord,” she murmured, and Henrik had to admit it was a good reflex. “I am loyal to my beloved King.”
“Yes, that’s all well and true but he was your father to you above all else,” he continued earnestly, holding her gaze. “Lord Stark, the previous Hand ─ he was your father despite everything. He must have been very dear to you and a loss like that must be agonising. You must miss him very much.”
Lady Sansa’s bottom lip trembled a tad. Ah, a crack in her armour.
“He was,” she whispered as if confessing a deep secret. “Dear to me. I. . . I miss him every day.”
She looked around with misty eyes as if afraid someone was going to come out and strike her down for her words. He softened his features.
“I heard he was loyal as very Northman is rumoured to be. Stories of him even came to Fair Isle,” offered Henrik gently. “I admit I would have liked to meet him.”
“My father was honourable and true,” she said, without realising. “A man of the North.”
A spark was lit in her eye and Henrik gazed in astonishment at the steadiness of her voice. Not such a statue after all, Lady Sansa, he thought. A fire burned in her soul just as bright as the flamed-coloured strands of hair. And it was glorious to witness. Perhaps he shouldn’t be mentioning her father as everyone knew he was a traitor to the Crown, but it didn’t mean that his daughter was tainted. Henrik couldn’t help what he believed.
“Joffrey killed him,” she whispered with an empty, painful expression, and Henrik barely blinked. “I thought I loved him once. He and the Queen gave me false promises and in turn, I paid for my foolishness with my father’s head. And then he made me look at my father’s head on a spike.”
Henrik felt floored, his fists unknowingly clenched. He always believed the King to be a petulant, arrogant boy but not one so wicked and bloodthirsty, especially to his betrothed. He should’ve known better. Disdain and outrage ran through him.
“He’s a monster,” he uttered quietly, and Sansa nodded mindlessly, lost in her distressing thoughts no doubt. “A spoiled, arrogant monster that doesn’t deserve you or the crown.” His hidden truth escaped his lips, causing Lady Sansa to part her lips in surprise. “Do you truly wish to be married to him?”
He sensed it before she spoke. “No, I would rather die with my brother and mother.”
There was silence as they stared at each other. Henrik knew he was seeing a layer of the true Lady Sansa. A burst of laughter rang near them. She blinked and her expression cleared as she took in the people around them. A flicker of fear emerged in her expression as she shook her head at Henrik.
“I beg pardon, my lord. The North are all traitors and my brother and my mother are all traitors. I am loyal to the King and the Realm,” she rambled in a flustered, frightened tone, avoiding his eyes at all costs. “I-I shouldn’t have ─ I ─”
Henrik placed his hands out to calm her. “It’s quite alright, Lady Sansa, I do assure you.”
Sansa shook her head as she stood up, grabbing the attention of her maids who were now by her side though they didn’t look happy about it. “I’m very much honoured by your company once again, my lord. I hope you enjoy your day and I pray for your health.” She dipped into a curtsey.
“Lady San ─” he interrupted, standing up and frowning as she reverted to formalities.
Her voice became more firm and insistent. “I should be getting some rest, my lord, the hot sun is tiring me.”
There was nothing he could do. Henrik gave her a polite smile and bowed as he lifted the back of her hand to kiss gently. The maids giggled. A tremor came from her hand.
“Ah, well then, I hope you feel better soon, my lady. Until we meet again. Thank you for your time.”
“Pleasure was all mine, my lord.”
Henrik’s heart and mind stood reeling as he watched her disappear around a corner and out of sight. Lady Sansa was an enigma wrapped in a silk dress. Although her pretty words were firm, he noticed the hollowness of her eyes, which glinted with the truth she had just revealed.
Ras was a rowdy, unrestrained type of man. His talking and sword-swinging were typical of men wearing Gold Cloaks. Rubin found him distasteful but Henrik found him amusing and enjoyed his stories and quips as they battled.
Henrik panted lightly as he pointed his sword once again at Ras, who lay on his back. “Aren’t you getting tired of losing?” he teased.
Ras grinned mischievously, and Henrik yelped as Ras swiped under his legs as he tumbled to the ground and his weapon fell from his hand. Ras picked up the sword and held it an inch away from his neck.
“You were saying, young lord,” said Ras with a loud laugh. “How does it feel to kiss dirt?”
He offered a hand to Henrik. Henrik scowled up at him as he swiped away the hand and got up grumbling, “That was cheating. Not very honourable of you.”
“There’s no cheating or honour in a fight,” shrugged Ras. “Every man for themselves, I’d say.”
“Spoken like a common man with no honour or skill,” snorted Henrik, rolling his eyes. “Don’t get too cocky, I’ll beat you next time.”
“Gods, I’m thirsty. How do you feel about getting a drink with me at the local tavern? Their ale is quite decent but if you prefer wine like a proper lord, they have that too,” drawled Ras, raising an eyebrow.
Henrik swung his sword over his shoulder. “I─Rubin nor my father wouldn’t let me,” he admitted sheepishly. He hated to confess that he was a green boy in these indulgences but he couldn’t lie about it. Ras would know.
“Are you the lord or not? And your father isn’t here, so what then?” He walked closer and shoved his shoulder gently. “Come on, Henrik, live a little. Okay, how about I take you to Silk Street, I promise you’ll love it there.”
Henrik couldn’t help the curiosity that burned under his chest. He bit his lip and nodded. Ras smirked and swung an arm over his shoulder.
It was too loud. He was expecting a street where people sold silk dresses and clothing but this . . . this was something else entirely. His mouth lay open as he took in what was the inside of a brothel. It was almost too much, the sounds, the sights, the gods, the fact that he couldn’t breathe. It was a cesspool of degeneracy, freedom, and pleasure.
Of course, he knew what happened in brothels and the appetites of some men, but this was blown out of his mind. So much skin on display. His head was pulsing and his heart was pounding. Ras had made him pull a hood tight over his head so no one would recognise him.
Ras laughed next to him and patted his shoulder. “Has the little lord never seen a woman before?” he mocked lightly at Henrik’s dumbfounded expression.
“Shut up, Ras,” he mumbled but couldn’t help but blush as pleasure-laden eyes find him in the dim light.
Ras leaned forwards, a glint shining in his eyes. “Time to get it wet, my lord,” he whispered discreetly. “You have your pick of any whore here. They’re the best kind.”
He motioned to a roomful of women in various states of undress. Henrik barely knew where to look. He pulled his hood back to uncover his face. He shifted on his feet as some people threw him curious and bold glances.
“You will be a man after today, Henrik,” smiled Ras, eyeing one of the whores who threw him coy glimpses. He pushed a coin into Henrik’s palm. “This visit is on me. Do me proud, yes?” He winked at him and then gripped one of the whore’s waist, who giggled playfully as he led her away to a private room.
Henrik stood all alone as Ras went to fuck one of his whores. He felt out of his depth and nervousness fluttered inside him no matter how badly he hated it. Ronas always boasted about the brothels he visited and the whores he fucked and all Henrik remembered feeling was disgust and pity for any woman who had to deal with his cousin. He walked past brothels before but Rubin always steered him clear of them, saying it was full of filth and sin which went against Seven.
And he’d kissed girls before. Well, maybe kiss isn’t the right word. A small peck maybe with some serving girls in Faircastle. Most memorably, there was also a girl from the village he’d taken fancy to and snuck away to share kisses with when her father wasn’t looking. But he hadn’t been intimate with anyone yet and assumed it was going to be during his marriage night. He scanned the room, recognising some nobles from the Red Keep, including some who were married and they certainly weren’t their wives, Henrik noted with raised eyebrows.
A woman caught his eye in the corner. He swallowed and threw a polite smile when her eyes landed on him. But it was her hair that caught his attention. A dark red, he thought dazedly. She was coming closer to him with something between a seductive smirk and a friendly smile.
“You’re a handsome one,” she drawled in greeting. “And you’re looking mighty lost, my lord.”
Her voice was low and husky and her eyes were green. A pang of disappointment struck his chest before he quickly dismissed it. She was dressed in a flimsy long dress, so thin it left nothing to the imagination. Henrik pulled his gaze up from the pointy pebbles that were poking through the material. His cheeks burned as he made sure to meet her eyes. Gods, this was embarrassing enough already. She didn't need to think he was a lecher too.
“That obvious, I assume?” he replied wryly.
She laughed brightly. “You might as well have put up a sign. Calm yourself,” she said with a mirthful half-smile, “I’m not making fun of you, my lord. It’s refreshing if I’m being truthful.”
“Oh. . .” He rubbed his hands against his side, nervously flicking over her face, and her gaze hasn’t left his.
“Do I make you nervous, boy?” she asked, stepping closer and tilting her head.
“You’re very. . . bold and unique, my lady,” he admitted with a single laugh.
“Oh, I’m no proper lady, you don’t have to pretend,” she said amusedly. “You’re here for a reason, am I right? Don’t you want to enjoy yourself, my lord?”
Henrik shut his eyes at the smell of her alluring scent. Hyacinths, he thought. He couldn’t resist. “Yes,” he whispered.
The woman smiled approvingly at him and leaned in to place a gentle kiss on his lips. She then grabbed his arm to lead him to a nearby room. It was empty when they entered. She grabbed a wine jug and poured it into two goblets. She presented him with one. He tipped his head back and felt the cool liquid travel down his throat. It wasn’t as sweet as the wine in the Red Keep or Faircastle but it was enough to leave a burning sensation in his chest.
“What’s your name?” he asked suddenly.
“Myra, my lord, if it pleases you,” she answered in a surprised tone.
“I’m Henrik.”
She eyed him curiously. “Your first time with a woman then, Henrik?” she asked.
Henrik flushed red and nodded. “Yes. I. . . I don’t want to go all the way,” he confessed. “I’m sorry to have wasted your time.”
Myra raised an eyebrow. “Oh, that’s quite alright, we don’t have to if you don’t want to. But I can do other things.” She smiled sweetly.
Henrik lifted his head. He kind of understood what she was talking about. “Other things?”
Myra smirked wickedly as she walked closer and Henrik couldn’t help the sudden tightening of his breeches. She reached out to unlace them and pulled out his cock, and he hissed as the breeze from the window hit his shaft. She held it in her hands and Henrik couldn’t believe how good it felt with someone else’s hand instead of his own.
“Let me take care of you, my lord,” she murmured in his ear.
She was good with her hands, thought Henrik, tilting his head back and closing his eyes as she started stroking up and down. She slowly started to pump, steady and composed, taking her time with it.
“ Gods,” he let out a strained whimper, understanding why most men spent their time in brothels.
She looked at him and if Henrik squinted his eyes a certain way, he could imagine a lighter type of red. He moaned louder, as the heat began to build up. He clenched his abdomen, knowing he wasn’t going to last very long.
Myra set up a rhythm ─ a twist, a stroke, a whimper, a moan ─ while Henrik’s chest ached. His breath started to get heavier as he chased that climax, the knot in his stomach getting tighter.
“I’m ─” he said, and Myra understood as she increased the pace. That was all it took as pleasure crashed over him and he let out a low groan. He was left panting as she smiled at him.
“How was that, my lord?”
“Good,” he swallowed breathlessly. A thought occurred to him. “Can ─ can I do it to you too?” His cheeks turned a vivid pink.
Myra blinked in surprise. “If you’d like, my lord.”
He nodded. “I don’t know how to. . . to make it better for a woman,” he gulped. “Can you teach me?”
A genuine smile curved its way onto Myra’s face. “I’ll be most pleased to, Henrik.”
He shivered at the way she said his name.
The throne room was never this crowded before. Henrik frowned as everyone gathered in the throne room. The King had a face like thunder and interest rippled within him. He wondered what was happening.
“The King is displeased,” muttered an elderly lord next to him, though he appeared to have an excited glint in his eyes. “You know what this means, don’t you?”
Henrik shared a look with Rubin as eager whispers and nods erupted. “What is going on?” he mumbled quietly to Rubin.
“Haven’t a clue, Master Henrik,” replied Rubin, watching the Kingsguard surround the King in formation. “But I suppose we’re going to find out.”
The doors slammed open and Henrik watched as Lady Sansa entered accompanied by the Hound. Henrik bristled as Joffrey pointed an ornate crossbow at her. Most nobles cast their eyes to the ground.
“Your Grace,” pleaded the Lady as she fell to her knees.
“Kneeling won’t save you now,” the King said. “Stand up. You’re here to answer for your brother’s latest treasons.”
“What the fuck is the King doing,” he snapped harshly. “This isn’t right.”
Rubin grabbed his arm in warning as if to stop him from bringing attention to himself. He watched in horror at the scene.
Her voice raised higher. “Your Grace, whatever my traitor brother has done, I had no part. You know that. I beg you, please —”
Sansa peered around desperately at the people but no one would meet her eyes. She landed on Henrik and he saw that beyond the desperation, terror and resignation shimmered plainly in her eyes. An ache emerged in his chest as if someone had gripped his heart and squeezed tightly until blood dripped.
Notes:
Thanks for reading and for your kind support. I hope my writing is not too rusty.
Chapter Text
Nobody was doing anything. Henrik looked around and saw that most people’s gaze was fixed on the King, wide-eyed glints of anticipation shining visibly, instead of Lady Sansa. Others tensed and looked towards the ground. Why wasn’t anyone doing anything? How could they all just stand there?
“Get her up!” yelled the King impatiently.
An old man next to Henrik flinched but otherwise remained silent. The Hound pulled her to her feet. Henrik’s chest burned as he glared at the King, who wasn’t paying attention to him.
“Someone has to stop this,” he muttered to Rubin. “Lady Sansa shouldn’t be subjected to this. No one should, it’s cruel. Why are the Knights not doing anything?” he demanded, catching a few interested glances from those close by who heard him.
Rubin gripped his arm tight, dissuading him from leaving. “Lower your voice. Don’t you even think about it, Master Henrik,” he hissed, narrowing his eyes. “I know you. Do not be foolish — it’s not up to us to question his Grace's actions. The girl is a traitor after all, or have you forgotten that tiny fact?”
“That doesn’t mean she should be made a mockery of in front of the whole court,” he snapped back, furious that Rubin wouldn’t see his way. “What kind of men are they? Treating a highborn lady like this. It’s despicable.”
He motioned towards the White Cloaks, jutting his chin out. Rubin clenched his jaw but refused to answer. Henrik scoffed and watched with bated breath as Ser Lancel Lannister stepped forwards on command of the King.
“Ser Lancel,” King Joffrey spat, glaring daggers at Sansa, “tell her of this outrage.”
There was neither pity nor kindness in the look Lancel Lannister gave Sansa. Henrik felt baffled. What had she done that was so terrible to invoke the anger of the King and be treated as if she were a straw dummy in the practice yard by his Knights?
“Using some vile sorcery, your brother descended with an army of wargs, not three days’ ride from Lannisport. Thousands of good men were butchered as they slept, without the chance to lift swords. After the slaughter, the northmen feasted on the flesh of the slain.”
Lord and ladies alike gasped and raised their hands to their mouths, some fanning themselves. It looked as if most people believed it. Rubin made the sign of the seven-crossed star on his chest and whispered a silent prayer under his breath. Henrik was less impressed.
“Wargs and wild tales. Is he making some sort of jest?” said Henrik, shaking his head, feeling incredulous beyond words. It was as if he were watching this happen like a terrible dream. “That’s beyond the realms of what men are capable of, even northmen. Don’t tell me you believe that horseshit?”
“Mind your tongue, Master Henrik. And might I remind you that those men include House Farman’s bannermen, your father’s men,” Rubin pointed out, tightening his grip against Henrik’s arm. “Brave men, aiding him, who gave their lives to defend his Grace’s Kingdom against a usurper. I would show a little more offence to that if I were you. The King has his reasons, you must see that. She could be aiding her brother without us knowing.” Rubin tossed a suspicious look at Sansa.
“Forgive me,” said Henrik, tilting his head, “I didn’t realise that Lady Sansa was skilful enough to travel miles of land and slaughter our men by her own hands and travel back without anyone noticing.” He raised an eyebrow. “Are you honestly hearing yourself? You sound like a raving lunatic.”
“This isn’t a joke, Henrik!” said a frustrated Rubin, yanking him closer. Rubin's voice lowered as people threw eager, inquisitive looks at the pair. “For your own sake, let this play out. Don’t defend a traitor’s daughter. Think of what your father would say.”
Henrik’s voice came out harshly. “Yes, well, he’s not here, is he? And besides, she wasn’t there in her brother’s battle, can’t you understand? Oh, no —” he shook his head, smiling humorlessly at Rubin’s hard-set face, and gesturing with his eyes towards Joffrey. “I know what all this is. This is because his pride is wounded that he’s losing this war so far. He’s taking it out on Lady Sansa like the coward that he is.”
Rubin’s breath hitched and he closed his eyes, his thin lips taunt and white. Sansa trembled and Henrik noticed that despite the panic and fear she showed, her voice remained steady enough to plead for the King’s mercy. Joffrey aimed his crossbow at her, cutting off her entreaties. Henrik clenched his fists and stepped forwards but Rubin quickly tugged him back with fierce strength. He glowered angrily at the older man.
“Let go,” he warned lowly.
Rubin didn’t look at him. “No, I won’t let you.”
“You won’t let me?” repeated Henrik slowly.
“Forgive me, my young lord, but I won’t let you take this irrational risk. This is beyond stupid even for you, it’s downright suicidal. I’m doing this for your own good. We’re already creating a scene.”
Henrik gritted his teeth, loathing Rubin’s voice and presence. “I don’t give a flying fuck about that, and it’s not up to you to decide what —” He was interrupted by Joffrey’s loud voice.
“You’ll just be punished and we’ll send word to your brother about what will happen to you if he doesn’t yield. Boros. Meryn.”
Henrik forgot Rubin for a second as he stared in horror, biting his tongue so hard that he swore he tasted blood. Punished how? Surely not. Ser Boros seized Sansa roughly. What the fuck —? Rubin was so surprised that he dropped Henrik’s arm as his mouth lay open.
“Leave her face,” Joffrey commanded nonchalantly, sitting back down on his throne. “I like her pretty.”
Henrik’s breathing slowed and so did his vision. Boros slammed a heavy fist into Sansa’s belly, driving the air out of her. Henrik snarled, anger blooming in his chest, as she yelled doubled over, her face twisted in pain. Sniggers erupted from the crowd as they turned their heads to catch a glimpse like vultures clawing for bloody scraps of flesh from a corpse. It was a sickening image, one that made bile rise in the back of his throat. Everything he was sure of had tilted on its head.
Henrik had let his guards have the day off, otherwise, he would have instructed them to stop this — he was on his own. He knew he had to do something, and fast.
“I’m putting an end to this if no one else will,” he vowed, with a brazen look at Rubin, who gripped his arm once more. Seven hells, how can an old man have so much strength, thought Henrik bitterly.
“You’ll only get yourself into trouble, Master Henrik,” he cautioned, though his resolve was weaker as his face was pale from the sight. “This will only end badly, I promise you. Going against the King is treason.”
Henrik wrenched his arm away as Sansa’s cry of pain echoed once more in his ear and uttered boldly, “Then so be it.”
In an instant, heads spun towards his direction as he marched to the front and drew his sword, clanging against the sharp edge of Ser Boros Blount’s weapon before the honorless Knight could strike Sansa. He struck swiftly, pushing back Blount’s hand until he was forced to drop his weapon with a yelp, which made a clattering sound as it hit the floor. Before the Knight could howl his objections, Henrik aimed a kick at his chest, hurling him to the ground with a thud.
Suddenly, he found himself facing a dozen swords from the Kingsguard, some an inch away from his heart. He’d feel the blood ooze from his finger if he reached out to touch one right now. Only the Hound stood motionless, squinting at him as if he couldn’t quite see him. Henrik swallowed harshly against his dry throat but gripped the hilt of his sword and glared back, his heart thumping loudly. He’d never had to face this many men in a fight before, not even in the training, but he supposed there was a first time for everything.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, boy?” exclaimed Meryn Trant.
Joffrey leapt from his throne and stared at the scene with furrowed brows. “What is the meaning of this? Lord Henrik, what are you doing?” he demanded. “I never told you to stop. She hasn’t been punishing enough.”
“I do believe that’s quite enough, your Grace,” Henrik said, not removing his gaze from Trant for one second.
Blount jumped to his feet and his face turned an angry shade of red until he resembled a bright, fat plum. “I will have your head for that, boy.”
“Mind you down trip over your own large, clumsy feet, Ser,” stated Henrik dryly and tensed his muscles in anticipation.
He realised that he was all that stood between them and Sansa and some men were taller and more broad-chested than him. His indignation and outrage grew all the more. Weren’t they supposed to be Knights who protected the Realm and had taken vows to protect the innocents, not whatever this travesty showed?
“Stop it!” Joffrey snapped and Blount obeyed yet stared hatefully at Henrik. Joffrey exhaled loudly and turned his ire towards him. “And you, my lord! I will decide when she’s had enough. How dare you question your King! Ser Meryn, make her naked and beat her bloody.”
Mutterings erupted around the room. As Henrik looked down, he saw Sansa peering up at him with terror in her eyes, her hands reaching out to grasp the edge of his doublet. Henrik’s face flushed as hotly as the embers of a fireplace when he noticed Blount take a step forwards.
“Touch her, take another step, or raise your sword, and I will make you choke on your own blood,” growled Henrik, his muscles tight. He’d never let his guard down once, not surrounded by these pathetic Knights. Blount stopped in his tracks, hesitating as he regarded the determined look in Henrik’s eye. “What kind of men do you call yourselves?” Henrik spat in disgust.
“I don’t answer to you, boy, I serve the King,” barked Trant, a string of spit flying out his mouth like a rabid dog. “And I will cut your pretty face up if you don’t move out of the way.”
Henrik could feel the tension in the air, but he stood his ground. A lock of hair fell over his eye as he looked the Knight in the face and declared, “I’d dare you to try, you dumb prick — you’ll be short of multiple limbs, I assure you.”
A second of silence passed as no one moved. Henrik hardly dared to breathe; he’d never been so focused in his life.
“You dare challenge me!” yelled Joffrey, frowning at him. “I said I was the one who would decide when she has had enough, and I said to beat her bloody!” He stamped his foot and yelled, “I am the King !”
Henrik knew he should have been afraid as he met the gaze of said King, who was one command away from having him thrown in the dungeons and imprisoned for defying him. But there was nothing but the steady pounding of his head, the feel of the smooth handle of his sword, and a deep desire to bash his fist into the face of the scowling, pompous, blonde-haired brat and watch as his skin and flesh mixed to mush. He stepped in front of Sansa, shielding her view of the Knights. A roaring wave rushed over him as he glared.
“None of your men will lay a hand on her,” he said firmly to Joffrey. “I will not allow it.”
“I can have your tongue out for your insolence!” Joffrey shrieked, his face contorted in rage.
Rubin marched forwards when he sensed the peril, pushing Henrik to the side and addressing the King. “Your Grace, please, I humbly beg pardon,” he reasoned in an agitated tone with a deep, respectful bow. “My lord is young and impulsive. He does not mean it; he is a boy, new to court life. We are loyal to the crown, I beg your Grace. House Farman serves you.”
“He questioned me — a King can do what he likes,” snapped Joffrey but considered Rubin curiously. “This girl has wolf blood, she is a traitor. She must be punished for her part. Surely he knows that? His father is fighting in the war, is he not? Those northern savages killed a bunch of our men.”
“Yes, your Grace, of course; you are right. He is, and he understands that, it’s just that my young lord is—”
Henrik interrupted with scorn. “Did your royal Grace miss the very obvious, very important detail that Lady Sansa didn’t fight in the battle herself? Or did you just want to beat a defenceless girl?”
“What did you say?” demanded the King dangerously.
“ Henrik! You silly boy, hush!” Rubin hissed, but Henrik pushed away the hand that wanted to drive him away from the plain sight of the King.
Before anyone could say anything further, the door to the throne room opened.
“What is the meaning of this?”
The infamous Imp’s voice cracked like a whip, distracting everyone in the throne room. Henrik had never met Tyrion Lannister up close but he had heard tales of him like everyone else in Seven Kingdoms. He strolled in accompanied by two unfamiliar faces, presumably sellswords by the looks of them. Tyrion was a dwarf but he knew how to command the attention of the throne room as every eye followed his movements.
“Why are you here?” frowned Joffrey with a petulant tone, his attention distracted at the sight of his uncle.
Henrik ignored the family reunion as he glanced down at Sansa, his eyes unwavering. He sheathed his weighty sword. Her body trembled as she clutched her belly, apprehension etched onto her countenance.
He immediately cursed in his mind and unfastened his cloak, draping it over her gently, which covered her whole body. He sensed Rubin glaring into the side of his head at his movements. She flinched but her eyes shone with faint gratitude beyond the lingering fear as she clutched the material to her chest, fists bunched so tight that her knuckles turned white. His heart constricted as he noticed how small she appeared in his cloak despite her tall frame. He held out his hand to pull her to her feet and she took it.
“Thank you, my lord,” she murmured with a soft undertone of appreciation as if he’d done a grand, glorious feat.
Henrik’s head dropped and he spoke in a voice quiet enough so only she could hear. “I’m truly sorry that I wasn’t able to act sooner.”
He meant it despite the look Sansa gave him. His mind was plagued with a mixture of emotions. If only he could have stopped Blount from striking her in the stomach. His eyes ran over it and he imagined the skin was quite bruised, which caused his anger to spike again. He should have landed a punch at Blount at least instead of a hard kick. A taste of his sword more like, bet he would have loved that, thought Henrik darkly.
“Bronn, Timett, bring her,” motioned Tyrion Lannister towards his men.
Sansa’s eyes widened a tad and Henrik narrowed his gaze at the two newcomers’ rough expressions, his hand automatically reaching for the hilt of his sword. After Joffrey’s Knights, he didn’t trust these strange men either. They belonged to the dwarf, who was rumoured to be a drunken, lecherous little creature. And his men would be the same.
“My lord, peace, lower your sword. I give you my word that Bronn and Timett won’t harm her,” urged the dwarf with raised hands and a reassuring expression. “I'd wager they’re taking her to some maids who’ll be able to take care of her.”
Sansa gave a delicate, tentative nod and Henrik removed his grip reluctantly, but still felt wary. He still didn’t trust them, not after everything he’d seen, but he couldn’t make the lady’s decisions for her. If she thought they were acceptable to escort her, then he just had to accept it. He followed them as the Imp’s men led her away and out of the throne room.
Joffrey scowled fiercely at his uncle but the dwarf quirked his eyebrows up. “Pleasure to see you as always, dear nephew.” He turned his attention to Henrik with a tiny smile appraising him slowly. “And you must be Lord Henrik, heir to House Farman.” He addressed him with a smirk. “Yes, your father mentioned you when I met him. Come walk with me.”
Henrik raised an eyebrow, shifting uncomfortably, but followed the man after a moment. The dwarf was hardly going to attack him unattended but still felt like he should be on his guard. He could feel Joffrey's fuming stare at the backs of their heads as they walked through the doors and out into the hallway. Rubin trailed behind, eyeing the dwarf with barely concealed disdain. Henrik ignored his Captain of the Guards as if he were an irksome pest.
“You’re the one they call the Imp,” Henrik said bluntly out of curiosity, not able to look away. The dwarf’s grotesque face was so ugly in an odd fascination and he only reached up to Henrik’s knees.
“My lord,” muttered Rubin with gritted teeth.
“Ha! No, no, the boy’s correct,” Tyrion Lannister huffed out a laugh with a wave of his hand. “Imp is what I’m known as and so Imp I must be, of that I have no doubt.” He lowered his head in acknowledgement. “But they call me Tyrion usually. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lord.”
“I'm Henrik,” he replied, and then swallowed, recognising Tyrion’s full words. “You — you said that you met my father?” he asked, not wanting to seem too keen. “Is he well?”
“Yes, I did. He’s very much well.” Henrik unclenched his fists. “Lord Farman’s a quiet man I must say,” smirked Tyrion. “Though I’m sure my father’s presence gets overbearing for him sometimes, not that I blame him. I think he rather liked me despite the constant frown. But he did mention you, yes. You’re much different than him, just as he said and it seems you’ve proven him right.” Tyrion eyed him as if he was sharing a private joke with himself.
Henrik looked towards the ground. “Different. . . yes, that’s my father. . .” he mumbled.
“I wouldn’t worry about it, I think he meant it in a good way.” Tyrion chuckled. “He sang about your praises with a sword. If only I could have arrived earlier and seen it. You certainly knocked Meryn Trant off his feet. It was about time.”
Rubin sounded his disapproval with a small huff.
“I fear you’re joking at my expense, Lord Tyrion,” said Henrik, pursing his lips. The only thing to come out of his father’s mouth is his lectures and scoldings for skipping out on a lesson with the Maester. Fearsome creatures from the old wives’ tales will walk before his father utters a good word about him.
Tyrion raised his eyebrows in surprise. “On the contrary, I have it on my own good authority. But that aside, I bring news of your father. He’s away from the thick of the fighting and stays mostly at my father’s side,” explained Tyrion. “He’s a good advisor according to my dear father. Shame neither smiles very often. Or drinks as much.”
“Has he asked for me?” asked Henrik, picturing himself riding his horse towards the North and joining his father’s men.
Tyrion shook his head, meeting his eyes as his face softened.“No, Henrik, sorry to say but he never mentioned anything of the sort. He hopes you’re well and busy and has assigned me to keep an eye on you when I’m back in the capital.”
Henrik exhaled loudly. “I don’t need a dwarf to watch over me — I’m not a child,” he scowled, before realising how rude that sounded. But Tryion simply considered him.
“No, my lord, I dare say you aren’t.”
Henrik shifted uncomfortably under the weight of his stare, disliking the glint in Tyrion’s eye. It was as if he was staring into his very heart and Henrik couldn’t make out a thing about him except that he was short and liked to make jokes.
“Tell me,” said Tyrion. “How are you finding the capital? I dare say that it’s different from what you’re used to. The stench and filth of Kings Landing must be dreary compared to the soft hills and pretty picture of Fair Isle. And the people are different too.” He smiled.
Henrik blinked, not expecting the question. He felt a pang in his chest as Tyrion described his home. “It’s. . . unexpected,” he settled on.
Tyrion chortled as they passed some guards. “Yes, well, that’s one way of putting it. My kingly nephew is a huge cunt is what I gather your true meaning to be. Everyone knows it, except my sister, of course.”
Rubin began coughing. Tyrion raised an eyebrow and asked if he wanted some water and Rubin denied his offer.
Henrik threw him a surprised look. “Yes. . .” he answered sheepishly after a moment, liking how blunt Tyrion seemed.
He almost expected one of the White Cloaks to jump out of the shadows and strike him down for voicing his thoughts. It was refreshing to hear someone agree with him on Joffrey and he was glad to see he wasn’t alone in his opinions no matter how much Rubin disapproved. There were some sane men in the Red Keep after all.
“Then I'm sorry you had to witness that scene,” said Tyrion soberly. “Lady Sansa should have not been subjected to that at all.”
Henrik’s expression darkened at the remembrance. “No, she shouldn’t have.”
Tyrion sighed. “Joffrey was particularly wroth today after we heard the news this morning and took out his anger on the poor lady because of the northerners crushing victory.”
Henrik was quick to reply. “That doesn’t mean she should have had to bear the consequences of it no matter his feelings. This is meant to be kept between men.”
“Calm yourself, Henrik, I was merely explaining the reason. Believe me, I am the last person to defend Joffrey.” Tyrion narrowed his eyes at him. “So quick to anger, aren’t you? Pray keep a lid on it or it may end up costing you.” He tapped the end of his nose with a small smile.
Henrik was silent as he thought. He spoke with a furrowed brow. “Can I speak earnestly? Do you mean to harm Lady Sansa? Do your men? You stopped the King but I can’t figure out what your interest is in Lady Sansa.”
Tyrion was taken aback. “Of course not, I'm not Joffrey, fortunately, though I am a Lannister, much to my father’s dismay. But I am not so monstrous despite what tales might dictate. Rest assured, Lady Sansa will not be harmed, not by me or my men, she is my guest.”
Henrik hummed, crossing his arms behind his back and thinly smiled. “I hope what you say is true, my lord. For the lady’s sake.”
Tyrion held his gaze. “It is.” He stopped for a second and Henrik did too. His voice turned faintly serious with an undercurrent of concern as Tyrion studied him. “But a word of advice, Henrik. Your father mentioned that you were impulsive and headstrong and he wasn’t entirely wrong. It was a brave thing you did for Lady Sansa, not many men would have done it. And for that reason, I’d warn you not to display yourself so easily. You’ve probably figured that everyone here is hiding a mask, do you understand me? The masks never come off.”
Henrik wrinkled his nose. It didn’t make any sense to him but he didn’t mention this to Tyrion.
“She is a Stark above all, my lord, her brother wages a war against my family and your father aids my father, loyally I might add. Just something to remember.”
Henrik blinked at the line of conversation. “I know that,” he said.
Tyrion smiled wanly and nodded curtly. “Then I will bid you good day.” He bowed and smirked at Rubin’s scornful sneer at him.
Henrik watched him as he disappeared around a corner, more bewildered than he ever had been before. What was all that about, he thought. How strange.
Rubin scoffed, shaking his head. “I don’t like the dwarf, Master Henrik,” he said. “He says the most unnatural things.”
Henrik sighed in irritation. “You don’t like anyone,” he retorted and slid away, hoping to lose the presence of the older man.
Henrik went looking for Sansa the next day. He met her as she was wandering through the gardens, plucking absently at the flowers. She was accompanied by Lord Tyrion’s men though she looked rather uncomfortable at their presence. One of the men eyed him warily as he approached but didn’t do anything to stop him. He took that as a good sign.
“My lady,” he said softly as she locked eyes with him and surprise flickered in hers.
It took her a while to close her parted lips and speak. “Lord Henrik.”
Her voice was hoarse and guarded. He deflated this but given the circumstances, he didn’t blame her. He wondered if she’d cried herself to sleep.
Now that she was in front of him, he found himself lost for words. “How—” He cleared his throat. “How are you this morning, my lady,” he asked, scanning her face for any indication of discomfort. “I trust you slept well.”
“Quite well, my lord, thank you for asking.”
“Good, good.”
She twirled the flower between her fingers as silence fell. Henrik fiddled with his thumbs. He took the jump, the urge welling up inside him.
“May I trouble you for a moment of your time, my lady,” he asked suddenly, causing Sansa to raise her head.
Sansa nodded slowly and looked to the sellswords, who merely shrugged and snuck off somewhere else. Henrik frowned at them before offering his arm to Sansa. She took it gracefully as they strolled.
“Do Tyrion’s men treat you well, my lady?” he inquired.
“Well enough, I am grateful for their protection,” she admitted quietly. She turned to the side with an anxious expression. “You were most kind to help me yesterday, my lord. It wasn’t so bad this time.”
Henrik stopped in his tracks, shock colouring his features. “This time?” he repeated, hoping she’d misspoken. “Sansa?”
Sansa turned around to face him, letting go of his arm. “My lord?”
“This time. So this has happened before?” he demanded. “Has the King’s guards beaten you before?”
Sansa didn't reply and Henrik got his answer. He shut his eyes and clenched his fists.
“How can you still marry someone like Joffrey? After all that he’s done to you?” he questioned, his voice unsteady.
“His Grace is my one true love,” she replied quickly. “I love him.”
Henrik stared at her. “We both know you're lying,” he frowned, crossing his arms, and Sansa was not able to look at him properly. “How about you say something true and not parroted?” His voice turned stubborn.
Sansa took in a wobbly breath. “I-I speak the truth. . .”
“Really? You’re happy to marry him?” His tone was full of disbelief.
“He is as beloved to me as ever before.”
Henrik scoffed, dropping his arms. If it hadn’t been for the tremor of her hands and how unfeeling Sansa said her words along with the lack of emotion in her eyes, he would have believed her.
“I don’t believe you,” he proclaimed and watched how her eyes blinked rapidly. “I know you’re not being entirely truthful. So what is it that you truly want, Sansa? You can trust me.”
Sansa locked her fingers together and placed them below her stomach. Her expression shifted. “No one can trust anyone,” she said.
Henrik stepped back. Since their meeting, that was the first thing she said that she meant.
“You can trust me,” he said softly, lowering his voice. “I won’t let Joffrey touch you again, I promise,” he said staunchly. “You have my word.”
Sansa smiled a tad as if he were a young baby showing her own of his toys. It made him feel worse as he felt his heart sink.
“Forgive me, my lord, but your word doesn’t mean much to me. Just as a Knight's vow.” She then blinked, her eyes clearing to a mannerly expression. “I thank you, my lord, for accompanying me this morning. I wish you a good day.”
Henrik sighed. She didn’t believe him. How could she? Not with the way people have treated her. “Well, at least allow me the honour to accompany you back, my lady.”
Sansa approved and the rest of the walk was quiet where Henrik snuck discreet glances at her when she wasn’t looking. She tensed every time they passed a guard, which strengthened his resolve. Sansa may not believe him but his father always said he’s been annoyingly stubborn. If he said he’ll keep her safe then he will, even if they were on opposite sides of the war.
Notes:
I'm not entirely sure about this chapter, but I'm eager to know what you thought.
Chapter Text
While the ache on her body had faded into a muted, yet familiar memory, the bruises still lingered, fresh ones littering beside the old on the canvas of her body. Joffrey never hit her in the face, commanding the guards not to. He liked her pretty. Sansa had learnt to live with it, she had no choice in that matter.
The Kingsguard hadn’t been as forceful in their blows this time, well excluding Ser Meryn Trant; Ser Arys Oakheart appeared hesitant to beat her at first for which she was thankful. It could have been a lot worse. He was the softer one, so she preferred him while the others made her nervous. He made sure to aim at places on her body where it would not hurt as much.
Her dresses were a great help in the matter. Though she’d outgrown them, they helped cover the worst of the marks, which she greatly appreciated. It acted as a shield from the noble folk and servants who liked to stare at her as she went past.
None of the royal family had ordered her any new dresses since her lord father was here — Sansa supposed they didn’t care enough or had simply forgotten. Yet, they were the one thing she had that reminded her of home, of Winterfell. Her mother had made it for her during her visit to the Capital. How eager and elated she felt then, like nothing could ruin her day, not even Arya snickering and making fun of her as she spent the whole day wondering if Prince Joffrey would like her in violet or burgundy. How foolish of her.
After the incident in the Throne Room, she had woken the next morning with stiff limbs. But she could walk, which made all the difference compared to the last time, when she had to have one of her maidservants offer her an arm as she hobbled around her chambers to bathe and feed because of the giant red welts that arose at the back of her thighs. She lay in the bath for so long that the heated waters had gone cold and her skin turned pink. It’d helped but did nothing to soothe the ache in her chest.
It was also a relief to realise that she could sit down on a nearby bench or chair without wincing, without masking the fact that she was in pain. She ignored the slight limp of her walk around the gardens, her glide diminishing a tad and sometimes the hem of her dress catching her foot. Her walk was fairly quiet and she didn’t encounter any nobles apart from an elderly lord from a minor House, who mostly ignored her. She was free to wander her thoughts as she pleased.
It was a beautiful day and she heard the twittering of the birds and the cooing of doves in the sky. She peered up, the warm rays of the sun gliding against her skin like the rush of the Blackwater. She thought it was beautiful, something sung straight out of a song by a handsome bard narrating the tales of brave knights and fair maidens.
Sansa straightened her back even more, fortifying her mind. She knew the truth, of course, though it took her a while to realise: all beautiful things were tainted. In all her imagination of the South, what was once so enchanting had been tarnished, leaving a bitter taste in her mouth even after such a lovely day.
Could the Gods truly be that cruel? How can it be a beautiful and warm day when her father’s rotting head lay on the gates of the city, for any commoner or sell sword or servant to gape at? His vacant, gormless eyes stabbed against the post was the last memory she had of him — Joffrey had made sure of that. The sight burned behind Sansa's eyelids every time she closed her eyes before she slept; other times she’d found herself sobbing aloud for air as she woke up in the middle of the night, breathless and able to hear her father’s choking gasps in the room, so genuine and so striking. . .
Her gaze darted to the side. Her maids were a few feet away from her, not paying much attention and instead had their heads huddled together, their giggles floating near her. Sansa suspected that her maids weren’t even hers; they were probably given to her by Cersei.
With her hands resting demurely in her lap, her eyes settled on a cluster of red roses bunched together near a bush closest to her. Red but not blue, she thought suddenly. You could only see blue roses in the North and she realised with a dull pang that it’d been several months since she’d spotted one. She also wondered if Robb saw any blue roses while fighting in the Riverlands. She hoped with all her heart that he did. And her lady mother. Bran and little Rickon. She closed her eyes.
The last memory of the rose was when she’d been travelling in the carriage towards the Capital and had peered out of the window to see a singular blue rose lying beside a faint snow-covered tree. After staring for a while, a strange feeling welled up inside her before it shattered when Arya flicked her finger at her.
Arya.
A sharp exhale escaped her. She can’t remember the last time she saw her sister or what they said to each other. Thoughts like this had plagued her ever since. Did Arya get out? Did the guards catch her? Was she still in the castle? Or. . . or was she dead in a ditch? Did Arya think of her if she was alive? She wouldn’t blame her if she didn’t. Arya was right all along and was able to see where she couldn't about Joffrey and the Queen. Sansa was just a stupid girl with even more foolish dreams who fell for their perfumed lies and fake truths.
Sansa’s brows furrowed. Joffrey hadn’t managed to beat her as long as he thought he would, she knew that. His Grace, furious, would find some way to make her pay later. Her hands trembled as she kept them respectfully clasped together in front of her stomach if only to keep herself stable. If — if she dressed better or wore a much nicer fragrance, one that appealed to his tastes, then perhaps Joffrey would forget about her or at least be more willing to grant her mercy than he was used to. And he liked her soft and pretty, right? Hadn’t he always said that?
As for Lord Henrik. . .
She paused. What was she to make of him? She couldn’t make out his thoughts, what he thought of her or his intentions. He could’ve been there to harm her for all she knew.
He didn’t avoid her as if she was a plague bringing nothing but death upon him and nor did he turn his nose up at her in disdain; he didn't point fingers at her like she was a puppet in a spectacle for him to gaze at the disgraced daughter of the previous Hand of King, the daughter of a traitor. No, he did neither of these things.
Lord Henrik simply stared at her. Was it merely an amusement for him to stare at her with those nice brown eyes. . . eyes that were so expressive and deep and yet unsettled her and if that had been his motive then he certainly succeeded. Often she wanted to look away but something held her back, like an invisible string tied. Or, perhaps because she was raised as a lady and taught that glancing away from a lord’s eyes when he spoke directly was considered rude. And Sansa was nothing if not a lady — it was her anchor, the only comfort she had left to cling to. Joffrey nor the Queen couldn’t take that away.
She couldn’t help wondering what type of man Lord Henrik was. Most men in Kings Landing were easy to identify. Only a blind man could dispute that he was handsome, she begrudgingly admitted, yet in a different way than men such as Loras Tyrell. If she'd seen him then, the dreamy, fanciful girl she’d sealed away would have gushed over him to Jeyne Poole. He groomed himself well it appeared, his clothes of a rich material deserving of an Heir to a Lord, and he didn’t smell unpleasant nor had doused himself in sickening perfume. But she had come to learn that these things didn’t matter anymore. Joffrey had been handsome and kind at first, she reminded herself.
No, she wanted to know his character: was he prone to succumb to wine and ale, smelling like the inside of a brewer? Did he have a penchant for violence like most men, relishing in the taste and smell of blood? Ser Meryn Trant enjoyed beating her judging by the excited glint in his eye every time his sword descended. Minor stable boys and lords loved watching other men hack at each other to death in a tournament. Joffrey certainly did, she shivered, recalling the treatment of Ser Dontos the Fool.
Or did he mask his kindness as a shield against his desire for brute force against others? Was he lazy or energetic? Was he arrogant or vain? Did he beat his servants like some men had the proclivities of doing? Did he keep whores like even some married men? Fathered a bastard or more than one child perhaps? He might have been ten and five years, a year older than her but he was a man after all.
But most importantly what did he want from her? Once or twice she’d thought about him being Joffrey’s or Cersei’s spy, keeping an eye on her. She wouldn’t put it past them — there was no peace in the Red Keep. She remembered Maester Luwin telling her that Lord Henrik’s family was a bannermen of House Lannister so it wouldn’t be too far from the truth.
And yet he had protested against Joffrey’s beating in the Great Hall. This was the most baffling for her. Why had he done it? To prove something? To bring attention to himself? Perhaps he wanted some glory, challenging the Kingsguard in a show of prowess? But even those types of men aren’t as impulsive or stupid enough to deny the King’s order — not if they don’t want to find themselves short of a head. She didn’t know and that scared her.
For one tiny moment, Sansa thought he had been outraged on her behalf and stepped in to save her as a true knight would. Like a true hero of old, a long-dormant voice of hers whispered. She instantly clamped it down. There were no true knights or heroes, hadn’t she learnt that by now? She was a stupid girl for even letting the thought cross her mind.
Lord Henrik may have interfered but he wouldn’t risk his life or status to help the daughter of a traitor, no lord or lady in Kings Landing would. It would be absurd. He was simply shocked at the turn of events. He’ll soon learn that it was a frequent occurrence and stop protesting and instead turn into an eager bystander watching her with a wide, anticipated glint. Yes, that seemed more probable. She was to completely remain at the mercy of Joffrey and Cersei.
Her only hope lay with Robb and his forces. She prayed to all the Gods that her brother would succeed in his war and take her away. She longed to see her lady mother and her younger brothers. Even seeing her bastard brother, Jon Snow, would be so sweet. I am all alone here, she thought sorrowfully, blinking up at the bright light.
“My lady, it’s time for your late lunch,” said one of her maidservants, interrupting her train of thought.
Sansa looked up, her heart leapt in fear that they would be able to hear her thoughts and report her to Cersei. Gods, if the Queen found out. . . She cleared her throat and applied her usual polite and guarded expression.
“Yes, thank you, Dana,” she replied softly, her throat gravelly from not drinking any water since this morning.
On her walk back to her chambers, Sansa caught a flash from the corner of her eye. A figure wearing vivid blue seemed as if he was following her, yet not too close to draw attention to himself. But Sansa — oftentimes tuned into her surroundings in case Joffrey had ordered his men to attack her when she least expected it — easily spotted his gaze resting upon her like he was her sworn guard.
She got the sense earlier that she was being followed but thought it must have been a noble or two taking a stroll in the garden. He trailed her all through the courtyard and the hallways like a constant shadow. A shiver crept down her spine. She was instantly reminded of Jory, her father’s Captain of the Guards and her heart ached. Jory was gone just like Arya and her father. There were no loyal men to the Starks left, not in the Capitol.
When the same figure was still following her closely the next day, her hackles rose, and her eyes narrowed, instantly on edge. He was a tall man, though not as tall as the Hound, and on his front was sewn the image of three silver ships on a blue field, with a border of crimson and gold. Was he here to harm on Lord Henrik’s orders? Was he playing a jest on her? She didn’t believe it to be very funny.
She didn’t know but she felt very wary all of a sudden and tired beyond belief. She thought it’d be so nice to simply float out of this room like a feather on the wind, taking her far, far away from cruel, golden-haired boy-kings who beat her and from soft-eyed handsome lords who seemed to take an interest in her.
Sansa bid her maids to leave her alone for a while. They hadn’t protested and were quite happy to run off, probably to go see the men hacking at dummy straws and practising in the training yard. Sansa of old would have accompanied them like she used to in Winterfell, giggling with Jeyne Poole and Beth Cassel as they spotted the sword-wielding boys waving and grinning smugly. But this was an appeal that she had lost.
She made her way through the Red Keep and hadn’t bumped into anyone she knew yet, for which she was thankful. Her steps were quick and light and it didn’t take long before she reached a door that had guards posted outside of it. Sansa paused, thinking how she was going to approach this and then marched up. A guard blocked her way. They appeared different compared to the one she had seen trailing her before but both wore the same sigil.
“My lady,” said the older of the guards warily, presumably pondering what King Joffrey’s betrothed was doing outside his sworn lord’s chamber door. “Can we help you?”
“Good afternoon, Sers,” she greeted with a practised smile. “I wish to speak to your lord.”
The other guard, a younger-looking one, more like a boy, shifted on his feet and shared a glance with the older man. His armour appeared bigger than he did. “I’m very sorry, my lady, but we have orders that my lord wishes to not be disturbed.”
“Please, I won’t take up much time, I promise,” she said sweetly. “I just want to ask him something.”
The young guard blushed like a green boy and he couldn’t look her in the eye directly. The older guard appeared unmoved though uncomfortable.
“That may be so, yet I—”
The door swung open before either of them could speak and all of them stared back into the wide, curious eyes of Lord Henrik. He wore a linen white shirt with dark breeches and his doublet was left unopened as if put on in a hurry. His hair was tousled as if he’d run a hand through it several times. Sansa blinked in slight astonishment at his disarray in clothing, not used to seeing a man in minimal clothing that wasn’t her brothers’, but quickly schooled her features.
“What’s going on, Jarak?” he addressed the older of the guards. “Why can I hear—?” His voice cut off when his gaze landed on her and his eyes widened as his mouth parted. “Lady Sansa!” His voice turned high in surprise and he forgot to bow. “Um, er, what — what are you doing here?”
Sansa met his eyes. “Forgive me, my lord, for the unexpected visit. I only wished to talk to you. I won’t take up too much of your time.”
Henrik stared for longer than was necessary at her until she looked away nervously. Her chest tightened and she wished he wouldn’t stare so intensely.
“Have I come at a bad time. . .?” she asked hesitantly when he hadn’t replied yet.
“Oh, no, no — not at all,” said Lord Henrik loudly. He stepped to the side and stretched out his arm behind him. “Of course, you can. Come in, come in, my lady.” His eyes landed on Jarak, the older guard and he sighed, exasperated. “Gods, Jarak. Stop looking at her like that, you’ll scare her otherwise. She’s not here to harm me.”
“Forgive me, my lord,” muttered Jarak, swallowing though he still regarded her with slight suspicion. He probably thought she was here to spy on his lord.
Sansa picked up the skirts of her dress and walked inside to a warm, light room that looked lived in judging by the papers scattered across the floor and table. A pile of clothes lay on the bed and other items such as books scattered the room. His sword was draped across a chair closest to him. A fire was lit up, sending warmth across her arms. It reminded her of Robb’s chambers and her heart clenched.
Lord Henrik looked a tad embarrassed as he collected a bunch of papers — most likely letters as Sansa caught a written scrawl of ‘Father’ on one of them — and placed them face down to one side.
“Sincere apologies for the mess, my lady,” he admitted shyly. “I didn’t realise I’d be having guests in my chambers, much less a graceful lady such as yourself. Please sit down.” He placed a comfortable chair down in front of her.
“There’s no mess, my lord, I can assure you,” she murmured politely and smoothed out her dress as she sat down.
“You are kind to say so. Would you like some wine or water?” he inquired, holding up a jug.
Sansa accepted some water, and the goblet was cool in her grip. She took a deep breath, not knowing why she was feeling so nervous all of a sudden. “I’m sorry, this is all untoward and improper, I know,” she said.
Lord Henrik waved a hand in a dismissive motion. He offered a reassuring smile. “Ah, I’ve never cared much for proper, don’t let that worry you.” His gaze searched hers for a moment, his voice lowering. “If you don’t mind my asking how are you today, Lady Sansa? Are you feeling well?”
Sansa’s leg faintly twanged in remembrance of his question and Joffrey’s cruel twisted smirk suddenly peered down at her from his throne, a crossbow aimed at her face. She gripped the goblet tightly as an exhale escaped her nose to rid the image from her mind; she nodded, her mouth pressed into a thin line. Lord Henrik nodded curtly.
“Good, I’m glad to hear it.”
Sansa tried to identify his tone. Did he truly mean that or was he just saying that to make her feel better? A wariness, like silver armour wrapped around her chest, remained. She still felt unnerved around him. Placing her hands in her lap, she looked up as he stood there with his hands on his hips. She noted unwittingly how tall he was for his age, taller than Joffrey that was for sure. Two buttons had been left undone on his shirt and a hint of skin glinted. She cleared her throat, her eyes darting around the room, trying to focus on anything else.
“H-have you been busy this morning, my lord?” Her hands fidgeted as she tried to gather her words. “I noticed your familiar guard isn’t with you.”
Lord Henrik shook his head, an amused sound fleeing. “Still with the ‘my lord’ thing, I see,” he said, a smile playing at his lips. “You’re very stubborn, aren’t you, my lady?”
Sansa bristled, not liking the notion of him teasing her. And calling him by his first name was too familiar for her. She didn’t know him enough to do that as she considered him a riddle much less a friend. Lord Henrik’s face softened.
“I’m not laughing at you, my lady, honestly,” he said, leaning his lower body against the table and crossing his arms. Sansa’s eyes drifted to the firm muscles that bunched up at his action and the broadness of his shoulders. He waved towards the crumpled sheets of parchment. “But to answer your question, yes, I have. I’ve been trying to write a letter to my father at Rubin’s request. Haven’t got very far, unfortunately.”
He sighed, a tiny scowl on his face and Sansa tensed. For a moment, she believed him to direct his vexation towards her and her heart rate quickened. He’s not Joffrey, she reminded herself. He won’t hurt me.
“Oh. . . I — not good with your letters, my lord?” she questioned mostly out of curiosity.
Lord Henrik chuckled and Sansa was surprised at how scratchy it sounded. She took a sip of water.
“No, to be plain. I was never good with a quill and more comfortable with a sword in my hand.”
His brows furrowed in frustration. It is possible that Sansa could have imagined smoothing out the creases between his temples with her gentle fingers and resting his head on her chest if she were still the type of fanciful girl who daydreamed about handsome, charming lords that made her heart flutter.
“I just can’t help it sometimes,” he continued, rubbing his forehead. “The words fly off the paper and it looks all jumbled up. Gives me a headache now and then. And my father doesn’t. . .” He closed his mouth, a dark shadow flashing over his features and gone just as quickly as it appeared. “Never mind, families are a pain, that’s the simple truth. Quite frankly, I don’t know what to say to him. The words won’t come out.”
“You could start simple,” suggested Sansa cautiously. “Just asking how he is and if he’s well. Or you could tell him about your day in the castle.”
Henrik closed his mouth, appearing thoughtful. “That. . . sounds reasonable. Still, he might not be interested in that anyway. He was always a right prick.”
Sansa caught the last few words though she supposed that he didn’t mean for her to hear.
“It’s better to try,” shrugged Sansa. “I used to chat with my dolls like that when I was little. I would sing to them, brush their hair and tell them what I had done that day.”
Lord Henrik swallowed and gave her a nod. He’d give it a try at least.
“I was also never good at numbers if it’s any consolation,” she felt the urge to share when his eyes shifted towards hers. “I mostly liked to sew and sing. My sister hated to do either of those things. She was a lot like you in that regard.”
She looked up with a smile, remembering Arya’s stubbornness. Lord Henrik’s face loosened, and there was a soft glint in his eyes. Her chest felt considerably lighter than it had done in months.
“Were you close with her, your sister?” he asked slowly.
Sansa conveyed a sad half-smile. “Not particularly, no. We were the only girls but couldn’t have been more different. She resembles my father in looks and I took after my lady mother.”
Henrik’s eyes were fixed on hers and Sansa couldn’t bring herself to look away. There was a charge in the air, something fluttering and invisible.
“She must be a very beautiful lady then,” he muttered in a low tone.
“She is. . .” she whispered. “I long to see her every day.”
A silence passed. Suddenly a shout came from outside the window and the moment was broken. She blinked and straightened in her chair. Her father was a traitor. Her brother and mother were traitors. She repeated this mantra in her head.
“Pardon me, my lord. I shouldn’t speak of my family.”
Lord Henrik swallowed harshly, gazing at her, and then sighed as he realised that her expression had become blank and courteous once again.
“Yes, so what can I do for you, Lady Sansa?” he asked, rising and placing his hands behind his back. His tone became business-like.
“I noticed a guard trailing me recently. I believe his sigil was one of your family crests, my lord.” She raised her eyebrows, watching him closely. To her surprise, he didn’t appear to be caught out and was merely thoughtful.
Lord Henrik was unaffected. “Oh, really. How odd.”
“You have to keep a close eye on your guards, my lord.” She raised an eyebrow, her tone cool. “It seems to me that they tend to get lost easily.”
“No, I don’t believe so. They’re exactly where they are supposed to be, my lady.” He smiled knowingly and Sansa narrowed her eyes, an inexplicable sentiment pooling in her chest.
“What is it that you hope to accomplish, my lord?” she asked, frowning, making sure to keep her voice as polite as possible. She wished he could just be plain.
“Not much, my lady. Just hope to finish this letter soon enough,” he said dryly, gesturing towards the parchment. “I expect it might take me all afternoon, I’m afraid.”
“You can’t protect me, my lord — that was well proven. Not from Joffrey, no one can. You’re no knight.”
And that was the simple, sad truth. No matter how much Sansa wished against it: nobody could protect anybody. She had to face it and accept it. Henrik’s jaw twitched. He looked as if he’d been smacked in the face with the hilt of his sword.
“I’m very well aware of not being a knight. But you can’t deny that a lord’s duty is to protect a lady?”
“Yes, but a traitor’s daughter is another thing altogether, as I’m sure you’re well aware.” Her voice was firm. She stood up from her seat and placed the goblet on the table. “I thank you for the company and wish you well with your letter. My lord.”
She curtsied and turned her back on his bewildered face. She could feel his eyes boring into her like an iron brand, a tingly sensation on the back of her neck. Lord Henrik was confusing, to say the least.
Sansa was sitting quietly sewing in her chambers when a knock on her door interrupted her. A guard walked in, decked in the House colours of crimson and gold and with an indifferent look on his face. She froze for a moment.
“Apologies for disturbing you but Her Grace, the Queen, requires your company for dinner with her and the Prince and Princess, my lady,” he said, his arms crossed and stature stiff.
It took her a while to reply. “Yes, thank you, I’ll be right there. I’ll just change.”
Sansa gave a short nod, her heart sinking at the request. Cersei didn’t ask her to join her for dinner often but when she did Sansa dreaded every moment of it, constantly feeling as if knives were poking her back every second she was forced to be there. And it wasn’t as if she could refuse.
The guard’s expression remained unchanged. “Forgive me, my lady, but my Queen was rather insistent and would not like to be kept waiting.”
Sansa paused then rose from her chair, setting aside her needlework. Her evening appeared to be taken from her. There was never any rest in the Red Keep, not where they were always watching her. Agreeing quietly, she followed the guard towards the royal quarters at a steady pace, her stomach twisting with every step.
When she reached the royal quarters, Sansa noticed Cersei sitting at the top of the table with a goblet grasped in her hand and her eyes dulled to a reddish haze and glazed over. She wore a dress of a rich scarlet and gold jewellery hung from her neck. Sansa’s breath hitched and she fought the urge to pick at her nails. Cersei was drunk and when she was drunk, she seemed to be particularly callous and demeaning with her tone and words.
She curtsied perfectly, nothing short of perfection and Cersei’s head snapped towards hers. Sansa looked down to avoid a glare.
“Hello, Sansa,” grinned Tommen, waving, his chubby cheeks pulled into a wide smile. In the seat next to him, Myrcella looked up from her plate and threw her a small smile. Sansa breathed an inaudible sigh of relief. It wasn’t going to be her and Cersei only, thank the gods.
“Ah, there you are, little dove,” crooned Cersei, tiny bloodshot eyes locking onto hers. “I was beginning to wonder if you were even coming at all.”
It sounded like an accusation peppered with a sugary tone.
“It is kind of you to invite me to dine with you, your Grace, and the prince and princess,” murmured Sansa softly, her back instantly going rigid. “I am truly honoured.”
Cersei’s smile was as polished as Sansa’s courtesy. “Always so polite, aren’t you, Sansa dear? Such a sweetheart.” Cersei leaned back in her chair, one arm slung over the back and motioned towards the seat beside her on the long table. “Come, sit beside me.”
Feeling as though needles were poking through the soles of her slippers, Sansa took a deep breath and slowly shuffled next to the Queen Regent, her feet heavy and filled with crimson. She took her seat and a servant placed a silver plate in front of her.
“And how are you feeling this evening, little dove?”
“Quite well, your Grace, thank you for asking.”
“Good. Apologies that Joffrey couldn’t join us today — he wasn’t feeling up to it, I’m afraid. He has a duty to the realm to bear.”
Sansa’s reply was second nature and rehearsed. “I’m sorry to hear that. I’ll dearly miss his presence and I pray that my beloved can join us next time.”
“Yes, I’m sure you are,” Cersei slurred, rolling her eyes and waving her goblet in the air, causing a tiny amount of wine to slosh onto the floor. A servant immediately went to mop it up without being asked. Her voice rose. “God, can’t I get some bloody wine here?”
“Mother,” frowned the princess, looking up in bewilderment.
“Are you hungry? Eat,” instructed Cersei.
She didn't have much appetite, her stomach knotted and tight, but with her Queen's heavy, judgemental gaze fixed upon her, Sansa lifted her fork and took a bite of veal. It tasted like she was chewing dirt and she fought the urge to gag.
The Queen smiled thinly and took a large sip. Sansa wondered how many cups she’d drunk but was wise enough to keep her mouth shut, not wanting to anger the other woman in any manner. When she was drunk, anything could set Cersei off and she’d aim her anger at Sansa more likely than her children. It was best to let the Queen rant and keep silent. Hopefully, she’ll be able to get through this dinner quickly and be escorted back to her chambers.
“Do you like my new dress, Sansa?” asked Princess Myrcella with an excited grin. She wore a dress of purple silk. “Mother had it made especially for me. I think it’s very pretty though Joffrey doesn’t think so.”
“You look a fine sight, princess,” answered Sansa, grateful for her distraction.
Cersei hummed around the rim of her cup. From the open window, the sun was setting in the orange sky. Sansa shivered as a cool breeze wafted into the room. Her back was straight and upright in the chair but it might as well have been made out of knives with the stiff way she held herself.
“Ser Pounce is getting bigger, Sansa,” chimed Tommen excitedly. “Soon he’ll be fully grown.”
“I’m glad to hear it, my Prince. I’m sure he’s a sweet cat.”
“He is! I can introduce you to him if you’d like?” he offered sweetly, almost bouncing in his seat, unable to keep still. “He’ll take a proper shine to you I guarantee it.”
Sansa shared a small genuine smile with Tommen. The boy shared nothing of Joffrey’s and the Queen’s disposition. Her heart gave a conscious twinge. If only things were different and she was to wed Tommen instead of Joffrey, how good things might have been. Her father might also have been alive, whispered a voice inside her head.
Cersei sighed, and a sneer twisted her lips. “Aren’t you getting a bit too old to be playing with cats now?” she demanded and Tommen deflated in his chair, his smile faded. Sansa almost hated her for that for a moment. “You’ll soon be a man, Tommen. Are you still going to be playing childish games with filthy cats?”
“Ser Pounce isn't dirty,” muttered Tommen.
Myrcella frowned. “He’s only eight, mother, still a boy. Isn’t he allowed to be a child?”
“He’s his brother’s heir for now until Joffrey has a child,” rebuffed Cersei sharply. “He should be showing behaviour more befitting that status, not playing with cats or dolls.”
Tommen glanced down at his plate, his mouth drooping down. Sansa’s heart jumped in her mouth. Nothing seemed as unbearable and horrible as baring Joffrey’s children. Her stomach twisted in disgust at the thoughts playing in her mind. She hadn’t bled yet which was one blessing in her life. Outwardly, she masked her expression as stoic.
“Isn’t it time you two were in bed?” said Cersei with a raised eyebrow.
The two children instantly began protesting but Cersei ignored them and snapped her fingers. A maid appeared and guided the two from their seats and out of the room. They waved a morose goodbye to Sansa, who threw them a thin but comforting smile.
The air certainly felt more stuffy and Sansa felt she couldn’t breathe for a second. Now it was just her and Cersei along with a few servants tucked away in the corner. She wished Tommen and Myrcella hadn’t gone away. She felt safer with them there at least. Cersei was quiet for a while as she went on gulping her wine. A servant refilled her goblet again as she finished it. They sat there like that for a while eating and drinking.
“It’s tiring work sometimes,” began Cersei suddenly, causing Sansa’s head to rise towards her. “Raising children. You never realise it until you’re caring for them, cleaning up after them and handling their messes and tempers. One of the hardest things we as mothers bear.” She gave a short laugh, one high-pitched and dry.
Sansa’s throat was dry. “Yes, your Grace,” she murmured.
Cersei met her eyes, her emerald ones diluted and filled with something Sansa couldn’t name. “When you’re a mother there’s nothing you won’t do for your children — that’s something you’ll come to know, Sansa.”
Sansa swallowed. “I-I hope so. I want to love my children, your Grace.”
“That’ll come easy, just as easy as breathing air.”
Sansa found that hard to believe especially with Joffrey in mind. How could she ever come to love a child of a monster if that was where her duty lay?
“Drink some wine,” pointed Cersei to her goblet.
“I don’t drink, your Grace,” she protested quietly.
“Oh, one drink won’t kill you, dear — you’re not pregnant yet,” she laughed cruelly and then her voice hardened. “Your Queen commands you — drink .”
Realising it would be futile to argue, Sansa took a sip, the cool liquid moistening her dry throat. It had a sweet taste that wasn’t off-putting.
Cersei huffed a laugh. “Seems cruel, doesn’t it? You never realise that love that strong can make you weak and foolish. Especially when borne from someone you don’t love or care for in the slightest.” Her green eyes were glazed over as if in memory as she trailed her finger along the edge of her goblet. “When you marry Joffrey, Sansa, you’ll come to learn that.”
“I love His Grace with all my heart. He is my one true love.”
Cersei glared at her suddenly, her eyes sharpened like daggers. Sansa flinched a tad.
“Oh, do stop saying that, you blithering fool!” she snapped. “We both know you don’t and will not love Joffrey so don’t treat me like I’m an idiot.” She scoffed and paused to take a drink. “You won’t love him, I know that. Joffrey isn’t the easiest to love, believe me. Even as a child, he was troublesome to control. Sometimes I think to myself if he. . .” She sighed, her voice softening at her last words and trailing off. “But I am his mother and there’s nothing like a love between her and her first-born child. You’d do anything for them.”
She couldn’t help wondering how sad and tired the Queen looked under the darkening light. Her dress was rumpled and thin strands of golden hair had come undone while lines creased her temple. She appeared old. A pang of pity emerged from Sansa’s chest.
“I shouldn’t love His Grace?” Sansa’s voice came out quietly in confusion.
“Oh, you can try,” muttered Cersei. “As much as you like.” Her stare latched onto Sansa’s like a crossbow and she couldn’t look away even if she wanted to. Something, an unspoken glint perhaps, in the other woman’s gaze kept her in place. “The love for your children will satisfy you so love no one but them. It prevents a lot of heartache.”
Sansa bit her lip, hard enough to almost draw blood. She hoped that her fate and duty didn’t lie with becoming Joffrey’s Queen. Please, gods, she prayed, spare me from this hell. Let Robb storm the Capitol and rescue her before the chance arose.
Cersei looked up and her irritated veneer fell into place. She reached forward and gripped Sansa’s wrist tight, twisting it enough for her to yelp out in pain.
“Please, you Grace — you’re hurting me,” she pleaded, unbidden tears rising to the surface.
“Do stop wailing like a milksop,” hissed Cersei. “You’re going to marry my son. I’ll make sure of it no matter what your brother does.” Her voice crooned with maliciousness, her words so forceful that spittle almost flew out. “My father will defeat your traitor brother and you’ll bear Joffrey’s sons, do you hear me, little dove?”
Or maybe Robb will give me your son’s head, she thought viciously to herself. She pulled her wrist backwards as she felt a painful twist, and silver plates clattered against the table. Cersei held on, her grip was firm and her face twisted in spite.
“I will have your head served to me if you betray my son.”
Cersei brought her face close to Sansa and twisted even harder. Sansa let the cry escape from her, her body trembling as she shook her head.
“I love Joffrey, your Grace, please, my brother is a traitor of the Crown — I have nothing to do with him! You know that!”
“My son will be cruel to you, there’s no doubt about that,” continued Cersei, finally letting go. Sansa cradled her arm to her chest, and a fierce red spot burned into her wrist. “But remember what I said — your children will be your greatest happiness in time. When you hold your son in your arms you’ll cherish that feeling. I hope you take to heart my words.”
A bitter taste like ash settled at the back of her throat. She’d rather throw herself from Maegor’s Tower than bear golden-haired and green-eyed children for the King. Perhaps she’d see her precious Lady again. She’d never prayed and wished for something so hard in her life. Let Robb win and take me away from this place. Let me see my family again.
“Go on, get out,” said the Queen sharply, turning her head away and slurring her words. “I’ve had enough of you for one evening. Let me be at peace.”
As she left the room and lay her head down for rest, her final thoughts echoed in her mind, carrying her into the dark abyss of sleep. Please, gods, let Robb win.
Notes:
Ooo it's been a while sorry about that. Got caught up in work and all that. But I had to get this chapter out and I was tired of staring at the word document. A change in perspective at least. Let me know your thoughts.
Chapter Text
The Godswood, or what seemed to consist of one within the Red Keep, was Sansa’s only place of respite. Not many people in the South cared for the weirwood tree or the old gods of her father — and perhaps her old self might have turned her nose up at it and thought herself far above the old religion of the North — but for Sansa, it was home, or as close as she could get to it. The Faith of the Seven was more widely spread to common folk and nobles but she found no comfort in the cold, seven-pointed star that dotted the halls of the castle or the faint preachings of her Septa. It just reminded her of the Capital, of the Red Keep, of Joffrey and the Queen and the Imp.
Home are the knotted roots of the alabaster tree with a heart carved into the middle; it is the scarlet leaves that hang from said tree; the belly-rumbling, playful laughter of Robb; the snow-covered crown upon her mother’s flame-red hair; the feisty, witty quips of her sister and the solemn, bearded face of her father. It was the turrets of Winterfell, the chatter of excited servants and maids that scurried through the chambers, and the vivid blue rose that grew beneath the hard ground, whose thorns are sharp enough to prick blood if held tight.
Yet, the more she stared at the heart of the tree, the ground digging into her knees and most likely about to cause bruises, the fainter the memories of home seemed to look. It horrified her, and once she woke in a sweaty, trembling mess as she realised, she couldn’t properly picture her lord father’s face in her mind. It escaped her like a slippery fish and reinforced once again what the South had taken from her. Sansa shut her eyes and inhaled deeply, allowing the memories to flood her chest, to become engraved onto her very heart with an iron brand, so she never forgets home.
I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell, she reminded herself again and again. They can’t take that away from her. Please let Robb win and keep him safe. Please let me go home to be with my family and see my lady mother again. She would take all the beatings they had to offer, till her skin bloated black and blue, if only it would lead to Robb’s victory. She would not mind not being pretty anymore if it meant she could go home, to the calming, soft arms of her mother, who’d be there to whisper words of comfort in her ear like all this was a bad dream and nothing more.
She repeated this mantra every morning when she came to the weirwood tree. Joffrey and the Queen couldn’t take this from her, this was all hers. She hated them so much her very blood turned to ice, cutting her up from the inside, and perhaps if she were Arya, sealed with a little more courage, she would’ve stolen a sword and shoved it right into the throat of the King and then watched him choke on his blood and the light flee his eyes. How satisfying it would be indeed.
But she wasn’t Arya. She wasn’t fearless or skilled with a sword, able to hit the Crown Prince without fear of consequence. She was Sansa. All she had were her courtesies and her manners. She would wield them like any sword or crossbow. It had been her only shield, and her skin had hardened from silk to steel.
The time she spent in front of the weirwood tree was the only serenity she sought. She bade her maids to stay behind without much resistance and prayed by herself. But of course, like most things in Kingslanding, her peace that morning was shattered by the arrogant, blond-haired King. Joffrey stood a few metres away in resplendent, flashy robes and a sword far too big for his body strapped to his hip — not that he ever used it — while his Kingsguard flanked him in their White Cloaks.
“Sansa!” yelled Joffrey impatiently, a scowl etched on his face. “There you are. I’ve been looking for you all this time — a King shouldn’t concern himself with the whereabouts of stupid girls, much less his betrothed. You should be there when I call for you.”
“I’m sorry, Your Grace. You’re right, I’m stupid,” she parroted, her back stiff as a board as she sunk into a curtsey.
Joffrey sniffed, eyeing her with distaste. “What were you doing anyway? Seems like such a bore to be here.”
“I was praying to the Gods, Your Grace, to give us all peace in all the Seven Kingdoms,” she said and then hastened to continue when she saw him opening his mouth and a dark shadow flew across his face. “I pray every morning for my beloved’s victory against the treasonous North and the defeat of my traitorous brother. The Gods will grant us this mercy soon enough.”
Joffrey scoffed, crossing his arms with a sneer. “Prayers aren’t useful in times of war, to women and old crones maybe, but weapons and men win them. I win them.” He paused and stepped near to her until his face was close enough for her to feel his scorching breath. A cruel taunting look came into his eye. “And when I do, I’m going to take your brother’s head and stick it on the castle gates. It can join your father, keep him company. What do you think about that?”
Her heart stuttered to a halt as she kept her face impassive. Robb’s going to kill you, she thought. “I should be glad to see it soon, Your Grace. I will keep praying.” That she would, it’d be a matter of time before her brother made it to the South and hurled Joffrey from its tower. She would be pleased to feast her eyes on his corpse that day.
“Praying to the gods of savages I assume — what a barbaric, outlandish place the North is. Then again you can’t expect anything more from the daughter of a traitor.”
Sansa kept her hands clasped neatly in front of her, her expression polite as Joffrey kept staring at her, his thin lips pulled back. He reached out and grasped her arm in a bruising grip as he pulled her along like one would with a leash on a dog.
“Come on, I want to show you something.”
Her heart quickened and she almost tripped over the hem of her skirt but quickly composed herself, allowing the King to drag her. He snapped at her to hurry up and tightened his grip all the more. Sansa refused to flinch, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. He brought her to the small battlements that overlooked the practice yard. Men were bashing each other with metal swords and grunts and yells resonated.
Sansa peered around, wondering why he’d bought her here. Joffrey ignored her presence as he released his grip for now, staring with a delighted, unnatural grin as a heavy-set man hacked his opponent until he collapsed onto the floor with a pained moan, blood pouring forth from the wound. The victorious man smirked and dug his heel into the fallen man’s chest, which caused him to lose his breath.
Sansa cringed and shut her eyes, unable to bear the brutal stench of violence that surrounded the place. She’d never been good with blood since she was a young girl. At Winterfell she mostly avoided the practice yard, choosing to stick her nose up at it as she didn’t want to stain her dresses with dirt and filth, and only accompanied Jeyne and Beth at a distance when they wanted to ogle and giggle at the castle boys. Joffrey yelled and upon hearing the King’s voice, all the men and young boys peered up and sunk into a bow with a chimed greeting.
“Yes, yes, get up,” he snapped at them. “Carry on, come on.”
The men rose and continued with their fighting though they appeared a lot more hesitant and self-conscious, shooting shifty looks at her too. Sansa’s eyes wandered and her pulse leapt traitorously as she landed on the familiar sight of Lord Henrik. She didn’t realise he’d be there. There was a certain unmistakable allure, a hook maybe, that meant she couldn’t pull her eyes away as he laughed brightly while aiming his sword at his opponent, his brown eyes dancing with delight beneath the sunlight and a wide, dazzling smile stretched across his rather full lips. She swallowed deeply, clasping and unclasping her hand against the silk of her dress.
“Hah!” yelled Joffrey, his voice clouded with sick pleasure as he smacked his hand against the wooden bannister. “Did you see that, Sansa? That was a good, hard punch, was it not?”
“It was well struck, Your Grace.”
Lord Henrik circled his adversary with playful movements, his sword gripped in his hand and a calculating expression on his countenance. He struck fast, hand all a blur, and all she could hear was the clashing of metal; then she saw the twisting of his limbs as he moved against the other man like he was involved in a peculiar dance of some sort. Lord Henrik didn’t seem to be frustrated or annoyed in the least — the sword acted as a second limb to him. He was as adept as she remembered her half-brother Jon to be. It ended when he pointed his shimmering weapon against the chest of the other man, who yielded and bowed mischievously.
The young lord also looked in more disarray than she’d ever seen him before, not even when she caught him off guard in his chambers. He donned simple black breeches and a white linen shirt, drenched with sweat, that outlined rather the panes of his hard chest. The first few buttons were unfastened, and smooth skin glistened, his chest rising and falling while he panted.
Sansa’s breath hitched and her mouth felt uncommonly dry like she was baking under the hot sun of the formidable Dornish Desert and her hand twitched. Something warm — she couldn’t put a name to it — stirred within her stomach, travelling head to foot of her body. She clenched her fists if only to cease the sinful urges and inhaled deeply. She tried to look away, but it was hard to. His hair was tousled and looked rather damp as it curled towards the ends and his fringe hung over his forehead, accentuating his dark, laughing eyes.
“You know why I’ve brought you here?” spoke Joffrey suddenly, turning towards her.
Sansa instantly turned away like she’d been burned. “No, Your Grace.” She was glad that her voice was steady enough for his liking.
“I’ve brought you here to show you how I’m going to chop your brother’s head off when I see him. A demonstration if you will. Would you like that?”
“My traitorous brother deserves no less for rebelling against my beloved.”
Joffrey frowned as he fiddled with his rings. It suddenly struck Sansa how different Joffrey looked to Henrik. They must have been around the same age, but Henrik looked much more like a man already and almost as tall as some of the men in the training yard. But it didn’t stop there; Joffrey had doused himself in rich, heady perfume and his robes were a vibrant, flamboyant mixture of colours, always drawing attention whenever he was in the room. His hair shone as golden as the reflected rings on his fingers. Joffrey was a trussed-up donkey, not one speck of dirt upon his face or robes.
But she remembered very distinctly how Henrik smelled like when she’d brushed past him often enough — something like lavender, wood and a cold sea breeze. It engulfed her senses and almost made her halt in her steps. She wondered very briefly what he would smell like right now if she went up to him, brushed her hands against his hair, leaned in to sniff his neck, pressed her fingers against the delicate muscles. . .
“Come, my Lady — you can watch me as I take that dummy’s head off,” announced Joffrey, pulling her away from her thoughts.
Sansa had no choice as Joffrey motioned for her to follow him and with the looming presence of two Kingsguards over her shoulder like shadows. She gulped, fixed her nerves, and followed him down the stairs of the battlements. The grass was muddy and grassy against her shoes, and she almost tripped if Ser Arys Oakheart didn’t catch her arm and pulled her upright. She thanked him softly as he urged her to hurry.
The stares of the men burned into her very soul as she passed them. She felt them all around her and her discomfort grew all the more. She couldn’t make out if they were curious, leering or downright hostile. Perhaps all three. She drew her cloak tighter and came to a stop before Joffrey, who had drawn his garish sword and held it above his head in show, savouring the interested, eager looks of the men. Sansa could tell he would not handle it as well as she’d seen Henrik do. She caught Henrik’s eye, and he gave her a short nod and a comforting smile. She kept her eyes fixed on him like a thirsty sailor looking for land before the King demanded her attention again.
“Come closer,” Joffrey scowled, and Sansa, with her feet crammed full of stones, approached him. He waved his sword. “Do you see this — I want you to feel how sharp the edge of it is. Go on now.”
She half-feared that he’d slice her fingers deliberately as she delicately grated them along the edge of the weapon. But would it be so bad? Perhaps she’d bleed out right here surrounded by grass and mud and the absence of her family but at least then she would have escaped from Joffrey and the Queen’s clutches.
“Good, now you see, your brother’s head will soon be joining your father on that wall.”
Joffrey moved towards the makeshift dummy, stuffed with straws and bunched with mud. He turned his head to look at the crowd of men with a slimy grin and his arms stretched out wide in a huge show. Some gave whoops, egging him on. Sansa hated the lot of them and wondered how pleasing it would be to see mud smeared all over the King’s smarmy face, staining the blond locks of his hair to a rotten brown, the true reflection of his character. She could do it; it wouldn’t be hard of course. Or better yet she could grasp the sword and pierce it right through his heart.
But Ser Meryn stepped closer, and the stainless steel of his sword shone brightly, causing her to shut her eyes and lose her nerve.
Joffrey seized the sword with two hands in preparation; he lifted it above his head — for a second, he seemed to sway with the weight of it — and brought it down hard with a thud, air escaping him with a grunt. The men cheered, whistling and clapping for their sovereign. But the strike of the sword hadn’t seemed to decapitate the head of the dummy. His sword had become stuck, sticking out oddly, and the King glowered with a rageful temper. He clutched the hilt and pulled with all his might until the mud let way, causing Joffrey to slip on a wet piece of grass. He fell with a cry, planting backwards as his sword clashed on the ground and rolled out of his hand.
His clothes sullied brown and no one in the training yard dared to laugh as a silence settled. Sansa, however, caught Henrik hiding his smirk behind his fist covering his lips. Joffrey snarled and, grasping the arm of his Kingsguard, struggled to pull himself upright, his face thunderous. He angrily picked up the sword and marched towards the dummy; with a type of scream that reminded Sansa of when Rickon would throw a tantrum over his food, Joffrey hacked the figure to pieces, straw and pieces of mud flying everywhere.
All that remained were sad, broken pieces of the ripped head, its face torn to shreds.
Joffrey panted heavily, his face red with exertion, and plastered a gloating smirk across his face as if he were the one who’d been in the thick of the fighting in the North. He raised his hand in the air in a victorious manner and preened as the men cheered for him like he’d single-handedly won the war. In Joffrey’s eyes maybe he had. He always liked playing the hero.
Sansa saw the men like vultures cawing hungrily for the taste of blood and death and savagery. None were true Knights despite several members of the Gold Cloaks sworn to protect the city. They were just as rotten and monstrous as Joffrey, acting as loyal, dignified knights and not the men who did nothing when her father died in front of a crowd braying for his spilt blood.
Yet, as her gaze circled the yard, she also caught the thin line that sat on Henrik’s lips. His arms were crossed, and a stony, unimpressed stare bore into the unsuspecting King, who soaked up the empty praises and admiration. A swell of curiosity swirled within her breast.
Lord Henrik had never lost his ability to astonish her every time she encountered him. Perhaps it was in his nature to unsettle unsuspecting ladies of the court.
“Lady Sansa,” said Henrik as he stood before her with his hands clasped behind his back and bowed deeply. “I would be very grateful if you would do me the absolute honour of joining me for lunch this afternoon?”
“My Lord?” she replied uncertainly, blinking.
“I simply wish to spend more time with you, my lady.” He grinned cheekily, and Sansa didn’t know what to say. He shrugged and declared, “I should like to think we’re friends, are we not? And as one friend to another, I’m merely inviting you for one or two hours of your time today. I can see no harm in that.”
“Are we friends?” Her voice came out dryly without meaning to.
He raised an eyebrow and widened his eyes. “Of course we are. Well, I certainly consider you to be my friend. Do you not think of me as yours, Lady Sansa? I shall be terribly heartbroken if not.”
The teasing glint in his expressive, all-together large brown eyes irritated her and a flush rose to her cheeks. She didn’t like his tone and felt as if he were laughing at her. She kept her voice steady and firm.
“I don’t like to be teased, my lord — I don’t appreciate it.”
Henrik blinked and his expression relaxed into something more sombre as his deep chestnut eyes bore into hers. It was hard to look away — his irises swirled with so much warmth and kindliness, those pupils as brown as the bark of a tree or the logs of a roasting fireplace in the Great Hall in Winterfell. Sansa swallowed and forced herself to look away, but her gaze kept drifting back.
“Forgive me, I didn’t mean to upset you,” he said lowly. “I consider you as one of the true friends that I’ve had since I arrived at Kingslanding. You have my word.”
His tone of voice was serious, and his words clear. He held her gaze, and Sansa’s lips parted a tad. She nodded before she realised.
“Then. . .” she began softly, “I would be pleased to have lunch with you. . . Henrik.”
A blinding, captivating smile spread across his face and his eyes twinkled. He lifted her hand and pressed his lips against the back of it as he bowed. Without meaning to, Sansa’s heart quaked and a tender smile played at the edge of her mouth.
“I will count the hours until then, Sansa.”
“So, I hear you’re fond of lemon cakes,” remarked Henrik a while later, taking a sip of his goblet. “I had these specifically brought in and I hope it’s to your liking.”
Sansa was sat facing the young lord, nibbling on the cakes and treats that were laid out in front of the two. The servants dashed to and fro, adding and removing certain platters. A landscape of the gardens and the distant city was within their view, and she was surprised to see how light the brown of his eyes had become under the amber sun.
“It’s very nice — I’m very grateful, my lord. Thank you.”
And she was. She couldn’t remember the last time someone had brought her favourite cakes for her. The cook’s cakes from Winterfell remained the best in her eyes but these were a close second. Appreciation settled within her breast as she stared at him.
His voice was as light as a feather. “I’m glad to hear it. I find that we should gratify our small pleasures now and then otherwise what’s the point, don’t you agree? The Gods have granted us this one life, and should we not live it to our heart’s delight, grasp every chance of happiness we have?”
Sansa considered this. “I suppose so, yes. You make a good point.”
But it was hard to find any morsel of happiness in this place. She knew that very well. Joffrey would put a stop to it even if she did. He’d never let her rest unless it was on his terms. He was a grotesque boy, destroying everything in his place. She was just sorry she hadn’t seen it sooner. Arya had tried to warn her, and she’d turned her back, and now she was paying for her mistakes. Perhaps this was the punishment she had wrought upon herself, and the Gods were just to not listen to her pleas and curse her instead.
“You see,” said Henrik. “Now, tell me, my lady, have you always loved lemon cakes?”
Sansa smiled. “Yes, ever since I was a child. My father used to order them to be made during every meal despite my mother’s disapproval. She thought it was too sickening for a young girl. And my brothers became tired of them after a while.”
“But not you,” he said curiously.
“No, not me.” She laughed softly as a memory hazed her mind. “I remember how I used to sneak into the kitchens and implore the cook to smuggle some for me without my mother knowing. She always did and promised not to tell my lady mother. It was like our little secret. Robb was so jealous because you could tell the cook preferred me as she never used to be lenient on him.”
Henrik smiled, catching her gaze. “Ah, that doesn’t sound like you: sneaking into the kitchens and lying to your mother. How rebellious.” His voice was teasing.
“It wasn’t just me,” protested Sansa with a pout. “Arya came with me sometimes when she caught me. She’s my sister. We thought we were ever so important because we had a secret that had to be hidden from everyone else. I think that period was the only time we ever got along well.” She wistfully smiled, thinking of her bold younger sister with her fierce grey eyes. Oh, Arya, where are you?
“I have a sister too — Alys, that’s her name,” revealed Henrik. “She’s younger than me but we were good friends growing up. She’s ten years of age now. Hearing about your sister reminded me of her actually.”
Sansa blinked in surprise. She’d assumed that he was the only child of Lord Farman but clearly, she was wrong. “Do you miss her?” she asked.
“Very much so,” muttered Henrik, leaning back with a faraway look in his eyes. “Often, I worry that she’s all alone at Fair Isle. I mean, yes, she has her friends and her maids, but without my father there and me being here she’s all by herself. I promised her that I’d bring her something from Kingslanding when I see her again but so far, I have nothing. My mind’s all coming up blank.” He sighed, and Sansa had an urge to reach out and grab his hands.
“Would you like me to help you, my lord?” she offered quietly before she realised, and Henrik’s head snapped up, his eyes wide. “It’d be no bother and I wouldn’t mind helping a friend.”
The words weighed heavy on her tongue. As she said it, she recognised that she meant it. Perhaps, slowly, she’d come to consider Henrik as her friend too. The stone wall before her heart had gradually been chipped away, bit by bit as if by a stonemason. Henrik was silent for a moment, glancing at her with doe eyes so large she could nearly drown in them. A soft half-smile lifted the corners of his mouth and wonderment filled his eyes.
“I — I, uh, would like that very much, Sansa. Thank you, truly, that’s very kind of you to offer.”
He reached out to grab her hand and squeezed it before releasing it. A tingle emerged like fire burning along her skin, and Sansa clenched her fists together. She cleared her throat, turning her gaze towards the gardens.
“What’s Fair Isle like?” she asked, changing the subject. “I don’t think I’ve ever met someone from there before and our Septa only mentioned it in passing during our lessons.”
Henrik glanced up while he gulped down his water. His eyes glinted with excitement as he gushed about his family home. “Well, to start with it’s an island by the Sunset Sea. The seat of our House lies in Faircastle. It’s very beautiful, I’m sure you’ll like it very much if you ever come and visit it someday. You’ll be very welcome; I’ll see to it. The castle has a great hall with lots of seats, and tall white towers that stretch so high you’d think they were touching the tip of the sky.”
Sansa leaned closer, her hands perched in her lap as she watched Henrik gesture with a flurry of motions. She couldn’t look away as his voice tinged with joy. She liked to watch each muscle in his face shift as he spoke passionately.
“I must admit something — I’ve always wanted to climb to the top of the highest turret and dive into the sea below me. It’ll be such an adventure, and I’d feel as if I could do it.”
Sansa gasped at the image. She exclaimed, “But that’s so dangerous! You could die.”
Henrik grinned wolfishly. “Ah, but isn’t that the thrill of it?”
She pursed her lips thinly, not liking the idea of him talking about dying. She threw him a disapproving look to which he sighed and raised his hands in surrender.
“I’m only jesting, Sansa, honest. Rest assured my father didn’t let me, nor did Rubin for that matter. The guards wouldn’t let me go alone to the highest rooms in the castle without them. Ordered by my father, I suppose. Ah, well. . .”
Sansa relaxed at this assurance. She didn’t know why he was so lax with dangerous activities nor why it bothered her so much. She didn’t want to lose what was her only friend so soon in Kingslanding.
“You know, I’ve also very much wanted to travel to Essos — it’s been a dear dream of mine,” Henrik admitted.
“What and leave Westeros?” questioned Sansa with a raised eyebrow.
Henrik nodded. “Yes, I don’t know, I’ve always wanted to leave and explore all there is to offer. I can’t describe it in clear words but it’s exciting to be going somewhere completely new — somewhere that you’ve never seen before or experienced the freedom and culture they inhabit. Just me and the sword on my hip—” He leaned back, resting an arm across his chair and gazed out at the landscape, the breeze rustling his hair. “—it’s all I’ve ever wanted to tell the truth.”
“Does it not sound fairly lonesome? It does to me,” said Sansa softly and Henrik stared at her. “Just that if it’s you alone on a ship or in another city and none of your family or those that love you present, it — just that it’s a lonely picture, my lord.”
She would know, of course.
Henrik was taken aback, blinking hard, as if he hadn’t considered this. He stared at her like he was seeing her for the first time. He then smiled and let out a vague sound of amusement. “Nah, I’ll be surrounded by my crew — that’s all I need. I’ll be fine, believe me. Besides, have you heard of Elissa Farman, my lady?”
Sansa furrowed her brows as she tried to recall the name. “Vaguely to speak plainly. I believe that her brother Androw Farman married Princess Rhaena Targaryen on Fair Isle in the year forty-and-nine AC.” She paused and a pink flush coated her cheeks as she avoided his eyes. Her tone became shifty as if embarrassed while her voice lowered to a furtive whisper. “And, well. . . some — uh — some historians like Maester Smike like to speculate that the queen found her true love on Fair Isle, not with Androw, but with . . . with his sister, Lady Elissa.”
Henrik snickered, his brown eyes dancing in a wicked manner, and Sansa turned uncomfortably in her seat.
“Ah, yes, that too,” he agreed goodhumoredly, crossing his arms and leaning closer over the table. “You could say that she is a bit of a legend in Fair Isle. I admired her growing up as a boy because she sailed her boat around Fair Isle at the age of ten and four years already. And by twenty, she had voyaged as far south as the Arbor. It’s believed that she saw so many amazing things, and strange beasts and tasted various exotic fruits and foods,” he described in an awe-struck tone. “She was — or is I should say — my idol. She basically inspired most of my dreams.”
“She certainly sounds high-spirited and a wonder to behold.”
“Yes, but my father didn’t approve, of course, like most things,” he sighed, his face darkening, like a grey cloud shrouding the sun, before it disappeared. He shook his head as if clearing his thoughts. “Anyway, I just hope to accomplish some of what she did.”
“Perhaps you will,” said Sansa.
This time she reached out and grabbed his hand and squeezed it gently while holding his gaze. Their eyes held for a lot longer than was strictly appropriate. Sansa felt a violent pang grip her heart and a faint flutter enter her stomach — one she hadn’t sensed since she laid eyes on Waymar Royce’s handsome, rugged face since he visited Winterfell — but this was much, much stronger as if deeply demanding her attention.
Notes:
Yeah, it's been a while, extremely sorry about that. Got caught up in work and projects sadly.
But hope this chapter was okay and you enjoyed it. Let me know what you think, of course. 🙂
Also, wishing you a year filled with new hopes, joys, and beginnings in 2024!
Chapter Text
Henrik strolled through the bustling market square of King’s Landing; he couldn’t help but be drawn in by the myriad sights and sounds assaulting his senses. The vibrant colours of exotic fabrics fluttered in the breeze while nearby street performers captivated each passerby with acrobatic feats, adding to the lively atmosphere.
Sansa had declined his offer to accompany him to the market with an apology, though she did provide him with some suggestions. He’d almost forgotten that she was still bound by the restrictions imposed upon her — even if she was the King’s betrothed — and wasn’t allowed to roam outside the Red Keep without permission. Henrik couldn’t shake off the pang of disappointment that settled in his chest. Sansa’s absence left a silent acknowledgement of the barriers that separated them — she was essentially a traitor, a truth most recognised within the confines of courtly gossip.
He shook his head. Accompanying him was Jarak, his ever-faithful household guard, and Ras, who’d also been very eager to come because he had business to tend to in Flea Bottom. Henrik had learnt at this point that it was better not to ask.
“Step aside, you shit-stained fucks!” Ras bellowed, waving his arms theatrically. “The great lord is on a mission to find a present fit enough for his noble sister!”
Henrik couldn’t help but roll his eyes at Ras’s antics, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment as nearby merchants and onlookers turned to stare. “Must you be so vulgar, Ras?” Henrik muttered under his breath, attempting to rein in his unruly companion. “You’re drawing undue attention to us.”
Ras merely shrugged, a wicked grin spreading across his face. “Oh, let them stare. What’s life without a bit of attention, milord? Keeps things interesting, doesn’t it? Besides, it’s your comely face they’re drawn to.”
Henrik smirked. “Ah, yes, Ras. My face is indeed a sight to behold, but let’s not forget it’s your charm that truly captivates the masses. . . or perhaps it’s just your loud voice.”
Jarak, ever the voice of reason, cleared his throat pointedly, hand on the hilt of his sword as he scanned the area with a narrowed eye. “Let us not forget our purpose here, my lord. Lady Alys’s nameday approaches.”
“What the fuck’s wrong with that silk dress I suggested?” Ras asked. “Ladies like dresses, don’t they? Not fancy enough for you nobles, eh?”
Henrik sighed. “As lovely as it is, I fear Alys would sooner use it as a curtain than wear it.” He chuckled, imagining his sister’s disdainful expression at the mere suggestion.
Jarak chimed in, “Yes, and we’d be lucky if she doesn’t mistake it for a cloth and command a maidservant to clean the floors with it instead.”
Henrik couldn’t help but laugh at the image. “You may not be far off. Let’s keep looking.”
With a begrudging nod from Henrik, they pressed on, Ras’s colourful commentary providing a constant stream of entertainment as they perused the various stalls.
“What about this?” Henrik suggested, indicating a display of intricately carved figurines.
Ras snorted derisively, eyeing them with disdain. “Figurines? You might as well give her a pile of horse dung, little lord. At least that would have some practical use.”
Henrik shot Ras a reproachful look but couldn’t suppress a chuckle at his brazenness. “Perhaps something a bit more refined, then.”
“Look, why don’t you just get her a good sharp knife? I know a blacksmith that does a fine job that I could take you to. He owes me a favour. And your lady sister might be good with a knife, once you train her up properly that is. In my opinion, it’s the best damn present you can receive.”
“No,” rejected Henrik with a frown. “Alys doesn’t like violence or fighting. She much prefers the company of Maester Orman and his books than she does with her Septa. And what does she need a knife for? She has guards to protect her anyway.”
Ras placed a hand on his shoulder, stopping Henrik to stare at him. His face was pulled into a faintly serious expression. A few children ran in the background, chasing a dog, while the sounds of merchants beckoning customers echoed around them. Henrik blinked and stared at Ras in bewilderment.
“You can never be too careful, little lord. Never forget that. A knife can go a long way if you’re clever about it,” Ras said. “Some guards are just for show, decoration if you will like those fancy tapestries.”
“Are you drunk, Ras?” Henrik blinked at him.
Ras’s expression stayed the same, solemn and grave until it broke like ripples on the surface of water. He grinned and shoved at Henrik’s shoulder. Ras chuckled, shaking his head. “Not yet, milord. But perhaps after we find a suitable gift for Lady Alys, I might indulge in a flagon or two of ale. Gods know I need it.”
“Very well then, let’s continue our search.”
As Henrik roamed through the labyrinthine streets, his gaze wandered, not truly seeing the chaotic swirl of people around him. Instead, his mind retreated to the sanctuary of his memories, where the laughter of his sister, Alys, resonated like a melody.
He found himself standing before the grand doors of their family’s keep, the ancient stone walls rising high above him like guardians of a bygone era. Each step through the empty stirred dormant echoes of childhood mischief. In his mind’s eye, Henrik saw himself and Alys darting through the shadowy passages, their laughter mingling with the flickering torchlight. They were a pair of sprites, dancing on the precipice of adventure, heedless of the consequences that awaited them.
One memory, in particular, stood out vividly. He recalled the day that they stumbled upon their father’s prized collection of rare books, their eyes widening with awe at the treasure trove before them. But their curiosity soon turned to calamity when a misplaced step sent a priceless tome crashing to the ground, its delicate pages fluttering like wounded birds. Henrik stood before his father; his shoulders drooped in resignation, and he averted his gaze, unable to bear the disappointment. Behind, Ronas loomed, his smirk dripping with self-satisfaction, silently revelling in his role as the informant who had revealed the whereabouts of the children.
Yet, even as Lord Farman’s stern gaze bore down on him like a burden, Henrik refused to betray his sister. He took the blame upon himself, shielding Alys from their father’s wrath with a steadfast resolve. And Alys, with tears glistening in her eyes, reached out to him, her small hand finding solace in his own. But now, as Henrik navigated the bustling streets of King’s Landing, the absence of his little sister’s presence weighed upon him. The laughter that once filled the halls of their family’s keep was but a distant echo, drowned out by the cacophony of the city.
“Oi, Henrik!” Ras exclaimed, his voice cutting through the haze of memories like a sharp blade. “You’ve got that look about you, like a lost pup in a storm, boy! Should I fetch a trail of bread to lead you back to the present?”
Henrik blinked, his mind slowly returning to the present as he chuckled at Ras’s jest. “Very witty, Ras. Well done, you’ve managed to string together a couple of sentences more than usual.”
“Ah, careful now. You wound me with your sharp tongue!” Ras snorted.
They ended up in the Street of Flour and amidst the stalls, a display of gourmet foods caught his eye, their rich aromas wafting tantalisingly through the air.
“Ah, now here’s a treat,” Henrik remarked. He turned around towards Jarak. “What do you think, Jarak? Shall we indulge Alys’s palate with some of the finest honeycakes in the realm?”
Jarak smiled, his wrinkled eyes glinting with tenderness as he surveyed the selection. “Yes, my lord. Lady Alys has a sweet tooth, doesn’t she?”
Henrik chuckled, nodding in agreement. “Indeed she does. It would be a shame not to let her taste such delights, wouldn’t it?”
Their search led them to a nearby stall adorned with an array of decadent honeycakes and chocolates, their glossy exteriors shimmering in the sunlight. Henrik’s mouth watered at the sight, memories flooding back of the time he and Alys would sneak extra sweet treats from the pantry, giggling like children caught in a forbidden indulgence. Sometimes, he’d place extra on her plate when his father wasn’t looking and throw a discreet wink.
“I think these will do nicely,” Henrik remarked, selecting a variety to add to their growing collection of gifts. “But we can’t forget the pastries. Alys always had a weakness for those.”
After he was satisfied with his choice, Henrik wandered through the lively marketplace and his attention was at once drawn to a merchant whose booming voice echoed through the bustling crowd like a beacon. The bearded man stood tall behind his stall, his flamboyant gestures and captivating words throwing promises of opulence and elegance.
“Step right up, my lords and ladies!” the merchant exclaimed, his voice carrying over the din of the marketplace. “Behold the finest silk from across the Narrow Sea, fit for a queen herself! And as for these exquisite jewels. . .” He lifted a sparkling necklace high above his head, the gemstones catching the sunlight and casting shimmering reflections across the crowd.
Henrik couldn’t help but be intrigued by the spectacle before him. He approached the stall, his curiosity piqued. Fine silks and fabrics surrounded the place. He thought of Sansa’s dresses and the way they didn’t seem to fit her. This would look good on her, he thought very briefly; she deserved expensive jewellery and fine fabrics. His eye also caught a gemstone inside a brooch. Henrik carefully examined the brooch, its blue gemstone glinting under the sunlight like a shard of the clear summer sky. Entranced, he found himself engulfed in a sea of cerulean.
“Ser, how much for all these?” he asked, gesturing.
The merchant’s eyes lit up with a gleam of satisfaction as he regarded Henrik with a knowing smile. “Ah, my good lord, you have a keen eye indeed,” he exclaimed, his voice dripping with honey and a hint of steel. “This exquisite brooch is a rare treasure, crafted by the finest artisans in the realm.”
“I understand, Ser,” he replied evenly. “But what would be a fair price for such a treasure?”
The merchant’s lips curled into a sly smile as he named his price, a sum that would make even a wealthy lord pause in consideration. “For this exquisite brooch, I would ask three golden dragons,” he declared, his voice carrying a note of finality.
Henrik’s brow furrowed slightly at the steep price, but he knew that quality came at a cost. With a nod of acceptance, he reached into his purse and counted the required coins. He was relieved that Rubin wasn’t by his side, sparing him from the tedious lecture on fiscal responsibility, a discourse he had endlessly grown tired of hearing.
“Uh, I thought you said that your sister didn’t like jewels, milord,” pointed out Ras.
“It’s not for her,” replied Henrik, handing over the coins to the merchant.
Jarak was ever observant. “Well, it seems you’ve found something special, my lord,” Jarak remarked, his tone neutral but his eyes curious.
Henrik offered a tight-lipped smile. “Indeed,” he replied, keeping his response vague.
Jarak nodded, respecting his lord’s privacy, and said nothing more as Henrik packed the brooch into his pocket. Henrik appreciated the guard’s discretion, grateful for the unspoken bond of trust between them. Ras, however, the provocateur, couldn’t resist the opportunity and wiggled his eyebrows with a mischievous glint.
“Found a little trinket for a lady friend, have we now?” he teased.
Henrik flushed red and attempted to throw a scowl. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Ras chuckled, his grin widening as he leaned closer to Henrik. “Oh, come on now, little lord. You can’t fool me. That brooch is far too fancy for a mere trinket. It’s a token of affection, isn’t it?”
Henrik’s cheeks grew warmer, his attempt at a stern expression faltering under Ras’s playful scrutiny. “It’s none of your concern,” he retorted, though his tone lacked the usual sharpness. “Don’t you have business to attend to?”
“Alright, alright, keep your secrets.” Ras’s voice turned more pitying. “Well, just be careful, yeah? Getting caught in the likes of Myra is not wise I should warn you — she’s had more men on her doorstep in Silk Street than you’ve had hot baths. So don’t be stupid enough to go falling in love with a whore just because she sucks your cock once in a while, little lord.”
“Mind your tongue!” said Henrik sharply, frowning.
Ras shrugged nonchalantly, his smirk unyielding. “I mean no harm. But don’t say I didn’t warn you when you find yourself with a broken heart and an empty purse. Like some of the dumb cunts who come there looking for something warm to stick themselves into.”
Ignoring Ras’s taunts, Henrik straightened his posture, his resolve firm. “I appreciate your concern, Ras, but I am capable of making my own decisions,” he declared, his voice steady despite the turmoil. “And I suggest you go and attend to your business. Now would be preferable.”
Ras shrugged again, seemingly unaffected by Henrik’s rebuttal. “Suit yourself, little lord. Just remember: not all that glitters is gold.”
➶✶
Henrik strode into the throne room. The heavy velvet drapes hung ominously around the room, casting long shadows that danced across the floor. Only a few nobles were scattered here and there. There was no sign of the King or the Queen Regent which was a blessing in disguise.
Rubin intercepted him with a knowing gaze, his expression a mix of concern and disapproval. “Henrik, there you are,” he greeted, his voice carrying a weight of observation, “you seem unusually preoccupied of late. Any reason?”
“Not particularly. I don’t think I have to explain myself now, do I?” Henrik looked at him in slight amusement, causing Rubin’s lips to go white with displeasure as he pressed them together.
“Have you written to your father yet? I hope you haven’t neglected your duties, my lord.”
“Yes, my noble lord father,” he mused, a hint of irony lacing his words. “No need to worry, Rubin. I shall attend to it in due time. My duties are not neglected, merely. . . prioritised,” he replied curtly, his tone clipped.
Rubin raised an eyebrow knowingly, his gaze piercing through Henrik’s defences. “Prioritised? Ah, yes, matters such as. . . frequenting the company of women of ill repute I should assume?” he suggested pointedly, the implication hanging heavy in the air.
Henrik’s face flushed with anger, his fists clenching at his sides. “That is none of your concern, Rubin,” he snapped, his voice edged with irritation. “And how did you know? Are you spying on me?”
“My lord,” Rubin sighed loudly, clasping his hands together in front of his stomach. “I make it my business to know where you frequent the city — your father trusted me with your safety and protection and that is not something I tend to do lightly. And your father only wishes what’s best for you, Henrik. Indulging in such sinful pursuits will only lead to ruin.”
Henrik’s patience snapped, his temper flaring as he rounded on Rubin. “I am not a child to be scolded. You forget yourself easily. I am lord of this House while my father is away. His Heir.” His voice was laced with authority. “I will conduct myself as I see fit.”
Rubin stepped closer, leaning his head in to murmur quieter lest someone should overhear. He chose his words carefully. “Perhaps, I must speak more plainly. Your father has entrusted me with more than just your safety; I am supposed to be guiding you in his absence. You must remember the weight of your responsibilities, not only of your own reputation but also of the reputation of your House. A lord must lead by example, and fathering a bastard could tarnish the honour of your family. Do not let it be stained by impulsive actions. I implore you, Henrik, to exercise caution and prudence in all your dealings.”
Henrik gritted his teeth. “I am well aware of my responsibilities, and rest assured, I am not so reckless as to father a bastard.”
Rubin pursed his lips, his eyes holding a silent accusation. “Very well, my lord. But I only offer a warning about the importance of discreteness. House Farman cannot be tarnished. Especially since. . .”
Henrik’s head snapped up. “Yes?” he said.
“Well, there is news from your father’s correspondence. He sent a raven yesterday.”
Henrik turned his attention to Rubin, his brow furrowing in curiosity. “What news?” he inquired, though a sense of foreboding gnawed at his gut. “Why didn’t he write to me about this?”
Rubin hesitated for a moment before delivering the news. “He’s very busy, my lord, as I’m sure you know. But your father has written of seeking a match for you,” he revealed, his words hanging heavy.
Henrik’s heart sank at the announcement, his chest tightening with a mixture of surprise and resignation. “A match?” he echoed, his voice barely above a whisper.
Rubin nodded solemnly. “It seems your father believes it is time for you to do your duty and take a wife, secure the future of House Farman.”
Henrik’s mind raced with a flurry of emotions; his thoughts scattered like leaves in the wind. “You — you can’t mean marriage?” He repeated, his voice laced with incredulity and simmering frustration. “Has my father truly decided this without consulting me?”
“He believes you to be old enough. He was betrothed at your age, so it’s high time for you to be too.” Rubin placed a reassuring hand on Henrik’s shoulder, his touch a rare gesture of comfort. “Your father only wishes to see House Farman prosper, Henrik. He believes a betrothal will strengthen our alliances and secure our legacy.”
Henrik chewed the inside of his cheek, though his thoughts churned with uncertainty and unease. The prospect of a betrothal cast a dark shadow over his thoughts. He knew the importance of securing alliances and ensuring the future of House Farman, but the suddenness of his father’s decision left him feeling unsettled. Henrik couldn’t shake the feeling of being trapped. His heart longed for freedom, for the ability to chart his own course. But now, with the spectre of a betrothal looming over him, those dreams felt increasingly out of reach.
Rubin’s words echoed in his mind. He knew he couldn’t ignore his duty to his family and his House, no matter how much he yearned for something else. Still, it didn’t stop his heart from clenching as if grasped by icy fingers, the chill spreading through his blood like a creeping frost.
Henrik nodded slowly. He always knew this day was coming but didn’t realise it was going to be so soon. He thought he’d have a little bit more time, perhaps to board a ship across the Narrow Sea before he settled down. “I understand,” he murmured, though doubt lingered in his heart.
“Good,” said Rubin with a satisfied nod. “You will have your pick, I’m sure of that. This will be a good opportunity, my lord. A new dawning.”
➶✶
The afternoon sun cast a warm glow through the windows of Sansa’s chambers as Henrik entered. Sansa stared at him as she opened the door, a look of surprise crossing her features. He was puzzled to find that there were no guards posted outside her door, no one to protect her. Then he remembered that all the Starks and their supporters had been slaughtered in the upheaval of Lord Stark’s treachery.
“Lord Henrik,” she greeted, her voice tinged with curiosity. “To what do I owe this unexpected visit? Come in, please.”
As Henrik’s gaze swept across the room, he couldn’t help but notice a handmaiden standing in the corner, her presence strikingly unfamiliar. There was something about her that seemed out of place amidst the surroundings of Sansa’s chambers. She looked like she’d come from elsewhere, a foreign woman with an air of mystery surrounding her. Henrik’s curiosity was piqued as he studied her, trying to discern clues about her origins. Lys maybe, or Lorath.
The strange thing was that the handmaiden didn’t shy away from his gaze; instead, she met it with a hard, piercing stare that sent a shiver down Henrik’s spine. There was a silent challenge in her eyes as if she dared him to take another step towards Sansa. Henrik raised an eyebrow, silently wondering who this woman was and why she was there. She seemed to carry herself with a sense of confidence and defiance that was rare among handmaidens.
Henrik cleared his throat and looked away, offering Sansa a warm smile, though there was a hint of determination in his eyes. “I, uh, hope I haven’t disturbed you, my lady,” he said. “And thank you for the suggestion for the present. Alys will appreciate it very much I should think.”
“Oh, you’re very welcome. I hope the market was to your liking.”
Henrik’s smile widened slightly, a playful glint in his eyes as he met Sansa’s gaze. “Indeed,” he said, his voice taking on a slightly teasing tone. “The market would have been even more enchanting with your company, Lady Sansa. I find that everything is brighter and more beautiful when you’re around.”
Sansa blinked, a shy smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “You flatter me, my lord,” she murmured politely, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Ah, but is it truly flattery when it’s merely stating the obvious?”
There was a beat of silence.
Henrik smiled softly, his heart racing with anticipation as he held out a small bouquet of wildflowers, their vibrant colours contrasting against the muted tones of the castle’s interior. “I brought these for you, Sansa,” he explained, his voice gentle. “A small gesture of kindness to brighten your day.”
Sansa’s eyes widened in surprise at the sight of the flowers, a soft gasp escaping her lips as she reached out to accept them. “Henrik, they’re. . . beautiful,” she breathed, her fingers brushing against the delicate petals with reverence. “Thank you.”
Henrik’s smile widened at her reaction, a sense of warmth spreading through him at Sansa’s genuine appreciation. “It is my pleasure,” he replied, his voice sincere. “I thought they might bring a bit of cheer to your chambers.”
“I’m very grateful, my lord.”
“I’ve also brought you a gift,” he said simply, holding out the package he shielded behind his back towards her.
Sansa’s eyes widened in shock, her hands instinctively moving to protest. “Oh, Henrik, you shouldn’t have,” she exclaimed, her voice turning high-pitched. “I can’t accept this. It’s too much.”
Henrik shook his head, his expression unwavering. “It’s no matter at all, Sansa,” he insisted gently. “Friends give each other gifts, and I wanted you to have this. Please, won’t you at least open it?”
Reluctantly, Sansa took the package from him, her fingers trembling slightly as she carefully unwrapped it. Inside, nestled within layers of delicate silk, was a small brooch adorned with sparkling gemstones.
“It’s. . . it’s beautiful,” Sansa breathed, her eyes wide with awe as she gazed down at the intricate craftsmanship. “But I can’t possibly. . . the flowers were already too much and—”
Before she could finish her protest, Henrik reached out and gently placed the brooch on a nearby table, a resolute look in his eyes. “Then at least let it be near you,” he said firmly. “A token of our friendship, let’s say, to remind you when I’m not here.”
“Thank you. I — your kindness means more to me than you know,” she said.
Their moment was interrupted by the sound of footsteps approaching, and Sansa instinctively tensed, her eyes darting towards the door. Henrik’s expression mirrored her concern, but he quickly composed himself, stepping back slightly to give her space. He hadn’t realised how close he’d been standing. He caught the handmaiden’s eye and quickly looked away, feeling his ears burning in self-consciousness as if he’d been caught doing something wrong.
As the door creaked open after a short knock, a servant entered the room, casting a wary glance at Henrik before addressing Sansa. “My lady, the Queen requests your presence in the throne room,” he announced briskly.
“Of course.” Sansa turned to Henrik. “Excuse me, my lord. I must leave you now.”
She dipped into a graceful curtsy, the folds of her dress cascading around her like a waterfall, as Henrik inclined his head in a deep, respectful bow. His eyes lingered on her as he pulled up. He turned around as she left her chamber, her maid following at a respectful distance before shooting Henrik a dark glare.
➶✶
When the raven finally alighted upon the windowsill of his chamber in the Keep, its dark plumage a stark contrast against the pale stone, Henrik’s heart quickened with anticipation. With a deft movement, he reached out, his fingers brushing against the glossy feathers as he retrieved the sealed parchment clutched in the bird’s talons.
The seal, adorned with the familiar emblem of the three ships, bore the weight of Henrik’s heritage. With a mixture of reverence and trepidation, Henrik broke the seal, feeling the satisfying resistance of the wax giving way beneath his touch.
Unfurling the parchment, Henrik’s gaze swept over the elegant script, the flickering candlelight casting shadows upon the inked words. The air in the chamber seemed to be still. The letters on the page swirled and blurred before his eyes, mocking his attempts to make sense of their arrangement. He had to read it several times to actually make sense of the words, pacing around the room until his head hurt. He traced each letter with his fingertip, mouthing the words silently to himself, half-wishing that Rubin was here for a brief moment so he could read it out loud for him.
Dear Henrik, my son,
I hope this letter finds you well, though I fear the news it carries may unsettle you. It is with a heavy heart that I must inform you of grave tidings. Intelligence has reached us of Stannis Baratheon’s intentions to launch an attack on the capital in the coming days. The winds whisper of war, and the storm gathers on the horizon.
In light of these perilous times, I implore you to heed my counsel and act swiftly. Your safety, and that of our family, is paramount. Therefore, I command you to make haste and return to Faircastle without delay. The capital will soon become a battleground, and it is not a place for you to linger.
I understand the weight of this directive, Henrik, but trust in my judgment. I have seen the tides of war before, and I know the devastation it brings. You must retreat to Faircastle, away from the thick of the fighting, and await further instructions.
Remember, my son, your duty lies not only in valour on the battlefield but also in the preservation of our lineage and legacy. May the Seven watch over you and guide your path in these troubled times.
Lord Sebaston Farman,
Lord of Faircastle
Notes:
Hope this chapter was okay and you enjoyed it. Let me know what you think, of course. 🙂
I'm also posting this before I go for birthday celebrations with my friends in Central London, so excited about that because I'm trying an escape room for the first time.
I'm also on Twitter and Tumblr under the same username if you wanna come and vibe there instead. I don't post much, but I haunt those sites like a ghost, I promise.
Anyway, hope you guys are well this evening/day. See you next time.
Chapter 10: Henrik VII
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
In the serene embrace of the Red Keep’s garden, under a canopy woven from the gentle shadows of overhanging willow branches, Henrik and Sansa found a bench overlooking the water fountain. Her handmaidens stood a few metres away, scattered yet attentive. Jarak, his shiny armour gleaming in the sunlight, was positioned nearby, clearly visible to Henrik. Despite the young lord’s command for him to keep his distance for a while, Jarak remained within sight, ever vigilant. The air, fragrant with spring blossoms, carried with it the distant laughter of courtiers and the soft hum of bees.
Sansa’s hands cradled an ancient tome. It’d been a lazy afternoon, and Henrik had coaxed Sansa into reading aloud, his eyes twinkling with delight not only for the tales but for the melodious timbre of her voice.
“I never took you for a reader, my lord,” remarked Sansa curiously.
Henrik shrugged, his expression contorted with a hint of resignation. “I’m not truly learned, not as the maesters would say,” he confessed, his voice tinged with frustration. “In the route of honesty, words on a page twist and turn before my eyes, giving me headaches that no potion can cure. I’ve always detested the endless hours among scrolls and tomes, the maesters and scribes my father insisted upon. No matter how diligently I tried, the letters eluded me, mocking my efforts, unlike my cousin Ronas, who devours books as a dragon feasts on sheep.”
He meant it to be a jest. Still, Henrik gazed into the shimmering rivulets of the fountain, his thoughts heavy. He felt like an imposter — a lord who struggled with reading, who’d have thought it? This particular shortcoming gnawed at him incessantly. Was it his eyesight? No, that couldn’t be it. Both his vision and intellect had been thoroughly assessed and deemed healthy. So why did the letters continue to elude him? If only he could navigate the written word as effortlessly as he wielded a sword.
He sighed bitterly. Though his father had never voiced it, Henrik sensed his disappointment. To have a lord father renowned for his eloquence and keen intellect, Henrik couldn’t shake the feeling of being a failure. Am I even worthy enough to be your son, Father? Is your distance and scorn a reflection of your disdain for my inability to inherit your talents? Am I not dear to you?
A soft hand gripped his palm, cutting him off from his thoughts, and he looked to the side. Sansa smiled, surprising him. He’d expected derision or judgment in her eyes but there was a lack of that present.
“Perhaps books are indeed like dragons, and not everyone is meant to tame them,” Sansa replied, a faint smile touching her lips as she idly turned the pages of her book with her other hand. Her voice carried wistfulness with a hint of forlornness. “I recall how my sister would fidget and sigh during our lessons with our septa. So, I can very much assure you that you’re not alone in your feelings, my lord.”
He blinked, staring into her eyes, which had glazed over with sorrow. Bringing up her sister probably brought bad memories. “Thank you. That’s a comfort to hear.” He chucked quietly. “Though I believe I am quite content with my chances on a training yard rather than a library — that seems a far less dizzying battlefield for me,” he grinned, hoping to erase some of the despair from her voice.
Sansa’s expression cleared. She giggled softly. “Yes, everyone has their path, and it is no less honourable to find your own way.”
Henrik hummed. “I suppose you’re right. But come, spin me a tale or two. I may not be much for reading myself, but there’s nought I enjoy more than hearing a good story. My sister Alys had a gift for it, she did.”
“I hope I can live up to that, though I may be at a disadvantage.” Sansa opened the book more fully, revealing a detailed illustration of a Targaryen prince mounted on a mighty dragon, flames curling from the beast’s mouth. “There weren’t many books in the Keep’s library but this is a history book. This is Prince Aemon the Dragonknight,” she began, her voice low as if sharing a secret. “One of the most valiant knights in the history of Westeros. He once fought through a hundred men to rescue his queen from a siege at Crakehall.”
Henrik leaned closer, drawn by both the story and how Sansa’s eyes glinted as she spoke. “I’ve heard of him,” he admitted. “Maester Orman mentioned him during our lessons.”
Henrik noticed a shadow flicker across Sansa’s face the further she recounted the tale. The lightness in her voice was practised, perhaps too finely tuned.
“As Prince Aemon defended the queen, he was not merely fighting enemies, but also battling the whispers of treason and treachery within his own ranks,” Sansa continued, her fingers lightly tracing the edges of the page. “It’s a beautiful story, full of bravery and noble deeds — the sort of tale that feels distant from the truth of courts and kings.”
Henrik leaned in, captivated not only by the tale but by the hint of disillusionment in her tone. “You sound as though you don’t believe such valour possible. Why is that?”
Sansa paused, her eyes meeting his — a glint of steel, not softened by her courteous mask, flickering. “In stories, knights fight for honour and glory. In King’s Landing, I have come to learn that knights fight for many reasons. . . few of them noble.”
Her honesty took Henrik by surprise, shattering the usual veil of formalities that defined their exchanges. “I see,” he murmured, his voice tinged with confusion.
He struggled to grasp why she had become disillusioned with the tales of old. After all, the capital was teeming with knights in gleaming armour and bustling with guards and maidens, just like the stories told. And the songs, those same tales of valour and heroism, were still sung and celebrated throughout the streets. So they must have truth to them.
“And yet,” he continued, his curiosity piqued, “you still find comfort in these stories?”
Sansa smiled faintly, more to herself than to him. “Occasionally, not always. They remind me of home. Of simpler times, when I believed heroes always prevailed, and villains always met their end. Now, I know the world is not so black and white.” She turned her head. “But, sitting here with you, my lord, I find it’s easier to pretend, even if just for a little while.”
“That’s. . .” Henrik started, then stopped, searching for the right words. “That’s both sad and beautiful, Sansa.”
“Much like life,” she replied softly, turning back to the book. She clears her throat. “Shall we continue? The next part tells of how Prince Aemon was sorely wounded yet refused to yield until the queen was safe.”
“Yes, let’s,” Henrik agreed, glad for the chance to linger in the fantasy a bit longer, to dwell in a world where heroes triumphed and adventure and honour mattered more than duty and responsibilities. “You tell it ever so well, much more than if I tried to read it myself.”
Her voice, soft and musical, washed over him like a gentle wave. As he leaned back, resting his head and closing his eyes, the fierce clashes of battle came alive in his mind’s eye — glorious and triumphant, the taste of victory palpable on his tongue. Time seemed irrelevant, possibly suspended in the mysterious hour of the wolf. When her melodious voice finally dwindled to a serene halt, he opened his eyes to find her looking at him, her gaze tinged with curiosity.
“Is that all, my lady? Do you have any more to weave?”
Sansa raised an eyebrow. “The book is almost over. Are you truly not satisfied?”
“Listening to your tales is almost better than besting a man in the dirt I’ve come to find,” he admitted. “You do have a gift.”
She narrowed her eyes as if trying to pierce him with her gaze. “You shouldn’t tease me so, my lord. It’s bad form.”
“I speak nothing but the truth.” He laughed, his chest warm. “Do you have any other songs? One you truly enjoyed?”
Sansa hesitated, her eyes flickering with uncertainty. She glanced around the garden, where her handmaidens stood at a respectful distance, and Jarak remained sharp-eyed nearby. The tranquil surroundings and Henrik’s sincere curiosity coaxed her into a sense of safety.
“There was another song I cherished, one my mother used to sing to me before I slept every day when I was a child,” she started hesitantly. When she saw that he didn’t rebuke her, she continued. “I don’t remember all of the details precisely but the song told of a noble lady of great, renowned beauty, fair as the moon and fierce as the winter storm. Lords and men would travel from all corners of the world just to catch a glimpse of her. She rode a white horse through the snows, her cloak billowing like the wings of a great bird.”
Sansa’s hands momentarily gripped the book tighter, her eyes distant but shining. “She was beloved by her people and guarded the North from any who dared threaten its peace. At night, they say, the stars themselves would pause in their journey to listen to her songs about love and honour.”
Henrik listened, enthralled not only by the imagery but by the evident affection Sansa held for this piece of her past. The way her voice softened, it was as though she transported not just herself but also him to those snow-covered fields under starlit skies. A shiver ran through him despite the golden rays soaking his skin.
“The lady in the song,” Sansa continued, “she was as brave as she was beautiful, feared by her enemies and adored by her allies. I would sing it every evening, hoping to embody even a shred of her courage and beauty one day.”
When she finished, a silence lingered, filled only by the distant sound of rustling leaves and the occasional chirp of a bird, a dove perhaps. Henrik finally spoke, his voice thoughtful.
“Do you believe in that, Sansa? That people can be as brave as the songs say?”
Sansa’s gaze drifted away, settling on the vibrant petals of a nearby rose. “Songs are just songs,” she said after a long pause, her tone resigned. “They elevate us to something we aren’t. We’re flesh and blood, not heroes of myth. We can only do our best, which seldom matches the deeds of those in the songs.”
Henrik watched her, seeing the burden of her experiences weighing on her young shoulders. “And yet, you read these stories with such feeling, as if part of you wants to believe in them.”
Sansa met his gaze, her eyes a mix of defiance and sadness. “Perhaps I do,” she confessed quietly. “But reality is often harsher, my lord, and expectations can lead to disappointment. One must guard their heart in places like these,” she gestured vaguely toward the direction of the castle.
Henrik pondered Sansa’s words. In the distance, the Red Keep loomed, a large fortress of power casting long shadows even in the bright afternoon sun.
“Sansa,” he began slowly, choosing his words with care, “I know well the burden of disappointment, of trying to live up to expectations set by others — and by oneself. The songs and stories, they do indeed elevate us, but they also remind us of what we strive to be. There is strength in believing, even if only a little, in the virtues these tales extol.” He shrugged, half-smiling as if sharing a secret. “Who knows, maybe it’s precisely because the world can be so dark that we need these songs and stories.”
Sansa considered this, an indiscernible glint appearing in her eyes as she looked back at the book, gliding her fingers along the torn edges. His stomach churned as weightier thoughts emerged in his mind in the pristine silence.
He cleared his throat, the sound sharp against the gentle whisper of the breeze. “Sansa,” he started, his voice hesitant, “My lady. I — there’s something of utmost importance I need to tell you.”
She looked up, her blue eyes wide and questioning. Her expression was open and unguarded, a rare glimpse into her thoughts that Henrik coveted. For a moment, he was as mute as a spy lurking in the alleys of Flea Bottom. He swallowed and sharply inhaled, attempting to find his courage.
“I’ve, uh, received word from my father. He. . . he has instructed me to return to Fair Isle immediately. There are matters he requires my presence for, ones that cannot wait.” The words felt heavy and clumsy in his mouth, like stones tumbling through the air.
Sansa’s face paled, the book in her lap momentarily forgotten. “Oh, so. . . you’re. . . leaving?” Her voice was a whisper, barely audible over the rustling leaves, laced with a vulnerability that Henrik had never heard before.
“Yes, I must. I have no choice,” Henrik admitted, his gaze dropping to the gravel path, unable to meet her stare.
He felt a twist in his stomach at the thought of leaving her in this gilded cage, surrounded by vipers poised to strike. The looming spectre of her cruel fate — to be bound in marriage to the King — mulled heavily on him. It was a union steeped not in affection but in political machination, that much was clear. It was a thought that stoked an unexpected, silent fury in Henrik’s heart, one uncharacteristic for him.
Perhaps it was the hulking shadow of his own impending betrothal, but Henrik found no comfort in the thought that the next time he saw Sansa, she might be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and he merely a lord. The prospect, which should have been a cause for celebration under different circumstances, now filled him with a sense of dread. Nausea rolled in his stomach as he thought about the golden-haired sons and daughters she’d have to bear King Joffrey. Perhaps it was good that he was leaving so he didn’t have to witness that odious sight.
But it wasn’t just the disparity in their stations that troubled him; it was the realisation that their future encounters would be overshadowed by their formal roles within the merciless theatre of royal court politics. As a queen (the eternal connection to Joffrey leaving a sour taste in his mouth) Sansa would be ensconced in layers of duty and decorum, perhaps more untouchable than ever before.
Sansa’s fingers tightened around the book, her knuckles whitening. She looked down, her long lashes casting shadows over her cheeks, and when she spoke again, her voice was so soft Henrik had to lean closer to catch the words. “Please, don’t go. I — you’re my only friend.”
Her plea, silent and nearly inaudible, struck Henrik like a blow. He had seen her composed, resilient, even defiant, but never this raw, this desperate. It was as if she had peeled back a layer of her carefully constructed armour, revealing the fear beneath.
“I—”
Words failed him. How could he leave her to face that alone? How could he sail away to the safety of his home, knowing she remained ensnared in the web of the capital’s merciless claws? Going home felt more like a curse than a respite all of a sudden.
Yet, the harsh reality remained — he had no power here. His influence was limited to the boundaries of his own lands, far from King’s Landing. His presence by her side could offer little but fleeting comfort, and perhaps even draw dangerous attention her way.
With a heavy heart, Henrik acknowledged the brutal truth he’d been avoiding: his staying would serve no purpose but to satisfy his own desire to protect her, a selfish wish that could potentially bring her more harm. Rumours would spark, one detrimental to their reputations. His departure was not just an obligation but a necessity, for both their sakes.
“I have to, Sansa,” Henrik said softly, his voice thick with regret. “I wish. . .” He trailed off, unsure of what he wished for anymore. Could he wish for her safety and happiness when he was leaving her in this place? It seemed hollow and a vain bid.
Sansa closed her book with a soft thud, a signal that the conversation — and perhaps their moment of shared vulnerability — was over. His heart sank, and he desperately wanted to grab her hand and tug her back gently towards him. His fists stood clenched to his sides.
She stood, her movements graceful and composed, the mask of the King’s betrothed firmly back in place. The handmaidens caught sight of her movements and approached her closely. Jarak threw him a questioning gaze.
“Thank you for telling me, my lord. I hope your journey is safe,” she said, her tone so formal now, every inch the noble lady, that Henrik wondered if he imagined the shared moment.
He watched her walk away, her figure retreating into the maze of flowering shrubs and winding paths. He remained seated, the weight of her unspoken plea anchoring him to the bench though he had an urge to dunk his head into the water fountain and drown his sorrows. He knew he would carry the memory of her sapphire eyes, wide and imploring, with him across the sea to Fair Isle.
➶✶
The evening air was thick with the scent of impending rain, a weighty, damp promise that lingered just beyond the high windows of Henrik’s chambers. Inside, the room was lit by the soft glow of a dozen candles, casting long shadows against the stone walls. Henrik, sprawled on a large, cushioned chair, watched Rubin pace slowly before the hearth where a modest fire crackled and spat. He’d been bored out of his mind and not even a game of cyvasse would entertain him. He wanted to swing his sword and throw his fists, but instead, he was stuck inside like an old crone. And very soon he’d be stuck inside another Keep altogether — a fact that Rubin wouldn’t stop harping again.
Rubin shook his head. “You know, moping around won’t change the outcome. Nor will jesting when your future is laid out before you.”
Henrik scoffed, crossing his arms like a petulant boy of four years. “And your pacing is going to magically rewrite my future? Perhaps if you walk enough circles, I’ll wake up somewhere more interesting?”
“This is no time to jest Henrik. It’s not just any keep. It’s Faircastle. It’s your future, your people. A lord must—”
Henrik interrupted, rolling his eyes. His mind still lingered on Sansa’s scared expression, so forgive him if his answers were a little short and clipped. “Rubin, if I had a coin for every time you said ‘a lord must,’ I’d out-rich the Iron Bank. Can’t a man dream of being just a man, if only for a night?”
Rubin sighed. “Dreaming is fine, so long as you wake up. You have a duty, Henrik, not just to your title but to those who will depend on you.”
“Ah yes, duty. My favourite bedtime story. Tell me, Rubin, does my duty include listening to you prattle on until I’m old and grey? Because if so, I’m excelling marvellously.” Henrik smiled without humour, tilting his head slightly.
Rubin stopped pacing and fixed Henrik with a stern gaze. “If prattling on is what it takes to get you to see reason, then I’ll gladly do it.” He shook his head, exasperated. “I don’t understand why you’re so against going back to Faircastle. It’s your home.”
Henrik sighed deeply, feeling the weight of Rubin’s words press down on him. He shifted in his chair, his eyes flickering to the window where the clouds hung low and heavy.
“Home,” he murmured, almost to himself.
Rubin sighed loudly. The older man, normally a pillar of stoic, unyielding strength, seemed to carry a different sort of burden tonight. The lines on his face, usually hidden beneath his helmet or the shadows of his hood, appeared more pronounced, carved deep by worry. He stopped pacing and stared at the rain-battered window.
“You know,” Rubin began, his voice softer, tinged with something like nostalgia, “Flea Bottom wasn’t kind to a child. It’s still the same shit-stained dump it is today. The stones are as hard as the lives living upon them.” He paused by the fire, hands clasped behind his back, staring into the flames. “It was there I learned to fight, not just with swords, but with wits and will.”
Henrik listened, his posture relaxed, but his eyes keen on Rubin’s face, seeing him in a new light. This was not the unapproachable guardian who had trained him since childhood but a man shaped by a world harsher than he could imagine.
“I remember my first battle,” Rubin continued, his gaze distant as if he could see through the walls of the castle to some blood-soaked field long ago. “It was chaos. . . men screaming, the clash of steel. I was terrified. But there was also clarity, knowing each move could be your last. You learn quickly what you’re made of.”
Henrik shifted, absorbing every word. “And what did you learn you were made of?” he asked quietly, genuinely curious about the man who had been his shadow, his protector, all these years.
Rubin chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that seemed to surprise even him. “Fear, at first. Then. . . something else. Something firmer. I had to be, to survive, to protect those who couldn’t protect themselves.” His eyes met Henrik’s, a flash of something fierce within them. “It hardened me, but it taught me the value of life, too. The value of duty, of purpose.”
The young lord nodded. “And now, you watch over me,” he remarked, half in jest, half in annoyance.
“Yes,” Rubin admitted, his expression softening. “And I find it’s a heavier burden than any armour or weapon I’ve ever carried. I know you believe we are being harsh on you and you want to earn your glory and honour in the battle, but I’ve seen too much bloodshed, too much loss. . . I won’t have you become part of it.”
Henrik’s eyebrows rose. “I won’t be a boy forever, Rubin. There will come a time when I’ll need to stand on my own, fight my own battles. Why not now?”
Rubin’s gaze lingered on the young lord. “Would if you could, Henrik,” he murmured. “Would if you could.” He peered up. “As long as I can protect you, I will,” Rubin said finally, the lines of his face settling into resolve as unshakable as the iron of his blade. “But the decision to leave the castle, it’s the right one. The carnage that will follow this battle. . . it’s no place for you.”
Henrik recognised the wisdom in Rubin’s words, and part of him — the part that still clung to the tales of knights and honour and glory and adventure — rebelled against it. But he saw the truth in Rubin’s eyes, the unspoken fears that had shaped the man before him. For this time he will accept his duty.
“I understand,” Henrik conceded, his voice low. “I will do as my lord father commands.”
Rubin exhaled as if a large weight had been lifted off him. “Very well then, we set forth our preparations within the fortnight. On the morrow, I shall instruct the servants to commence the packing of your belongings.” Rubin paused, his gaze shifting slightly as he considered his next words. “Now, as for the king, it’s imperative he hears of your departure, lest His Grace perceive it as a slight against his authority.” He leaned in closer, his voice lowering to ensure privacy despite being behind closed doors. “Mayhaps it would be wise to temper the truth of your reasons somewhat, my lord. It’s not falsehoods we’re spinning, merely. . . crafting the fullness of our honesty for royal ears.”
Ah, more court politics, thought Henrik tiredly. Wonderful. “Yes, I suppose we must.”
A throbbing headache emerged, its arrival akin to a sudden thunderclap in Henrik’s mind, shaking him to his core with the stark realisation of what lay ahead. He walked over to his desk and stared blankly at the pile of parchment and ink before him, the tools that seemed more formidable than any sword he’d faced.
Rubin, watching closely from across the room, sensed Henrik’s hesitation. “What if we dictated the letter together?” he suggested, stepping closer. “You tell me what you want to say, and I’ll write it down for you, my lord. It’ll still be your words, your command.”
Henrik nodded, relief washing over him as he began to speak, his voice gaining confidence with each word. “Tell the Hand of the King that the security of the Westerlands’ coast is under threat. As the heir to Faircastle, I must return to oversee the fortification of our defences against potential raids.”
Rubin scribbled the words down, his handwriting steady and sure. “What else?”
Henrik continued, his thoughts now flowing more freely. “Make it clear that my duty to my people is paramount, and though my heart remains with the crown, my presence is urgently needed at home.”
“Good,” Rubin nodded, continuing to write. “Anything about your loyalty to the king?”
“Yes, add that my return to Faircastle is in the best interest of the realm, ensuring that the western shores remain a bulwark against our enemies including Robb Stark. That should satisfy him. Assure them of my unwavering support for the crown’s endeavours.”
Rubin completed the letter with precision. “There,” he said, showing Henrik the final draft. “Shall I read it back to you?”
“Please,” Henrik replied, listening intently as Rubin read. Satisfied, Henrik stood, coming to lean over the desk to examine the sealed letter. “Thank you, Rubin. This will work.”
“I’ll leave it on your desk, my lord, so you can see it safely delivered to the Hand first thing tomorrow,” Rubin promised. “Is there anything else you need?”
Henrik shook his head, a weight visibly lifted from his shoulders. “Just that. You’ve done more than enough, Rubin. Thank you. You may go now.”
As Rubin shut the door of the dimly lit chambers, Henrik moved to stand by the window again, watching the relentless storm, thinking once again if leaving was truly the right decision.
➶✶
The clang of metal echoed through the training yard of the Red Keep as Henrik and Ras crossed swords under the grey morning sky. The air was sharp with the tang of fresh sweat and the metallic scent of oiled steel. Henrik’s breaths came hard and fast, each exhale visible in the cool air, his focus entirely on the rhythm of the duel.
“Nicely done,” Ras grunted, stepping back to wipe his brow with the back of his hand. His eyes, always watchful, narrowed slightly as he watched Henrik lower his sword. “But tell me, how are you feeling about the battle?”
Henrik paused, his sword tip dipping slightly in surprise. “Battle? What battle?” His brow furrowed, a line of confusion creasing his forehead as he straightened, eyes locking on Ras’s knowing look.
Ras shrugged, an almost imperceptible lift of his shoulders as he glanced around the yard. The usual lazy atmosphere of their morning practices was absent, replaced by a tense energy that vibrated through the air like the hum of a drawn bowstring.
“Haven’t you noticed? The castle’s on edge. Drills have been more rigorous than usual, for us at least,” he said, gesturing towards the far end of the yard where a group of Gold Cloaks was assembling in tight formation. Henrik’s gaze followed Ras’s gesture, noting the unusually stern expressions on the faces of the city watch. “And the beggars in the streets have been talking — war’s not just whispers anymore, it’s knocking on our doorsteps.”
“Could just be the usual routine.”
“Not likely in my opinion. Because I saw the Imp, the Hand I mean, looking worried, so that has to mean something,” Ras continued, his voice lowering. “The King, though, he doesn’t seem to care one bit.”
“The King rarely does,” Henrik muttered, his tone edged with disdain.
Ras let out a short, humourless laugh, then shrugged again. “Well, if it’s here then we’re all fucked. Best thing to do is to treat it like I’m clearing out the riff-raff from the city. Give me a jug of ale and a warm body to lie with, and I can die a happy man.”
Henrik shook his head. “That’s an awfully bleak way to think about dying, Ras.”
“It’s merely the truth. Tell me, little lord, how would you choose to die if given the choice?” Ras paused, dropping his sword to his side with an expectant look.
Henrik’s eyes narrowed as he considered Ras’s question, the grey sky seeming to press down around them, squeezing the colour from the training yard. He weighed the sword in his hand, the edge glinting sharply.
“I’d prefer not to think about dying just yet,” Henrik said finally, his voice carrying a hint of youthful defiance mixed with a touch of melancholy. “But if I had to choose, I’d want it to be something out of the old stories. Dying in a blaze of glory, maybe on some grand battlefield, saving the realm or. . . something equally heroic.”
Ras scoffed, but there was a spark of amusement in his eyes as he sneered, “You nobles and your grand illusions. Always thinking you’ll be the hero of some bard’s tale. It’s never as pretty as the songs make it out to be, Henrik.”
Henrik shot him a challenging look, his youthful idealism clashing with Ras’s seasoned cynicism. “Maybe not, but it’s better to strive for something greater, isn’t it? Better than just resigning yourself to the muck and ale of Flea Bottom.”
Ras chuckled, a wry grin playing on his lips. “Ah, but muck and ale have their charm, my friend.”
“Be serious, Ras.”
Ras instead gave Henrik a playful shove with his shoulder, the clank of their armour echoing softly in the yard. “I am serious. Maybe one day you’ll get your chance to be the hero. Just don’t be too disappointed if it doesn’t come with a chorus of minstrels singing your praises.”
Turning his gaze back to the training yard, where the clatter of swords continued unabated, Henrik felt the stirrings of a determination that went beyond the confines of the Red Keep. “Then what about you? If you don’t believe in the songs or honour, then what are you fighting for? Just ale and company? Is that it?”
Ras paused, the humour fading from his expression. He looked out across the yard, his gaze lingering on the younger guardsmen pushing each other in their drills. For a moment, Ras’s rugged face softened, and his eyes drifted away, lost to a reflective shadow. “I never knew my mother,” he said uncharacteristically quietly, almost to himself. “For all I know, she could have been a common whore. So, I had to accept the life the gods dealt me.” His gaze returned to Henrik, sharp and clear. “We don’t all get to choose our battles, nor how we leave this world. A quiet, unassuming death is all we can pray to the Gods for — wherever the fuck they may be.”
Henrik felt a pang of sympathy mixed with a sombre realisation of the different worlds they both came from. He clapped Ras on the shoulder, a firm, supportive gesture, respecting the honesty. “There’s something in that, too, I suppose. Even if it’s not sung about in the great halls,” he said.
Ras nodded, a grim smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Ah, that’d be the day — a little lord calling me honourable.” He raised his sword, the earlier heaviness lifting slightly. “Come on then, let’s get back to it. If war is coming, I’d rather not be rusty when it arrives.”
As they resumed their positions, the clashing of their swords resumed. With a sudden burst of speed, Henrik lunged forward, his blade darting towards Ras with a series of quick feints. Ras, seasoned but momentarily off-guard, parried too slowly. Seizing the opening, Henrik executed a precise, controlled thrust that tapped gently against Ras’s chest, marking the victory point. He then stepped back and sheathed his sword with a soft clink. Ras eyed him curiously.
Henrik swallowed. “I am going back to Fair Isle, and I thought that you should know.”
There was a long silence. Ras frowned and considered Henrik critically. “Fair Isle? Why are you going back there?”
“I — my father has commanded me. I have no choice in the matter.”
Ras’s frown deepened, and he sheathed his sword with a resounding clank. “That’s quite the journey. Your father’s bidding, then?”
“Well, yes, I believe so.”
“Hmm.”
“What is it?”
“Nothin’.”
“I just wanted to say goodbye in case our paths don’t cross again.”
“Goodbye then, Henrik,” Ras muttered curtly, his tone betraying a hint of irritation. “Seems like your noble blood binds you tighter than any chain. Off you go then, back to your cushy life while the rest of us deal with whatever mess comes our way.”
Henrik blinked, taken aback. His face flushed as he glared at Ras. “It’s not like that!” he snapped, his hands balling into fists at his sides. “My father’s instructions are clear, and Lord Farman has forbidden me from taking part in the battle. I must obey him.”
Ras’s annoyance simmered as he continued, his words sharp and biting. “I hear ya. But just remember, when you’re sipping wine in your father’s halls, there are those of us here who’ll still be swinging swords and shedding blood for whatever cause comes next.”
Henrik’s chest tightened and his jaw clenched. “Look, I—”
“Answer me this. Are you a lord or not?” Ras challenged, stepping closer, his expression blunt and unforgiving.
Henrik recoiled slightly, winded by the verbal blow. “Not yet,” he muttered.
His thoughts raced, turmoil bubbling within him. He couldn’t help wondering. What would happen if he stayed and went against his father’s wishes? Lord Farman was a forgiving man, yes, and it was always easier to ask for forgiveness than permission. But the memory of his father’s look of unbearable disappointment held him back, anchoring his feet to the ground.
Ras sighed. “Look, you’re a lord, Henrik, or well, you will be soon, as you say. Makes no fucking difference to me. I can’t tell you to stay or go but sometimes, you have to make choices that no one else will like. A man has to make his own decisions. Us common folk learn that at age five.”
“But how do I know if I’m making the right choice?” Henrik’s voice was tinged with desperation.
“You don’t,” Ras said bluntly. “You make the best decision you can with the information you have. And you live with the consequences, come what may.”
Henrik took a deep breath, absorbing Ras’s words. He glanced around the training yard, taking in the faces of the men who depended on their leaders to make those tough calls. Disappointing Lord Farman was a task he loathed but he’d become a natural at it at this point in his life. He let out a tiny, bitter laugh. What was one more added? Was he truly willing to leave the capital and miss the battle defending the Keep against Stannis’ forces, his first real chance at proving himself to be more than the reckless and thoughtless boy everyone thinks him to be?
➶✶
Henrik sat mounted on his horse and grabbed the reins loosely. Jarak was on his right and Rubin to his left. The sea breeze tousled his hair as he watched Princess Myrcella, resplendent in her travel attire, ascend the gangway of the ship that would carry her to Dorne. The scene was one of parting sorrow and well-wishes, yet Henrik’s attention was elsewhere.
Ahead, King Joffrey sat astride a magnificent palfrey, the morning light glinting off his golden crown while the Kingsguard flanked him. Beside him, Sansa rode a gentle mare, her face a mask of composed grace. It pained Henrik to see her tethered to him.
The narrow streets were lined by men of the City Watch, holding back the crowd with the shafts of their spears. He wondered if Ras was part of that retinue. He exchanged glances with some of the common folk. They look positively feverish and starved, he thought. Their faces were unwashed and glazed with resentment as they watched the riders. Henrik shifted uncomfortably in his saddle, a knot of discomfort emerging in his chest. Jarak lingered close as he noticed the faces. They won’t hurt me, Henrik wanted to say. How can they? The thought was laughable at best. Most of them are unskilled labourers and common people who have never held a sword before.
They set off, traversing Fishmonger’s Square, and proceeded along Muddy Way before turning onto the narrow, twisting Hook to begin their climb up Aegon’s High Hill.
Jarak, who had been watching the crowd with a wary eye, murmured, his voice just above a whisper, “The people seem restless today, more than usual. It’s as if they could break at the slightest provocation.”
Rubin nodded, his gaze sweeping over the thin, hungry faces of the crowd with faint disgust. “Tensions are high, and food is low; it’s a dangerous mix. We should be moving quicker.”
Henrik glanced at Jarak, noticing his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, a reflex against potential unrest. “They need hope more than fear,” Henrik stated, his voice firm yet low. “And food. See if you can throw them some coins.”
Before anyone could reply a shout from a woman came from the crowd: “Whore!” she shrieked. Her face was twisted with loathing as she stared at the Queen Regent. “Kingslayer’s whore! Brotherfucker! Brotherfucker, brotherfucker, brotherfucker.”
Henrik’s eyes widened in horror, not at her words but because the child in her arms suddenly went limp, falling like a sack of flour, lifeless as a straw dummy used for sword practice, as the woman let her arms fall wide. Rubin, his face pale, whispered a fervent prayer and traced the Seven-Pointed Star across his chest. At a subtle gesture from Jarak, several Household guards closed in around Henrik, their movements tense and alert.
A scream cut through, this time from the King, who looked practically rageful as he was splattered with dung all over his face. Henrik barely had time to soak in the glorious sight because his attention was captured by a fearful and wide-eyed Sansa. He wanted to move closer to her but he was blocked on all areas. He gnashed his teeth together and wished those in front to move quicker.
A resounding tempest of rage, fear, and hatred enveloped them from all sides, echoing through the air like a storm unleashed. “We want bread, bastard!” A thousand voices took up the chant. “Bread,” they clamoured. “Bread, bread!”
Rubin’s face was like thunder, hardened and like stone. “We need to go,” he instructed Jarak. “Get him to the castle, to safety now!”
As the chants for bread swelled into a roar, Henrik felt the undercurrent of desperation in the air tighten like a noose. The sea of faces before him, no longer just a blur of suffering, surged with life — each wrinkle a story of hunger, each scowl a tale of anger unaddressed. They moved as one, a wave crashing against the shore of the royal procession. The crowd was a writhing entity, their faces blurred yet haunting in their despair. He felt a pang in his chest — an ache for the city that felt as sharp as a blade.
Jarak’s eyes narrowed, scanning the crowd with the precision of a hawk. His hand never left the hilt of his sword, his stance coiled and ready. “We must make haste, Henrik. This is no place for parleys or pity.”
Beside him, Rubin’s features set into a grim mask, his lips barely moving as he muttered his orders to the guards. At that moment, a rock sailed through the air, narrowly missing Henrik’s head and crashing against the cobblestones with a sharp thud. His heart skipped, adrenaline coursing through his veins, as the reality of the threat bore down on him. Jarak reacted instinctively, pushing Henrik forward, their horses’ hooves clattering against the stone in a hurried rhythm.
“Keep your head down, and ride!” Jarak barked, his voice barely audible over the cacophony. He and Rubin formed a tighter circle around them, their armour clinking, a moving fortress.
The crowd pressed on like a line of advancing soldiers, crashing against them. Henrik was shoved from side to side, barely maintaining his seat atop his horse. The commotion intensified as Jarak, reacting to a sudden movement, drove his blade through a man who lunged towards them with the intent of. . . something. The man’s life ebbed away on the ground, barely registering Henrik’s shocked gaze.
“He wasn’t armed!” Henrik snarled over the chorus of voices and shouts. “You didn’t need to kill him. Can’t you see — these people are crying for help!”
“He did have to die if you wanted to live. We can argue about this later, now, stop gawking, lad, and start moving,” snapped Rubin, moving in circles close to him, his sword drawn and glimmering with scarlet.
Anger licked at his insides at being spoken to in such a way from someone beneath him but as they pushed through the throng, Henrik felt each jostle and shove like an accusation and the rebuke that sat on his tongue faded. The stones beneath them were slippery with refuse, the alleys echoing with cries for sustenance and justice. He glanced over his shoulder, catching a glimpse of a young boy’s face, hollow-cheeked and wide-eyed, reaching out; a woman in the crowd, her hair wild around her shoulders, screamed herself hoarse from shouting, and a tear streaked down her dirt-smudged cheek, cutting a clear path in the grime.
“Focus, Henrik! Eyes front!” Rubin shouted, his voice a sharp command over the din.
Henrik’s focus snapped to a more pressing concern. There was an empty space beside the King. Sansa’s gentle mare was riderless, the reins dangling loosely from its neck. Panic clawed at his chest.
“Sansa!” he called out, his voice lost in the cacophony of cries and curses. He twisted in his saddle, eyes darting frantically. She was nowhere in sight. A cold dread settled over him. “She’s gone!” he shouted, louder this time, hoping his voice would carry over the roar of the crowd and alert some attention. “Find her! You go and look for her right this second!” he barked at his guards, his voice cracking under the strain.
Jarak looked pained as he looked over but his face was resolute. “We are sworn to protect you, my lord.”
“And as your future lord I am commanding you to go out there and look for her!” spat Henrik, clenching the reins of his horse tighter as it buckled and neighed under his strain.
Rubin, his face a mask of fury and concern, grabbed Henrik’s arm. “This is madness! We must return to the castle!”
“No! I’m not going anywhere! She’s not here, don’t you understand?” His voice came out in a hiss.
Rubin, grim-faced and irate, grabbed Henrik’s arm, ignoring him. “Enough of this childish argument! We need to leave, now!” His voice was a low growl, barely audible over the chaos.
They weren’t listening to him at all. Why the fuck weren’t they listening? He would have to do things himself it seemed. Ignoring Rubin, Henrik shoved him away and dismounted before he could think, his boots hitting the ground with determination. He heard Jarak and Rubin’s panicked yell but they were swallowed by the crowd. He had no time for regrets. Time was of the essence. He shoved his way through the mass of bodies, desperation fueling his movements. He drew a dagger from his belt, the blade glinting ominously. It’d be quicker and more efficient than a sword at this moment as it gave him more space.
A shout drew his attention to the front. King Joffrey, his golden crown askew, sneered down from his horse, clearly uninterested in the plight of his subjects or the missing Sansa. The golden silhouette of the King’s head disappeared into the distance, the Kingsguard in close formation around him, their armour catching the glints of the fading sun. They moved with relentless urgency towards the Keep’s promised safety. Amidst this ordered retreat, the stark absence of Sansa was painfully evident.
Rage boiled over in Henrik. How could the King just leave like that? Where the fuck was Sansa? Without thinking, he pushed forward, his dagger finding its mark in a bystander who blocked his path. Blood spurted, staining his hands and clothes. His eyes wild with fury, Henrik plunged deeper into the crowd. Another obstacle, another desperate assailant met the same fate as the first, Henrik’s blade slicing through the air with lethal precision. The rhythmic pounding of his heart echoed the screams that reverberated around him. Any hand that dared clutch at his cloak or doublet was swiftly met by the deadly kiss of his blade. He’d never been a religious person but he found himself praying to the old and new gods as a plea.
Covered in blood and his face smeared with dirt and gore, Henrik resembled less a noble knight or a perfumed couturier than a man possessed — more beast than man. The stench of blood and iron mingled with the acrid tang of fear, smothering Henrik as he cleaved a path through the sea of despairing faces. His breaths came in ragged gasps, the raw chill of the air scalding his lungs as if he were inhaling shards of glass.
Please, please, please.
Suddenly — a streak of red, a flash of a pale face marked with terror. Sansa. He couldn’t breathe. She was pressed against a wall, her blue eyes wide with fear, her gown torn. Her appearance, so stark against the chaos around her, seemed to draw him with the force of a beacon. Henrik’s focus narrowed, all else fading into a blur. He pushed forward, the crowd’s resistance seeming to lessen as his determination grew.
He reached her side, his breath catching as he saw the stark terror in her eyes. “Sansa!” he called out, his voice hoarse. She looked at him, recognition flashing through her fear.
Before he could reach out to her, a large figure stepped between them. The Hound, his face a twisted mask of scars, his eyes mocking. Henrik’s hand instinctively went to his sword, drawing it with a swift, ringing sound that sliced through the noise around them. The crowd steered clear at the sight of the blade.
His scarred face twisted into a sneer. “What’s this, little lordling? Come to rescue your fair maiden?” The Hound’s voice was rough, gravelly, carrying over the tumult like a jagged edge. His stance was relaxed, almost lazy as if he were toying with Henrik.
Henrik felt a surge of adrenaline coursing through him, his grip tightening on his sword. He ignored the mocking tone, his gaze fixed on Sansa, his only concern for her safety.
“You think you can protect her?” The Hound’s laugh was a low, menacing rumble. “You’re out of your depth, boy.”
Henrik’s jaw clenched, anger flaring hot and fierce within him. “Step aside,” he growled, the tip of his sword steady despite the chaos around them. His stance was firm, the weight of his anger grounding him. He saw Sansa’s hand reach out slightly, her fingers trembling.
The Hound snorted, his gaze shifting briefly to Sansa before settling back on Henrik with a dismissive scorn. “And what will you do, little lord? Kill me?” His challenge hung in the air, heavy and taunting.
Henrik’s grip on his sword tightened, his knuckles whitening. He stepped closer, the point of his sword inching toward The Hound. “If I must,” he said, each word punctuated with the seriousness of his intent.
Sansa’s voice broke through the tension. “Please,” she whispered, her voice shaky. Henrik’s gaze flicked to her, her distress a sharp sting that bolstered his courage.
The Hound studied Henrik for a moment longer, his eyes narrowing. Then, with a grunt, he stepped aside. “We need to get her to safety quickly,” he said gruffly, turning to blend back into the crowd. “These cunts are still braying for blood, they don’t care whose.”
“On that we both agree.”
Henrik sheathed his sword quickly, reaching for Sansa’s hand. Her fingers clung to his, cold and desperate. “It’s going to be alright,” he assured her, though his voice was thick with the dust and emotion of the riot.
Leading her through the thinning crowd, Henrik kept his body angled protectively around hers. His heart still raced, but now with a different urgency. He left his horse in the middle of the street and grimaced as he thought about how angry Rubin was going to be.
Henrik’s relief at finding Sansa was short-lived. As they neared a clearing, Rubin’s silhouette emerged from the shadows along with Jarak. Their eyes found Henrik’s, sharp and assessing. The moment was tense, charged with unspoken questions about rash decisions made in the heat of the riot.
“Henrik!” Rubin’s voice was a sharp crack in the relative quiet, his tone layered with relief and reproach. His gaze blazed with an intensity that promised a reckoning and then shifted subtly towards Jarak, signalling something unsaid but understood.
The Hound, with a gruff efficiency, had already lifted Sansa back onto her horse. She met Henrik’s eyes, and he gave her a reassuring nod, though he knew he must look a damn sight with dried blood caked to his skin. He turned his head around.
As Henrik opened his mouth to respond, the world blurred — a sharp pain at the side of his head where Jarak’s sword hilt met his temple with downright precision. Darkness edged his vision, a creeping blackness that swallowed his sight and senses. He heard the Hound curse, a distant sound as if underwater, and felt himself falling, the ground rushing up to meet him.
When consciousness returned to him, it was to the rocking motion of a horse. His head throbbed painfully, a dull, persistent ache that matched the rhythm of the horse’s gait. Henrik blinked against the discomfort.
Rubin’s face came into focus above him, the older man’s expression a mix of relief and exasperation. “Fool boy,” he muttered, but the anger had softened, replaced by a weary resignation.
“Where’s Sansa?” Henrik’s voice was hoarse, his throat dry.
“What is your obsession with the Stark girl I will never understand,” grumbled Rubin. He sighed and then said, “Safe.” He nodded toward the front where the Hound rode, Sansa’s figure visible beside him, her posture stiff but secure on her horse. “Jarak thought it best to knock some sense into you, slow you down before you got yourself killed.”
Henrik, despite the throbbing in his head, managed a wry grin and murmured, “Instruct Jarak to next time just send a raven,” then his eyes fluttered shut as he succumbed to the darkness again.
➶✶
Henrik’s limbs ached as he washed the blood from his body. The warm water sluiced away the grime and gore, but it did little to cleanse the stain in his heart nor the tempest roiling within his mind.
Freshly clothed in simple, clean linens, he felt a hollow echo of peace that he knew wouldn’t last. The weight of the day’s revolt, the screams of the common folk, and the haunting image of Sansa, pale and frightened, swirled through his thoughts like a dark storm, urging him toward the godswood for solace. It was the only place that he felt he could bear right now.
As he approached the heart of the godswood, the sight of the ancient weirwood tree with its weeping face seemed to draw him closer with an invisible pull. Its stark white bark and red sap tears stood sentinel in the quiet twilight. Henrik felt his knees buckle, not with physical weariness but from the overwhelming burden of his responsibilities and fears. He sank to the ground before the eerie visage, his head bowed, seeking answers or perhaps forgiveness.
A sob escaped his lips, cutting into the sharp air.
He still felt the dry residue of blood clinging stubbornly to his skin, an unwelcome reminder of the irreversible path he had chosen. Despite his frantic attempts to cleanse himself, the stain persisted, an indelible mark etched not just upon his flesh, but upon his very soul. Would he ever stop seeing the faces, feverish and starving? Was this the price of his sin? The price of taking lives.
The sounds of the castle and the city beyond faded into a hushed whisper, and his eyelids grew heavy with a sudden, mystical fatigue. The last thing he saw before his vision blurred into sleep was the solemn, bleeding face of the weirwood, watching him with age-old sorrow.
Henrik stood in a vast hall shrouded in shadows and whispers. The atmosphere was charged with an ancient tension, palpable and thick. Torches flickered along the walls, their light casting long, sinuous shadows that danced like spectres on the stone floor. At the end of this spectral hall, a great throne rose majestically — not wrought of twisted iron but of roots and branches that wove together to form a seat of primal power. His brows furrowed. This was not the Iron Throne, of that much he was aware of.
An old woman, her back as crooked as the limbs of the tree, beckoned him closer. Her finger, gnarled and twisted as the roots of the throne, seemed to pull at the very fibres of his soul. Henrik, his heart pounding with a mix of dread and awe, moved toward her, his limbs moving not of his own accord. He felt like he knew this woman, like an old distant relative maybe. Her eyes, deep and fathomless as the ocean, fixed on him as she whispered with the rustling sound of waves crashing against a rocky shore, “The North remembers, young lord, but so should the son of the sea.”
Compelled by a force he couldn’t understand, Henrik approached the throne cautiously. As his fingers brushed against the intertwined roots, the hall seemed to dissolve into a vision of tumultuous seas. He was on the deck of a ship, its sails battered yet resilient crested the storm-tossed waves. The scene was a chaotic symphony of thunderous skies and surging ocean.
The vision changed yet again, and Henrik found himself walking across sands that turned from golden to blood-red with each step he took. The sands whispered of battles fought and yet to come, of blood spilt in the name of honour and conquest.
Suddenly, flames erupted around a distant, shadowy figure obscured by smoke and the red glow of fire. A dragon, its scales a mirror of the night sky, soared overhead with a deafening roar. From the inferno, a woman with hair of pale silver strode towards him, her features obscured by the intensity of the flames enveloping her.
As the vision shifted once more, Henrik reached for a crown that appeared before him, wrought of thorns that transformed into laurels upon his touch. He lifted his gaze to see the maiden with flame-coloured hair, her head crowned with snow, stepping forward from the realm of shadows. She offered him a branch of weirwood, its leaves rustling with a promise of untold secrets.
Henrik awoke with a start, his breath ragged and chest heaving.
Notes:
Hello! This is probably my favourite chapter I've written so far. Hope this didn't suck, but let me know of course.
Anyway, posting this before work tomorrow but it's half-term for us here in the UK so some silver lining at least. Praying that it's going to be quiet.
Hope you guys are having a good week. See you next time!
Chapter 11: Henrik VIII
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Henrik’s limbs were still heavy with fatigue as he made his way through the labyrinthine corridors of the Red Keep. He had not been sleeping well, his dreams haunted by unsettling visions of blood, fire, and the sea. These were not the usual dreams of exotic lands and grand adventures, nor the occasional images of his father. These were darker, more perplexing. The fire felt real, the blood tangible, and the endless sea overwhelming. The weight of his dreams clung to him, each step echoing with uncertainty and dread that had settled deep within his bones.
The castle was quieter than usual, the previous events casting a sombre pall over its inhabitants. The dawn light filtered through the high windows, casting long shadows that seemed to echo the darkness within his mind.
Henrik needed to see Sansa as desperately as he needed to breathe. He had to know she was truly safe. Days had passed with no news of her, not even a glimpse. Her entrance to her chambers was guarded day and night. The security around the Red Keep had tightened — a consequence of the King’s growing paranoia of the common people’s attempt to breach the castle walls resulting from the riot. Multiple guards littered around the hallways and the White Cloaks were posted everywhere. Even Rubin had become unbearably suffocating, more so than usual, and Henrik found himself itching to plunge a knife into him and rid himself of his presence.
Henrik’s thread of patience was about to snap. And so he’d shaken Rubin and Jarak off his heels as he prowled through the hallways, offering a nod as he came across another noble. He pressed on, his eyes scanning every shadowy nook and corner of the castle as he moved. He knew Sansa often retreated to the gardens when she sought peace. It was a slim hope, but it was the only one he had before Rubin realised he’d disappeared. He headed towards the southern wing, where the windows overlooked the sprawling greenery of the royal gardens.
Reaching the southern corridor, Henrik slowed his pace, peering out each window he passed. His pulse quickened when he spotted a flash of red hair. It was Sansa, seated on a stone bench, her posture rigid with tension.
The nearest door to the gardens was also guarded, but, hoping to avoid that and any unnecessary questions, Henrik noticed a group of servants exiting a side door, baskets of laundry in hand. Seizing the opportunity, he followed them closely, slipping through the door unnoticed. Once outside, Henrik moved quickly, keeping low to avoid the watchful eyes of the guards stationed around the perimeter. He reached the cover of the trees and began to weave his way towards Sansa.
As he approached, he saw her gaze was distant, lost in thought. He called her name softly, not wanting to startle her. “Sansa.”
Sansa looked up at him. Her face was pale, but her eyes were clear, and she offered him a small, tentative smile. She was dressed simply, her hair loose around her shoulders, and she looked almost fragile in the morning light. He couldn’t help but stare. She was like the maiden come to life.
“My lord,” she said softly.
“Sansa. . .”
His expression resumed its courtly mask. “I was just about to visit the godswood.”
“Yes, of course. Um, may I join you?” he asked.
Her eyes flickered with surprise, but she nodded. “I would welcome the company.”
Sansa bade her handmaidens to remain. They walked in silence, the noise of the castle fading as they entered the peaceful sanctuary of the godswood. The ancient trees stood tall and imposing, their leaves whispering secrets only the wind could understand. The weirwood tree, with its ghostly white bark and red leaves, loomed ahead, its face etched with eternal sorrow. Henrik shivered. He hadn’t been here since his visions and it felt as if the face was peering deep into him, unravelling his soul. He swallowed and looked away, feeling as if he was turning stark-raving mad.
He’d never been a devoutly religious man — that had always been more Rubin’s habit — but now, he couldn’t shake the sensation of a thousand eyes watching him. It was an unsettling feeling, one he doubted he’d ever get used to. He glanced at Sansa, wondering if she felt the same unease. Or perhaps she found comfort in it, a sort of reminder of her home.
His thoughts drifted towards his beloved Faircastle, the grand fortress perched on the rugged cliffs overlooking the sea. He remembered the salty tang of the sea breeze that filled his lungs and the rhythmic crash of waves against the rocky shore. From his chamber windows, he could see the endless stretch of the Sunset Sea, its surface sparkling under the golden sunlight. The sight of ships in the distance, their sails billowing as they caught the wind, always filled him with a sense of wonder and wanderlust. He could almost hear the creaking of the rigging and the distant calls of the merchants as they bought in daily goods for trade. The surrounding hills were lush and green, dotted with wildflowers that added splashes of colour; the sweet scent of these blossoms mingled with the briny air, creating a fragrance that was uniquely Faircastle. The call of seabirds echoed through the air, blending with the rustle of leaves in the gentle breeze.
He inhaled deeply and stared at the delicate side of Sansa’s face. She would love it there. The unexpected thought flickered in his mind suddenly like a raven’s shadow across the snow. He wouldn’t restrict her movements like in the Red Keep. He imagined her wandering through the castle’s gardens, her laughter carried by the wind, her red hair catching the sunlight as she explored the rugged coastline and the meadows filled with vibrant blooms. He envisioned her standing by his side on the ramparts, the two of them watching the sun sink into the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange, pink, and purple.
It can never be, you fool. You forget yourself.
The voice in his head sounded suspiciously like Rubin’s but his father’s stern expression flashed into his mind. He cleared his throat. Yes, it would never happen, of course. Sansa was to be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and Joffrey her husband. Henrik’s days would be filled with the mundane yet essential tasks of governance — ensuring the harvests were plentiful, maintaining the castle’s defences, and managing the intricate web of alliances and loyalties that kept their domain secure. My life is duty’s shadow, he thought.
They reached the godswood’s heart, where a small stone bench sat beneath the weirwood. Sansa hesitated before sitting, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Henrik stood for a moment, watching, before taking a seat beside her. He was close enough to breathe in the sweet scent that wafted from her, causing him to feel as if he’d become intoxicated with cups of Dornish wine.
“How are you this morning, my lady?” he began.
“Quite well, I thank you for asking. And yourself?” she asked, blinking her blue eyes at him.
Henrik flashed a rueful smile, his eyes crinkling at the edges. “Well, I must admit I have seen better days.”
Sansa’s eyes softened. “The castle feels different these days,” she said quietly. “The air is thick with tension, and everyone seems on edge.” She paused, her gaze dropping to her hands. “I’ve found it hard to sleep, too.”
“You are not alone in that, my lady. Visions and dreams have haunted my sleep. They leave me feeling restless and weary.”
“What kind of visions?” Sansa asked, her curiosity piqued.
He hesitated, unsure of how much to reveal. The dreams were deeply personal, and he had no wish to burden her with his troubles. But there was something in her eyes, a gentle concern that made him want to confide in her. They had become friends, had they not?
“Visions of fire and blood, of the sea crashing endlessly. They feel so real as if the gods themselves are trying to speak, yet their words are shrouded in shadows. I am no maester, no scholar versed in ancient tomes — I cannot decipher them.”
Sansa’s expression grew thoughtful. “My father used to say that the old gods communicate through the weirwood trees, telling us something. Perhaps your dreams are a message from them, a warning or a guide.”
Henrik shivered once more, his eyes fixed on the weirwood’s sorrowful visage. The warning it imparted felt ominous, its gravity pressing heavily on his mind. What could the old gods possibly want with him? “Perhaps,” he muttered, his voice tinged with unease. “But what message would they have for me? I am no one of great importance.” He was not a king, merely a lord. Or was this a cruel jest by the gods, a way to toy with mortals as if they were mere puppets, their strings pulled at the whim of divine hands? The thought made his lips tighten in displeasure, a deep frown etching across his face.
He was no man’s or god’s puppet.
Sansa shook her head. “The gods choose whom they will. Maybe you are destined for something greater than you realise. You are important,” she emphasised, “You’re important to me.”
Something inexplicable flickered in his chest, something fearsome. He settled on surprise most likely and swallowed the lump in his throat.
“I appreciate your words,” he said softly. “They bring me some comfort.”
They sat in silence for a while, the sounds of the godswood enveloping them. The rustle of leaves, the distant chirping of birds, and the gentle breeze all seemed to create a cocoon of peace around them. Henrik felt the tension in his shoulders ease slightly.
“Sansa,” he began, his voice hesitant. “I’ve been meaning to ask you — how have you been?”
“I’ve been perfectly well.”
“No, I—” He sighed. “I just meant that I worry for you. I fear for your well-being, especially after the terrible riot—” He broke off.
She looked at him, her eyes wide with surprise. “I. . . I have guards and handmaidens to protect me. And. . . and my beloved Joffrey—”
“The King is the reason I worry,” Henrik interrupted with his voice sharper than he intended. “He is unpredictable and cruel. You deserve better than to be trapped here, under his control.”
Sansa’s face paled, and she glanced around nervously. “You mustn’t speak of such things, Henrik. It is treasonous. If anyone heard you. . .”
“I know,” he said quickly, the words tumbling out in haste. He rubbed his hands across his face. “Forgive me. I just. . . I have come to care about you, Sansa. A great deal and I wish to see you happy and safe.”
The confession hung in the air, vulnerable and raw. He hadn’t meant to say so much, to expose the depth of his sentiments so plainly. But now it was done, and the silence that followed was unbearable.
Sansa’s face was a mask, unreadable. She was still for a moment, as if weighing his words before she reached out and placed a hand gently on Henrik’s arm. The touch was light, almost tentative, but it sent a shiver down his spine, one he barely managed to suppress despite the warmth of the sun.
“Henrik, I know your concern comes from a place of care, and for that, I am grateful.” Her voice was barely above a whisper, and her eyes darted around, making sure no one was within earshot. “But we must be cautious with our words. The walls have ears, and it is easy for a careless whisper to turn into a death sentence.”
Henrik took a deep breath, nodding. All he could focus on was Sansa. The thought that others might be listening hadn’t even crossed his mind. “You speak true,” he murmured, a note of resignation in his voice. “But the thought of you in pain. . . it rends me, deeper than any blade.”
Sansa offered him a sad smile. “I have learnt to endure much, my lord. But knowing I have friends who care for me gives me strength, even in the darkest of times.”
Henrik felt a wave of helplessness wash over him. An urge welled up inside him. “If there was anything I could do to change your fate, I would. I want to protect you, Sansa, with all that I am.”
Her smile grew faintly, but the sadness in her eyes deepened, a sorrow that seemed to transcend words. It was a look that made him feel more wretched than any harsh rebuke could have.
“I believe you’ve forgotten that you’re leaving soon, my lord. For Faircastle, are you not? Your duty calls you away, and though I am touched by your words, they cannot change what is. The path we walk is set.”
“Leaving? Oh, of course, yes. . .” he muttered, the reality of his obligations crashing down on him with brutal clarity. He swallowed hard, trying to push down the bitterness rising in his throat. He hadn’t even thought about that in a while — how could he, when every fibre of his being was consumed by the thought of her?
Sansa’s hand lingered on his arm, her touch grounding him even as his mind raced. “You have a noble heart, Henrik,” she said, her voice almost a whisper as if the words were meant for him alone. “But your duty lies elsewhere, as does mine.”
Henrik gave a distracted nod, and they sat in a heavy silence. After a moment, he finally broke it, his voice low and tentative.
“How, um, how are you faring, Sansa, you know, after. . . after that dreadful day? The city was a storm of chaos, madness on every street. It felt as though the very world had turned against us, didn’t it?”
Henrik regretted the words as soon as he’d said them. Sansa’s face paled, the flush of youth drained away, leaving her ashen, her eyes wide and hollowed. Her hands, so delicate and graceful, trembled as she clasped them tightly together, the knuckles blanching to bone-white. He wanted to reach out and touch her hand but he feared that she’d flinch away from him, not that he blamed her. Henrik’s anger flared, a hot, coiling serpent in his gut as he thought about the chaos of the riot and how everything could turn so wrong. It was as if the very heart of King's Landing had been laid bare, raw and festering, and the city had devoured itself in a frenzy of hunger and hopelessness.
“Forgive me, Sansa,” Henrik said, his voice faltering. “I didn’t mean to—”
“When the crowd surged,” she began softly, “and I was pulled from my horse. . . I thought I was going to die,” she murmured. “Their hands were everywhere, pulling at me, shouting. . . I could barely breathe. If it weren’t for the Hound. . . Ser Clegane, I don’t know what would have happened to me.” She paused. “The fear in their eyes was more terrifying than their anger. It was like they had nothing to lose. I was certain that I would be trampled or left there to die. Sometimes, when I close my eyes, I can still feel their hands on me, pulling, clawing. It’s as if I’m still there, trapped in that nightmare.”
Sansa stared at the lace on her dress, her eyes barely raising to meet his. It was like she was elsewhere instead of with him, in another realm most likely, and Henrik didn’t want to interrupt her.
She swallowed hard. “I remember falling, the ground rough beneath me. I was trying to crawl away, to escape, but they were everywhere. One of them grabbed my hair, yanked me back. I screamed, but it was lost in the chaos. No one was coming for me. I closed my eyes, praying for it to be over, for someone to help me.”
Her eyes flickered with a strange mixture of fear and gratitude.
“Ser Clegane came then. He. . . he was very brave. He picked me up, carried me away from that hell. His face was bloody, his eyes wild. I think he killed some of them. I don’t know. I was too scared to look.” Sansa’s hands were trembling now, and she clasped them tighter as if trying to hold herself together. She sharply inhaled and looked up at him. “Then. . . then you came. I saw you there. . . covered in blood, I think. I remember your face when you found me. You looked. . . different.”
Henrik blinked against the bright light streaming through the canopy of the godswood. He nodded. “I was covered in blood,” he admitted. “Not all of it was mine.”
“You risked your life for me,” she said softly, her voice laden with gratitude and something deeper, a hint of bewilderment. “Why?”
Henrik’s heart clenched, and he met her gaze, his eyes earnest. He didn’t understand why she was so baffled. Why wouldn’t he come? “I couldn’t leave you in that madness,” he replied, his voice low.
“But you aren’t a knight, my lord. Nor am I your duty.”
“You’re right,” he said and held her gaze steadily. “But some bonds go beyond duty, and you are one of them. It’s not about duty it’s about what you mean to me. You’re my friend, someone I care very deeply about. It’s not a question of why I would risk my life.”
A faint blush coloured her cheeks as she said softly, “You’ve become my greatest solace here, Henrik.” Despair crossed her face before she quickly masked it. “I will miss you very much when you leave.”
His chest felt heavy. The thought of leaving filled him with a deep, gnawing resentment — not just toward the circumstances that demanded his departure, but toward his father, who had insisted on his obligations, and Rubin, who seemed to carry none of the weight of duty that Henrik felt so keenly.
Sansa looked up, her eyes meeting his with a depth of emotion that made his heartache. “My handmaiden told me that the people are starving,” she said softly. “She said they were desperate, that they would have done anything for a piece of bread. That’s why they were so angry with Joffrey, with the Queen. If I had known. . . if I had the chance, I would have given them bread.”
Henrik blinked, taken aback by her words. “You would have given them bread? Why? After what they did to you?” The question slipped out, his voice tinged with disbelief. It seemed almost absurd that she could harbour any sympathy for those people.
“Yes,” she replied, her voice firm despite its softness. “They are suffering, Henrik. They are angry and scared. I cannot blame them for lashing out. It’s the ones in power who have failed them. If I could ease their suffering, even a little, I would.”
Henrik was silent for a moment, his mind reeling. He had expected bitterness, perhaps even hatred, but not this. “Sansa, you are. . . remarkable.”
He felt tainted, as though his very soul had been blighted by the shadows of his actions. Flexing his fingers, he couldn’t shake the vivid memories of blood and violence that haunted him. The riot had been a blur of carnage and desperation, and he had killed without hesitation. Men, women, probably even children — faces contorted in fear and anguish, just as Sansa had described. At the time, he had felt nothing but a cold detachment, a single-minded need to find her, to protect her at all costs.
But now, standing before her, he felt the damp warmth of blood on his hands, the desperate cries echoing in his ears. Sansa’s kindness was a stark contrast to his ruthless efficiency. Henrik felt tears sting his eyes and blinked them back. He acted like the Gold Cloaks who cut down Alavin in the streets. Sansa would hate him. His father would think him some depraved, blood-lusted fool. This wasn’t duty killing.
Henrik turned away, unable to meet Sansa’s gaze any longer. He felt a deep, gnawing shame in the pit of his stomach. He clenched his fists, feeling the phantom stickiness of blood that would never truly wash away.
➶✶
Henrik’s boots trudged through the cobblestone path of Fishmonger’s Square. Jarak kept behind him at his heels, hand resting near the gilt of his sword lazily, though his countenance remained alert. The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows that seemed to stretch out like grasping hands. The bustling market was filled with the clamour of merchants hawking their wares, the frantic cries of the hungry, and the occasional clatter of horse hooves against stone. The commoner’s eyes were shifty at every stranger that came near or the swish of a Gold Cloak. They too were feeling the aftereffects of the riots. The King had put a city-wide curfew for all the common folk and anyone found would be cut down.
As he moved through the crowded streets, Henrik noticed the stark disparity between the Red Keep’s opulence and the common people’s destitution. The stench of unwashed bodies and the sharp tang of misery clung to the air, making Henrik’s stomach churn. Faces lined with hunger and distress surrounded him, each one a poignant reminder of Sansa’s words about giving bread to the starving. He marvelled at his previous obliviousness and pondered if his own people in Fair Isle endured similar hardships. Was his father unaware of their plight, or did he choose to ignore it? A lord’s duty was to his people, after all.
A woman with hollow cheeks and a threadbare shawl caught his eye. She clutched a small child to her chest, the child’s eyes wide and vacant. Henrik’s heart tightened at the sight of the gaunt, malnourished face, which spoke of long days without enough to eat. He swallowed the lump in his throat. The woman met his gaze briefly, her eyes as empty and lifeless as his old wooden toy horses, before she turned away, disappearing into the crowd as a nearby Gold Cloak began to eye her suspiciously.
Suddenly, Henrik noticed a commotion near a market stall. A young girl, no older than ten, was being roughly handled by a merchant. The merchant’s face was red with fury as he gripped the girl’s arm tightly, shaking her. Her tattered clothing — if you could call it that — barely covered her gaunt frame and hung loosely.
“Thief!” the merchant bellowed, drawing the attention of passersby. “This little wretch tried to steal from me!”
The girl’s eyes were wide with dread, her face streaked with tears and dirt. She struggled to break free, but the merchant’s grip was too strong. “I didn't steal anything!” she cried, her voice trembling and high-pitched. “I was just looking!”
“Looking, were you?” the merchant sneered. “With your hands in my basket of apples? You’re a little liar, that’s what you are! You know what the Gold Cloaks do with liars and thieves, girl? They cut their tongues and hands off just as you rightly deserve. Come, we shall pay them a little visit!”
“No, please, Mister! No! I didn’t mean it! Please, no!” The girl’s shrieks were unbearable; people threw a quick look in her direction but hurried quicker, lest they draw attention to themselves.
Without hesitation, Henrik stepped forward, his presence commanding attention. The merchant, alarmed, released the girl, his knuckles whitening as he loosened his grip on her arm. Jarak was quick to stand near him, hand on his sword. The girl stumbled back, clutching the empty space where she had been restrained, her wide eyes darting between Henrik and the merchant.
“What seems to be the problem here?” Henrik’s voice was calm, yet it carried an unyielding authority that silenced the bustling market around them.
The merchant’s anger flickered, replaced by a wary look. “This little thief tried to steal from me, m’lord,” he said, his voice wavering slightly. “Had her hands right in my basket of apples.”
Henrik knelt to the girl’s level, noting the grime that clung to her cheeks and the sunken look in her eyes. He then stood, his gaze hardening as he reached into his pouch and pulled out a gold coin. “Here, see to it that this covers the cost of the apples and whatever else she requires.”
The merchant’s eyes widened at the sight of the coin, greed overtaking his previous indignation. He snatched it quickly, nodding. “Very well, m’lord.” He turned to the girl and thrust a loaf of bread and a chunk of cheese into her trembling hands with a scowl. “Here, girl, take it and go.”
Henrik looked at the girl, her eyes now fixed on the food as if it might vanish. “What’s your name?” he asked softly.
“Elara,” she whispered, her voice trembling like a leaf in the wind.
“Elara, take this food home. My guard will escort you to ensure you get there safely.” He glanced at Jarak, who stood behind him, his expression a mix of reluctance and obedience. “Jarak, make sure she gets home without any trouble.”
Jarak nodded curtly. “As you command, my lord.”
Elara looked up at Henrik with a mixture of awe and confusion, her small hands clutching the bread, apples and cheese tightly. She hesitated, her small frame trembling.
“Go on,” Henrik urged gently, nodding toward Jarak, who was already motioning for Elara to follow. “You’ll be safe with him. I’ll give you my word.”
Elara’s eyes flitted between Henrik and the food in her hands as if trying to decide whether this was all some cruel trick. She gave a small, shaky nod and took a step toward Jarak, who waited with an air of impatience. “Thank you, m’lord,” she said, her voice barely audible.
Henrik nodded, watching as Jarak led the girl away through the sea of people. The crowd, which had gathered to witness the spectacle, began to disperse, murmurs of surprise and curiosity rippling through them.
The same merchant, having pocketed the gold, attempted a smile, but it came off as a grimace. “A kind deed, m’lord,” he said, almost grudgingly. “But can’t be too careful especially these days.”
Henrik turned his gaze back to the merchant, his expression hardening. “The city’s full of people who are starving,” he replied, his voice carrying an edge that made the merchant take an involuntary step back. “If more people showed kindness, perhaps we wouldn’t have so many thieves to worry about.”
The merchant swallowed, the colour draining slightly from his face. “Of course, m’lord. I meant no offence.”
“See that you remember it,” Henrik said coldly, his eyes narrowing. He turned away without another word, leaving the merchant standing there, clutching his precious coin.
➶✶
Henrik moved quietly through the corridors, his eyes fixed on the figure of Ser Dontos. He’d more or less forgotten about the man until a certain sight struck his interest.
The former knight, now reduced to the status of the King’s Fool, was hovering far too close to Sansa for Henrik’s liking. There was something about the way Ser Dontos lingered that set Henrik on edge. He kept watching from the shadows of a column as Sansa walked through the castle courtyard.
As Sansa paused by a fountain, Dontos approached her. Henrik strained to hear their conversation but could only catch snippets.
“My lady. . . must trust me. . . your brave fool. . .” Dontos mumbled, his eyes darting around nervously.
Sansa’s reply was too soft to hear, but her posture was tense. She seemed wary of him and Henrik didn’t like that at all. Ser Dontos finally gave a clumsy bow, completely unworthy of the graceful curtsey she offered him and turned on his heels. Henrik lay flat against the column as he passed him, his breaths wheezing and his face red, just the amount of wine he’d drunk no doubt. Henrik covered his nose. Gods, even the stench of him from here was enough to make him flee and felt unwavering sympathy for Sansa for having to deal with the oaf of a fool.
Dontos turned into a secluded corridor, and Henrik quickened his pace, his hand instinctively moving to the hilt of his sword. The corridor was dimly lit by flickering torches, and the sounds of the keep faded, leaving an eerie silence.
“Ser Dontos,” Henrik called, his voice low but firm. Dontos spun around, eyes wide with surprise.
“L—Lord Henrik,” Dontos stammered, his face pale in the torchlight. “I—I didn’t see you there.”
Henrik closed the distance between them in a few strides, his eyes narrowing. “What business do you have with Lady Sansa?”
“My lord?”
“I will not ask again, Ser. State your business.”
Dontos swallowed hard, glancing around nervously. “I. . . I mean her no harm,” he insisted, his voice shaking. “I only wish to help her. She’s alone here, surrounded by enemies.”
Henrik’s grip tightened around the hilt of his sword. “And what help could you possibly offer?” he asked, his voice a low growl. “You, a drunken fool, who barely stands upright without swaying?”
Ser Dontos straightened, drawing what little dignity he could muster. “I may be a fool now, but I was a knight once. I know how to protect a lady.”
Henrik stared at Ser Dontos, his eyes piercing through the man’s frail bravado. The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken threats. Disgust bubbled in Henrik’s stomach the longer he kept looking at the pathetic fool.
“You were a knight,” Henrik echoed, his voice dripping with contempt. “A knight who disgraced himself and now hides behind jests and wine.”
Dontos flinched at the words, but he held his ground, his eyes meeting Henrik’s with a fleeting spark of defiance. Henrik nearly admired his mindless courage. “I made mistakes, yes, but that does not mean I cannot do something right now.”
Henrik took a step closer, his voice lowering to a dangerous whisper. “You speak of protecting Lady Sansa. If I find you causing her any distress, I will not hesitate to end whatever game you’re playing. You will have me to answer to. Do you understand?”
Dontos swallowed hard, the flickering torchlight casting shadows across his pallid, ruddy face. “I mean her no distress, my lord. I swear it on my honour.”
Henrik’s grip on his sword tightened. He scoffed and moved closer again, glare deepening. “Honour? You speak of honour, yet you wear the motley of a fool. Let me make one thing clear — if I find out you’ve harmed her in any way, there will be no jest left in you. When the time comes, not a soul will mourn the absence of the King’s Fool, and I will see to it personally.”
Dontos bowed his head, a gesture that might have been respectful if not for the slight sway in his stance. His throat quivered. “As. . . as you command, Lord Henrik,” he muttered, the words barely audible.
Henrik’s eyes bore into Dontos for a moment longer before he finally stepped back, the former knight visibly deflating in his absence.
“Good. Now go.”
Henrik watched as Ser Dontos shuffled away, his steps unsteady. The man’s fear had been discernible, and Henrik couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to this fool than met the eye. He just didn’t know what and he’d never been good at deciphering things.
He made his way to his quarters, the familiar surroundings offering little comfort. Henrik removed his sword and placed it carefully on the table. He poured himself a small cup of wine, more out of habit than desire, and sat by the window, looking out over King’s Landing. The city flickered like a thousand stars.
What was his purpose here? He’d already sworn fealty to the king as his duty demanded. Was he to go back to Faircastle and hide away the rest of his days without getting a taste of battle? Of something more than the clanging of swords in the training yard. His skills could finally be put to the test if he did stay.
Henrik’s thoughts drifted to Sansa. She had a strength that belied her fragile appearance, a strength that Henrik found himself drawn to. He couldn’t bear the thought of her being trapped in a life of misery and fear, under the control of a tyrant like Joffrey. Was he to leave and never see her again? Never to see those bewitching ocean-blue eyes?
He stood up abruptly, the wine sloshing in his cup. He paced the room, his mind racing. He couldn't simply leave, not without trying to do something. Nobody would care for Sansa if he did leave. It was proven that the King certainly didn’t as he didn’t bother to return for his betrothed. Maybe the Hound considering he was the only other person to look for her during the riots. But Sansa still feared him. Henrik could tell by the way she stared at him. Henrik shook his head. The Hound was a wildcard, unpredictable and dangerous.
But what could he do? He turned away from the window, his gaze falling on his sword. The blade gleamed in the dim light. He had been trained to fight, to protect. Maybe that was his purpose, to use his skills and his position to make a difference. But how? He was just a lord, bound by duty and the expectations of his station.
The thought of Ser Dontos made him scowl. Why was that pitiful fool that close to Sansa in the first place? The man’s drunken attempts at gallantry were deplorable at best and dangerous at worst. He dishonoured her by simply being in her presence. Henrik couldn’t trust him, but he also couldn’t dismiss the possibility that Dontos might be genuinely trying to help.
He took another sip of wine, the burn warming his blood. The truth is that he wanted to stay. He wanted to protect the city, to offer his sword and skills to defend it. He envisioned himself leading men into battle, his sword gleaming in the sun, his name on the lips of every bard and noble. He wanted glory, to prove himself in battle, to carve out a name that would echo through the ages. He had been trained for this, for bravery and honour. But more than that, he wanted to stay for Sansa.
➶✶
The heavy wooden door creaked open, and Henrik entered, his steps hesitant yet resolute. The young lord’s eyes darted around the room, taking in the details before settling on Tyrion.
“Ah, Lord Henrik,” Tyrion greeted, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. He had a heavy tome laid out in front. Henrik eyed it warily. “Do come in. We have much to discuss.”
Henrik approached the desk, nodding respectfully. “Lord Tyrion, you summoned me?”
Tyrion motioned to a chair. “Please, sit.”
Henrik took the offered seat, his posture straight and attentive. Bronn leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching the exchange with keen interest. Tyrion held the scroll in his hands, the one that Rubin had scribed for him.
“I take it you’re still leaving for Faircastle I assume,” asked Tyrion.
Henrik hesitated, his brow furrowing. “I had intended to, my lord. But I have reconsidered.”
Tyrion raised an eyebrow, curiosity gleaming in his mismatched eyes. He dropped the letter. “Oh? And what has prompted this change of heart?”
Henrik’s gaze shifted briefly to Bronn before returning to Tyrion. “The city is in turmoil. The people are restless, and the threat of Stannis Baratheon looms ever closer. I cannot abandon King’s Landing in its hour of need. My place is here, to aid in its defence.”
Tyrion leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepling as he regarded Henrik with a measured gaze. The flicker of amusement in his eyes deepened, though his tone remained neutral. “Loyalty to King’s Landing, how admirable. One might even call it. . . surprising.”
Henrik shifted uncomfortably in his seat, but he held Tyrion’s gaze. “It is not merely loyalty, my lord. It is duty. My house has long served the crown, and I will not be the first to shirk that responsibility. My men and I are ready to stand and fight.”
Tyrion nodded thoughtfully, his gaze never leaving Henrik’s. “Loyalty and duty, two virtues oft spoken of, yet seldom seen in practice. Tell me, my lord, do you believe they will keep you alive when Stannis’s ships darken the horizon? When his soldiers breach the walls of this city?”
Bronn snorted from his place by the wall, his amusement evident. “Loyalty doesn’t stop a sword from spilling your guts, lad.”
Henrik’s lips thinned, and he leaned forward slightly, his own hands gripping the arms of his chair. “My house has fought in wars before, and we have always emerged stronger. I will do whatever is necessary to protect my people, and that includes standing with you against Stannis Baratheon.”
Tyrion regarded him for a long moment, the silence in the room thick and oppressive. Finally, he nodded, almost imperceptibly. “Very well. Your resolve is commendable, Lord Henrik. We shall need every sword and every ounce of courage we can muster.”
“Of course.”
“But seeing as you’re here, I must caution you that the city is on edge, as you’ve no doubt understood by now,” Tyrion began, his tone serious. “The news of the northern victories has everyone from the highest lords to the lowest beggars in a state of unrest. We need to ensure King’s Landing is prepared for any eventuality.”
Henrik nodded. “And what is it that you require of me, my lord?”
Bronn interjected with a smirk. “Well, for starters, keeping your head on your shoulders would be a good move. And making sure your men are ready to fight, not just parade around in their shiny armour.”
Tyrion shot Bronn a mildly exasperated look before turning back to Henrik. “Bronn is right, though his delivery could use some polish. We need your men to be ready for the front lines. Defence fortifications are crucial. How are your troops faring?”
Henrik straightened. “They are trained and loyal.”
Tyrion nodded approvingly. “Good. We need every sword we can muster.”
“But, my lord hand, my men are simply household guards, the real troops are with my father I fear.”
“Yes, well, we need every able-bodied man ready to defend the city. I trust you’re prepared. Your presence here is more crucial than you realise. The city is on the brink, and we need people who can inspire and protect.”
Henrik nodded, decisiveness etched in his features. “We will stand ready, my lord Hand. Whatever is needed.”
Tyrion leaned forward in his chair, a crease between his brows. “The city is a tinderbox, and one spark could set it aflame and turn us all into ashes. We must tread carefully. Every second we spend sleeping or waking or talking, Stannis inches closer to us.” Tyrion stood, motioning for Henrik to follow. “Come.”
Henrik blinked and rose from his chair. “My lord?”
“Come with me to the war room. Your input would be greatly appreciated. We need fresh perspectives and strong wills.”
“As you wish, my lord Hand.”
Bronn pushed off from the wall and gave him a curt nod. “Good luck, lad. War’s a nasty business. Keep your wits about you.”
The three men made their way through the dimly lit corridors of the Red Keep, their footsteps echoing off the stone walls. He knew Rubin was going to be furious but Henrik couldn’t muster any care within him. He made his decision and felt light and heavy all at the same time. Besides it wasn’t Rubin he didn’t want to face but his father. He pushed the thought from his mind.
As they neared the war room, Tyrion spoke again, his tone more sombre. “I’m aware of your father’s absence, Henrik. His men would certainly bolster our forces, but we must work with what we have. The city’s defenders are few, and morale is. . . tenuous at best.”
Henrik inclined his head. “I understand, my lord. My men may not be seasoned soldiers, but they are disciplined and loyal. They will follow orders.”
“Good,” Tyrion replied as they reached the heavy door of the war room.
As they entered, Henrik noted the maps spread across the large wooden table, candles flickering at the edges, and the smell of wax mingling with the scent of old parchment. A few lords and advisors stood around the large wooden table, pouring over maps and models of the battlefield. King Joffrey, Henrik noticed, was not present.
Tyrion strode to the head of the table. “Gentlemen, we have much to discuss,” he announced, his voice cutting through the murmur of conversation. “Stannis Baratheon’s forces are nearing, and we must finalise our plans for the defence of King’s Landing. Where are we at?”
Henrik took his place among the gathered lords, his gaze sweeping the table. He recognised several faces, each marked by worry or grim determination.
A bald man, who Henrik assumed to be Lord Varys leaned forward, his fingers locked together. “We must consider every angle of attack, Lord Hand. Stannis is a skilled commander. He will exploit any weakness.”
Ser Jacelyn Bywater, the commander of the City Watch, spoke up next. “His fleet is formidable. The sea approach is their strength. We need to fortify our naval defences.”
Someone else chimed in. “And our land defences are no less important. We should bolster the Mud Gate and set traps in the streets. We need to make every inch of this city a deathtrap for Stannis’s men.”
“We must ensure that our men are prepared to defend every alley and street. The smallfolk must be kept in line as well. Panic will only serve Stannis.”
Henrik, listening intently, saw an opportunity to contribute. “Uh, M—My lords,” he began, drawing their attention. He swallowed and drew a deep breath. “Er, while our defences on. . . on land and sea are crucial, we must also, uh, consider the morale of the people.”
One lord frowned as if Henrik had suggested something absurd. “The morale of the people?” the lord scoffed, his voice dripping with derision. “What do they matter in the grand scheme of war?”
Henrik felt his cheeks flush but pressed on, emboldened by the urgency of the situation now that attention was focused on him. “With respect, my lord, panic and despair can spread like wildfire, undermining our defences from within. If the smallfolk feel abandoned or hopeless, they might turn against us or be too paralysed by fear to provide any assistance. We should organise the distribution of food and supplies to keep them calm and loyal.”
Another lord, older and more seasoned, nodded thoughtfully. “The boy has a point,” he said, his gravelly voice cutting through the tension. “A cornered animal fights more fiercely when it believes it has no chance of escape. If we let fear take hold, Stannis will have won half the battle without lifting a sword.”
Henrik continued, encouraged by the nod of approval. He puffed his chest out and pressed on, stepping closer to the table, his eyes scanning the map laid out before him. “King’s Landing is a maze of narrow streets, alleyways, and hidden passages. Most of Stannis’s men won’t be familiar with the layout of the city — they’ll be expecting a straightforward siege, fighting from the outside in. But what if we use the city’s structure to our advantage?"
Ser Jacelyn Bywater frowned. "And how do you propose we do that? Stannis’s men will outnumber ours. Using the streets could easily turn into a bloodbath.”
Henrik nodded. “That’s why we won’t just use the streets defensively. We’ll use them to control the flow of battle, to draw Stannis’s forces into traps where their numbers count for nothing. My suggestion is this: we create false barricades at key points throughout the city, leading Stannis’s men into dead ends and ambushes. We station small, agile units in the alleyways — units that can strike quickly and then disappear before the enemy can retaliate.”
The room fell silent as the lords considered Henrik’s proposal. Lord Varys, his eyes narrowed in thought, was the first to speak. “A tactic of misdirection and confusion. . . it could work if executed properly.”
Another lord, older and more grizzled, crossed his arms with a sceptical frown. “It’s a risky move. We could end up scattering our forces too thin, or worse, getting them trapped in their own city.”
Tyrion, however, was intrigued. “But it also plays to our strengths — or rather, to Stannis’s weaknesses. His men will be looking for large-scale battles, not skirmishes in dark alleys. If we can keep them off balance, we may be able to grind them down bit by bit.”
Ser Jacelyn looked thoughtful. “A sound strategy. We can use the terrain to our advantage. It would also help if we had a clear line of communication between the different defensive points.”
“Well, we can install runners or use signal fires from the rooftops to relay messages quickly,” suggested Henrik.
Henrik’s advice hung in the air, the lords around the table exchanging glances as they weighed the merits of his plan. It was a bold idea, one that required careful coordination and a degree of unpredictability, but it had potential. The silence in the room was finally broken by Ser Jacelyn, who spoke up with a measured tone.
“Signal fires could indeed work,” he agreed, his gaze thoughtful. “If placed strategically, they would allow us to relay messages across the city without relying on messengers who could be intercepted or delayed.”
Tyrion, satisfied with the direction the conversation had taken, clapped his hands together, drawing everyone’s attention. “It seems we have a plan, then. Let’s give Stannis a battle he won’t soon forget.”
➶✶
Henrik looked up startled as his chamber doors slammed open. Rubin stood in the doorway, his face a storm of fury.
“Have you lost your mind?” Rubin’s voice was low, seething. He stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a deliberate, forceful motion.
Henrik met Rubin’s blazing eyes with a steady gaze. “Rubin, what—”
“Do you have any idea what you’re doing?” Rubin interrupted, his fists clenched at his sides. “You’ve put our men on a war footing, readied them to die for a city that’s not ours! And you — sitting in the war room with the Hand and those lords, talking strategy like you’ve any business there. Do you even know what you’re doing? This is not our fight!”
Henrik rose from his chair, feeling a surge of irritation. “I know exactly what I’m doing, Rubin. I’m staying. King’s Landing needs every man it can get. This is our fight too even if you can’t see it.”
Rubin’s face reddened. “Our fight? This is not our fight, my lord. Our duty — your — duty is to your father and Faircastle. You were ordered to return, to ensure the safety and stability of our own lands. What do you think your lord father will say when he hears of this? When he finds out you defied him?”
Henrik felt his jaw tighten, the weight of Rubin’s words pressing on him, but he refused to waver. “I don’t care what he thinks. This city is on the brink of destruction. If Stannis takes King’s Landing, it won’t just be the capital that falls. The entire realm will be thrown into disarray. Hiding out in Faircastle won’t stop him from coming for us. Did you expect me to tuck tail and hide away like a coward?”
Rubin’s eyes narrowed, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “You are not a soldier of King's Landing! You have no obligation to this city or its people. Your place is in Faircastle, not in the middle of a war that isn’t yours.”
Henrik’s eyes blazed with a rare intensity, his patience wearing thin. “My place is where I choose it to be. I have seen the suffering of the people here, the fear in their eyes. I will not abandon them.”
Rubin took a deep breath, his anger giving way to a pained plea. “My lord, Henrik, please. Think of your father, your family. Think of Faircastle. They need you, my lord. Don’t throw your life away for a lost cause. This is madness!”
Henrik walked towards him, his hands crossed behind his back as he tried to stand tall. “Rubin, I understand your concern. But what kind of lord would I be if I only thought of my own safety? I would be unworthy. If King’s Landing falls, do you think Faircastle will be safe? The chaos will spread, and eventually, it will reach our home. Stannis will punish us for simply fighting on the wrong side. I need to be here. We need to be here.”
Rubin shook his head, frustration and desperation warring in his expression. “Listen, please, Henrik. Your father entrusted me to protect you, to bring you back safely. I cannot in good conscience support this decision. Your father will never forgive me if something happens to you.”
Henrik placed a firm hand on Rubin’s shoulder, his grip strong and reassuring. “Rubin, you have always been loyal to our house, to my father. I’m not asking you to betray that loyalty. I’m asking you to trust my judgment. The people here need leaders who will stand with them, not flee at the first sign of danger.”
Rubin searched his face for a few moments, his brow furrowed in thought. Then his expression darkened. “This is about that Stark girl, isn’t it? You forget your duty, your family, for what? A fleeting fancy? For a traitor’s daughter?”
Henrik stiffened and his voice turned cold as he stepped back. “You tread on dangerous ground, Rubin. My decisions are not based on mere whims or affections.”
Rubin’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Henrik, I have known you since you were a babe in your lady mother’s arms. I’ve seen the way you look at that girl. You think no one notices, but I do. The Stark girl has clouded your judgment.”
Henrik’s patience snapped, his tone sharp and cutting. “Enough! She is our future Queen and deserves our respect. If you cannot see the broader picture, then perhaps you are not fit to advise or protect me.”
Rubin recoiled slightly, the sting of Henrik’s words evident in his eyes. He spoke after a while, teeth gritted. “I have always served you and your father faithfully. This risk is sheer, reckless madness. You must see that!”
Henrik’s eyes, usually so calm and collected, now flashed with an uncharacteristic fury. His voice rose. “And I have always valued your counsel, Rubin, but you forget your place. You are the commander of the household guards, not my keeper! It is not your responsibility to question my decisions or my loyalty to the realm or Faircastle and I won’t have you thinking otherwise!”
Rubin's mouth opened in shock, the reprimand stinging more than he had expected. “I only seek to—”
“To what?” Henrik interrupted, his voice now a commanding boom. He glared at the older man and stepped forward, closing the distance between them, his presence dominating the space. With each word, he jabbed a finger into Rubin’s chest, forcing the older man to take a step back. “To defy me? To undermine my authority? You would do well to remember your place, Rubin. You are here to serve, to protect, to offer counsel — not to challenge my decisions or undermine my command.”
A silence fell between them, thick with tension. Rubin, his pride wounded and his loyalty questioned, took a step back, his face pale. His lip trembled as he spoke quietly. “I. . . I would never seek to undermine you, my lord. My life is yours to instruct. But I beg you, reconsider.”
Henrik took a deep breath, trying to rein in his temper. He knew Rubin’s words came from a place of genuine concern. He turned away, walking to the window and looking out over the city. Rubin stayed silent, his gaze fixed on Henrik’s back.
“Look at them,” Henrik continued, gesturing to the city below. “These people, they look to us for hope. If we abandon them now, we betray everything we stand for. Everything I have been trained for: what would be the point? To hole up in a castle until I turn fat and old?” Turning back to face Rubin, Henrik’s eyes were filled with determination. “We have a chance to make a difference here, to protect the innocent. Isn’t that what we’ve always fought for?”
Rubin’s shoulders sagged slightly. “My lord,” he said, his voice heavy with resignation, “if this is truly your decision, then I will stand by you.”
Henrik nodded, a small smile breaking through his uncommonly furious expression. “And Rubin, one more thing.”
The older man paused as he was about to leave, looking back with a raised eyebrow.
“Send word to my father. Inform him of my decision and assure him that I act in the best interests of our house and the realm.”
Rubin hesitated then nodded. “I will, my lord. May the gods be with us all.”
➶✶
As dusk settled over the Red Keep, the sun sank slowly behind the distant horizon. The panoramic view from the ramparts offered a breathtaking sight of King’s Landing and the lands beyond, with the city below flickering with the lights of torches and hearth fires. Henrik stood at the edge, his eyes scanning the city below.
From his vantage point, Henrik could see the bustling activity in the streets. Soldiers were making their rounds, their armour clinking softly in the evening air. Along the city walls, archers were stationed at regular intervals, their eyes vigilant and bows at the ready. The gates were reinforced with additional guards, and patrols moved with a heightened sense of alertness.
Henrik’s gaze shifted to the harbour, where a fleet of ships was anchored. Sailors were busy unloading crates of supplies and weapons, their movements brisk and purposeful. The docks were a hive of activity, with guards barking orders and crews working to ensure that the defences were well-stocked and ready.
The sound of soft footsteps approaching made him turn, and he smiled as he saw Sansa walking towards him. Her handmaiden, Shae, eyed him suspiciously but remained silent as she kept a few feet away from her lady. Sansa looked ethereal in the fading light, her red hair catching the last rays of the sun. Her gown, the deep blue of a twilight sky, was embroidered with delicate silver threads that mirrored the stars beginning to twinkle above. He suddenly found it hard to swallow.
“My lady,” he greeted her, his voice warm.
“Lord Henrik.” Her tone was soft and hesitant. She joined him at the edge, her gaze following his over the sprawling city. “I’ve never seen the city from up here.”
Henrik nodded. “It’s a different kind of beauty, perhaps. One that hides its dangers and troubles beneath a veneer of tranquillity.”
Sansa looked out over the city, her eyes distant as if seeing beyond the present moment. “It looks so peaceful, almost like a painting. But beauty and danger often walk hand in hand,” she said softly. “I’ve learnt that much.”
“What brings you here, Sansa, at this hour?” he asked curiously.
Sansa turned her gaze back to Henrik. “I needed to clear my head,” she admitted. “There’s so much happening.”
Henrik nodded, understanding the weight of her words. “The Red Keep can be a suffocating place. I’ve finally figured that out.”
She glanced at him, her blue eyes reflecting a kind of vulnerability. “You’ve been kind to me, Henrik. You are the only one I feel is my friend here.”
Henrik smiled gently. “Trust is a rare commodity, my lady. But know that you can always count on me.”
Sansa sighed softly, her eyes still fixed on the scene below. “The castle has been on edge. Everyone is tense, whispering of the battle to come.”
Henrik turned to look at her, his expression softening with concern. “I understand your fear. The thought of what might come is enough to unsettle anyone. But you must trust that we are prepared. You will be safe within these walls.”
Sansa shook her head, a sad smile gracing her lips. “I do not worry for myself, Henrik. The castle is strong, and I am well protected. And my ladies will be with me but you. . . you will be out there, fighting. The thought of losing you. . .” Her voice faltered, and she took a deep breath. “I have never had a true friend here, not until you. The idea of you being taken from me fills me with a considerable amount of dread.”
Henrik chuckled softly, trying to lighten the mood. “My lady, I’m far too stubborn to let a little thing like battle keep me away. Besides, I’ve grown quite fond of your company. So, you see, I have every intention of returning.”
Sansa frowned at him. “Don’t jest. You must promise me that you’ll be careful.”
Henrik sobered and reached out, gently taking her hand in his. “Sansa, nothing’s going to happen to me. No matter what happens out there, I will come back. I’ll crawl back on my hands and knees if I have to.”
Tears glistened in her eyes as she looked up at him, her voice trembling. “Promise me.”
He squeezed her hand, his gaze steady and earnest. “I promise. You have my word.”
Notes:
Hello to anyone still reading this! As an update, work got hectic for the number of people I had to train and then my mum's uncle passed away so had to do a wake and everything.
But thank you for your support and comments, they mean a lot to me. The Battle of the Blackwater is coming up, in the next chapter if all goes well hopefully. These seem to be getting longer with each chapter for some reason.
Anyway, hope you guys enjoyed it. Hope you're all having a lovely evening/day. Excited to be going to Botany Bay in Margate tomorrow with my friends so excited to for a day out finally. This summer has been so shit honestly.
See you next time!
Chapter 12: Henrik IX
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The evening air outside was thick with heat, clinging to the chipped stones of King’s Landing like a lover who refused to let go. From the open window, the city stretched out before Henrik like an endless sea of flickering candles, the hum of life below a distant murmur. The Gilded Dove was a finer sort of brothel, where whores did not sprawl out of windows to lure passersby. It prided itself on discretion, a cut above the common flesh-houses that littered the city.
Distant gold cloaks patrolled the streets, their swords gleaming, while voices filled the alleyways. Perhaps the people knew it was the last few remnants of pleasure they were going to get — not when Lord Stannis swarmed their taverns, shops and pleasure houses. Most of them might be dead soon, Henrik thought dully, if it all goes badly enough.
Dusk was soon approaching and Henrik knew that Rubin would be wondering where he was. The Arbor wine in his cup glinted deep red under the candlelight, untouched. He sat by the ledge by the window, staring out, his shirt loose and open at the collar. His breeches clung to him, though he had cast aside his boots and sky-blue cloak a candlelight ago, letting their weight fall away. His skin still hummed with the closeness of Myra’s touch — her fingers had been light, but now there was a space between them in the chamber.
Myra settled onto a velvet chair across from him, the silk of her robe slipping off one tanned shoulder as she leaned back, cradling her cup between delicate fingers. Her gaze rested on Henrik, her lips curving into a faint smile that didn’t quite touch her eyes. She had always known when to speak, and when to let the silence linger — perhaps it was part of the profession of being a whore — and for a time, they sat like that, the space between them filled with the warmth of their shared breath and the cool night air.
“You’ve been very quiet tonight, m’lord,” Myra said at last, her voice gentle, barely above a whisper. “Something bothering you?”
Henrik blinked, her words pulling him from the edge of his thoughts. His hand reached for his cup, but he hesitated, staring down at the deep red liquid that swirled within. His mind was not in this room, not really. It was out there, somewhere beyond the walls of the city, where the promise of battle loomed like a storm on the horizon. He had never been to war — he was a green boy in that respect — never felt the clash of steel or the blood of an enemy on his hands. And yet, he was ready — had to be ready.
“I’m thinking,” he murmured, taking a long sip of the wine, though its taste seemed dull, foreign. “There’s much to think about.”
Myra’s smile deepened, though there was something melancholy behind it. She crossed her arms and rested her chin on her other hand that wasn’t holding a goblet, watching him with that same curious patience. “Men like you always have much to think about,” she said, her tone light, teasing. “You come from castles and lands, with duties and titles that weigh on your shoulders.” Myra tilted her head, watching him through half-lidded eyes. “Tell me about it, Henrik of Faircastle,” she said, her voice soft and coaxing. “I’ve never been that far west. Is it as grand as the stories say?”
Henrik looked at her. “Grand?” he repeated, a faint smile touching his lips. “It’s. . . quieter than this city, and the streets of Fairport are much cleaner. Stone towers on the edge of the world, overlooking the sea. The wind never stops, day or night, and the air smells of salt. If you stand on the highest parapet, you can see for miles. Nothing but water. On a clear day, they say you can see the coast of the Reach.”
“It sounds like something out of a song.”
“I suppose it does. But that’s the truth of it. The world out there is wild, endless. Every time I stood on that parapet, I felt as if I could leap into the wind and let it carry me to places unknown. I’d watch the ships sail by, vanishing over the horizon, and I’d think — what’s beyond that line? What lands lie waiting?” He set his cup down with a soft clink, the dull wine forgotten though his head felt numb and his tongue loose. “I always wanted to find out. To see it all — the Free Cities, the deserts of Dorne, maybe even the lands beyond the Narrow Sea. Faircastle is beautiful, yes, but quiet.”
“I’ve never seen the sea,” she said calmly. “Just the Blackwater from the windows but the waters are so dark. I imagine the Sunset Sea is clearer, a lot bluer like your House sigil. But I’ve never been beyond the walls of King’s Landing. Sometimes I wonder what it must feel like. . . to stand on the edge of the world and look out at nothing but water.”
Henrik glanced at her, surprised by the wistfulness in her tone. In the three occurrences that he’d seen Myra, she was not a wistful person — she was grounded, always present, a woman who had seen and heard it all. But now, as she stood beside him, her gaze far away, he saw something different in her, something almost fragile. Or maybe it was the wine that caused him to see things.
“It feels like freedom,” Henrik said. “But even there, standing at the boundary, you’re never truly free. The wind pulls you, the water beckons, but you can’t follow. Not if you have a castle behind you.”
“No one is ever free,” she murmured. “Not truly.”
They fell into silence again, the night pressing in around them. The city stretched beneath the moonlight, and his thoughts sat like stones in his chest.
“Will you go back?” Myra asked suddenly. “To Faircastle? After all this?”
Henrik stared down into his cup. The crimson was a shade too dark for his tastes. “I don’t know,” he divulged. “I don’t know what waits for me, after. . .”
“Is it the battle that troubles you?”
“Everything’s a battle these days. If it’s not the sword, it’s the mind. But yes, the closer it gets, the harder it is to think of anything else.”
“You could just leave, go back to Faircastle, live your life out there. You can choose to, no, that’s more than most of the people here can say?”
“I could, but no, I can’t leave, not now. This is something I must face. To prove, perhaps, that I am more than I seem. More than just some boy chasing dreams of adventure.”
Myra’s gaze softened, the faintest trace of a smile playing on her lips. “And what will you do, Henrik of Faircastle, when the blood spills and the battle begins? What if it isn’t as glorious as your stories say?”
Henrik stared out the window, his fingers tightening around the stem of his wine glass. The weight of her words pressed on him, but he pushed it aside. “It will be. Maybe not in the way the songs tell it, but there’s honour in fighting for what’s right, for your house and your people. That’s what I know.”
A soft sigh escaped Myra’s lips as she set her cup down. “War changes men. I’ve seen that enough times. It hardens them, twists them. You can go into it with all the ideals in the world, but it doesn’t care. And when it’s over, there’s no turning back. You’ll never be the same.”
Henrik shook his head, more out of defiance than certainty. “I won’t let that happen. I won’t lose myself to it. I have to believe there’s still a way to come out of this with honour intact, with something worth holding onto.”
“And if there isn’t?”
Henrik didn’t answer right away. The flickering candlelight cast shadows across the walls, and for the briefest moment, he allowed himself to feel the fear lurking beneath his bravado. But he couldn’t let it show. Not to Myra, not to anyone.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said at last, turning toward the window. “I’ll find a way. I have to.”
“You’re brave, Henrik of Faircastle. Foolish, but brave. Bravery is a luxury for men like you,” she said, her eyes narrowing slightly. Her tone was anything but admiration. “Especially for those like us, who live in the margins. We cannot afford certain luxuries in our little lives.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “You deserve more than this life. You deserve—”
“Don’t,” she interrupted gently, raising a hand to silence him. “Don’t pity me. I made my choices, and I’ve found my way to survive. I am not ashamed of that. It’s just that. . . I’ve seen what honour can do to a person when they’re shattered.”
“What do you mean?”
She leaned back in her chair, her expression contemplative. “I’ve watched men like you chase after their dreams, only to lose everything in the process. They fight for recognition, for glory, or anything else they tell themselves to drag themselves out of the mud — and in the end, it’s never enough. War chews men up, swallows them and rarely throws them out whole. They’re left empty, plagued by what they’ve sacrificed.”
Henrik shivered, unable to look away from the hard features reflected in her expression. “And you don’t believe in fighting for something?”
“I believe in surviving,” Myra replied, her tone resolute. “I believe in waking up each day, finding a reason to keep going, no matter how small it might be. Some days, that’s all you can do.”
Henrik studied her carefully. There was something in her words, something beneath the surface — an edge of knowing, of experience, though she hid it well behind her soft tone and dreams — of her lowered gaze. “What do you know of fighting, Myra?” he asked curiously.
She didn’t answer at first, her eyes still lowered, her fingers tracing slow circles around the edge of her cup. When she finally spoke, her voice was faint. “Everyone fights in their own way, m’lord. Even those of us who don’t carry swords.”
He thought of Sansa suddenly — the name clinging to his heart like a shadow he could not shake — and a lump rose in his throat, so fierce that he dared not look at Myra in case she peered right through him. He threw his head back and swallowed the wine down in one gulp. Myra’s hair caught the candle flame and he noticed how wrong the shade of red was, lighter than the wine but not light enough. And her eyes — a soft brown than the blue he’d been accustomed to. The night air brushed against his skin, cooling the warmth of the chamber, but it did little to ease the tightness in his chest. Her words had unsettled him in ways he hadn’t expected.
When she finally spoke again, her voice was more calculated. “Forgive me, m’lord Henrik,” she murmured, her head bowing slightly as if she had overstepped. “It’s not my place to speak of such things. I only meant — well, it’s none of my business, truly.”
Henrik turned then, watching her with furrowed brows. Myra’s eyes were downcast, her hands lightly folded in her lap as though she were trying to shrink into the space she occupied. Her earlier boldness had receded, and she looked once more like the courtesan she was — a woman who knew her role, how to behave with the men who held coin and titles.
“I’m not angry with you,” Henrik said after a moment. The idea was absurd. “You’re free to speak your mind.”
Myra smiled faintly, though the curve of her lips didn’t match her stare. “A kind offer, m’lord, I’m grateful. But men with titles rarely wish to hear what’s in the mind of a girl like me.”
Henrik felt a flicker of shame, though he wasn’t entirely sure why. “I asked, didn’t I? I came here.”
“Yes, you did.” Myra’s gaze lifted to meet him for a brief moment, but then she turned away. “But asking and wanting to hear the answer is not always the same thing.”
“Tell me,” he said firmly. “I will listen.”
“If you say so, m’lord.”
“Good, then tell me something now, Myra, do you believe in hope?”
She giggled as if it was a jest, looking down at her hands. “Hope? It’s a pretty word.” Her smile slipped to a tepid expression. “I’ve seen what happens when people hope too much. They stick to it like a lifeline, and when it snaps. . . well, they’re left drowning. War is no place for dreams.”
Henrik flinched, not at her words but at the way they cut so close to the bone. His whole life had been built on dreams. But here, in this quiet chamber, those dreams felt distant, almost childish.
“So you believe I’m just a boy playing at war,” he said quietly. “I’m right, am I not? That I don’t understand what’s coming. It’s okay, I won’t be angry, tell me.”
“I think you’re kind, my sweet lord,” Myra replied, her gaze softening. “Kinder than most of the men I’ve known or who come here. But kindness doesn’t survive war. Not in the way you think it will and it’s naïve to think so.”
Henrik frowned. He pushed himself to his feet. The city stretched out beneath them, bathed in the pale light of the moon. Somewhere in the distance, a bell tolled, its low, mournful sound echoing through the streets.
“I’m not naïve,” he said at last, though the uncertainty in his voice betrayed him. “I know what’s at stake.”
Myra looked at him for a long moment. Finally, she sighed, her shoulders sagging ever so slightly. “I hope you’re right,” she said. “I really do. Perhaps you’ll be one of the luckier ones.”
Sansa returned to his mind once more. She was a flower blooming amidst the rubble of a war-torn garden, and the very idea of losing her was a wound that throbbed with each breath. He couldn’t fail. The thought of Stannis’s men overrunning the city sent a chill down his spine, a dark wave of dread washing over him. If he faltered, if he didn’t stand strong, it would mean death — not just for him but for her as well. He wasn’t afraid of death, not truly, as all men had to die someday. But the thought of Sansa’s fate in the hands of others, of her being torn apart, violated by the cruelty of the enemy during war, was a torment he could hardly bear. Henrik tasted bitterness and the tang of iron, realising with a grimace that he’d bitten the inside of his cheek. He let his tongue settle as a soothing balm.
“M’lord Henrik?” Myra’s voice was soft, coaxing. “Where did you go just now?”
“Nowhere,” he said, watching as her robe dripped down to reveal a bit of skin. “I believe I should be heading back soon — Rubin will be looking for me.”
She rose from her seat, and a smile that stirred long-buried desires played upon her lips, a smile that had once left him breathless as she leaned in to greet him with a kiss upon his arrival at the brothel, his cheeks aglow with warmth.
“So soon?” she teased. “Time has a way of slipping through our fingers, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, it does.” His heart pounded in anticipation as he rose while she walked closer towards him. Her auburn hair gleamed lighter all of a sudden and he felt as if he couldn’t breathe. It was just the right shade he’d been thinking of all evening.
“M’lord?”
“Just. . . just wait,” he murmured heavily as he leaned in towards her neck and breathed in deeply like a starving man, smelling hyacinths. It wasn’t the heady perfume Sansa wore — not as dizzying or intoxicating enough to bring a man to his knees — but if he closed his eyes. . . Perhaps if I squint my eyes this way the red becomes more flamed-coloured. Kissed by fire, resembling a Tully’s. “Just a bit longer,” he repeated with a whisper.
Henrik reached out, brushing his fingers against her cheek, the warmth of her skin igniting a flame deep within him. He pulled her towards him by her waist and he heard a soft moan ringing against his ears. His breathing grew heavier and he began to lay kisses against her neck before trailing toward her collarbones. Myra leaned into him, her body pressing against his. He moved upwards and pressed his mouth against hers, his eyes closed and his mind racing. Her experience made her a good kisser and he groaned against her lips with a low heat burning in his belly.
“What is it that you desire, m’lord?” she asked between gasps.
“I want. . . I—”
Craving. The word twisted in his mind. His heart pounded in rhythm with her breath, and he leaned closer. He paused, his breath catching as he looked into her eyes — dark and sultry. I want, I want, I want. . . He desired so fiercely it near smothered him, like drowning in deep water. His mind, once clear, now swam with thoughts of soft blue eyes, clearer than the sky on a winter’s morn — eyes that haunted his waking hours and whispered to him in dreams. His heart ached in ways it had never before, as though a hand had reached inside his chest and squeezed. A pain both terrible and sweet, a longing that consumed him more than fear or hunger ever had.
His mind was muddled, thick as if he’d downed a flagon of milk of the poppy, each thought sluggish and slipping away like water through his fingers; he blinked rapidly, watching her eyes shift from dark to blue. For a moment, they weren’t hers anymore — another girl stared back at him, haunting and familiar. . .
Mayhaps it was just the reflection of the candle. Henrik found that he didn’t particularly care. He could die tomorrow, or years from now, old and fat in his chambers at Faircastle, and never come close to what he truly desired. Yet, standing here, with her in his arms, it felt as if all he wanted lay within his grasp. I could have it all.
Myra’s hands moved to Henrik’s jawline, stroking his flesh, before drifting to his cheek and then tangling her long fingers in his brown hair. The room blurred as if he was trying to read a long letter with a tiny, indescribable script. He could feel her hard nipples against his chest. Her fingers, delicate as silk, glided down the panes of his chest, light as a whisper. The touch sent a shiver through him, one he couldn’t suppress, and before he knew it, she was undoing the laces of his breeches.
Henrik’s breath caught in his throat, heart hammering, each gasp harder to draw than the last. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, lost in the sensation of her hands and the wild, aching rush it stirred in him. It almost felt like torture with how slow she was going. His head pounded as fast as the hooves of a large palfrey as her graceful, velvety hands reached for his dick.
Her hands are always so soft and delicate. Just like a perfect lady. No blemishes or scars. He marvelled at her hands sometimes, the way they’d fold neatly in her lap, so still and graceful; when she held a lemon cake, nibbling at its edges with such delicate care, never spilling a crumb, as if by some small miracle she could do no wrong. It was a quiet elegance, one that left him staring longer than he should, captivated by the simple grace of her every movement. Or when she poured a cup of honeyed tea, her nails trimmed and clean, each one a pearl against the delicate porcelain cup, with the faintest smile on her lips and the light catching in her auburn hair, the colour of a rich sunset.
He hissed as the cool air from the window slammed against his lower part. His mouth fell open as she began stroking. He bit his lip and held back a whimper, his breathing growing heavier. His eyes were lidded as she moved with deliberate slowness, teasing him, each stroke sending shivers through his body. He could feel his muscles tense, fighting the urge to completely lose himself in the sensation. A groan escaped his mouth. Then, she removed her hand abruptly as quickly as if she had touched a flame. His eyes snapped open and a desperate whine escaped him. . .
Suddenly, before he could voice anything, she dropped down onto her knees and he almost choked. He couldn’t turn his gaze away from the auburn-haired woman — beautiful and inviting, as she released his shaft from the confines of his dark breeches. His whole body convulsed when she took his hard, leaking cock into his mouth. Blinding, hot, white spots erupted near his vision as if he were about to black out.
“Fuck. . .” he groaned, his chest rising and falling, “Yes. . . don’t stop, please—”
It was so warm and wet, the sensation consuming him, sending waves of pleasure through his body. It felt amazing as if he could melt into it, dissolve completely in the heat and softness surrounding him. It was overwhelming, almost unbearable, and yet he wanted more — needed more.
She swallowed him down nearly entirely, her throat constricting around the hot, sensitive skin. Henrik cried out in hapless whines, his hands forming into fists as he balanced against the window sill, the marble digging into his palms, his knees weakening.
He threw his head back and shut his eyes, his mouth open and gaping. All he could picture was pale, blue eyes and somehow that made him harder. He could feel it. Feel the rolling of her tongue over the top, feel his own pulse pound down his dick when she swallows half its length. He couldn’t just feel it, but see it too, and as the flame-haired girl bobbed back up before plunging again, once, twice. Henrik groaned and buried his fingers into her hair, pulling her towards him, holding her there. Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop. He’d die if she did. Mindless, incomprehensible words tumbled from his mouth.
She knew what she was doing, her tongue flat against his length, inviting Henrik to push his cock deeper into her mouth. And so he did and gave a loud shout. All he could picture was her. She consumed all his senses.
As he spilt himself deep into her mouth, she swallowed each rope that escaped, and a primal fire ignited within him. He bit his lip hard, feeling the sting as blood welled forth, a desperate attempt to ground himself in the moment. The pleasure surged through him, overwhelming and exquisite, and he could not contain the cry that tore from his throat — her name echoed loudly in his mind again and again like a desperate prayer to the gods.
It was raining when he finally left The Gilded Dove. He pulled the hood of his cloak over his head, the fur heavy with the weight of the rain. It shielded his face, casting his features into shadow, enough to keep him from being recognised. The streets were nearly deserted at this time, save for a few drunks stumbling home and the occasional shadowy hooded figure darting between alleyways. Henrik moved with purpose, his boots barely making a sound as he swerved around the large puddles gathering in the uneven stone.
When he entered the tavern, longing for a quick drink after the tasteless Arbor and a few moments to himself before Rubin breathed down his neck once more, the room was lit only by flickering candles and the occasional glow from the hearth. The smell of stale ale clung to the air, mingling with the faint trace of sweat and smoke. Henrik slipped inside, shaking off the lingering coolness of the night, his cloak still damp from the streets of King’s Landing. The small chatter of patrons filled the room — one or two tradesmen and three soldiers crowded around tables, their mugs raised in laughter or quiet conversation. He ensured that his sword was concealed. Gods knew he didn’t want any trouble.
Henrik made his way to the far corner of the tavern. He settled into a worn wooden chair, its legs creaking beneath him, and nodded at the young barmaid, slipping over a coin from beneath his cloak. She didn’t ask what he wanted — just set a chipped mug of ale in front of him, swiping the coin, before moving on, her skirts rustling as she passed. He raised the mug to his lips, letting the sour liquid slide down his throat. He peered around and his eyes fell on a nearby table.
There were three of them — two young, scruffy-looking men and an older one with a face lined from years of hard living. Their clothes were worn, dirt clinging to the edges, and their hands were calloused, workers or former soldiers by the look of them. The younger men listened intently as the older one spoke, his hand slicing through the air with each bitter word.
“King Joffrey,” the man hissed, leaning in closer, his eyes flicking left and right. “He’s no king, just a brat sitting on a golden chair while we starve. Ho’w many nights have we gone without bread? Them Lannisters don’t give a damn shite about us folk.”
Henrik tensed, keeping his eyes on his drink, though his ears were now finely attuned to every word. He’d heard discontent in the city before, been caught up in it at its worst, but this. . . this was different. There was venom here, deep and festering. His gaze caught on the fine leather gloves and the richly lined surcoat resting on his arm, the silver thread of the three ships of Fair Isle gleaming faintly in the firelight. The garments marked him noble but now was not the time for that. Best not to draw attention, not here. He shifted slightly, letting the sleeve fall to obscure the embroidery.
“Joffrey’s no king,” the older man spat, leaning close to his companions. His voice was thick with resentment, the cadence of Flea Bottom in every syllable. “Bastard’s just a puppet fer them lions. Lannisters feasting on roast while we choke on piss-water and stale bread.”
Well, the man had the right of that for sure, thought Henrik with a raised eyebrow. Joffrey was no King to be proud of. Still, Henrik kept his eyes lowered and pulled his hood up. He didn’t know if these men would recognise him from the day of the bread riots but it’d be best to be cautious.
“Seen it m’self,” one of the younger men growled, his voice cracked like a man who hadn’t eaten well in weeks. “Me mam’s got nothin’. Nothin’. Gave her the last bit of coin I had, but it don’t stretch far. If this goes on for long, she’s gonna be forced, ain’t she, to sell herself to any man that comes by, and I ain’t letting that happen. While that boy sits in his silks, we can’t even scrape a loaf o’ bread. What kinda king lets his people starve?”
“Ain’t no king,” the older man slurred, his mouth curling into a sneer. “Never was. He’s the bitch queen’s brat. She’s the one runnin’ things, spinnin’ her web and all. And that Imp. . .” He spat onto the floor, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “That little demon’s no better. He’s the cause o’ all this, I’m tellin’ ya, ne’vr trust a dwarf, lads.”
“And Stannis? They say he’s coming. Say he’ll take the city and burn the Lannisters out any day now.”
“Aye, Stannis is the true king, not that golden-haired pup. And when he comes, we’ll see them lions thrown from their bloody towers. The whol’ bloody lot of them. Stannis’ll give us what we need. Bread on our tables, meat in our pots. He don’t suffer no fools, that one. Them Lannisters’ll choke on their gold, mark me.”
Henrik shifted in his seat, careful not to attract attention. His fingers drummed against the worn wood of the table as he listened.
“And they say that girl. . . that Stark girl, the king’s betrothed, she’s still sittin’ pretty up there with them lions, ain’t she?” The older man’s voice was thick with contempt, his eyes gleaming with malice. “Bet she’s jus’ as bad as the rest. Traitor’s daughter. Probably dancin’ with them, eatin’ her fill while we choke on last year’s shit.”
Henrik’s jaw tightened beneath the shadow of his hood. He set the mug down with a soft clink, his pulse quickening. Sansa. Her name tasted like iron on his tongue. He bit his lip in anger lest he draw his sword. How dare these worthless, good-for-nothing louts even mention her name?
“Pretty little thing, though, ain’t she? That Stark girl. Saw her in the streets once, I did.” He licked his lips, his eyes narrowing as if picturing her in front of him. “All highborn airs with her blue eyes an’ sweet face. Bet she’s a right handful, she is. Ain’t it a waste, though? Wastin’ away up there with them lions. Probably could fetch a good bit o’ coin if someone took her outta the castle.” His grin was crooked, dark with implication.
Henrik’s grip on the mug tightened, the wood creaking softly under his fingers. He could feel the heat rising in his cheeks, blood rushing to his ears. He slammed it on the table and rose to his feet swiftly, slamming his hands on the table with a deafening thud, the wood of the chair creaking loudly. The heat of his anger was making his vision blur. He noticed that the conversation had halted as they turned to stare at him, blinking suspicious looks. He stood out like a sore thumb. His hand shot inside his cloak and circled the hilt tightly. I could cut through these fuckers easily enough. It’d be like slicing an apple. I wouldn’t even break a sweat. Who will miss them?
“Is there a problem, boy?” one of the younger men drawled, eyeing Henrik up and down. “What is it? Wife left ya or somethin’?” He snickered. The bravado in his voice masked a hint of uncertainty, but it only fueled the fire inside Henrik.
One swift movement, one flash of steel, and he could silence this mockery, this degradation.
But then, through the haze of his wrath, he caught a glimpse of the barmaid. She stood behind the counter, her hands trembling as she wiped down a tankard. Her wide eyes darted between him and the men, repressed fear etched deep into her features. The sight of her frightened expression pierced through his anger like a sharp dagger. Henrik took a deep breath, willing himself to stay calm.
“Nothing’s wrong. Maybe it’s the hunger talking,” he said coolly, the words dripping with disdain. “Or perhaps your heads are just as empty as your bellies.”
The older man scowled, his bravado faltering for a moment. “What’s that supposed to mean, eh?”
“It means,” Henrik replied, voice low and laced with disdain, “if you had half a brain, you’d know better than to speak of a lady like that. Especially a highborn one. But then again, it’s easy to forget decency when you’ve never had to stand for anything in your pathetic little life. Enjoy your piss-water while you can.”
For a moment, there was silence, thick and heavy, as Henrik’s words settled over the table. The older man’s face twisted, the sneer faltering. His eyes narrowed, studying Henrik more closely now, the rough lines of his face twitching as he took in the cloak, the gloves, the richness of the surcoat hidden beneath. The silver thread of the three ships on Henrik’s sleeve had slipped into view again.
“Wait a bloody moment. . .” one of the younger men muttered, his voice suddenly uncertain. His eyes flicked between Henrik’s cloak and the surcoat, recognition dawning. “I recognise that. . . he’s a lord.”
The change in their demeanour was instant. The bravado, the bitterness, it drained from them like blood from a wound. The younger men exchanged uneasy glances, their hands pulling back from their mugs, fidgeting nervously. Even the older man, who moments ago had spat venom with every word, shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
“A lord, eh?” the old man muttered, trying to keep his tone steady, but the edge had slipped away. He eyed Henrik’s hand where it still rested on the hilt of his blade. “Didn’t mean no offence, m’lord. Just talk, that’s all. The times bein’ what they are. . . folk are hungry, is all.”
Henrik stared down at them, his gaze cold, letting the silence stretch a little longer, watching them squirm. His pulse still pounded in his ears, and the urge to draw his sword, to shut them up for good, still burned in the back of his mind.
“Is that what you call it?” Henrik’s voice was smooth, but it carried the weight of iron, striking like a hammer in the quiet. “Talk? You’d do well to remember who you speak of, and where you are. Men have lost their tongues for far less.”
With a last look at the barmaid, who stood wide-eyed and trembling behind the counter, Henrik turned on his heel. He pushed the door, stepping back into the rain-soaked air, his heart still racing. The sounds of the tavern faded behind him, replaced by the distant clamour of the city. The rain had let up and he took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the crisp, cool air. When Stannis came, he hoped that those men were one of the first to go. He pictured them impaled on spikes and a satisfied smile crept on his lips as he strode towards his horse to take him up Aegon’s Hill to the Red Keep.
➶✶
Henrik was never a devout godly man despite Rubin’s offering to lecture him on it. He’d kept the faith of the Seven and there’d been a Sept in Fair Isle as long as anyone could remember, but to him, it was little more than stone and sermons. He paid his respects as was expected, bowed his head at nuptials and funerals, even dropped a coin or two in the alms box when his lord father gestured for him to.
The Sept of Baelor loomed before Henrik, its pale domes and spires etched against the dusky sky like the outstretched fingers of forgotten gods. His boots echoed across the marble floor as he entered the sept, the vast space hollow and cold despite the golden light filtering through stained glass. The flickering flames of a hundred candles cast wavering shadows over the statues of the Seven, their faces blank and distant, as if they, too, had abandoned the city to its looming fate.
A place of peace, they said, a place to find strength. But now, the silence felt like judgment.
He didn’t know what compelled him to come here. But he didn’t know what else to do. Sansa prayed to her old gods, perhaps he could do the same, gain strength from it somehow. He needed every bit of it soon enough. Steel might not be enough to keep them from the arms of the Stranger, so perhaps prayer might do. His fingers brushed the hilt of his sword. His armour would be heavier still in battle, but nothing felt as heavy as the uncertainty gnawing at him now. The battle was upon them. Ships, wildfire, steel, and blood — those were the tools of war. But here, in this place of whispered prayers and quiet desperation, it felt as if none of that would be enough.
Henrik’s steps slowed as he approached the altar, his eyes catching the flicker of shadows that clung to the corners of the sept. The air felt dense, like a slow breath he couldn’t release. Before him, the statues of the Seven rose in judgmental silence — the Father with his scales of justice, the Warrior’s sword glinting in the candlelight, the Mother’s arms forever outstretched in mercy. He had seen these images a thousand times, but tonight, the stone felt more like a barrier, something between him and the gods who might listen. Please, gods he prayed, clasping his hands together, the cold marble digging into his knees. Please, guide me through this.
A soft rustle stirred the stillness, and Henrik turned his head to see the Silent Sisters moving ghost-like along the walls, their veils low, their hands gentle as they lit candles at the feet of the statues. They were the keepers of the dead, a constant reminder of what lay ahead. Death walked with them, unseen but felt in every step, and the sight sent a shiver down his spine. How many men would they tend to after tomorrow? A hundred, a thousand? Would they tend to him before his body was shipped to Fair Isle to join his ancestors?
Henrik swallowed hard. He wasn’t sure what to say. His lips moved silently at first, the words sticking in his throat like dry ash. How does one pray when one does not believe? His hands clenched and unclenched, the prayers from his childhood circling his mind but slipping through his grasp like water. He closed his eyes and breathed in the scent of old stone, candle wax, and faint incense.
“Father, give me justice,” he murmured. His voice sounded foreign in the silence. “Warrior,” he whispered next, his eyes opening to the statue with the sword. “Give me strength and courage.”
He had been taught that men did not ask for courage, that they were born with it or forged it through deeds. But courage felt elusive now, slipping like shadows. The fire of battle, so often sung of by knights and bards, seemed distant — unreachable for a boy who had only trained with dulled steel.
The steel blade in the Warrior’s grip looked so solid, so sure. Henrik’s own sword hung heavy at his hip, but the assurance of the blade was a poor substitute for the doubt that gnawed at him. He thought of his men, each one relying on him, trusting him with their lives. What would he do if he failed them?
He was but one and five years old. What did he know of leading men? He had seen the maps, learnt the strategies, heard the old tales of heroism, but they were just that — stories, words on parchment or sung by bards. He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting the wave of fear that rose within him, clenching his fists and forcing himself to focus.
“Maiden,” he began softly. Sansa’s face flashed in his mind — soft, gentle, framed by hair that shimmered like copper in the sunlight. “Grant me mercy. Protect her. Keep her safe from harm. And my men. And my house.” He squeezed his eyes shut again, desperation creeping into his voice. “Mother. Give me the wisdom to know what to do, and the bravery to do it.”
He bowed his head lower. His father’s absence was a chasm he could not cross. The Lord of Fair Isle should have been here, should have led their men, should have stood at his side. But he was gone, and Henrik was alone. He had always dreamed of this — of the day he would stand tall as heir, command his house’s forces, and lead them to glory. But the reality was far crueller than his boyish dreams.
“Let me not fail my family or shame my lord father,” Henrik whispered, the words raw in his throat. His father’s voice echoed in his mind, stern and unforgiving, the weight of his legacy pressing down on Henrik like a stone slab. My son, Henrik, quick with a sword but slow with a scroll. It’d stung him, far more than he’d be willing to admit, but now it was all it could think of. The fate of Fair Isle rested on him. There would be no second chances, no kind words to guide him. He had to be the man his father expected him to be — the man he had not yet become. He had no choice as death was waiting to greet him on the other side if he didn’t.
The oppressive silence of the sept wrapped around him. The gods stared down at him, their stone eyes unreadable. Henrik felt small beneath their gaze, a child playing at a man’s game. For the first time in his life, he hoped the gods were listening.
➶✶
Outside, the faint murmur of the city stirred beneath the night, a distant hum that mingled with the rustling of banners and loud shouts. Henrik stood at the edge of the yard, his back leaning against the cool stone wall, watching the sky turn from a pale blue to the bruised purple of dusk. Men moved in and out of the yard, their armour clinking softly, muted conversations rising and falling in hushed tones. He wondered how many of them would survive and come back. The smell of sweat clung to the breeze that swept in, along with something else — something graver, a weight in the air that made Henrik’s chest feel tight.
Ras approached, feet scuffing against the mud-splattered cobblestones as he made his way toward Henrik with a grin. He clapped a hand on Henrik’s shoulder, his breath already reeking of cheap wine.
“Come on, little lord. If this is to be our last night, might as well make it worth remembering, eh? I know a place down by the docks. Good girls. Won’t cost us much, either.”
Henrik stiffened under the weight of Ras’s hand. He glanced at the older soldier. Henrik had witnessed all too often in the past few days men laughing a little too loudly, drinking a little too much as if they could chase away the imminent fight by drowning in wine and flesh. He thought of Myra and the flash of Sansa’s deep, blue eyes and felt a rush of shame. He would be dishonouring himself and Lady Sansa.
“I’m not in the mood,” Henrik muttered. He shrugged off Ras’s hand, pushing himself away from the wall.
Ras gave him a sidelong look, his grin fading. “No one’s ever in the mood for dying either, but here we are.”
Henrik’s chest tightened, the familiar nibbling doubt creeping back in. He didn’t want to snap at Ras, didn’t want to let his frustration spill out. But the thought of losing himself in a seedy brothel while the city stood on the edge of ruin — it felt wrong. Hollow.
“Go, if you must,” Henrik said, softer this time. “But I’ll not join you.”
Ras hesitated then nodded once. Without another word, he turned and walked away, joining a crooning group of men, his figure fading into the shadows. Henrik sighed wearily, rubbing his temple. The knot in his chest hadn’t eased. He glanced up at the towering walls, an overwhelming urge consuming him. He began to walk through the dimly lit corridors, the cold stone echoing beneath his boots as he left the yard behind. It was as if the castle itself was holding its very breath.
He saw Sansa at the far end of the hallway, staring out of an open window. She was alone, with no sign of servants or her handmaiden or even the Kingsguard hovering near her. Henrik stopped for a moment, just watching her. She looked so far away, lost in thought. Her back was straight, hands folded lightly in front of her, her face calm but unreadable. But Henrik could sense the tension in her posture, the quiet weight she carried like a mantle.
He took a breath, then stepped forward, his movements quieter now, almost reverent. She turned at the sound of his approach, her enchanting blue eyes meeting him. A vision stirred in his mind, vivid and haunting — Myra, alluring and playful, gazing up at him from her knees, her eyes, the wrong colour, swirling with a tempest of promise. He swallowed the lump in his throat, a feeling of guilt slamming against his ribs like a bruising fist. He felt like a lecher, unworthy to meet her gaze, for his thoughts were stained with sin, twisting like a serpent in the dark corners of his mind. She’s a lady, he reminded himself almost desperately. A highborn lady about to be Queen of the Realm someday. He should fall before his knees, begging for her forgiveness for acting so dishonourably as if he were a common sellsword. They lingered there for a moment, neither saying anything, the silence between them thick.
“Sansa,” Henrik said roughly, clearing his throat. Her name felt like a prayer on his lips. “I wanted to see you. . . before the morrow. I’m sure you’ve heard by now. Stannis intends to attack.”
She tilted her head slightly, her lips parting as if she wanted to speak but wasn’t sure what to say. The silence stretched for a heartbeat longer before she nodded, her eyes never leaving his.
“I wasn’t sure if you would see me,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. “Everyone else is. . . preoccupied.”
Henrik stepped as close as he dared, stopping just in front of her. He had no right to touch her, not after his wicked thoughts but it was as if some invisible string pulled his gaze to her. His eyes drifted to the window, taking in the view of the city below, then back to her.
“I needed to see you,” he admitted quietly. “I couldn’t. . . leave without—” He stopped, the words catching in his throat. Without saying goodbye. Without seeing you, one last time. “This could very well be our last night for most of us. Though I’m sure it won’t come to that if the gods are just.” He tried to smile.
She shifted slightly, her hands tightening around the edge of her cloak, revealing the intricate layers of her attire beneath. The gown she wore was a deep sapphire blue, the fabric shimmering like a pool of moonlit water, adorned with delicate silver embroidery that traced the curves of her waist and flowed down the length of her skirts. His eyes trailed her every movement as if he’d be struck down by some outer power if he missed a slight exhale from those pink, maddening lips. She was a vision of divine beauty. The air between them felt taut, stretched like the moments before a bowstring snapped.
“I’ll protect the city,” Henrik said, his voice low and steady, but the weight behind the words clung to the quiet like a vow. “Whatever happens, I’ll stand at the gates. We’ll hold them back. I’ll fight until my sword shatters and my shield breaks.”
Her gaze flickered to the side, her lips tightening. She nodded, but the motion was small, distant. He wasn’t sure if she believed him. He wasn’t sure if he believed himself, but the need to offer her comfort outweighed the fearful doubts chewing at his gut.
“And I’ll come back.” He tried to catch her eye again. “I promise you that. Will you, uh, will you be safe?”
She nodded, brief, fleeting. “Yes, with. . . with the other ladies and the Queen in Mager’s Holdfast.”
A lock of red-gold hair slipped loose across her temple, fluttering gently in the evening breeze. Henrik wanted to reach out, to brush it back, but his hands stayed at his sides, clenched into fists. Her eyes flickered, and Henrik thought he saw a flash of something — fear, perhaps? Sadness? She was afraid. And so was he.
But neither of them said it aloud though they could see it in their eyes.
She turned away slightly, glancing out the window again. The soft twilight bathed her in a delicate glow, and for a moment, she seemed almost unreal to him, as if she might vanish like a dream when morning came.
But she couldn’t be, she had to be flesh and blood, for no dream he could conjure would ever hold a fraction of the loveliness that was Sansa, no vision so luminous or alive could ever compare.
Sansa turned then, her eyes meeting his, searching his face for something. She parted her lips as if to say something, but the words seemed to falter on her tongue. Instead, she reached up, her slender fingers trembling slightly as she pulled a small handkerchief from the folds of her cloak. The fabric was pale and delicate, embroidered with silver thread — a lady’s token, unmistakable in its finery. His breath hitched, not willing himself to dare.
Henrik suddenly remembered the day Lady Alina had visited Faircastle, a distant cousin of his father. She was a radiant beauty, with hair like spun gold and laughter that sparkled like sunlight on the river. He’d fancied himself hopelessly in love at the time, blushing and stuttering over his words when she so much as looked at him. The castle buzzed with excitement at her arrival, and Henrik, a wide-eyed boy of five, was tasked with escorting her through the gardens. They wandered along the blooming paths, where the scent of honeysuckle filled the air and the soft chatter of the castle staff faded into the background.
As they strolled, Henrik, eager to impress, had narrated the tales of knights, lords and their ladies. Lady Alina had smiled softly, her dark eyes sparkling. “A true knight always carries a lady’s token,” she told him, her voice like music. “It reminds him of his duty and the heart he fights for.”
Sansa’s favour vividly brought back that memory. And he found himself speechless as he stood there. Sansa spoke once more.
“For luck, my lord,” she whispered. She held it out to him, her hand steady, but her breath caught in her throat. “You’ll. . . you’ll come back. I know you will. I will pray for your safe return.”
Henrik stared at the handkerchief for a moment, unsure of what to do. The gesture was intimate, laden with meaning, and he hesitated. His thoughts tumbled over themselves, wondering if this was meant for someone else — someone like King Joffrey, her betrothed. His stomach twisted at the thought. This wasn’t his place. He was no King, no rightful protector of the highborn lady before him.
An urge surged through Henrik’s throat, an impulsive tide that surged forth before he could silence it. “Sansa,” he blurted, his voice urgent and resolute, “you must listen to me. If the city falls, if the fires of chaos consume us all, you must escape. Flee King’s Landing at once.”
Her eyes widened, surprise etching itself upon her features. “My lord—”
“Please. Do not become prey to their savagery. I fear for your life amidst this brewing storm. If you find a way to send word. . . if I yet draw breath when the dust settles, I will come for you. I swear it upon my honour.”
Without thinking, he took the handkerchief from her hand, his fingers brushing hers for the briefest moment. The fabric felt cool and smooth in his palm, and Henrik clenched it tightly as if the gesture itself could bind him to his promise.
He looked down at it, then back at her, his voice thick. “Thank you for trusting this to me, my sweet lady,” he murmured. “I will cherish it dearly and will keep it safe.”
➶✶
On the fifth day of the month of the moon, scouts reported seeing Stannis’s fleet gathering and preparing for an assault. Lord Tyrion suspected that Stannis would choose to attack on the morrow due to the favourable conditions of the tide and the moonlight, which would benefit a night assault.
The moon hung high over King’s Landing, casting pale streaks of silver across the stone floor of Henrik’s chambers. The attendant tightened the strap of his cuirass. The air was full of tension, and the sounds from beyond his walls — the clatter of soldiers readying themselves for battle — seeped through like an ominous drumbeat.
Henrik stood still, his frame rigid beneath the weight of the battle armour. Unlike the ornamental doublets and tunics he’d worn to feasts or tourneys in Faircastle, this armour felt oppressive. Cold steel pressed against his skin, heavy plates layered over his body, locking him into place. He flexed his fingers, trying to loosen the stiffness in his limbs, but the metal clanked awkwardly, reminding him how little control he had in this new shell.
“Almost there, my lord,” muttered Caven, the attendant. His hands worked efficiently, though his voice was low and rough.
Next came the breastplate — dark steel with the sigil of House Farman engraved on its front, three silver ships. Henrik traced the outline of the ships with his eyes as Caven hoisted the plate up, the thick leather straps securing it to his frame. The weight increased, pressing down on him like the looming shadow of the night ahead. He shifted again, attempting to adjust, but his limbs felt awkward, constrained. His mouth was dry and his chest tight.
Henrik had worn armour before, of course — finely wrought pieces, light and polished, crafted more for spectacle than survival. He’d paraded through the streets of Fair Isle, cheered by the smallfolk, his brown hair catching the sun, his smile wide and sure. That armour had been a symbol of his status, an heir to House Farman. It gleamed in the sunlight, so magnificent that he felt like he was a prince. Henrik the Heir, they called him, with his bright smile and idle confidence.
But this. . . this was different.
This armour was built for war and, gods, could he feel it.
It clanked into place with a sound that echoed in the chamber, a hollow reminder that this was not practice, not a drill. Henrik’s sword leaned against the wall, waiting, sleek and sharp. It gleamed with a cruel beauty, a weapon meant for killing, not for display. He had it forged recently, to cut through flesh and armour as easily as an orange. It had always been an extension of his arm, a familiar companion. Yet now, with the weight of steel wrapped around him, even the idea of wielding it seemed strange.
He rolled his shoulders, trying to get accustomed to the bulk, but it only made the weight feel more suffocating. He could feel the rising panic in his chest as he glanced at his reflection in the dark glass of the window. The armour transformed him, swallowing him whole. He looked like one of the statues in Faircastle’s hall, frozen in stone, unmoving, unfeeling. What if I am making a mistake? Myra’s right, he thought bitterly. I am just a silly boy playing at war. No wonder my father didn’t want to bring me with him to the Riverlands when he answered Lord Tywin’s call for the banners.
Perhaps he should’ve listened to Rubin and gone back to Faircastle where it was safe before the castle walls. Back to where Alys waited, alone. His throat felt considerably tight as he tried to swallow. If Cavern saw any panic or anxiety painted on his face then he was considerate enough to not pay any attention. Henrik, quick with a sword, slow to a scroll. Well, it was very clear that he’d need the quickness of his sword much more now than any time before. The stakes here were not a broken lance or a bruised rib — they were lives, his among them.
The obviousness of his inexperience was clear to him when he caught sight of some of the soldiers in the courtyard. Their faces were battle-worn and grim-faced, beards overgrown and hard patterns lining their temples. Some had visible scars across their faces or arms and their arms and shoulders were thick with muscles. He traced his own face in the mirror, clean-shaven, smooth, and soft as a babe’s cheek, while his wide brown eyes were uncertain, causing him to feel ashamed. Too green, too young.
Caven’s hands continued their work, silent and methodical, fastening the pauldrons to Henrik’s shoulders. Henrik’s legs almost buckled. He took a slow breath, trying to calm the erratic rhythm of his heartbeat. With each piece of armour locked into place, he pushed the boy from Faircastle further away from his mind.
Caven stepped back, wiping sweat from his brow, his eyes flickering over the armour one last time. “It’s done, my lord,” he murmured.
“Thank you.” He barely recognised his own voice and felt like an imposter. How was he going to get through this when the battle hadn’t even started? Caven gave a bow and stepped back towards the door, most likely to report to Rubin of his task. A weary sigh escaped Henrik’s mouth as he strode around the chamber, the metal clanking with each step. He looked like one of those actors in the theatre, dressed as Aemon the Dragonknight or Florian the Fool. He felt far from any knight he’d know or heard about.
An unbidden thought came to him then. He thought of Ser Devron, Master-At-Arms at Faircastle, the man who had trained him since he was a boy. “You don’t have to be the best fighter in the realm, lad,” Ser Devron had told him once, “but you have to be the bravest. Your men won’t follow a sword — they’ll follow a heart.” Henrik had laughed then, thinking Ser Devron was trying to comfort him after a poor sparring session. But now, those words struck him with a force he hadn’t expected. What kind of heart did he have, here on the eve of battle? One that quaked under the weight of armour and doubt? Or one that could rise to meet the storm, no matter how ill-prepared he felt?
One thing was for sure. The battle was coming, whether he was ready or not. It was far too late to back out now.
➶✶
The moon, now swollen and pale, bathed the city in its cold light as Henrik stood atop the city walls. Beneath his feet, the ancient stone of the battlements felt solid, but his legs trembled within the confines of his armour. He gripped the stone parapet with steeled hands, trying to steady himself as he peered out into the night.
Out in the Blackwater, Stannis’s fleet moved like a silent beast creeping toward them, the outline of ships just barely visible in the dim light. Their black sails billowed as the wind carried them closer, and with every moment, the dark shapes seemed to grow, swallowing the horizon. His heart drummed in his chest, his breath short, ragged. Henrik’s mouth was dry, and no matter how hard he swallowed, the lump in his throat refused to go away.
His men stood behind him, about a hundred or more, their faces lit by the flickering torchlight from the walls. They were silent, eyes focused on the water or their feet, some whispering prayers under their breath. Some seemed even older than Rubin. He wondered what they thought of him. For the first time, he was grateful that Rubin stood beside him, expression set, and looking far better than Henrik.
He felt ashamed.
Fear coiled around his heart, tighter with each passing second. What would they think if they saw him now, heart hammering, palms sweaty under his gauntlets?
He felt like a coward. No, he was a coward. The truth was undeniable, nibbling at his insides as surely as the dread gnawed at his soul. The sight of the approaching fleet sent icy shivers down his spine, and with it came the urge to flee. To throw down his sword, to disappear into the night like a thief, to go back to Faircastle where the sea would protect him. To be safe.
Henrik clenched his jaw, pushing the thought away. Safe. There would be no safety in flight — not for him or anyone he cared about. Stannis’s men would breach the walls, and the city would fall into chaos. He could already picture it: the bloodshed, the screams of the innocent, the sight of Sansa, her fiery red hair pulled by some rough hand, dragged through the streets as her captors gloated over their spoils. The thought alone made his stomach turn.
He saw Tyrion in the distance and his mouth was moving. Henrik's heart pounded so violently he thought it might burst from his chest. His vision narrowed, ears straining to catch every word from Tyrion’s mouth, though the dwarf’s voice was barely audible over the crash of waves. Tyrion stood at the edge of the battlements, his face set in a grimace beneath that misshapen helmet. Henrik couldn’t help but grimace at the sight of him and he had a horrible feeling stewing in the pit of his belly. The flick of Lord Tyrion’s hand was all it took — one small gesture to set hell in motion.
A shout went up from the men below, their green-robed forms bustling in the shadows near the waterside. Henrik squinted into the gloom, barely able to make out the figures as they scurried about. What the fuck were they doing? They weren’t armoured with steel or armour. For a moment, the world held its breath. A single ship launched into the middle of the Baratheon fleet, lonely and pitiful.
Then it happened.
A line of brilliant, sickly green erupted from the riverbank, shooting across the water like a serpent unleashed. Henrik gasped, recoiling as the Blackwater itself seemed to ignite, the flames crawling hungrily over the surface, licking at the sky with fervent intensity. His breath caught in his throat, and his grip on the parapet tightened. He’d never seen anything like it, this was no mere fire, it was uncontrollable. All the water in the known realms wouldn’t be able to evade the monstrous flames. Was this hell?
The wildfire spread quickly, too quickly. At first, it was a thin line, tracing a path across the bay. But then it exploded outward, consuming everything in its path. The ships — Stannis’s ships, dozens of them — were caught in the inferno before their crews had time to scream. The first burst sent plumes of emerald fire swirling into the night, and soon the bay was aflame, a wall of light and heat surging toward the horizon.
Henrik stood frozen, transfixed by the sight. Awe and horror mixed in his chest, a sickening brew. The flames danced in grotesque shapes, flickering wildly. A ship’s mast snapped with a groan, collapsing into the water as its hull burned from within. Henrik thought he could hear the men aboard screaming, though the roar of the wildfire drowned out all sound. He prayed it was his imagination.
A cheer rose from his men, a ragged cry of triumph. Some even pounded their shields with gauntleted fists, exhilarated by the destruction. Their voices were hoarse, driven by the sheer terror of what they had witnessed — or perhaps by the desperate need to believe this was the end of it, that Stannis’s fleet would turn back, broken by the devastation. Please, Henrik begged inwardly. He was a lot less sure now than he had been a few moons ago. Surely Stannis couldn’t mean to go through with it now. The number of his men had to have dwindled, right?
But Henrik knew better. He felt it in his bones. This was no victory. Not yet.
The ships burned, yes, but they had not all been destroyed. Those too far from the first explosion were now struggling to pull away, their sails still unfurled, black against the green-lit sky. And more were coming, their hulls cutting through the water as if the firestorm ahead meant nothing. For every ship engulfed, another seemed to take its place. Stannis’s fleet was vast, unrelenting.
Henrik swallowed hard, trying to banish the fear lodged in his throat. He glanced at Rubin, standing as stoic as ever, eyes fixed on the flames. He wondered what was going through his mind: if he was horrified or merely indifferent to the spectacle. His men were still cheering, but Henrik felt none of their relief. The battle hadn’t truly begun, not for them. The fleet might burn, but Stannis’s army was still out there, on those ships or in the camps beyond. And once they reached the city walls, no amount of wildfire would keep them back.
A sudden gust of wind sent a flurry of embers swirling toward the battlements. Henrik flinched, watching the sparks drift across the sky like fireflies in the night. The heat from the flames was palpable even from here, burning against his skin, the smell of burning wood and flesh carried on the breeze. His stomach churned, bile rising in his throat as he forced himself to look away.
From the distance, the faint sound of drums echoed over the water, a deep, relentless rhythm. The ships still advancing carried siege weapons, massive battering rams and ladders meant to breach the walls. He could see them now, clearer in the glow of the flames, their outlines dark and menacing. His pulse quickened. He suddenly realised how ill-prepared they were for a siege.
“Hold the line,” Rubin muttered beside him as if sensing Henrik’s unease. His voice was steady, calm. “They’ll be here soon enough.”
Henrik nodded stiffly, though his legs felt like jelly beneath him. He tried to will the fear away, tried to force himself to breathe, but his heart wouldn’t slow. The cheer had died down now, replaced by the quiet rustle of armour and the shuffling of feet. Henrik felt their eyes on him again, waiting, watching. He straightened his back, forcing himself to meet their gazes. He had to look strong, even if he didn’t feel it. He had to be their lord now.
Brave, he reminded himself. I can be brave.
They were approaching the Mud Gate, intending to break through there and take the city. Henrik watched as they landed on the northern shore of the Blackwater. The walls groaned with anticipation. His breath puffed in ragged clouds into the night, the cold air doing little to cool his sweat-slicked skin beneath the armour.
Rubin’s hand clamped down on Henrik’s shoulder. “Look,” he muttered, nodding toward the water.
The first wave had reached the shore.
With a creaking groan, wooden gangplanks slammed down, bridging the gap between the enemy ships and the muddy banks. Dark figures, armour gleaming faintly in the unholy light, began pouring out, swords and spears raised high, banners whipping in the wind. Henrik’s heart pounded, drowning out the sound of the Blackwater’s hiss and crackle. Stannis’s men moved with purpose, disciplined and unflinching as they surged toward the walls.
A single arrow loosed from the ramparts above, its shaft hissing through the air before embedding itself in one of the advancing soldiers. The man stumbled, his body crumpling into the mud with a muted thud. Nobody stopped for him, some trod on him, but the force pushed forward. That one arrow was all it took. In an instant, the world exploded into motion.
Arrows rained down from the battlements, a deadly storm that fell upon the attackers. Men screamed, shields raised too late to stop the onslaught. Henrik watched, numb, as bodies began to pile, blood seeping into the earth, mixing with the mud. Some rushed on land to join those, swords and shields raised, their cries of pain and anger audible. Henrik’s sword felt impossibly heavy in his hand as he unsheathed it. The enemy was at the gates, pounding on the wooden door with massive battering rams. The gate shook under the force, wood splintering, the groan of it echoing in Henrik’s chest.
Rubin, always composed, took the lead and barked orders at the men, but the words barely registered in Henrik’s mind. He felt some of his men move to join the thick of the fighting but Henrik’s pulse thundered in his ears. Move. He tried to command his legs. Do something. But his body stayed frozen, locked in place by the weight of fear. He could only watch as his men were hacked to death, their faces torn and bloody. He recognised some of them. Alaric. Garrick. Owen. Joren with the crooked teeth. Some he didn’t even know but his father had trusted them to keep him safe and instead, he’d led them to their death.
“My lord,” he heard Jarak’s voice urge him. “My lord, what are your orders? Do you want us to send out more men?”
“I. . .” Henrik could barely speak, his voice far away, foreign to his ears. He felt much like Ser Ilyn Payne then, tongueless and robbed of speech, unable to give voice to the terror gripping him. Never in all his days had he seen so much blood — not even when he had slipped into the kitchens as a boy and watched them gut a fowl from feather to bone. Could a man truly be carved down to mere meat so easily?
Above the din, Henrik heard a guttural growl, followed by the clanging thud of armour stomping down the stone steps. The Hound appeared, his hulking frame pushing through a cluster of soldiers. His face was pale, eyes wide with fury — or was it fear? His helm dangled from one hand, his greatsword from the other. Henrik’s stomach twisted as the Hound looked up at the flames that licked the sky. His broad, scarred face was pale beneath his helmet, his eyes wide. He wasn’t moving. Men rushed around him, screaming orders, hauling stones to drop on the attackers, but the Hound just stood there. His sword hung uselessly at his side, his hands shaking.
Henrik couldn’t believe it. The large man was pretty much terrified. He wanted to scream, to shout at the man to move, to fight. But the words died in his throat. The Hound was broken, terror holding him in place as surely as it did Henrik.
Not him too. Gods help us.
Tyrion recoiled, his eyes narrowing. Henrik could see the disbelief, the outrage, as the dwarf’s small form seemed to swell with anger. “Then I’ll do it myself,” he spat, turning away from the Hound and toward the wall, eyes sweeping over the panicked soldiers and sellswords. “Form up!” Tyrion shouted, his voice cracking with urgency. “They say I’m half a man. What does that make the lot of you?”
Henrik could feel the shift in the air, the desperation. The men were breaking, their fear tangible, thick as smoke. The gate below groaned again, splinters flying as the battering ram slammed into it with renewed force.
Only a handful had responded to the Hand’s command, no more than twenty. Tyrion’s gaze flickered toward Henrik, meeting his eyes for the briefest moment, and Henrik felt the weight of that look. The expectation. The demand. He could see it in the dwarf’s face — the recognition that they were running out of time, that if someone didn’t step up, the city would burn. They wouldn’t heed Tyrion; to them, he was but a twisted little dwarf, nothing more. It would take more than clever words to turn the tide, yet Henrik knew the hour was late. The odds were grim, one hundred to one. The battle would be lost unless someone stood forward, and soon.
Henrik’s heart pounded, his legs still trembling, but something inside him snapped. He couldn’t just stand by and watch the city fall, watch his men die because of his cowardice. Brave, be brave.
Henrik’s throat felt dry as dust, but his voice burst out before he could stop it, rough and jagged. “Archers!” he bellowed, forcing the word past the lump in his throat. His voice cracked but held firm. “Archers, up on the walls! Draw now!”
The men flinched, some of them startled at the sudden command from him, of all people. He hadn’t led a charge in his life, not truly. But in the flicker of torchlight and wildfire’s eerie glow, their gazes turned to him. His heart slammed in his chest, but he swallowed his fear. He was their lord, their commander. He had to be.
More arrows were notched, quivers emptied as they took their positions, eyes wide with steely fear but moving nonetheless. Henrik paced along the battlements, his armour clinking with each step, the weight of it no longer suffocating but grounding. He gripped his sword tight, the leather wrapping biting into his palm as he pointed toward the advancing force.
“Loose!” he shouted.
The sky filled with arrows. They hissed down into the darkness below, cutting through the night like black streaks. Henrik’s eyes tracked their path, seeing them disappear into the mass of Stannis’s men. The thuds of impact were lost beneath the clamour of battle, but the enemy stumbled, shields raised too late, men falling into the mud as shafts pierced armour and flesh.
A momentary victory, but it wasn’t enough. The gate was still splintering under the relentless battering ram.
“Spears to the front!” Henrik’s voice was hoarse, but it cut through the noise like steel on stone. “Ready for the breach!”
His men scrambled, forming shaky lines, shields lifted and spears angled toward the gate. The sight of them, disjointed, uncertain, filled Henrik with a cold fury. These weren’t just soldiers. They were his men, his responsibility. And they were breaking. The fear in their eyes mirrored his own, but he couldn’t — wouldn’t — let them crumble.
Without thinking, Henrik turned toward Rubin. “My horse. Now.”
Rubin hesitated for only a heartbeat before nodding sharply, disappearing into the shadows to retrieve the mount. Henrik’s breath came quick and shallow as he watched the soldiers around him. They needed more than orders, more than barks from behind the walls. They needed someone to show them how to fight, how to stand.
Within moments, Rubin returned, leading Henrik’s horse by the reins. The beast’s flanks gleamed in the sickly green light, its breath coming in thick, nervous puffs. Henrik swung himself into the saddle, legs trembling as his feet found the stirrups. He gripped the reins tight, his sword raised high, and a wild sort of resolve settled into his chest. Henrik’s horse snorted beneath him, its breath rising in clouds. He placed his helm on his face, slamming down the visor and his vision narrowed. All he could see was his target.
The gate exploded inwards.
Stannis’s men poured through the breach like water spilling from a broken dam — dark shapes in shining steel, their faces obscured by grim visors. Henrik’s throat tightened, his grip faltering for just a moment. He saw the faces of his men behind the shields, pale and terrified, spears trembling as they faced the onslaught.
Tyrion’s form appeared beside him, the dwarf’s helmet askew, his eyes blazing beneath the mismatched iron. He didn’t look up at Henrik but instead stared out at the battlefield, his jaw set in sober determination. His voice, when it came, cut through the noise like a blade.
“You’re still here,” Tyrion said without looking at him, his tone half-surprised, half-mocking. “Didn’t think you’d make it this far, but good. They won’t wait forever.” He gestured wildly toward the gate with his axe. “You wanted to play at lord? Well, here’s your chance to act like one!” The words were laced with venom, but there was something else there too — an urgent, desperate command. He wasn’t mocking Henrik now, he was demanding him to step up. To lead.
Before Henrik could think, his hand shot out, yanking the reins hard, spurring the horse toward the broken gate. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His men, and perhaps the others too, saw him move — saw him charge — and like iron to a lodestone, they followed.
He swung with brutal efficiency, his blade carving arcs through the air, finding flesh with a sickening thud. The first soldier he encountered fell forward, eyes wide with shock. Henrik didn’t hesitate, driving his sword into the man’s gut, feeling the resistance of muscle and bone before he yanked it free, a spray of warm blood painting the air crimson. The soldier collapsed, lifeless, into the mud, but Henrik barely registered it; his focus was singular, a feral instinct ignited within him.
Another soldier came at him from the left, brandishing a spear. Henrik angled his mount, driving forward, using the weight of his horse to crash into the enemy, sending him sprawling into the mud. He followed up with a downward stroke, the sword slicing through the man’s throat. Henrik felt the warmth of blood on his skin, sticky and hot, mingling with the rain. The battlefield had become a blur of movement, each kill blending into the next. Dismembered limbs lay scattered like forgotten toys, the ground slick with crimson, and yet Henrik didn’t notice the true extent of the carnage; he was consumed by the fight.
He could barely count the kills anymore — one, two, ten? — they became mere numbers in the onslaught of violence. The bodies stacked higher, dismembered limbs and fallen men littering the ground. One man fell, his body crumpling to the ground, another staggered back, clutching his severed arm. A spear whistled past his ear, and he barely ducked in time. Blood and filth caked his armour, mingling with sweat and grime, looking nothing like the shiny, gleaming ensemble he’d had strapped to him during the beginning, and a savage thrill coursed through him, dark and heady.
But fatigue crept in like an unwelcome fog. His muscles screamed, each swing growing heavier, each breath more laboured. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to push through the exhaustion that clawed at the edges of his resolve. He couldn’t stop, must not stop. Stopping means death. Means defeat and shame. The world blurred in and out of focus before it morphed into a swirling mass of shadow and sound.
Suddenly, a sharp pain erupted in his side. He gasped, shock ripping through him as the blade cut deep. A scream escaped his lips. His horse cried out, collapsing beneath him, its legs crumpling in a sickening thud. Time seemed to slow as he crashed to the earth with a bone-jarring thud, the breath driven from his lungs. He lay there for a heartbeat, stunned, before rolling onto his side, gasping for air. With trembling hands, he tore off his helm, the icy wind biting at his sweat-slicked brow and tangled hair. His breath came in ragged gasps, tears leaking from his eyes, carried away on the wind like ash on a cold winter’s night.
Henrik scrambled to rise, but the battlefield was relentless. A heavy-set enemy soldier bore down on him, pinning him into the muck. Cold water gushed around him, a chilling grip that threatened to drag him under. No, no, no, no. Panic surged; his limbs thrashed, but the man above him was a mountain of flesh, heavier and stronger by far. No amount of pushing or scratching would loosen those iron-hard muscles, and the taste of salt and copper filled his mouth as the fear of drowning devoured him whole.
A roar ripped from his throat, primal and fierce, as Henrik reached for the knife strapped to his belt. The blade glinted before he plunged it into the man’s neck, feeling the resistance of flesh giving way, over and over again. The soldier’s eyes widened in shock, then glazed over as he collapsed, his body crushing Henrik further into the mire.
Blood gushed from the wound, spraying Henrik’s face and filling his mouth with a sickening warmth. The sharp tang of iron overwhelmed his senses, thick and bitter on his tongue. He gagged, the hot fluid slipping down his throat despite his efforts to spit it out. His stomach churned, the foul taste mixing with bile as he retched.
With a desperate shove, he pushed the corpse off him, staggering to his feet, soaked in blood and grime, his hair slick with gore. He coughed until he felt that all of the blood had escaped his mouth. He’s not sure he’d ever get the taste out. The battlefield stretched before him, the waters running red with the life that had spilled. He doubled over as a sharp pain gripped his side and as he drew his hand up to his face, the whole palm was covered in blood. White spots danced before his eyes as he could feel the blood still pouring from his side. He was losing vision, and fast. Is this how I die? He saw no sign of Rubin or Jarak. He hoped they were okay.
Henrik stumbled forward, his breath ragged, each step heavier than the last. His hand pressed to his side, warm blood seeping through his fingers. His vision blurred, the world swaying as he tried to steady himself. His legs trembled, threatening to give out beneath him, but he forced himself upright, teeth clenched against the pain. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear Rubin shouting — or was it Tyrion? He couldn’t tell. The sound barely pierced the fog that had settled over his mind. He wiped a trembling hand across his lips, only smearing more of it across his face.
A figure loomed before him — tall, armoured with the sigil of the crowned, fiery stag on the front, faceless behind the steel of his helm. Henrik’s grip tightened around his sword, the leather slick with blood, but his muscles screamed in protest. He raised the blade, a feeble gesture, more instinct than strength, as the soldier charged. He wanted to sink there and sob. How many more would there be? Would this never end?
The clash of steel against steel reverberated through Henrik’s bones, his arms shaking from the impact. The enemy’s sword slid off his, catching him in the shoulder as he failed to raise his shield in time. The pain was immediate, white-hot, shooting through his entire arm. Henrik gasped, his knees buckling as he staggered back, slipping in the muck. His vision swam, dark spots blooming at the edges as he fought to stay upright.
He stepped back, mud sucking at his boots, the sound of a sickening squelch. His foot caught on something — a body — and he fell, his back hitting the ground with a deafening thud that knocked the breath from his lungs and the blade from his hands. The cold seeped into his armour, thick and cloying as if the earth itself was trying to drag him under.
The man’s sword rose, glinting briefly. Henrik’s breath hitched, and for a heartbeat, he froze. So, this is how it ends? Forgotten and bloody on some battlefield. Would my father even mourn for me or would he shake his head with sighing annoyance, muttering, “Foolish boy, I warned you, didn’t I?”
With a desperate grunt, Henrik jerked to the side, the soldier’s blade whistling down into the mud where his chest had been only moments before. The sword bit deep into the earth with a hollow thunk and the soldier let out a loud grunt as tremors pierced up his arm. Henrik’s hand shot out, fingers curling around the hilt of his fallen sword. His muscles screamed in protest, but his grip tightened, the rough leather familiar and comforting. He twisted, his body moving on instinct, and slashed upward in a wild, brutal arc.
The blade caught the soldier’s leg — steel against steel — but it was enough to stagger him. The man grunted, his footing slipping in the slick mud and twisting at an awkward angle. Henrik didn’t wait. With a savage growl, he pushed himself to his knees and lunged forward, clambering atop the fallen man. The soldier beneath him thrashed, trying to shake Henrik off, but his movements were sluggish, the mud and wound in his leg sapping at his strength. Henrik could feel spittal escaping his mouth as he gritted his teeth in desperation.
The man’s gauntleted hand rose, grabbing for Henrik’s wrist, fingers curling around his arm like a vice, creating bruises. Henrik growled, twisting his wrist free, and slammed the hilt of his sword down onto the soldier’s helm with a hollow clang. The man grunted, his head jerking back into the mud, the sharp ring of metal on metal cutting through the chaos. Henrik didn’t pause — he couldn’t. He yanked his arm back and struck again, harder, feeling the jarring impact shoot up his injured arm as the helmet dented inward.
The soldier’s hand spasmed, his grip faltering. His legs kicked weakly, trying to find purchase in the mud, but Henrik didn’t give him a chance. He raised his sword high, both hands shaking as he drove the blade downward, straight for the gap in the man’s visor, between his throat and his helm. The steel slid through with sickening ease, meeting flesh with a wet, crunching sound.
The soldier gasped, his body convulsing and then going beneath Henrik, fingers twitching as the blade sunk deeper. Blood, hot and sticky, gushed from the wound, seeping through the visor and coating Henrik’s hands. He felt the warmth of it trickle down his wrist, mingling with the rain and grime. The man gurgled beneath him, a grotesque, wet sound as blood bubbled up through the cracks in his visor. Henrik knew it would haunt him for days to come, if it came. The man’s eyes were wide, terrified, their whites glowing in the dark slits of his helm. Henrik could hear the rasping wheeze of the man’s breath, each one shallower than the last, but still — still — he clawed at Henrik’s arms, fingers scrabbling weakly, nails scraping against the steel.
Henrik pressed his knee down on the soldier’s chest, grinding him down further as he wrenched the sword free. The blade slid out with a sickening schlick, and the man let out one final gasp — a wet, sucking noise as the air escaped his punctured lungs. Blood sprayed in a fine mist from the opening, splattering across Henrik’s face, warm and sticky, mingling with the rain that beat down on them both.
The soldier’s eyes froze, wide and empty now, no longer seeing anything. His hand fell limp to his side, fingers curling into the mud. His body twitched once, twice, and then stilled completely.
Henrik staggered back, legs shaking as the bloodlust drained from his body. Then, a distant sound cut through the tumult — a horn, blaring its call through the fog of war. It was a sharp, resonant sound, rising above and seeping into the depths of his weariness.
Henrik’s head snapped toward the horizon, and there they were — banners fluttering like fierce birds above the chaos, bright crimson and gold emblazoned with the sigil of House Lannister: a lion, fierce and unyielding.
His breath caught as he recognised the familiar banners being carried by a knight, the three silver ships on blue of House Farmam. Amidst the charging cavalry, he spotted his father atop a great warhorse, its powerful muscles glistening under the rain. Lord Farman’s visage was grim, eyes sharp and piercing.
But then, as if fate were mocking him, an enemy soldier broke through the ranks, charging towards his father with a determined rage, a glimmer of malice in his eyes. Time seemed to stretch and slow; Henrik’s heart thundered in his chest, a frantic drumbeat urging him to act. His muscles screamed in protest as he dropped to his knees, and grasped his knife from the mud.
With a breath that felt like it might be his last, he hurled the blade through the air, a flickering streak of silver that glinted. The world around him fell silent for a heartbeat as he watched it sail. . .
The knife found its mark with a sickening thud, sinking deep into the enemy soldier’s chest. The man gasped, surprise etching across his features as he faltered and then crumpled to the ground like a puppet severed from its strings. Lord Farman’s knights and guards surged forward, forming a protective barrier around their lord. Henrik’s heart overflowed and he grinned.
Henrik’s victory was short-lived, the thrill quickly overshadowed by the fog of exhaustion that rolled in, thick and suffocating. The pain in his side flared to life, sharp and insistent, like a thousand daggers stabbing into his flesh. He staggered back, hands braced on his knees, gasping for air as the world began to tilt. The whole thing had been too much for him, his body groaning in protest and anger.
Through the haze, he caught fleeting glimpses of the battlefield — men shouting, swords clashing, and horses rearing in the tumult. But everything seemed to blur, the colours bleeding together. The mud beneath him felt more like quicksand, pulling him down, down, down. . .
“Henrik!”
His father’s voice pierced the fog, but it was muffled, like a distant bell tolling. He looked up, squinting against the rain, trying to focus on Lord Farman’s frowning face through the haze. He came, Henrik thought deliriously. You didn’t leave me to die here. You see, father, I’m not just a boy. Are you not proud of me, of your heir?
And then, with a final gasp, Henrik crumpled to the ground, the mud rushing up to embrace him. He lay there, staring at the rain-soaked sky, the droplets splattering against his face like a thousand tiny fists.
Notes:
Hey guys. Apologies for the long wait, I didn't expect that it would take me this long. Work and annoying clients took over and I was horribly ill for a period when I couldn't get out of bed with everything aching and my head spinning. Not fun times I'm afraid. But it's all good now thank god, the worst of flu season is over.
This is my longest chapter yet, so I hope you guys enjoy it. Thanks so much for reading I really appreciate it. Hope this was okay, especially the minor smut scene at the beginning.
In other news, I'm going on holiday tomorrow to the USA to meet my cousin for thanksgiving. I've never experienced what that entails exactly as so eager for the experience. She apparently wants to make pumpkin pie.
Anyway, I hope you guys are having a good day. See you next time!
Chapter 13: Sansa III
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The chamber was dim, lit only by a single candle that sputtered as if nervous of the dark. Sansa walked into her bed chamber, like Ser Dontos had urged her to, and approached by the window, her hands folded, perfect, as a lady’s should, though her thoughts roiled like the green fire she saw licking the Southern sky. Even with the windows shut tight, she could hear the distant roar of the battle, the screams and shouts of men echoing faintly through the stone walls of Maegor’s Holdfast.
Cersei’s words coiled in her memory, thorned and clinging, the taste of wine sharp on every syllable. Pretty little bird, the queen had purred before sweeping from the room, her smirk curdled at the edges. So sweet, aren’t you? A mocking tilt of her head, eyes glinting like green glass in the firelight. And you’ll stay sweet, won’t you? No matter what my son does to you.
More than once, Sansa wished Lady was here. She would curl at Sansa’s feet, a silent guardian, unafraid of the battle outside or the monsters within these walls while Sansa would brush her fur. But there was no Lady anymore.
She turned to walk towards her bed. Perhaps she could sleep the moment away. This will all go away if I do. As soon as she reached her bed, a hand reached out from under the covers and Sansa flinched, her heart leaping to her mouth as she bit her tongue to stop herself from screaming. Her eyes widened as she saw Sandor Clegane — The Hound — looming in the candlelight. He reeked of blood and wine, his burned face pale and twisted in the flickering light of the chamber’s lone candle.
His hand reached out and pulled her close and tight. The chamber seemed to shrink around her, heavy with the mingling scents of blood, sweat, and the sharp tang of wine. The Hound’s grip on her arm was firm, almost bruising, as he leaned closer, his breath hot and sour against her cheek. His other hand held a knife, its edge glinting faintly in the candlelight.
“Little bird,” he rasped, his voice raw, “thought I’d find you here singing your hymns. If you scream I’ll cut your throat.”
She swallowed, the motion painful. “I — I wasn’t singing,” she whispered.
“No? Then what good are you? All you ever do is sing and smile and lie.”
Sansa shook her head. “I don’t—”
“Shut up.”
Carefully, she forced herself to breathe. “Please, let me go.”
“You’re just a little bird in a cage,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Singing pretty songs while the world burns around you.” His expression turned fierce as he looked up, catching her gaze and shaking her arm, tugging her closer. “Do you think they’ll save you? Do you think he’ll save you?” The words dripped with venom, and Sansa knew who he meant — the boy with the soft brown hair and a smile like spring. “You’re wasting your time. He’s likely burned to ash, or gutted like the rest of them out there.”
Henrik, she thought again, her heart aching. She didn’t dare ask if the knight had seen him, didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of mocking her further. Instead, she straightened her shoulders, though her hands still trembled at her sides. He’s lying, she thought. Henrik promised. He promised to come.
Sansa’s heart clenched, but she forced herself to remain still, to keep her face calm. A lady must never let them see her fear. The candlelight danced on the jagged scars that marred his face, making him look less like a man and more like a monster pulled from the tales of Old Nan. Fear rose in her chest which she promptly tamped down.
“Ser—” she began hesitantly.
“You should be hiding,” the Hound growled, his eyes flicking to the window where the faint green glow of wildfire painted the edges of the curtains. “Not sitting here like some fool maiden waiting for a knight who’ll never come.”
Sansa’s lips parted, but no words came. She clutched the folds of her dress, trying to summon the courage she’d only ever heard about in songs. “I was. . . praying,” she said softly, her voice trembling.
“Praying?” He let out a harsh bark of laughter, devoid of any mirth. “Pray all you like. The gods don’t hear in times like these.”
The Hound’s laugh lingered like a thick, choking smoke from a dying fire. He tugged her closer, the clink of his armour filling the silence that followed. Sansa forced herself to remain still, though every fibre of her being screamed to back away, to flee. But there was nowhere to run. Nowhere safe.
“Your gods won’t save you,” he muttered, and for a moment, he simply sat there, staring at the single candle’s flame. “Neither will mind. They never do and never will.”
He’s drunker than I’ve ever seen him. “You don’t have to be cruel all the time,” she said, the words slipping out before she could stop them.
For a moment, he said nothing. His dark eyes searched hers, and she thought she saw something flicker there. Then it was gone, shuttered behind his usual scowl.
“You don’t know the first thing about cruelty, little bird,” he said. The candlelight made his shadow loom long and monstrous on the stone walls. “But you will. If you live through this night, you’ll learn. There’s no place for songs and prayers where we’re headed.”
“Why did you come here?”
He staggered to his feet from the bed, his movements unsteady but the grip on her arm was unrelenting. “You promised me a song, little bird,” he growled. “Have you forgotten?”
“I can’t,” she whispered, her voice trembling. She shook her head, her auburn hair catching the light. “Please, please, let me go. You’re scaring me.”
“Everything scares you,” he spat. “Look at me. Look at me!”
Sansa flinched, the command like a lash against her skin. But she obeyed, forcing her wide, tear-filled eyes upward to meet his face. He was a shadowed figure carved of fury and despair, his burned flesh twisted and cruel under the wavering light. His hands — thick, calloused — dug into her arms, hard enough to draw a whimper from her lips. Even now, his face shocked her. No matter how often she’d seen it, the raw, melted ruin on one side never became easier to bear. She tried not to stare or let her gaze linger, but his demand had left her no choice.
“I could keep you safe,” he rasped, the words more a snarl than a vow. “They’re all afraid of me. No one would dare hurt you again. And if they tried. . .” His voice dropped lower, rough as a blade. “I’d kill them.”
He yanked her closer. For a moment, she thought he meant to kiss her, and panic seized her chest like a vice. Her hands twitched at her sides, yearning to fight back — to pound her fists against his chest, to scream. But she knew it would be useless. He was too strong.
Henrik would have stopped this. The thought struck her with all the force of a falling tower. He would have seen the danger before I ever did. His deep brown eyes, steady and warm, had turned into a source of comfort, more than she’d realised. She could still picture the soft waves of his hair catching the light the last time she’d seen him. She could hear his voice now, wonderous and smooth, promising that everything would be all right. But Henrik was not here. There was no hand to pull her to safety.
“Still can’t bear to look, can you, girl?”
The Hound’s voice sliced through her thoughts, low and bitter. He released one arm only to wrench her around, shoving her down onto the bed with an ease that made her feel as fragile as glass. She gasped as her back hit the mattress.
“I’ll have that song,” he said, his tone grim and unrelenting. “Florian and Jonquil, wasn’t it?” A flash of silver caught her eye — the blade of his dagger. He pressed it to her throat, its edge cool and sharp against her skin. “Sing, little bird,” he growled. “Sing for your little life.”
Her heart thundered in her chest, drowning out her thoughts. Every song she had ever known had fled her mind, lost in the suffocating haze of terror. Her throat was dry and tight as if even air dared not pass. The point of the dagger twisted slightly, a silent warning, and she flinched. Her eyelids fluttered shut, tears spilling down her cheeks.
And then, like a half-remembered dream, the faint echo of a melody drifted into her mind. It wasn’t Florian and Jonquil, but it was a song — a fragile lifeline she clung to with trembling hands. Her voice, small and quivering, broke the silence. It sounded alien to her ears, thin and trembling like a frightened bird’s call. But it was a song. And she sang.
“Gentle Mother, font of mercy, save our sons from war, we pray, stay the swords and stay the arrows, let them know a better day.”
After a moment, the Hound removed the blade from her throat and remained in silence. Sansa clutched the silks of her gown, her fingers trembling as they twisted the fabric. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths, though she hardly dared to make a sound. The song had died on her lips, leaving only the faint crackling of the fire.
Her mind betrayed her, conjuring Henrik’s face to replace the Hound’s. She could see him so clearly: the smooth, unblemished curve of his cheek that she wanted to stroke oddly enough, the soft wave of his brown hair that always caught the light just so, and the deep, steady warmth of his brown eyes. Henrik, with his youth and his smile like springtime, and who had promised that he would come for her. Was he still out there? Fighting bravely, his sword gleaming under the glow of wildfire? Or had the flames already consumed him, the way they had so many others? She thought of the men she’d seen marching to the battlements, their faces hard and determined, some too young to grow proper beards. She thought of her father, his calm dignity as he walked to his death, and her heart broke all over again.
Suddenly, she flinched at the unexpected touch, her breath hitching as rough, calloused fingers brushed against her cheek.
“Little bird,” the Hound mumbled once more. Then he rose to his feet, ripping the white cloak from his shoulders and leaving it crumpled on the floor. Sansa heard the softer sound of retreating footsteps.
She was alone. Again.
The first faint hint of dawn was visible in the east when she heard the bells of the Red Keep and the seven crystal towers of the Great Sept of Baelor. She could also hear men shouting in the streets, and something that could only be cheers. It was Ser Dontos himself who bought word of the battle’s victory, still reeking of wine, but his face alight with excitement.
“Stannis’ forces are broken,” he said, his words tumbling over each other in his excitement. “The Lion’s banner flies high, my lady. Tywin Lannister rode in at the head of his host, and with him, the banners of House Tyrell! Lord Mace Tyrell and his sons — oh, such fine knights, my lady! The battle turned in an instant. There was Lord Redwyne of the Arbor, with his fleet. Lord Tarly of Horn Hill. Lord Rowan. . . and Lord Farman, I believe, from the West. The Reach and the Westerlands united to crush the pretender! Oh, I could just make a song out of it!”
Sansa swallowed hard, her fingers clutching the edge of her gown. “Lord Farman,” she repeated. “Did. . . did Lord Henrik ride with him?”
Ser Dontos wobbled where he stood, swaying slightly with the weight of drink. He scratched at his ruddy cheek. “Lord. . . ? I. . . I don’t know, sweet lady. Ah. . . I could not say. Many knights rode beneath the Farman banner. A great host, truly! There were so many out there. But in the chaos of battle, who could pick out one man from another? I couldn’t begin to tell you who lived or died.” He chuckled as if it were a jest. “The Redwyne fleet, now there’s a sight! Flames on the water, ships splitting like kindling, men screaming — oh, my lady, I wish you could have seen it! A victory most grand!”
Sansa’s head spun, her knees threatening to give way beneath her. She reached out to steady herself on the edge of the bed, her breaths coming in shallow gasps.
She forced herself to speak. “Thank you, Ser Dontos. You’ve been most kind to bring me this news.”
He beamed like a man reborn. “Come, my lady, do not look so pale! The city is saved! We’ll all drink to this victory soon enough!”
➶✶
The dawn struggled to pierce through the lingering smoke, casting a pale, muted light over the scene. The air reeked of fire and blood, the acrid tang sharp enough to sting Sansa’s nose even through the gold-threaded piece of cloth she pressed against her face. The faint cries of the wounded rose and fell like the mournful notes of a dirge, weaving through the Red Keep’s courtyard.
Broken bodies lay in makeshift rows upon the blood-slick stone, some wrapped in stained linen, others bare, their lifeless eyes fixed on nothing. A ghostly pallor clung to their flesh. A boy no older than Bran lay nearby, his arms flung wide as though in protest against some unseen foe. A healer swept past him without a glance, her skirts brushing his outstretched fingers.
Sansa’s foot caught on something — a splintered shield, half-buried in ash. She stepped over it, careful to avoid the blood pooling near the body of a man slumped against the courtyard wall. His breastplate had caved in, the emblem of House Lannister barely visible through the gore. She didn’t let herself look too closely. A healer knelt beside a soldier with half his face burned away, murmuring as he pressed a poultice to the raw flesh. The soldier’s screams pierced the air, but they felt distant. Sansa turned away, her stomach churning. I am a stupid girl. Why did I come? I should have just slept until the Queen or Joffrey called for me.
She hadn’t meant to come here. Her feet had carried her, unbidden, past the smouldering remains of the gates, past the chaos of carts loaded with the dead. Her gaze flitted over the rows of the injured. I am being ridiculous, she thought. He wouldn’t be in the courtyard among the common soldiers. He was heir to Faircastle, a lord of noble birth. If he’d been injured — if he’d fallen — they would have brought him to Maegor’s Holdfast, to his bedchambers.
But even as her mind formed the thought, her eyes kept scanning. Her gaze caught a glint of brown hair, but it was the wrong shade. A soldier lay propped against a barrel, whimpering and cradling his arm as a healer stitched his side. Not him.
She passed the next row. The smell of death thickened here, cloying and suffocating, and she pressed the cloth tighter against her nose. Her heart lurched as she noticed a body near the edge of the courtyard, facedown in the dirt. His hair, dark with blood, was the same shade. Her breath caught in her throat, and her legs faltered.
“Lady Sansa,” a sharp voice cut through her haze, startling her. A guard in Lannister crimson strode toward her, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. “You shouldn’t be here.”
Sansa froze, the colour draining from her face. “Forgive me, ser. I. . . I was only passing through,” she murmured. Glancing back at the body near the courtyard’s edge, she couldn’t stop herself.
The guard followed her gaze and frowned. “This is no place for you. The queen wouldn’t want you wandering around here. Nor would his Grace.”
“Of course, ser. I did not mean to intrude.”
“Come, my lady,” the guard said firmly. A gloved hand closed around her arm, not unkind but firm. “Let me escort you back to your chambers. You’re not to linger here with the dead.”
Sansa cast one last look over the courtyard, her heart twisting. He isn’t here, she told herself. Her chest felt hollow. She didn’t know if she was glad or disappointed, and the uncertainty clawed at her. The guard began walking, and she let him lead her away. He followed close behind, his armour clinking softly with every movement. As they guided her back toward the safety of the Keep, she kept her eyes ahead, refusing to look back at the smoke-filled courtyard.
It was a few hours later when Sansa had been washed and clothed in a new gown of purple silk that everyone was called to the throne room with the denizens of Joffery’s court. Tapestries depicting the crowned Baratheon stag and Lannister lion on crimson hung from the walls, their gold threads catching the light of a hundred flickering torches. At the centre of it all, perched atop the Iron Throne like a preening bird, sat Joffrey, his crown slightly askew as he grinned down at the assembled crowd.
Sansa stood at the galley with the other lords and ladies, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. The purple silk of her gown felt heavy against her skin. The courtiers around her buzzed with excitement, their voices rising and falling in waves of admiration and relief. They spoke of the victory, of Stannis Baratheon’s retreat, of the bravery of the Lannister forces.
A fanfare of trumpets cut through the noise, and the room fell silent as a line of knights and lords began to approach the throne. They moved with deliberate slowness, their armour polished to a blinding sheen, their cloaks trailing behind them like banners. Each one knelt before Joffrey, offering their swords and their loyalty in voices that rang out with practised solemnity. Sansa’s eyes flicked up briefly, scanning the faces of the men as they passed. She recognised some of them — Lannister bannermen, knights of the Kingsguard, lords from the Crownlands.
Trumpets blared, their brassy notes echoing off the stone walls as each noble stepped forward to pay homage. The Tyrells entered like a summer storm, their green velvet cloaks trimmed with sable rippling as they moved. Lord Mace Tyrell led the procession, his broad frame swathed in finery, flanked by his sons, Ser Garlan and Ser Loras, dressed in green velvet trimmed with sable, moved to greet the king with great show. Ser Loras asked to serve in the Kingsguard.
“Granted,” Joffrey declared, his voice dripping with false magnanimity. He rose, stepped down, and pressed a kiss to Ser Loras’s cheek — a gesture that drew a smattering of applause — before moving back to the throne.
Ser Garlan was next. He stepped forward and knelt in front of the throne. Sansa’s heart stopped breathing with his next words.
“Your Grace,” he said when the king turned to him, “I have a maiden sister, Margaery, the delight of our House. She was wed to Renly Baratheon, as you know, but Lord Renly went to war before the marriage could be consummated, so she remains innocent. Margaery has heard tales of your wisdom, courage, and chivalry, and has come to love you from afar. I beseech you to send for her, to take her hand in marriage, and to wed your House to mine for all time.”
“You honour me with your words, Ser Garlan, and I do not doubt your sister’s beauty, for it is spoken of in every corner of the Seven Kingdoms. But a king is not free to follow desire alone. My duty and my word are given to another, and a true king does not break his oath.”
Sansa’s breath caught in her throat, though she kept her face as still as a frozen pond. Her hands, clasped so tightly in front of her, trembled faintly, but she willed them to be still as she peered down at the polished floor. A king must keep his word. The words echoed in her mind, hollow and mocking. Joffrey’s promise to her was no more than a shackle, a chain that bound her to a fate she now dreaded. But what was the word of a king like Joffrey worth? Nothing. Less than nothing. Please, she pleaded, wanting to sob. Listen to Ser Garlan. Take her. Take the Tyrell girl. Let her stand beside you in the Sept, draped in gold.
Her eyes drifted upwards to Ser Garlan, still kneeling. He was handsome, with the brown hair and liquid gold eyes as his brother Loras, though much broader in the shoulders. But Sansa felt nothing. No flutter of her heart, no blush creeping into her cheeks. I have grown weary of gold, she thought sadly. And of knights, and kings and all their empty promises. She had grown jaded of Lannisters and their glittering lies, their cruelty masked by finery. Gold had brought her nothing but pain. She thought of the times Joffrey had humiliated her, ordering Ser Meryn to strike her and laughing as she begged for mercy. Her thoughts were bitter. Gold. Gold crowns, gold cloaks, gold lies.
She thought of Henrik — of his soft hair framing a face that was gentle and unassuming. His eyes, deep and brown like the earth after a rain, had held no malice, no hidden cruelty. He had been kind to her, in a way that felt sincere. Perhaps it was because he did not seem to notice her, not in the way the others did. He did not leer or smirk or whisper behind her back. He simply was. And the brooch that he offered lay in her chambers, still untouched. She wondered where he was now. Recovering, she supposed.
“Your Grace,” Cersei said, at last, rising gracefully from her place and moving beside the king. “Ser Garlan speaks wisely. A union with House Tyrell would strengthen the realm, a marriage that would bring harmony after such bloodshed.” Her voice was measured, smooth as silk, but Sansa heard the quiet command beneath it.
Joffrey frowned, like a toddler about to throw a tantrum. “But I am promised to another, Mother. I took a holy vow — you know this.”
Cersei turned her cool green eyes upon her son. “Lady Sansa is of great worth, but her house stands against us. She is the daughter of a traitor and sister to a pretender king in open rebellion against the crown. Lady Margaery is rumoured to be beautiful and fair, a far better choice for our people.”
The High Septon also stepped forward, his voice resonating with solemn authority. “Your Grace, the gods hold betrothal vows sacred. However, your father, blessed be his memory, made this pact before the Starks of Winterfell revealed their treachery. Their crimes against the realm have absolved you of any promise you might have sworn. In the eyes of the Faith, there is no binding marriage contract between you and Sansa Stark.”
A wave of approval surged through the throne room. Voices rose in unison, chanting, “Margaery, Margaery!” The sound swelled, echoing off the stone walls like a hymn. Sansa felt her chest tighten. Her fingers clenched the wooden rail, knuckles whitening as she leaned forward, her breath shallow and ragged. He has to say it, she prayed. Just say it, please.
“The gods are good. I am free to heed my heart. I will wed your sweet sister, and gladly, ser.”
For a moment, the words did not feel real. They came to her distantly, like a song carried on the wind, half-heard and half-dreamed. Sansa swayed where she stood, her hands still clenched against the rail, as the room erupted around her. The lords and ladies, the knights and courtiers, the sycophants and flatterers — they all cheered. Could it be? Could it truly be?
Joffrey had cast her aside.
Joffrey had cast her aside.
A great weight had been lifted from her chest as if she had been unshackled, her chains shattered in a single breath. She did not dare move, did not dare exhale too deeply, lest someone look up and see the trembling in her hands, the way her lips had parted in something dangerously close to joy. You must not show it. They will see, they will know. She forced herself to breathe slowly, shallowly, though her heart pounded so fiercely she feared they might hear it. She then pressed her nails into her palm, hard enough to leave little half-moons in her skin.
The rest of the ceremony passed in a blur. Sansa was ready to flee to her chambers but the king hadn’t given leave to anyone yet as they went down the rows of lords and knights were given their due rewards and punishments. Sansa’s ear sharpened when a familiar name was announced.
The herald’s voice boomed through the hall, cutting through the noise. “Lord Farman of Fair Isle comes before the crown!”
Farman. That’s Henrik’s lord father. Sansa’s exhaustion seemed to have vanished as she kept her eyes peeled. The crowd parted as Lord Sebaston stepped forward. He walked with a stiff, almost mechanical grace, his face a mask of stoic composure. Lord Sebaston’s bow was deep but swift before kneeling before the throne, his head bowed, his posture rigid and his face a mask of stoic composure.
“Your grace,” he said. “House Farman serves House Lannister, as we have for generations. It was my honour to bring our strength to your cause.”
“My lord grandfather has oft spoken of your steadfast service and the strength of your fleet, which turned the tide in our favour. House Farman has shown itself loyal, and such loyalty shall not go unrewarded. The favour of the crown is yours, now and always.”
Lord Sebaston only inclined his head. “Your Grace is generous.”
Sansa’s breath caught in her throat as she watched, her fingers twisting the fabric of her gown. His brown hair, streaked with silver, was neatly combed, and his armour bore the sigil of Faircastle, though it was marred by scratches and soot. His voice was steady, his words precise, but there was no warmth in them, no hint of the triumph that coloured the voices of the other knights and lords. His eyes swept the room briefly, and for a moment, they met Sansa’s. There was no recognition in his gaze, no flicker of emotion, but she felt a chill run through her all the same.
Henrik wasn’t with him.
“Rise, my lord,” Joffrey commanded, his voice high and imperious.
Sansa’s chest tightened, and she quickly looked away, her fingers twisting the fabric of her gown. She shrank back instinctively, though she doubted Lord Farman would notice her. She wondered what he thought of all this — of the victory, of the boy king who claimed it as his own. And of Henrik. Did he know where his son was? Did he share the same quiet worry that gnawed at her heart?
The lord obeyed, standing tall as he faced the king. Joffrey leaned forward, a smirk playing on his lips. “You fought bravely in the battle, my lord. The realm owes you its gratitude.”
“I only did my duty, your grace.”
“Duty, yes,” Joffrey said, waving a hand dismissively. “But it’s not just you who distinguished yourself. I’ve heard that your son, Henrik, led the charge against Stannis’s forces. He should be honoured for his heroics! Where is he? Bring him forward!”
The crowd murmured in anticipation, but Lord Sebaston’s expression darkened slightly. “Your Grace, my son is recovering abed from his injuries. He is not fit to appear before the court at this time. He is recovering under the care of my household.”
“A shame,” Joffrey mused. “I should like to have met him who they call a hero. Perhaps he has proved himself worthy of the Kingsguard. A hero should be at his king’s side.”
“Your Grace is kind to speak so highly of my son.”
Joffrey waved a hand dismissively. “No matter! His deeds speak for themselves. He fought bravely, and the Crown rewards its loyal servants.” He gestured grandly, and a servant stepped forward, carrying a velvet cushion upon which rested a scroll sealed with the royal sigil.
“For his valour and leadership in the defense of King’s Landing,” Joffrey declared, his voice ringing out, “I, Joffrey Baratheon, King of the Seven Kingdom and Protector of the Realm, hereby grant a tract of fertile lands in the Riverlands, to be held in perpetuity by House Farman, along with the rights to its harvests and incomes. In addition, Henrik of Faircastle is granted a position of honour within the royal court, to serve as a trusted advisor and representative of his house. His loyalty and courage shall be remembered and rewarded, and his name shall be celebrated in the realm.”
Sansa’s chest tightened as she listened. Henrik would be elevated in status and influence, his house’s standing secured. But at what cost? She thought of the battle, of the screams and the fire, of the bodies she had seen in the courtyard. Henrik had fought bravely, but he had paid a price. And now, he would be bound even more tightly to the Lannisters, to Joffrey and his cruel whims.
Joffrey leaned on the Iron Throne, a satisfied smirk on his face. “Let it be known that I, as your king, reward its loyal servants,” he declared, his voice ringing out. “Henrik of Faircastle has proven himself a true hero, and his deeds shall not be forgotten.”
The courtiers buzzed with excitement, their voices rising and falling in a cacophony of admiration and speculation. Sansa caught snippets of their conversations as they swirled around her like a storm. “Oh, what an honour.” “And those lands in the Riverlands — fertile, they say. A fine reward for bravery.” “But where is the boy? Surely he should be here to accept such honours.”
Lord Sebaston bowed his head once more, his expression unreadable. “Your Grace is most generous. My son will be deeply honoured by your recognition, and House Farman is ever loyal to the Crown.”
He turned and walked back to his place among the other lords, his movements stiff and deliberate. Sansa’s gaze followed him, her heart pounding. The herald’s voice boomed again, calling forward the next lord to be honoured, but Sansa barely heard it. Would he recover fully? Would he still be the same Henrik she remembered, with his warm smile and gentle eyes?
The ceremony dragged on, but Sansa barely registered it. She stood stiffly, her hands clenched so tightly that her nails dug into her palms. Only one thought was running through her mind. I am free. I will not have to kiss Joffrey, nor give him my maidenhood, or bear him children.
The courtiers around her chattered and laughed, their voices a distant hum. The light outside the windows was fading by the time the session drew to a close. Sansa felt limp with exhaustion as she made her way down from the gallery. She’d never before realised how lonely she felt in the throne room when Henrik wasn’t present. Oh, how I wish to see him and tell him the sweet news.
When darkness arrived, Sansa donned her cloak and went towards the godswood for her Florian. She wondered why Ser Dontos looked so grim when she greeted him joyfully and shared the happy news. Sansa’s blood turned cold when he explained.
“Oh, my innocent lady. The queen will never let you go, never. You are too valuable a hostage. And Joffrey. . . sweetling, he is still king. If he wants you in his bed, he will have you, only now it will be bastards he plants in your womb instead of trueborn sons.”
The queen will never let you go. Ser Dontos’s words echoed in her mind, dark and insidious. Her hand clenched around the edge of her cloak as if she could hold herself together through sheer force of will. She was free. She was not free. She was cast aside. She was still their pawn. Each thought crashed over her like waves upon the rocks, unrelenting and merciless. Sansa pressed her lips together, refusing to let the tears spill. A lady does not cry.
But her voice betrayed her, trembling as she asked, “Then what am I to do, Ser Dontos? What hope is left for me?”
Dontos stepped closer, his breath thick with wine. He placed a hand on her arm, his touch light, almost fatherly. “There’s hope yet, sweetling, don’t despair,” he murmured. “The time is near. The ship waits for you, beyond the walls, beyond the city. Soon you’ll be away from all this — away from the queen, and the boy, and their games. You’ll be safe.”
“A ship?” she echoed. “When?”
The wind stirred through the trees, rustling the red and gold leaves. Sansa swallowed, her throat dry as dust. Escape — the very thought of it was thrilling and nonetheless terrifying. And yet. . .
Henrik.
Her heart twisted at the thought of him, lying abed, wounded and unknowing. Would he seek her out once he recovered? Would he ask after her only to find she had vanished into the night like some phantom of a song?
“Soon,” answered Ser Dontos. “The night of Joffrey’s wedding. After the feast. All the necessary arrangements have been made. More patience is required and very near you’ll be home.”
Sansa’s slippered feet glided soundlessly over the cold, uneven stones of the Red Keep’s corridors as she returned to her chambers after the meeting, the hem of her gown whispering against the edges of the rough floor. Her mind churned with Ser Dontos’ words, his voice a persistent echo in her thoughts. I won’t have the King’s bastards, she vowed more firmly than she felt. I won’t. I’d sooner throw myself off the tallest tower in the Keep. She knew she meant it.
The memory of Ser Dontos’s drunken claim clung to her like a shroud, and she shuddered, though the air was not cold. The Keep was a place of secrets and shadows, and tonight, it felt as though the walls themselves were leaning closer, eager to swallow her whole.
Then, from ahead, voices broke the silence — low, urgent, and echoing faintly from a nearby alcove. She froze, her hand instinctively brushing the rough stone wall for balance. The first voice she recognised though not by name. He was the captain of Henrik’s guard. His tone was deep and steady, like the toll of a distant bell, and it carried a weight that made her chest tighten. He seemed to be a man with the dulcet tones from Flea Bottom, his hair streaked with white. She had seen him often in the company of Henrik, his presence as solid as the armour he wore.
Sansa pressed herself into the shadows, her breath shallow, her heart pounding like a trapped bird in her chest. The torchlight flickered, casting long, jagged patterns on the walls, and she willed herself to be still, to be silent. The voices grew clearer, and she could make out the faintest edge of tension in the captain’s words. The two Farman guards next to him stood rigid, their cloaks bearing the three silver ships. The captain’s tone was measured, but there was a weariness in it, a strain that betrayed the gravity of the situation.
“He lives.” The tone was grim. “The maester has done what they can. They say the blade went deep, nicked something inside. He bled so much I thought we’d lose him before we even pulled him from the field. A lesser man would’ve bled out there and then, but Henrik. . . he’s as stubborn as his father.”
One of the Farman guards, a younger man with a face too boyish for the scars already forming along his jawline, shifted uncomfortably. “He held the line?” His voice wavered, caught between disbelief and awe. “At the Gate? Against Stannis’s men?”
The captain’s jaw tightened, his gaze distant. “Yes,” he said, his voice rough. “He did. Took his stand with the Imp’s sellswords, the gold cloaks, and a handful of his own men. The Baratheon host came hard and fast after us, wave after wave, and we lost some men. We lost Jarak, but Henrik. . . he didn’t flinch. He cut them down like a man possessed, rallied the men when they were ready to break.” The voice softened for a moment, a rare flicker of pride breaking through the exhaustion. “They say he saved dozens that night. Maybe more.”
The younger guard cleared his throat, uneasy. “Lord Henrik will want to know,” the younger guard said hesitantly. “About Jarak.”
The captain’s mouth pressed into a hard line. “We won’t tell him,” he said, voice quiet but firm.
The boyish guard’s brows pulled together in confusion. “What?”
The older Farman guard beside him spoke up. “Lord Farman’s orders,” he said grimly. “Our young lord has lost too much blood, and the fever’s already creeping in. This—” he hesitated, shaking his head, “—this isn’t something he needs to hear right now.”
The younger guard looked stricken. “But Ser Jarak was his man. His friend.”
“It’s not our place to question it. Lord Farman is furious enough as it is losing a knight like Jarak and he doesn’t need his son to know. Not any time soon at least.”
The younger guard’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. “But he will find out,” he said, voice quiet, uneasy. “When my lord wakes, when he asks for Jarak—”
“Yes. And when that happens, we’ll tell him what needs telling. But not now. Clear?”
They both murmured their acceptance.
The older guard, his face weathered as the stones of Winterfell, let out a slow breath. “I heard that his lord father had ordered his son back to Faircastle before the siege began, no? Said there’d be no glory in dying here. Yet here we are.”
The captain’s face darkened, and he rubbed at his brow. “Yes, Lord Farman made his will plain enough. Sent word three times, if you count the raven that came just before the fleet arrived. Henrik ignored every one. Said a man doesn’t turn his back on the city that feeds him, even if it isn’t his own. ‘They need every sword,’ he told me.” His voice dropped lower, a note of bitterness creeping in. “Fool boy. Brave, but foolish.”
The younger guard glanced at his companion. “And Lord Farman? What does he make of it?”
The captain snorted softly, though there was little humour in it. “What do you think? He’s wroth, near to boiling. Says his son shamed him, flouted his command for all to see. Calls him reckless, headstrong — a boy playing at war. And mayhaps he’s not wrong. Henrik could’ve died, and where would that leave House Farman? One stroke of the sword, one well-placed thrust, and it would all be over. No heir, no future. Just ash and salt in the waves.”
The older guard crossed his arms over his broad chest. “The lordship would pass to Lord Henrik’s sister, who’s only a child. And a girl at that. Or his cousin most like. A weaker claim, and a weaker man.”
The captain didn’t reply immediately. Instead, he glanced down the corridor, as though ensuring they were alone. “I have never seen Lord Farman like this,” he said at last, his voice quieter. “But it’s not just anger. He’s worried — more than he’ll admit. Paces the halls outside the Maester’s chamber, won’t sit still for more than a moment. I’ve caught him at Henrik’s bedside twice now, just sitting there. Doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t need to.”
“Worried?” the younger guard echoed. “That’s not how it looks.”
“No, he hides it well. But it’s there, just the same. He’s afraid. Afraid because he nearly lost him. And afraid because he knows Henrik wouldn’t hesitate to do the same again, if it came to it.”
The older guard grunted. “That much is true. Stubborn as his father, and twice as proud. If he wakes, he’ll find a way to fight again before the stitches are out.”
“If he wakes.”
A silence fell over the group, broken only by the distant crackle of torchlight. Sansa held her breath, her back pressed tightly against the cold stone wall. The flickering shadows seemed to stretch and twist around her as the captain’s voice dipped lower, more pragmatic now.
“For now, our orders are clear. The men are to guard Lord Henrik’s quarters day and night. No one but the Maester or Lord Farman enters without my leave. The rest of us will stay ready. The city’s still raw, and we don’t know if Stannis will try again. The boy needs time to heal, and we can’t afford another blow like this.”
The younger guard nodded, his voice small but steady. “And if he doesn’t heal?”
The captain’s expression darkened, though he said nothing for a moment. When he finally spoke, his words were clipped, almost growled. “Then the Seven help us all.”
Sansa couldn’t bear to hear more. If he wakes. The words gnawed at her like a dull knife. If. A single syllable, but heavy as stone. She had not let herself consider it before — Henrik wounded, Henrik dying. Henrik, who had stood in the hallways of the Keep, speaking softly, laughing lightly. Henrik, who had pressed a brooch into her hand and offered her friendship and kindness.
He could die.
She had watched her father kneel before the Sept of Balor, had seen the sword fall, heard the awful, wet sound of steel meeting flesh and bone before losing consciousness. She had smelled the thick, sticky scent of blood and watched the crows circle over the dead. Henrik could be one of them.
She turned, moving blindly through the corridors, her feet knowing the way before her mind could catch up. Her heart was pounding now, a frantic rhythm against her ribs, too fast, too wild. She had to see him. If she could just see him—
But the thought shattered before it could fully form. The men are to guard Lord Henrik’s quarters day and night. Even if she tried, even if she pleaded, even if she wept, they would not let her near him. She was a highborn lady, a ward of the Crown, a hostage. She had no claim to his bedside.
And yet, she could not banish the thought. He had saved men and held the line while others fled. Had he been afraid? Had he thought of his father, of his sister, of Faircastle’s high cliffs and the smell of salt on the wind? Had he thought of her?
Sansa swallowed hard and forced herself to take a slow breath. You are a lady, she reminded herself. A lady must not let them see her falter.
But what was left of her now? A stupid girl without a home, without a future. She had been promised to a prince, only to be cast aside like a worn gown. She was free of Joffrey’s grasp, and yet, she was not free at all. The queen would never let her go, Ser Dontos had said.
She pressed a hand to her stomach, feeling the slight tremor there. Would Henrik go back to Faircastle once recovered? The thought unsettled her. If he left, if he returned to his father’s halls by the sea, would she ever see him again?
Sansa did not know what she wanted. She longed for home — not just the cold, sturdy walls of Winterfell, but the warmth of Robb’s laughter and the comforting embrace of her mother. She missed the way Arya would scowl at her embroidery, the scent of fresh bread drifting from the kitchens, the sound of the direwolves howling in the godswood. Even Bran’s endless questions and Rickon’s small, grubby hands tugging at her skirts — she missed it all. Every fibre of her being ached to return to the life she had once known, a life that now felt like a distant dream slipping further and further from her grasp.
But Henrik had been kind to her. That was enough. That was rare.
Sansa lingered in the corridor, her breath slow and measured, her hands clasped before her. She should return to her chambers. She should draw the covers over her head and wait for morning.
She found her feet moving before she could stop them.
She had been careful, cautious. Joffrey had taught her that well. The wrong word, the wrong glance, even a breath out of place could bring his ire down upon her. But now, for the first time in what felt like forever, she was no longer betrothed to a monster. The weight that had chained her so tightly to his whims had loosened, if only by a fraction.
Henrik had been kind to her. And he was her only friend here. She didn’t want him to die.
Her slippers made no sound as she walked the winding halls of Maegor’s Holdfast. The hour was late. The halls were eerily quiet, save for the occasional clink of a guard’s armour in the distance. When she reached the chamber guarded by the men of House Farman, she hesitated.
A short man with thinning hair but a bushy beard stood at his post. His weary eyes met hers as she stepped into the torchlight, the flames casting long shadows against the walls. He did not speak at first, only regarded her in silence, his brow furrowing slightly.
“My lady,” he said at last, his voice quiet but suspicious. “You shouldn’t be here.”
Sansa swallowed. She had no reason to be here, no claim, no excuse. She was neither kin nor betrothed, not even a promised companion. And yet, the words left her lips before she could reconsider.
“Please, ser, I only wish to see him.”
He exhaled through his nose, as though weighing his options. “Lord Henrik is still weak,” he said, his voice carrying the edge of warning. “I’m not permitted to allow anyone in.”
“I won’t wake him,” she said quickly. “I only want to see for myself that he is. . .” She could not bring herself to say the word.
The guard’s expression did not soften. If anything, his frown deepened. “He needs rest, my lady. If Lord Farman knew I let you in—”
“He would not need to know,” Sansa said, lowering her voice. She stepped closer, glancing down the corridor, but the halls remained empty. “I swear it, I will not wake him. I only need a moment.”
“This is unbecoming, my lady, forgive me, my order—”
“You are sworn to him, are you not?” she asked. “You fought beside him. You watched him bleed for his men, for his house, for you.”
“I did,” he admitted, voice low.
Sansa took another step forward. “Then grant me this kindness. As he would.”
The man hesitated for a long moment, then let out a slow sigh, casting a look down the corridor. “Very well,” he murmured. “But be brief, my lady.”
He stepped aside and pushed open the door, allowing her to slip past into the dimly lit chamber beyond. The air inside was thick with the scent of herbs and burning tallow, a mix of both unpleasant and medicinal. A single candle burned low on the bedside table, its wax pooling in uneven rivulets, casting a soft, flickering glow upon the figure lying on the covers.
Henrik lay motionless, his face pale. His dark brown locks clung damply to his forehead, slick with sweat. The bandages around his torso were fresh, but she could still see the faint stain of blood seeping through. His breathing was shallow but steady.
Sansa hesitated at the threshold, unwilling to break the heavy silence of the chamber. She felt stupid for being there. He looks so different, she thought, taking a slow step forward. Henrik had always carried himself with quiet confidence, a strength not born from arrogance but from something deeper, something steadier like an anchor. Now, that strength seemed drained from him, leaving only this fragile thing before her because he had chosen to stand against Stannis’s men when he could have ridden away to the safety of Faircastle. He had not abandoned them.
She moved closer, drawn by some invisible force she could not name. Her gaze lingered on his face. He seemed younger in sleep, softer somehow, despite the scraps and bruises littering his face.
Before she could stop herself, she reached out, her fingers ghosting over his cheek. His skin was warm beneath her touch, though his fingers remained slack. She barely let herself feel the contact before pulling away, ashamed of her own foolishness. What am I doing? What was she hoping for? That he would wake, smile at her, whisper something reassuring? That he would reach for her hand and press his lips to it while murmuring ‘my lady’ in that tone that made her shiver?
Just then, a soft sound — barely more than a breath — escaped Henrik’s lips.
Sansa froze and bit her lip. His brow furrowed slightly, his fingers twitching, but his eyes remained closed. A faint groan left his throat, pained and sluggish. She took a step back into the shadows, her heart hammering in her chest. If he woke and saw her here, how would she explain herself? And worse — if someone found her, if Joffrey or the Queen knew she had been here. . .
The thought sent a chill straight to her heart. She could not be found. Not here. Not now.
She cast one last glance at Henrik, at the slow rise and fall of his chest, at the flickering candlelight playing across his skin. He was alive. That should have been enough.
Slipping out as quietly as she had come, ignoring the guard’s curious look, she moved quickly through the halls, her breath coming in quiet gasps as she pulled her cloak tighter around herself.
She told herself she had gone only to see that Henrik lived, that it was gratitude that had driven her to his bedside. He had kept his word to her, after all. He had fought for this city, for its people. He had fought while others had fled. But gratitude did not explain the ache in her chest, the way her fingers still tingled from the briefest touch of his hand.
She could not afford such foolishness. Henrik was nothing to her. His family was sworn to Tywin Lannister. He could not be anything to her. Not if she wanted to draw attention. She was a Stark in a lion’s den, and she had no room in her heart for anything but survival.
The next morning, Sansa slipped away from the prying eyes of her handmaidens towards the godswood. Something was compelling her. As she made her way in front of the heart tree she lowered herself to her knees and closed her eyes as she clasped her hands together.
“Please,” she whispered, her voice barely more than breath as she thought of those great eyes staring back at her. “Please, let him live.”
She did not know why she prayed for him above all others. Hundreds of men had died that night. Brave men. Foolish men. Soldiers and sellswords, highborn and low. Why was it his name that caught in her throat? Why did she care if he lived or died when she had no claim upon him, no right to such grief?
“I am selfish, I know it,” she murmured, barely able to give voice to the thought. “The gods must see it. A selfish girl.”
She did not ask for the kingdom to be at peace. She did not ask for the end of war, for the end of suffering. Her heart wished for the heads of the Queen and Joffrey, for Robb to prevail and win against the Lannisters, for justice for her father, and to see Arya and Bran and Rickon again.
And yet, at this moment, she prayed only for one man, a single soul among thousands. It was unseemly, unworthy of a lady. But she had seen so little kindness in this place that when it found her, she clung to it like a drowning girl to driftwood.
Honour had led her father to his death. The man who held her as a child when she cried, who had taught her the names of all the flowers in the godswood, and whose presence had been a quiet, unshakable foundation beneath her feet. Was Henrik the same? Was that the same bravery and steadfastness that had doomed her father?
“Don’t let him die for it,” she whispered. “Please, don’t let him die for it.”
She did not know if the gods heard her.
Notes:
Hey guys, I hope you enjoyed this chapter and it was good. I really wanted to capture the chaos of Blackwater in the aftermath.
This is the beginning of Act Two. Act One is about survival and disillusionment, and Act Two is going to be about shifting power, choices, and the slow unravelling of carefully built walls. Sansa may no longer be Joffrey’s betrothed, but she is still a prisoner, a piece on the board, especially with Littlefinger lurking about.
We're back to Sansa's perspective, which was fun to write. I really wanted to explore Sansa’s shifting perception of safety, freedom, and loyalty here — how she clings to Henrik’s kindness in a world that has offered her nothing but cruelty. She has had everything taken from her but prays for Henrik’s survival. It’s a small and personal thing she’s ever allowed herself to want, though she doesn’t understand why it matters to her.
It's funny to me that Henrik had one job — to stay alive and not piss off his dad — and he failed spectacularly at both. Also, Lord Farman is going through all five stages of grief in real time but refuses to say anything about it because Westerosi men do not communicate their feelings sadly enough.
But with Henrik, I wanted his role in the battle to feel earned but he's also not invincible, and now his future is more tangled with the Lannisters than ever. He will lose those rose-coloured glasses as the battle will shatter his perception.
Anyway, that's enough of me rambling. I would love to hear your thoughts and thanks so much for your comments.
I hope you guys are having a good day. See you next time!
Chapter 14: Rubin I
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Rubin did not let a single muscle twitch impatiently. He simply watched, as Henrik — who was, in every sense of the word, a fool — tried once again to move when he had no business moving. The boy had grit. Rubin would grant him that much. He had seen men die in every manner a man could die: cut down in the thick of battle, clutching at their bellies as their lifeblood soaked the dirt; slumped against cold stone walls, eyes turned skyward, staring at gods who did not answer; screaming for their mothers as the fire took them, or worse, silent, with nothing left in them to give. He had also seen pride kill just as surely as a blade.
He saw it now, in the young lord before him.
Henrik sat upright, or rather, he tried to. His breath came in short, sharp bursts, and his fingers, trembling with exertion, clenched the sheets beneath him. His skin, pale as the morning mist rolling off the sea at Faircastle, was slick with sweat. Rubin watched the muscle in Henrik’s jaw tighten as the Maester, ever patient and unrelenting, pressed a hand against his bandaged shoulder, checking the stitches that lined his flesh.
“You will lie back down, my lord,” the Maester said, the edge of authority sharpening his words. “If you tear these open again, I will have no choice but to stitch you like a sack of grain. And I promise you, it will not be pleasant.”
“I have lain idle long enough,” Henrik muttered snappishly, though the words lacked their usual conviction. His fingers flexed, as though grasping for something solid in the haze of his pain.
Rubin crossed his arms over his chest as he stood nearby. The chamber smelled of burnt herbs, fevered sweat, sickness and stubbornness. He had no patience for any. He had spent too many nights standing outside these doors, watching the Maester shuffle in and out, or Lord Sebaston’s shadow stretch long against the candlelit stone, pacing like a man at war. Watching, waiting, listening to the muffled sounds of pain from within, to the silence that followed; each time he held his breath as if expecting that silence to be permanent.
Now, Henrik breathed, and with it, he complained and gritted his teeth, arguing with the Maester like a boy chafing against his lessons. That should have been a good sign and brought some measure of relief. Instead, it made Rubin weary.
“You’ll rip your stitches before midday,” Rubin muttered, his voice a low rumble in the dim room. His gaze, dark and steady, held Henrik’s.
Henrik’s scowl was immediate, but it was a weak thing, mulled down by exhaustion. The boy had never learned how to wield his temper properly — it flared too fast, burned too bright, and left him with nothing but embers when he needed fire most. As if to prove Rubin right, Henrik moved again, just a fraction, enough for his breath to hitch, his shoulders to seize and his fingers to tighten against the sheets as a fresh wave of pain took hold. He caught himself, but his jaw clenched so tightly it was a wonder he didn’t crack a tooth.
The Maester, to his credit, did not throw his hands in the air or curse the gods for giving him yet another reckless young lord who thought himself made of steel. He simply shook his head, the lines on his face deepening as he busied himself with the bandages, muttering about how youth mistook pain for frailty when the truth was often the opposite. Rubin agreed. Not that he would say as much. He had no interest in encouraging the Maester’s fondness for lectures. Instead, he tilted his head just slightly, studying Henrik the way a man might study a horse he wasn’t quite sure was fit to ride. The boy had always been willful, but this was something else.
Rubin could recognise the shape now — the restless energy, the fists clenching against the fabric, the way Henrik’s eyes darted toward the door when he thought no one was looking. The boy had spent too long abed, and the world outside had not stopped spinning in his absence. He feared what had changed.
The Maester worked with steady hands, fingers deft and unbothered by Henrik’s pride, and Rubin knew better than to interrupt. He had never been a healer, never had the patience for it. He could set a bone, could clean a wound well enough not to let decay set in, but there was a difference between knowing how to keep a man breathing and knowing how to keep him living.
Rubin, at last, spoke. “If you’re determined to stand, my lord, you should at least attempt it when you aren’t trembling like a newborn colt.”
Rubin didn’t bother disguising his smirk as Henrik, teeth grit and pride in tatters, let his head fall back against the pillows.
“Ah, there it is,” Rubin mused. “Sense, creeping in at last. Took long enough.”
Henrik glared, though the effect was somewhat diminished by the sheer pallor of his face. The boy looked like something dragged in from the sea — pale, shaken, barely breathing. He had been a stubborn little bastard even as a child, always climbing too high, riding too hard, as if the gods themselves had set a challenge before him. It had been easier then. Scraped knees, bruised ribs, things that could be soothed with a sharp word and a sharper warning. This was different. Rubin could feel it in the air. The boy had been broken and put back together again, and something in him knew it but would not accept it.
Rubin had never liked sickrooms. They smelt too much of mortality — of herbs meant to mask the scent of rot, of sweat that had long since cooled, of breath that was either too shallow or too laboured. His boyhood was spent in places like this, watching his mother waste away on a straw pallet, listening to the creak of the septon’s knees as he knelt beside her, praying over a woman the gods had already forsaken. He had not been old enough to understand then. But he understood now.
Henrik had not spoken for some time, not since slumping back against the pillows in defeat. Good sense was a rare visitor to the young lord’s head, but the aftermath of battle had a way of making a man receptive. Even the willful had limits, though Henrik tested his often enough to make Rubin wonder if he’d ever find them.
Henrik was still pale and slick with sweat, his body worn thin from injury and fever, but his mind had latched onto something else beyond his own suffering. Rubin saw it in how his body twitched against the blanket and in the restless shift of his gaze toward the chamber door. He knew that look as he’d seen it before in men who had lost too much and still feared there was more to lose.
The Maester, finished with his work, rose to his feet, brushing his hands on his robes. “You will rest, my lord,” he said. “If you do not, your recovery will be hindered.”
Henrik did not argue, but he did not look pleased. The Maester gave Rubin a withering look, as though expecting him to enforce his decree, then shuffled out, leaving the two of them alone. Rubin scrutinised Henrik. His throat worked as he swallowed, as though turning over a thought he did not want to express. He recognised that look as well.
“Tell me, I must know,” Henrik said, at last, his voice hoarse but there was a sharper tone under it. “What news of the city? And my father.”
Rubin dragged a hand over his jaw, letting the words sit between them for a moment before answering. “Your lord father,” he said carefully, “is not a man who takes kindly to waiting. He has spent these last days pacing, scheming and speaking in low voices with men who stink of smoke and desperation. Lords have bent the knee to one king, then another. Now they all want to pretend they were never in doubt. They count their losses in gold and sons, and your father—” he paused, watching Henrik’s face carefully, “—counts you among them.”
Henrik winced. He did not move this time, but Rubin saw it. A flicker in his expression, the way his throat bobbed. He wasn’t sure if it was guilt, shame, or something else Henrik himself had yet to name.
“Then he is disappointed,” Henrik murmured, half to himself.
“Disappointed? I wouldn’t say that.”
“Then what would you say? Go on. Say it plain.”
“He’ll come around. He always does. Just. . . give him time.”
Rubin tilted his head, considering him. The boy was not a politician. He was a swordsman, a soldier when he had to be and foolhardy all the time. He did not manoeuvre well in the world of men like his father and did not see the value in things that could not be measured in steel and blood. If he had been born low, perhaps he would have had the freedom to be what he was — some nameless knight who fought for his coin, who lived and died by the strength of his arm and nothing else. But Henrik was not lowborn. He had been born to a name and a title that expected more from him than just a steady sword hand.
Rubin, however, was lowborn. And he had long since accepted that his place was at the side of men who made the choices, not of making them himself.
“And what of the city?” asked Henrik. His face was unreadable. But Rubin knew he was hearing every word.
“The city is quiet now,” Rubin answered. “Or as quiet as it can be. The stink of the river still clings to the stones. They say the fish are belly-up, poisoned from the wildfire. Rats are feasting on men who thought to flee, and men are feasting on the rats in turn. Goldcloaks scrape what’s left of the bodies from the streets, while the nobles feast in their halls and speak of ‘great victories.’”
He said the last part with a sneer, barely bothering to mask his disdain. He had never cared for noble talk or how they dressed war up in grand words as if it were something beautiful. There was nothing beautiful about the aftermath of a battle.
“The smallfolk keep their heads down,” Rubin continued, his tone flatter. “They’ll sing of the battle for a while yet, but in the end, they don’t care who sits on the throne. They care about their bread, their homes, or whether the king’s taxmen will come knocking harder than the last ones. That’s all.”
That had always been the truth of it, hadn’t it? Kings came and went, but the smallfolk remained, scraping by under one boot or another. Rubin had spent his childhood in Flea Bottom and seen firsthand how the world turned for those at the bottom of it. He had spent nights listening to his mother pray, her voice hoarse from pleading with the gods. The gods belonged to the highborn, to the ones who waged their wars and called it fate. Henrik, at least, did not pretend otherwise.
Rubin was prepared to let the conversation end there. Henrik had heard enough. But, Henrik spoke again.
“And the Lady Sansa?”
The question was quiet, but it filled the room all the same. Rubin’s gaze flicked to him. He did not answer immediately. Instead, he studied Henrik, taking in the way his jaw tensed and his eyes flickered, just for a second, toward the door. Rubin, for all his sins, was not cruel enough to twist the knife.
“I’m sure the lady is well enough.”
That was all he said. Henrik looked away, frowning. He did not press, and Rubin did not offer more, but he did not miss the young lord turning his head toward the window and staring at the city beyond, his jaw tight, his thoughts a thousand miles away. . .
The moon was bright when the stillness entered the bedchamber.
Rubin had never been a man who took easily to sleep. It was a habit born of necessity, shaped by years spent in places where closing one’s eyes for too long might mean never opening them again. A man in his position never truly slept, not when there were wounded lords to guard and too many shadows in the corners of this wretched city. So when Henrik stirred, muttering low curses under his breath, Rubin’s eyes cracked open almost immediately.
“You’re supposed to be resting.” His voice was raspy from disuse, the words dragging out slow and reluctant. He shifted in the chair, rolling the stiffness from his shoulders.
Henrik sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Can’t sleep.”
Rubin had half a mind to tell him that was his own damn fault. The boy never knew when to be still. Even now, bandaged and burning with fever, he couldn’t surrender to rest. Obstinacy was in his bones, passed down like an heirloom. Rubin had seen men who wore their wounds with honour like proof of something, but Henrik had never been the sort to take pride in pain. He simply refused to acknowledge it, as if he could outwill his body into submission.
A long silence stretched between them. Rubin could hear the wind outside, the occasional murmuring of the men on guard duty, the faint rustling as Henrik tried again to shift into something more comfortable. It was pointless. He wouldn’t find relief, not tonight. Then, at last, Henrik spoke again, softer this time.
“Did we do the right thing, Rubin? Disobeying my lord father? Staying to fight?”
Rubin sat up fully from the stool, frowning. “What kind of question is that? We won, didn’t we?”
Henrik didn’t look convinced. He turned his head up slightly, staring at the ceiling. He was pale in the moonlight, his skin damp with fever, and dark hollows beneath his eyes betrayed the exhaustion that clung to him. He was still young, but the last weeks had aged him in ways he might not yet understand. His men were dead. Rubin understood that well enough. Winning never felt like winning when you had to count the bodies afterwards.
The boy was too much like his mother in that way by being too quick to take the weight of things that were never meant for his shoulders alone. Rubin had served Lord Sebaston long enough to know that the old lord never let grief soften him. He wore it like armour, hardening him against the world. Henrik — Henrik still bled for the fallen.
Henrik’s voice was quiet. “Jarak? Where is he? Why is he not here?”
Rubin did not answer immediately. He looked at Henrik’s bandaged chest, the sweat clinging to his brow, the way his breathing had grown just a touch more shallow. He thought of how the boy had dragged himself to his feet even when his wounds had not yet begun to close, of how he had called for his men before he had even asked for his father. He shouldn’t be told — orders were orders. And yet. . .
Jarak had been with Henrik since he was a babe. He had carried Henrik on his shoulders when he was too small to ride, had laughed at his temper and stood beside him on the field. And now he was gone. The gods had ripped him away from this world. Rubin had known it from the moment he had seen the body. Blood had pooled thick and dark beneath the battle helm and the light had already faded from his eyes. Rubin had realised, then, that it was a mercy Henrik had not seen it. He wondered now if that had been a mistake.
“He fought well,” Rubin said at last, his voice steady, careful. “Better than most.”
He did not flinch at Henrik’s anger. He had weathered it before, and he would weather it again. It was a young man’s anger, hot and untempered, an ember that flared bright but could not sustain itself.
“You should have told me,” Henrik growled, his voice raw with grief, his knuckles white where they gripped the edge of the blanket. “He was my sworn man.”
Rubin exhaled through his nose. He knew this was coming. He had braced himself for it the moment he spoke Jarak’s name and saw Henrik’s face shift first to confusion, then realisation, and now this. A lesser man might have scrambled for excuses, for some way to soften the truth, but Rubin did not believe in cushioning things. He was a man of the Faith, and the Faith did not comfort. The gods did not whisper sweet lies in a man’s ear; they did not coddle or console. They laid the truth bare and expected men to be strong enough to bear it.
“It was your lord father’s will,” Rubin said simply. “We had to follow his orders.”
Henrik laughed, sharp and humourless. “Of course it was. That is what he does, isn’t it? Decides what I should and should not know.”
Rubin did not answer. No answer would soothe Henrik, none he would accept. Lord Sebaston had his reasons, as he always did. Perhaps he thought to spare Henrik this grief until he was stronger. Possibly he thought Henrik’s pain inconsequential compared to his own ambitions. Perhaps, though Rubin doubted it, he had simply not considered it at all.
Henrik’s breath came short and uneven. “He died for me.”
Rubin inclined his head. “Yes, as he’d pledged to. As all of us have, my lord.”
“You say that like it’s meant to bring comfort. It doesn’t.”
“I know,” Rubin said quietly but firmly.
Henrik did not speak for a long while, his gaze fixed on something distant that Rubin could not see. He recognised that look, though. He had seen it in men on the battlefield, in the aftermath of the bloodshed. He had seen it in the eyes of the dying, when they understood, at last, that there was no saving them. Henrik was not dying. But something in him had been cut open that might never quite heal.
Rubin suddenly thought of Flea Bottom, of the stink of piss and rot, of the cries of the hungry and the dying. He had been a boy once, not unlike Henrik, though his grief had been smaller, more contained. His mother had died on a straw pallet, coughing blood into the rags they could not afford to replace. He had prayed over her, whispering to the Seven until his throat was raw and the Stranger came for her all the same. He had buried her with his own hands, and when he rose, he had risen differently — his heart hard, his will iron, his faith unshaken.
He had climbed from the filth of Kings Landing to the halls of Faircastle and had fought, bled, and knelt until Lord Sebaston’s shadow fell over him like a blessing. And he had accepted it because he had known from the moment his mother’s breath stilled that faith alone would not carry him. He had needed more. He needed purpose. He had needed something to serve.
Henrik had never needed to serve. Henrik had been born to rule, yet, at this moment, he looked more lost than any gutter rat Rubin had ever known.
“The Stranger comes for all men,” Rubin said. “Jarak was not an exception. Nor was your mother, nor will be your father, nor will be you.”
Henrik’s head snapped toward him, eyes burning with fresh fury. “You think that helps?”
Rubin did not waver. “No. But it is the truth.”
Henrik’s fingers curled against the sheets, his breath sharp. “Jarak was more than just. . . He—” His voice caught, and for a moment, the anger faltered. He swallowed hard. “He was my friend. I should have been there. I should have—”
Rubin had seen it before — the grasping at guilt, the foolish yearning for a different outcome, as if the past could be wrestled into submission like a horse that had thrown its rider. Rubin knew what he was thinking. That there had been no song in Jarak’s death. No poetry in the way he had fallen. The dirt had swallowed him and his blood had mingled with the filth of the city. No bard would sing of the way the rats would find him first. No noble lady would weep for his passing. It was a cold, ugly thing to know.
“You should have been there?” Rubin repeated, tilting his head, studying Henrik as though he had grown two heads and each spoke greater nonsense than the other. “Should have been where, exactly? In the dirt beside him? Gasping up at the sky, mouth full of blood and lungs full of steel? Would that have done him honour, do you think? That you die together?”
Henrik’s fingers dug into the sheets, his knuckles pale with the strain of it. He was too tired to summon anger properly, but Rubin saw the fight in him, raw and glinting like an unsheathed blade. Good. That was better than self-pity. He would not sit here, not in this dim and stinking chamber, and watch the boy gnaw on grief like a dog with a bone. He had chosen this. Not his father, not the gods, not the blind workings of fate. Henrik had made his choice, and men had died for it. Living with that was all he was left with.
Softness had always been Henrik’s greatest failing. He let sentiment cling to him like a wet cloth, slowing him down when he should have been moving forward. He did not harden himself to the world as his father had. And yet. . . Rubin had seen hard, cruel men, who did not flinch at loss, who did not falter when the world demanded they bleed for their cause. And they were feared. Respected. But not loved.
Henrik would never be like his father. But that was the difference. Perhaps that was the reason men followed him, even when it cost them everything. Softness had no place in war. That was what Rubin had always believed. But then, why did the men who fought with Henrik die calling him friend? And why, Rubin thought, did that make him uneasy?
Rubin sat back, rolling his shoulders, feeling the stiff ache settle into his bones. “Jarak was not a fool. He knew what he was. A knight. A sworn sword. And he died as all men must, with his duty done once the Stranger decided to take him.” His voice was unyielding, not a whisper of comfort to be found in it. “You grieve because you think he deserved better. Maybe he did. But better does not exist in war. Only what is, and what is lost.”
Henrik did not look at him. The moonlight cast the planes of his face in pale silver, and for a moment, Rubin saw him as he had been before this — all bright-eyed arrogance and untamed spirit, careless as the tide. But something had shifted in him. He had seen it. In boys too young to march, staring at the bodies of men they had called brothers. In men who had held their guts in their hands and realised, too late, that death was not an honour, nor a song, nor a story to be told in some lord’s hall.
Rubin exhaled through his nose. He had no patience for this. Grief was a thing that served no one, least of all men who still had their lives to lose. For all his shortcomings, Henrik had lived. He had survived where so many others had not. Rubin had lived as well. Perhaps the gods did take sides, after all.
“The dead are dead, my lord. And you are not.”
➶✶
Rubin stood outside Henrik’s chamber, his duty pressing upon him as heavily as the steel at his hip. He did not fidget. He did not pace. His hands were clasped behind his back, eyes sharp as the edge of a well-honed blade. The gods had given him this post, and he did not waver in it. To stand guard, to watch, to listen. The Seven were ever-watchful, and so he would be as well.
The sound of approaching footsteps cut through the hush of the hall. Heavy, filled with purpose and something darker beneath it. Lord Sebaston moved like a storm rolling in from the sea, his cloak snapping at his heels, his jaw set hard enough to break bone. Black leather gloves covered his hands, and his boots struck stone like hammers. There was no hesitancy in him, no uncertainty. The air around him seemed to tighten as if even the walls of the Keep understood the breadth of his displeasure.
Rubin straightened his spine and inclined his head as his lord approached, but no words passed between them at first. There was no need. His lord’s expression spoke well enough. His gaze flicked to the door behind Rubin, then to the man himself.
“You should have stopped him.”
The words were quiet, but they carried the weight of iron. A command not given at the moment, but expected in hindsight. A judgment, cold and absolute.
“My lord,” Rubin said. “He would not be stopped.”
Lord Sebaston’s nostrils flared slightly. “Then you should have tried harder.”
There was nothing to say to that. Henrik had made his choice. Rubin had ensured he survived it. And now, whatever was to come, was between father and son. Lord Sebaston stepped forward, his fingers curling against the iron ring of the door’s handle. He did not look back at Rubin as he spoke again, though his voice was lower now, tempered steel rather than burning coal.
“He is not a child.” A pause. “But he is not yet a man, either.”
Rubin did not reply. The gods alone knew what Henrik was.
“He thinks himself a man,” Lord Sebaston murmured. “Let’s see how a man answers for defiance.” He stepped toward the door, gloved hand closing around the handle. “No one enters,” he said, not turning. “Not unless I say so.”
Rubin’s jaw tightened. “As you command, my lord.”
The door opened, and Rubin stepped aside. Lord Sebaston entered without ceremony. Rubin watched as the young Henrik met his father’s thunderous gaze with a nervous defiance. For a moment, the chamber was silent. Then, Lord Sebaston’s voice cut through the hush like a blade through flesh. Rubin closed the door with a soft thud, shutting them in, but the words bled through.
“You disobeyed me and my orders.”
No anger, not yet. Just fact, as if Lord Sebaston were speaking of the turn of the tide or the rise of the moon. The stone of the Red Keep was old, and old walls carried sound like whispers in the wind. Henrik’s voice came, weaker than his father’s, but steady, carrying none of the fevered breathlessness that had plagued him before.
“I did.”
Rubin closed his eyes. He had expected defiance, but some foolish part had hoped the boy would hold his tongue. It was a false hope. Rubin imagined Lord Sebaston’s gait — slow and the movement of a man who did not rush his judgment. He could see Henrik too, his bandaged shoulder stiff with pain, his jaw set, his dark eyes locked onto his father’s. The boy had always sought approval and fought for his father’s regard like a starving dog fighting for scraps. But approval was not what awaited him now.
“You defied my command,” Lord Sebaston continued. “You stayed when you were ordered to leave. You fought when you were told to retreat.”
“I fought for our house.”
The words were not spoken with heat, but they carried something else beneath them: conviction. A man trying to stand by his own choices. Rubin felt a grim sort of resignation settle in his chest.
“You fought for your own foolish fucking pride, boy!” Lord Sebaston exploded, and this time, the anger surfaced, a thread of fire running through the steel of his voice. “You call yourself a man, but you do not know war. You do not know what it means to lead men. To make choices that will not see them dead!”
Henrik’s breath came shallowly. Rubin could hear it even from here.
Lord Sebaston scoffed. There was disdain in the sound. “The men who followed you are dead. And for what?” A pause. “Did you think yourself a hero?”
“I thought to do what was right,” Henrik said, softer now, like a wounded pup.
Rubin could hear the furious breath Lord Sebaston took before he spoke next. “You thought,” he repeated, his tone dipping into something quiet, something that sent a ripple of unease through Rubin’s chest. “You thought. And where did that thinking lead you, hmm? Laid out in a sickbed, like some damn cripple.”
Rubin imagined his lord leaning in, teeth gritted as he spat malicious words in his son’s face with enough venom to topple a grown man.
“You are a puny little boy playing at war, Henrik. And you have cost me men and time I do not have to fucking waste.”
Silence. A silence that stretched long enough for Rubin to feel it pressing against his ribs.
When Henrik spoke again, his voice was barely audible. “Then I have disappointed you, I see.”
A heartbeat. Then two.
“Disappointment,” Lord Sebaston murmured, chuckling cruelly. “A son must earn that first.”
The words landed heavier than any strike. It would leave a wound that did not heal. Rubin knew because he had seen that same wound in Henrik before, long before this battle, before the boy had drawn his sword. Henrik chased his father’s gaze and searched for something he would never find. The chamber fell quiet. Rubin did not need to see Henrik’s face to know how it looked. He could picture it well enough.
Lord Sebaston’s let out a sound of derision. “You could have died. Did you not think that through?”
“I did. I made my own choice.”
“Your choice? Do you think you are free to make such choices? You are meant to be my heir.”
“Then what am I for? I bled for this house. I kill for it. I nearly died for it. And still—” Henrik’s voice cracked with a bitterness he could no longer swallow. “Still I am not enough for you.”
This was a loaded question, one Henrik already knew the answer to but wanted to hear spoken aloud. His father did not suffer questions, and yet the words had escaped anyway. Rubin almost winced. Then silence. . . It stretched long enough that Rubin wondered if the conversation was over and Lord Sebaston would simply turn on his heel and leave his son to stew in the ruin of his own choices.
Then. . .
SMACK.
The sound cracked through the stillness like a blade striking a shield. Rubin did not flinch. He had seen and heard too much to be startled by such things. His grip tightened over his wrist, and his hands were clasped behind his back. His thumb pressed against the worn leather of his glove. The Seven teach patience, he prayed. The Seven teach duty. The Seven teach restraint. Henrik made no sound. That was almost worse.
“You insolent little whelp. You mistake your place, boy. You are for what I say you are for,” Lord Sebaston hissed slowly as if speaking to a dull-witted child. “You are for me. You carry my name, my blood. You don’t get to make your own choices. You inherit mine. And you will never forget it again. If I have to beat it into you, so be it.”
Rubin closed his eyes and pictured the door as though he could see through the wood and Henrik’s expression. He did not know what he expected to find there. The gods teach patience, he reminded himself. The gods teach duty. The gods teach restraint.
“And don’t think I haven’t heard of your indulgences — Rubin has told me everything. Do you think a whore’s legs will make you a man?” Lord Sebaston’s voice was quieter now, but quieter did not mean kinder. It never did. “As if rutting some common alley-born thing gives you spine? Make you something more than what you are?”
“I didn’t think it would make me anything,” Henrik murmured. “I wasn’t trying to prove anything. I just—” A breath. “I only wanted to feel. . . something else.”
“You weak little fool. You are not some mewling boy to be coddled. You dare to speak of feelings to me? Perhaps it should not surprise me. You have always been slow to learn.”
Rubin opened his eyes. This particular subject was not new. It had followed Henrik since boyhood, a thing his father did not name but wielded against him nonetheless. As a child, Henrik struggled with his letters, stumbling through the simplest texts. His hand was clumsy on ink-stained parchment, and his patience was brittle as thin ice. The Maesters had done what they could, but the boy had never taken easily to reading or writing. Rubin had watched it frustrate him: Henrik’s hands clenched into fists beneath the table, his jaw tightening as his father’s cold fury pressed down upon him like the weight of the Seven themselves.
“Do not look at me like that,” Lord Sebaston sneered, each word dipped in something darker than scorn. “I see you fumbling through letters like a half-wit stable boy trying to read a lord’s decree.” He scoffed.
“Father, I—”
“Do you know what I see when I look at you, Henrik? I see a boy who will one day sit where I sit, who will be expected to read treaties, to sign decrees, to command men with words as well as steel. And yet. . . I have watched you struggle to write your own name without your knuckles going white. Tell me, when you wed — when your wife hands you a letter from her father, what will you do? Squint at it like a mongrel begging for scraps? Hand it off to a scribe and hope he does not laugh in his sleeve?”
Rubin did not move. His feet were rooted to the stone beneath him, his hands still behind his back, his grip tight but measured. He had never questioned Lord Sebaston’s methods. The Faith taught discipline, and discipline came in many forms. Rubin could almost feel it — Henrik would blink hard, once, maybe twice, to keep the sting in his eyes from falling.
Lord Sebaston’s boots scraped faintly against the stone as he moved closer. “You have no place at a council table, no command of parchment. What are you, Henrik, if not my shame with your stammering ink-blotted hands? I should find you a simpler match. Some lord’s plain daughter with no letters to send. Or better yet — a wet nurse with strong hips and no tongue.”
“I remember things better when I hear them spoken,” said Henrik quietly. A simple truth.
“Of course you do,” Lord Sebaston scoffed. “The way dogs do. They don’t read commands. They wait to be told. You are not stupid. That would almost be easier. You are simply slow. And worse — soft. You are my heir. And that is the only thing that spares you. The gods gave you your mother’s face but they did not grant you her wit. And that, I think, is the cruellest jest of all.”
Lord Sebaston did not linger after that. The door creaked open, and he stepped out, his expression carved from stone, his stride unhurried as though he had done nothing at all. He did not look at Rubin. He did not have to. Rubin was not his concern. He strode down the hall without a word, without a glance back. Rubin did not enter. He did not move. Some wounds, the gods decreed, must be suffered alone. The Mother, who weeps for all her children. . . grant him mercy.
➶✶
The clang of steel rang out from the training grounds. Henrik sat at the stone bench, his posture stiff but outwardly composed, his gaze locked on the men below as they circled and clashed, grunting with effort and exertion. Courtiers passed them in murmured clusters, the scent of perfumed oil and fine wine trailing in their wake. Rubin stood over him, his own gaze less fixed, more watchful. The Maester’s words still echoed in his mind: He is well enough, but do not let him be a fool. A pointless warning. Henrik had long since perfected the art of foolishness.
The young lord rolled a coin between his fingers. A stag, the silver catching in the light, flicking over his knuckles before dropping back into his palm. In his other hand, a handkerchief, its fabric creased and twisted between his fingers. Rubin had not asked where it had come from, nor did he need to.
A group of noblewomen passed them by, their voices light, their conversation carrying just far enough to be heard. Henrik did not notice them at first. But then—
“. . .the King will not waste such a beauty.”
“. . .if not for a queen, then perhaps. . .”
Rubin did not look at Henrik. He did not need to. He felt it. The slow way the young lord’s fingers curled over the coin in his palm, pressing the metal into his skin as if he might mould it beneath his grasp. It had been some time since Henrik had been on the field, but Rubin had not forgotten how he held his sword — fingers tight, knuckles locked, grip white with restraint. The coin disappeared into his palm as if he meant to crush it into his flesh, to let the imprint burn deep.
“Royal bastards,” one of the ladies laughed softly, her voice carrying despite the hush of their conversation. “Would it not be fitting? A wolf for a king’s amusement.”
“. . .and with hair like that, can you imagine?”
A tittering laugh, followed by the hushed murmur of silk shifting.
“She’ll have to be careful, won’t she? No one wants a wolf for a wife, but a wolf for a—” The speaker hesitated, a teasing lilt in her voice. Then, delicately: “Pet?”
Another laugh, higher, meaner. “You mean a bitch.”
The coin made a sharp sound against the stone as it hit the ground. It spun once, twice, before settling at Henrik’s boot. Rubin did not turn his head to watch it fall. He only watched Henrik. The silk-clad noblewomen walked away, their voices drifting through the courtyard like the scent of jasmine in the summer heat, leaving something sickly in their wake. Henrik’s eyes followed them, dark and unreadable.
Then, he stood. It was the rage. Rubin saw it. And worse, he saw Lord Sebaston in it.
Rubin moved closer and pressed a hand on his lord’s shoulder. “My lord,” he said firmly.
Henrik had always been too much like his mother. But not at this moment. Not in the stiffness of his spine, the way his jaw tightened just so, the way his fingers curled at his sides like he had to stop himself from reaching for a blade that was not there. Rubin waited. He was curious — how far would the boy go? Would he storm after them? Would he demand satisfaction like some green knight too eager to spill blood for honour? Would he—
Henrik sat back down.
“She is still within the city.” Henrik’s voice was low, careful.
Rubin tilted his head slightly, watching him from the corner of his eye. “You knew she would be.”
“I had hoped otherwise. She’s not marrying the King anymore I take it?”
The urge to sigh clawed at the back of Rubin’s throat. He had spent enough years at Henrik’s side to know when his lord’s mind was circling something, his thoughts wound as tight as a drawn bowstring.
“No, my lord.”
“She should have gone,” Henrik murmured and traced his fingers along the edges of the cloth.
Rubin’s eyes flicked to the handkerchief. A foolish little thing, its fabric soft and fine, the edges hemmed with a delicate stitch that bespoke noble hands. He did not ask but he was not blind. The Stark girl was a name that did not fade so easily from Henrik’s lips, nor from the conversations that drifted through the halls like smoke clinging to a burned ruin. She was still in the city and within reach. Rubin should have seen it earlier. His fingers curled over the hilt of his sword, a thoughtful motion rather than a reflexive one.
Women, he scoffed. He did not care for them. Not as Henrik did, who spoke of women like they were made of starlight and silk, nor as other men, clamouring and pining and falling to pieces over them like storm-battered ships on the rocks. They were temptation wrapped in softness, ruin hidden beneath the perfume. His mother had been one of those women men spoke of — beautiful, they said. But it was her cruelty Rubin remembered, not her face. The sickness of the heart was a treacherous forte. He had seen good men unmanned by it, warriors brought low, kneeling in the dirt for a woman’s favour, forgetting themselves in the gentleness of a smile. Women were dangerous things, indeed. Men bled for them, killed for them, burned for them. Kingdoms had been shattered for a single pair of tender hands. Love softened a man like fire softened steel, made him pliant and weak.
Rubin never had the patience for such liability. The Seven made men for duty, for war, for the weight of steel and the call of the horn. Love was a trick of the flesh, a snare laid by the Maiden to test the strength of men. And Henrik, for all his stubbornness and the fire that burned in him, was still too soft where it mattered. The thought unsettled Rubin more than it should.
A long pause stretched between them. Henrik had not yet looked at him. That, at least, was something. If the boy wanted to talk — truly talk, to air out whatever senseless thoughts had been taking root in his mind — Rubin was not certain he would have had the patience to hear them.
Instead, Henrik only turned the handkerchief between his fingers again. Rubin did not ask. It was not his place.
➶✶
Lord Sebaston Farman sat in his carved chair, his fingers steepled before him and his expression cutting. Henrik stood before him, stiff but outwardly composed, his face an impassive mask that did not quite fit him. Rubin knew this face. He had seen it in men who had learned the art of endurance, who understood that sometimes, silence was the only shield they had left.
“You have been reckless,” Lord Sebaston said bluntly. “But not without merit.”
Henrik did not respond. He merely waited. Lord Sebaston studied him for a long moment before continuing.
“House Farman’s position has strengthened after this victory. The Lannisters will remember your service, as will the Tyrells. You bled for this house, as you so aptly pointed out, so now it is time you solidify what you have built. A marriage will be arranged.”
Rubin, standing behind Lord Sebaston, said nothing. He knew this was coming. He had known before Henrik had even woken before the Maesters had finished, that the lord of Faircastle had come to see his son not as a dying boy but as something useful again. The Seven had willed Henrik to live. That meant he still had a purpose. And that purpose, as with all noble sons, would be bound in duty, in the cold steel of expectation and the ink of a contract sealed with a woman’s hand.
Marriage. Rubin barely suppressed the derisive curl of his lip. It was duty, yes. He did not deny that. But it was duty twisted into something base, something lesser. Men bound their houses together like merchants bartering for livestock, trading daughters for silver and sons for land. And yet, not one of them feared the vow. Not one of them knelt before the Seven and trembled at the thought of the words they would speak. They spoke the words — in the sight of gods and men — and did not mean them. They stood before the Father and the Mother and the Maiden and did not think of what it meant. Then they wondered why their houses crumbled, why their wives despised them and their sons rose against them with knives in the night.
Henrik, to his credit, did not lash out. But Rubin saw the flicker of tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers twitched ever so slightly where they hung at his sides.
“A marriage,” Henrik repeated, his voice flat.
Lord Sebaston’s brow arched, his patience thin as stretched parchment. “Yes. A marriage. Do not play the dullard, boy. You knew this was coming. It is past time for you to choose a wife.”
Henrik’s jaw tensed. “To whom?”
“That is still to be decided. There are several possibilities. Ser Kevan’s daughter would be a fine match — Lannister blood, even if she’s not close enough to matter much. A Tyrell, perhaps, not Lady Margaery, of course, but a cousin from the lesser branch would also be advantageous. Or perhaps one of your cousins from Lady Clifton’s brood — keeping ties within our own bannermen would be practical. I had considered a Marbrand or a Swift before, but now we have leverage. Pick a girl and put a child in her. That is what I require from you.”
Henrik blinked. “You wish me to choose?”
“Yes,” Lord Sebaston replied. “I am simply giving you the courtesy of choosing which girl it will be. I suggest you do not squander it. I do not care if the girl repulses you or if she warms your bed eagerly. You will do what is required even if you have to be carried to the High Septon.”
Then, Henrik spoke after taking a long breath inwards, “And if none of them suit?”
“Then you will wed her regardless. And learn to live with disappointment. Like every man before you who ever wore a cloak of station and a name worth more than his own desires”
Henrik should have left it at that. He should have nodded and swallowed it down like all the other bitter draughts his father had poured for him over the years. But no. He had to press his luck.
“And if I refuse?”
Rubin’s brows lifted slightly. Bold. Stupid. Henrik’s shoulders did not shift, but Rubin saw his fingers twitch — just once, barely a movement. Rubin was not a lesser man. He was an observant man. And he knew what Henrik was thinking. He knew because Henrik always thought of her ever since they’d come to Kings Landing, even when he didn’t say her name. It was there, in the way his mouth pressed into that thin, stubborn line; in the way his fists curled, trying to grasp at something beyond reach; in the way his jaw had clenched when those court women laughed about the wolf girl like she was something to be owned.
Oh, yes. Henrik was thinking of her.
And that, more than anything, made Rubin uneasy.
It was not just the impracticality of it; the sheer, wretched stupidity of a young lord clinging to thoughts of a girl who would never — could never — be his. It was the fact that Henrik knew it was irrational, as surely as he knew the sun would rise in the west, and yet he still let himself drown in it. Rubin did not understand it.
Lord Sebaston’s expression did not shift. He was not a large man, not broad or brutish in the way of lesser lords who mistook muscle for strength, but he had never needed size to make men shrink beneath his gaze. Henrik did not shrink. But he was not his father, and that, Rubin thought, had always been the problem.
“You mistake the nature of this, boy,” Lord Sebaston said, his voice calm, patient, as though explaining something simple to a slow child. “This is not a matter of your wants. You will wed and bind House Farman to a name that serves us. Perhaps I should make the choice for you.” A pause. Then, almost idly, “If I have to put the girl in your bed myself, so be it. If I must sit at the foot of your marriage bed like the bloody Septon and ensure the deed is done, I will.”
Henrik flinched. A flicker in the eyes. A shift in the jaw. But Rubin saw it. He doubted Lord Sebaston missed it, either.
“You think to defy me? You are a man now, or so you claim to be,” Lord Sebaston continued, tone still as even as a whetted blade. “So act like one. Fulfill your duty.”
Henrik narrowed his eyes. “If I recall, my defiance is what kept me from dying in my sickbed.”
Lord Sebaston’s expression did not shift. “And yet, you lay in it all the same because you choose to ignore my orders.”
The words landed heavy, but Henrik did not flinch this time. He had expected the blow. That, at least, was progress.
“I saved your life at the battle or don’t you recall?” Henrik said, teeth gritted. “And you would — you repay me with this? You would see me leashed, bent, forced into whatever marriage best serves you — as if I have not already—”
Lord Sebaston did not blink. “Do not mistake your actions for sacrifice,” he declared, voice smooth. “You did what was expected of you. Nothing more. A lesser man would call that honour. I call it a duty. Well, enough of this folly. I have been more than patient with you. If you cannot be trusted to see to your duty, then perhaps it falls to another.” His fingers tapped once against the armrest of his chair. “Your sister is nearly of an age.”
Henrik’s entire body went rigid. “She is a child,” he forced out, staring in horror at his father. “Playing with dolls.”
“She is a girl,” Lord Sebaston corrected smoothly. “A poor replacement, true. But daughters have been wed young before. If you will not do your duty, then perhaps Alys will.” He let the words hang. Then, a glance toward Henrik, a slight tilt of the head. “Unless, of course, you plan to change my mind.”
Henrik took a step forward. “If you touch her—”
Lord Sebaston did not move. He did not need to. His presence alone was enough. “Touch her?” he repeated, amused. “Do not be dramatic, Henrik. I would not waste time on such crude threats. I speak only of betrothals. If you refuse to wed, then I must look elsewhere. Alys is not ideal, yes, but she is mine to use as I see fit.”
The boy was shaking.
“She is ten!” Henrik yelled, his voice raw and his eyes glimmered wetly.
Lord Sebaston hummed in vague acknowledgement. “And when have noble daughters been spared their duty? It would not be for some two or three years yet, of course, but girls grow quickly, as you well know.” A small pause. “By then, she will be of an age that even a husband of six-and-thirty would not find objectionable.”
Henrik moved before he could think better of it. A sharp step forward, like a hound barely held on a leash, his fists curling at his sides. For all of Henrik’s foolishness, he was not a complete idiot. He did not strike his father. He did not shove the heavy oak table between them or tear the tapestries from the walls in some futile show of rebellion. He slammed his palms on the table and breathed raggedly as though his fury might crush him from the inside out. His fingers were white against the dark wood of the table.
Lord Sebaston tilted his head in a bored manner. “Are you quite finished?”
Rubin cleared his throat. “My lord,” he said, voice rough with gravel and age. “Shall I call for the maester?”
Lord Sebaston turned his head to let him know he’d been heard. “That will not be necessary,” he said coolly. “My son is merely. . . overwhelmed.”
Henrik stood there, vibrating with something too wild, too feral, something that wanted to bite. Then, at last, he exhaled, slow and shaking, and announced, “I will wed as you command.”
The words left him like a man tearing an arrow from his gut. Lord Sebaston gave a satisfied nod.
➶✶
Lord Petyr Baelish found him in the dim stretch of stone. Littlefinger they called him. Baelish looked at him with a half-smirk, fingers clutching a ledger against his chest. Something infuriating about that smirk made Rubin want to wipe it from his face with the back of his gauntleted hand. But that was not his place, nor his right. The gods willed patience and patience he would give.
“Ser Rubin,” Baelish greeted. “A man of duty. And, I imagine, of deep loyalty to his lord.”
Rubin’s jaw tightened. He had no love for men who spoke in riddles, nor those who twisted their words like a strangler’s garrote, slipping them around a man’s throat before he even felt it.
“May I help you, my lord?”
Baelish chuckled. “Straight to the point. How refreshing. I do admire that in a man. I was just speaking to Lord Varys recently about how interesting I find it,” he mused, “how men rise in the world. Some through blood, others through battle. And then, there are those who climb, rung by rung, step by step, as if the Seven themselves had laid the path before them. Men like yourself.”
Rubin’s hands remained clasped behind his back. He would not fidget, nor shift. “I serve House Farman,” he said, voice even. “That is all.”
“Oh, but it isn’t,” Baelish countered, tilting his head as if studying some curious artefact. “Flea Bottom-born. A boy who learned a blade before the weight of a quill. You were never meant for halls like these, Ser Rubin, and yet — here you are. Captain of the Guard. Trusted by Lord Sebaston Farman himself. A remarkable thing. Faith, I imagine, played no small part in it. The Seven smile upon the dutiful, do they not? And what greater duty and honour than to serve?”
The Master of Coin was a man of station, a lord of Harrenhal, a voice that carried in chambers where coin and consequence dictated the turning of the realm. A man such as Rubin had little business with men such as him. And yet here they were.
“Tell me, how fares young Lord Henrik?”
“Lord Henrik recovers.”
Baelish’s smirk twitched, just slightly. “Recovering from both injury and glory, no doubt. The songs are already being spun about your young lord’s heroics. Quite the feat, truly, standing when others fled, bleeding but unbroken.” Baelish stepped closer, the dim torchlight catching in his eyes, sly as a cat’s. “They do adore a boy hero,” he said, voice soft as a lover’s whisper, “especially one with the right name and the right blood. It’s a rare alchemy — bravery, beauty, and birth. The realm eats it up like sugared plums. But plums spoil quickly, Ser Rubin. Especially in the sun.”
Men like Baelish made conversation feel like walking in a frozen lake, where the ice might crack beneath your feet at any moment. Baelish continued as if he had not noticed Rubin’s silence.
“You serve House Farman, do you not, ser?”
“I do, my lord.”
“Hmm. A storied house, that one. Loyal to Lannister interests, though always keeping just enough distance to remind the Rock that they are not vassals, only allies. But the past. . . now, the past is the most interesting thing.”
Rubin did not like where this was going.
Baelish tapped a finger against his ledger. “Faircastle, of course, has long been a seat of power, though not one that ever sought to stretch its fingers too far inland. No, the Farmans have always been an insular sort, content to keep their walls sturdy, their wealth numerous, and their fleet strong, rarely meddling where meddling is so often rewarded.” Baelish’s lips twitched as if amused by the silence. “But war changes things, doesn’t it? A house that once kept to itself now finds its heir bathed in victory, standing among those who shape the realm. Lord Henrik’s name is being spoken in halls that might never have whispered it before. Some see potential in that. A young lord, unwed, standing at the precipice. Quite the opportunity.”
“Indeed, my lord.”
“Ah, spoken like a true soldier. Did you know, Ser Rubin, that House Farman once defied a king?”
A question posed with idle curiosity, as if one might ask about the weather or the price of barley in the Riverlands.
“Oh, not openly, of course,” he continued. “But the history is there, buried beneath all the pleasantries of banners and loyalty. During the reign of King Maegor — ah, such a charming ruler — Faircastle rebelled. Lord Farman shut his gates to the king’s men. A foolish thing, perhaps, considering the. . . rather pointed way King Maegor handled disobedience. One might think it was the end of House Farman altogether, but no. Do you know what happened next?”
“The Farmans surrendered,” Rubin said flatly. “They swore fealty once more.”
“Yes, the good lord yielded in time, bent the knee, and swore fealty anew. And so, the Farmans remained.” Baelish’s smirk curled, slow and thin like a cat’s tail twitching before the pounce. “Loyalty is such a. . . malleable thing, wouldn’t you say?” he mused. “It shifts, bends, redefines itself as the tides turn. A man might swear fealty to a king one day and to his enemy the next, and all it takes is a promise of coin, of power, of something greater.”
“I would not say so, my lord,” Rubin replied. “Loyalty is not meant to bend. If it bends, it was never loyalty to begin with.”
Baelish made a sound in his throat, something amused and pitying as if Rubin had just revealed himself to be a simpleton. “And yet,” Baelish mused, tapping his ledger with two fingers, “House Farman remains. If loyalty were so rigid, so unyielding to Prince Aegon, Faircastle would have burned with the rest of Maegor’s enemies.”
“House Farman remains,” Rubin said. “As does its loyalty.”
Baelish took a step closer, voice lowering, soft as silk. “Yes, but loyalty, Ser Rubin, gets men killed. House Farman tried to stand alone once, and they learned how costly defiance could be. But, you see, men do not have to declare war to be considered dangerous. They simply have to place their affections . . . in the wrong direction.”
Rubin’s blood ran cold though he kept his expression impassive.
“Affections, my lord?” Rubin’s voice was calm. His tone did not change, did not sharpen, though he was aware that this was no idle conversation anymore. “I am not certain I take your meaning.”
“Oh, I think you do,” Baelish murmured. “It is a simple thing, really. A lord’s heir is expected to act with a certain degree of. . . pragmatism, shall we say? To form alliances that will strengthen his house. But youth, dear Ser Rubin, youth has a way of. . . forgetting itself.”
Rubin’s mind worked quickly, cutting through the layered meanings, the careful turns of phrase. There was only one name that could linger behind Baelish’s words. Rubin’s jaw tightened.
“Do you know much of your sworn lord’s ancestors, ser?”
“I know enough.”
“Then you must know of Lady Elissa Farman.”
Of course, he knew. Everyone in Fair Isle did. But it was not a story often spoken of.
“She was a dreamer,” Baelish continued, his voice almost wistful. “A woman who sought more than what was offered to her. She lived among dragons, you know. A dear friend — some say more than a friend — to Queen Rhaena Targaryen. A Farman at court, favoured by a queen. But she was not content with mere favour, was she? No, she wanted more. And when she could not find it here, she looked elsewhere.” He exhaled softly. “She stole three ships from her own house and sailed west, never to return.”
Rubin said nothing, but his pulse was quickening. Baelish leaned forward.
“She left behind everything — her home, her name, even her place at the side of a queen. Do you ever wonder, ser, what she hoped to find?”
Rubin clenched his jaw. “She was a fool.”
Baelish chuckled. “Perhaps. Dreamers rarely fare well in Westeros. The world does not look kindly on those who seek more than what they are given. But there is something to be said, don’t you think for those who choose passion over duty? A rare breed, truly. But the trouble with such people is that they never understand the cost of their choices until it is far too late.”
Rubin exhaled slowly. The meaning beneath Baelish’s words was as clear as the bells of the Sept tolling for the dead. This was not about Lady Elissa. This was about Henrik.
“I wonder, Ser Rubin,” Baelish continued, stepping closer, “do you think your young lord takes after his ancestors?”
Rubin’s throat worked, but his face remained unreadable. “Lord Henrik is his father’s son.”
Baelish laughed. “Oh, but that is a matter of some debate, isn’t it?”
Rubin forced himself to remain still. He would not rise to it. He would not give Baelish anything, would not step into the web the man was spinning.
“My lord, if you have something to say, say it plainly.”
Baelish smiled almost dreamily. “No, no. It is simply a thought. But one worth considering. The past lingers. In stone, in names, in the blood. People pretend it sleeps, but it never does. And history has a way of creeping back into the present.” Then, with that same infuriating smirk, he stepped back. “Well, I shall not keep you any longer, Ser Rubin. I imagine you have much guarding to do.”
With that, he offered a small bow, more mockery than respect, and turned to go. He walked with the same unhurried ease he had come with. Rubin exhaled as if he could rid himself of the sickness Baelish had left in the air.
Notes:
Hey guys, thanks so much for reading. Thank you for bearing with me and I hope this chapter makes up for it.
This is Rubin’s first POV chapter, and I imagine he’s not a particularly likeable character. He’s deeply devout in a way that makes him hard and unyielding. I wanted to explore the world through his eyes — someone bound by duty, shaped by hardship, and quietly watching the slow unravelling of a boy he’s sworn to protect. Rubin isn’t sentimental, but he sees Henrik in a way, both as a soldier and something more like a wary guardian. There’s no warmth in Rubin, only duty, discipline, and a belief that pain has a purpose. He understands the cost of softness but he keeps finding it in Henrik in his refusal to become what Lord Sebaston demands.
Lord Sebaston is at his most cruel here. He didn’t need to raise his voice to make the words land like blows, and that was something important to get right. The toxic paternal dynamic is front and centre. Sebaston sees his son as a tool, not a person. Rubin’s role as a pseudo-father/mentor figure softens this, but he too is shaped by discipline and survival.
I'm heading to Lisbon this week with my cousins to celebrate my birthday on the 15th, just as an update — definitely in need of a little getaway. My first holiday of the year, thank god.
As always, I appreciate you reading and suffering alongside these characters. If you’re enjoying the story, I’d love to hear what you think. Comments, thoughts, and theories — I read every one.
I hope you guys are having a good day. See you next time!
Chapter 15: Henrik X
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The sky was low and swollen with smoke.
Henrik stood in the centre of a castle courtyard, the stone blackened and cracked beneath his boots. The air was thick with the stench of iron and things long dead and rotting still. Somewhere, a bell tolled, warped and broken, its sound twisting through the hollow streets like a dying thing. King’s Landing sprawled in ruins, a carcass of a city.
Where there had once been gilded spires and the bright shimmer of banners snapping in the breeze, there were now only empty streets and crumbling walls, all swallowed in ash. The river, once gleaming like a silver ribbon in the sunlight, had turned a sluggish, foul thing, crawling with a sickness that stained even the distant air. Smoke bled into the heavens without end, smearing the sky the colour of old bruises.
He did not remember being there. He only knew it was too late for whatever salvation had once been possible.
At his feet, Jarak’s sword lay abandoned, snapped clean through the middle. Henrik stared at it for a long moment. It should have gleamed in Jarak’s hand, held aloft with that easy smile he wore like armour. But there was no hand now. No Jarak.
A gust of hot, foul wind stirred his cloak. Slowly, Henrik crouched, his gloved fingers stretching toward the broken blade, as if something could still be mended. The instant his hand brushed the steel, it gave way. Not with the clatter of metal, but with a soft, sifting sigh. The sword dissolved into ash, fine and black, running like water through his fingers.
He snatched his hand back, heart hammering against his ribs, but the ash clung to him, blackening his palm and his sleeve. For a breathless moment, he could not move. The silence pressed against him, heavy as a blade at his throat.
He rose slowly, staring out across the wreckage. Nothing moved. No banners, no bells, no songs. No life at all. Only the wind, and the faint, pitiless fall of ash.
Somewhere, hidden beyond sight, a voice Henrik knew whispered his name, thin, reedy, barely a sound. He turned, but there was no one there.
From the shattered gate at the far end of the battlements, a figure emerged: tall and drenched in smoke, her gown clinging to her like the wet clouds before a storm. Pale blue, it was, the colour of a sky still soft and merciful, just before the gods broke open the sky and punished their world. Henrik’s breath snagged in his throat. He did not need to see her face. He knew. He knew with the same terrible certainty with which he knew the beat of his own heart, the taste of blood in the back of his mouth when he bit it too hard, or the way a man knows the surface was there when drowning in water.
Her red hair clung to her cheeks, damp with smoke and sweat, darkened at the edges as though the fire had tried to claim her. She walked slowly, her steps soundless, leaving no print behind her on the scorched stones.
Henrik stood still. His fists clenched uselessly at his sides. He wanted to call out — her name beat against his teeth, desperate to be loosed — but his voice would not come. The smoke thickened, pressing against him, filling his mouth with the taste of copper.
She was close enough now that he could have reached for her, if only he dared move. He could see the trembling of her fingers as they twisted the hem of her gown.
Henrik opened his mouth to call her name — he felt it there, a desperate lunge in his chest, a sob rising without air — but the sound snagged in his throat. His legs refused him.
“Wait—” he managed, a sound not much more than the scraping of broken glass.
Hope, stupid, bright and searing, flared in him, reckless as a boy’s hope. His hands twitched at his sides, reaching toward her without thinking. Stay, he thought. Gods, please stay. But she only tilted her head, just a fraction, enough for him to see the curve of her cheek, the line of her jaw. Enough to know she had heard him.
“No!”
His voice cracked apart on the stones. He lurched forward a step, heart pounding against the cage of his ribs, but the air thickened, hardening around him like glass. Every breath scraped against him.
“Sansa. . .” he whispered, softer now, brokenly, a prayer scattered to the wind.
His mouth tasted of loss, sharp against the back of his tongue. He could see the faint outline of her still, through the slow drift of ash, her small frame bowed slightly forward, as if bearing the weight of some unseen grief. His hand ached with the want to reach her, the need so sharp it nearly dropped him to his knees.
“Sansa,” he rasped again.
A shudder passed through her, fine and fragile as the trembling of leaves before a storm breaks. She turned gradually, as if the very motion cost her, and her eyes met his. Henrik felt the breath punch from his lungs. The ruin had not taken her from him yet. Her eyes, those clear, impossibly blue eyes, were red with unshed tears, but they were hers, and they were looking at him. Then she came to him, the thin soles of her shoes making no sound against the scorched stone. Henrik stayed where he was, afraid to breathe, afraid that even blinking might tear the moment apart.
When she reached him, she lifted one hand slowly, like a man might lift a blade he was too weak to hold. Her fingers brushed his jaw, feather-light, tracing the line of his cheekbone. Henrik leaned into the touch before he could stop himself, his body answering hers the way a dying thing reaches for water.
He did not know if it was the press of her fingers against his face, or the look in her eyes, clear and stricken, that undid him first. He only knew that something inside him gave way, quietly and shattering, like ice breaking beneath a man’s boots.
The wind dragged at her hair, carrying the faint scent of her, something sweeter buried underneath that oddly resembled lemon cakes. Henrik swallowed hard against the knot in his throat.
“You should not look at me so,” he said. He meant to step back, to put space between them.
Sansa tilted her head, the smallest shift, as if studying him anew. Her hand dropped from his jaw only to curl against his chest, the fragile bones of her fingers a pale star against the leather. Henrik’s heart thundered, frantic and foolish.
“I have always looked at you,” she said, simply as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world.
Henrik could not look away from her mouth, the faint tremor of it, the way her lower lip caught briefly between her teeth. His hand rose of its own accord, foolish, treasonous, to brush a strand of hair from her face. His knuckles grazed her cheek, and she did not flinch. She leaned into the touch, as if she had been waiting for it.
“Henrik,” she whispered, and he had no defence against it.
Her hand slid higher, fingers curling around the collar of his cloak, tugging him down without force, without demand. He bent — how could he not? — until his forehead touched hers, and he could feel the trembling of her breath against his lips.
Then, without haste, without fear, she kissed him. It was not the kiss of songs, of bright halls and silver-chased feasts. It was quiet and desperate with the soft urgency of something starved too long. Her mouth was warm and quivering against his, tasting of salt and ash, of a thousand things Henrik had never let himself want.
He made a sound low in his throat, some wordless thing, part plea, part surrender, and kissed her back, his hands sliding up to cradle her face as though she might slip away if he were not careful.
The sky cracked overhead, a long, low groan like a dying god. Henrik did not care. Let it all fall. Let the stones bury him here, if only he could keep this: the taste of her, the fragile strength of her mouth against his, the staggering knowledge that she had chosen him, here at the end of all things.
But even as he deepened the kiss, he felt her beginning to slip away. Her delicate hands, warm against his chest, grew light as moth wings. The world thinned around him, the smoke bleeding into mist, the stones beneath his boots turning soft and insubstantial. He felt it before he heard it: the slow, traitorous shift beneath him. The battlements breathed one final time, and then they gave way.
“No,” he gasped against her lips, trying to hold her there and anchor them both against the tide. “Please—”
Her fingers brushed his cheek one last time, feather-light, and he thought he heard her whisper his name again. Henrik reached for her. His hand shot out, straining through the thickening smoke, fingers curled toward her as if they could catch the shape of her. The air tore past him, a rush of wind. The sky shattered into streaks of grey and fire, and still he reached for her. And then—
Henrik stumbled forward into nothingness, fists closing around only empty air. . .
His eyes flew open, and his body jerked up. The ceiling above him was dark. Somewhere, a log in the hearth cracked apart, the ember-glow of it faint and hollow. He did not know where he was for a moment.
The waking was slow, viscous, as though the dream clung to him, loath to be parted. His throat was raw. His chest heaved like a bellows, lungs drawing in air that tasted wrong, too clean, too cold, too real. The bed beneath him was tangled in sweat-damp sheets, the scent of fever and linen clinging to his skin. His palm ached, fingers curled around nothing.
He moved slowly, the motion weak and uncertain. A shiver passed through him. Henrik pressed his palm against his chest, unsure of what he expected to find. A wound? A brand? A heartbeat too fast? He found only silence, the echo of her name on his tongue, and the ghost of her sweet, dulcet voice whispering in his ear.
➶✶
The pavilion was draped in Tyrell gold and green, though it was softer than usual, gauzy and sunlit as though the very air was meant to feel hospitable. A low breeze stirred the silken banners, carrying the faint sweetness of late-summer wine and crushed mint. Beneath the shade, a long table stood scattered with bowls of sugared almonds and plums split for the taking. The talk was light, meandering, filled with the clipped laughter of girls and the flatteries of boys who wore their House sigils like fresh medals.
Henrik’s doublet was the colour of a deep sea, the silver ships of House Farman embroidery catching what little light filtered through the canopy. A matching clasp pinned his cloak at the shoulder. It was not so hot as to sweat. It was not cold as to shiver. And yet he felt both. It was not a feast. No great herald announced their arrival, no silken-clad minstrel plucked songs from memory in the corner. There was music, faint and forgettable, strings and soft pipes that seemed to play more for the sake of tradition than pleasure, but it did not linger. Like the scent of rosewater and citrus in the air, it faded too quickly to matter.
Somewhere, a girl laughed too brightly at something a Fossoway boy had said, and a Redwyne knight offered her a handful of almonds as if they were stolen jewels. Henrik watched the exchange without interest. His hand drifted toward his goblet, then stopped. The wine was light and perfumed. He had tasted it once and decided it was meant to trick the mouth rather than warm the belly. Still, he lifted it now, if only for something to do.
Another laugh rang out, a girl’s voice, high and sweet, somewhere to his left. Henrik turned slightly, catching the faint glimmer of golden hair, a flush of pink silk. He wondered, not for the first time, when this would end. What would Jarak have said if he were here? Henrik’s chest tightened; his hand twitched involuntarily toward his goblet again.
A voice cut off his thoughts, soft and shaped with courtesy, though not confidence. “My lord.”
He turned. She stood just to his left, her hands folded at her waist, clutching a sprig of something — mint, maybe, or some maidenly bloom pressed for scent. Her gown was green, not the bold, living green of House Tyrell’s banners, but a quieter hue, like sage pressed thin. There were little golden buds at her collar and sleeves, fine embroidery done by a patient hand. She looked young, not a child, but not quite a woman.
Henrik blinked, slowly. He did not recognise her. Not among the Tyrell hosts that he had already met. He had been presented to Lady Margarey, soon to be Queen, as all noblemen and women had, though only briefly.
Henrik bowed slightly in a gesture of acknowledgement. “My lady.”
She was shorter than him by a head, her hands clasped too tightly before her waist, her smile too wide. Her name escaped him, though he’d most likely been told. When she straightened, her gaze did not quite meet his.
“Is it the sugared lemons that so offend your mercy?” she asked, too quickly. Then bit her lip, as if regretting it at once.
Henrik’s brow lifted, a beat slower than her words had come. He regarded the untouched candies, the ones he’d pushed aside an hour ago.
“I've no quarrel with the lemon,” he said. “Only the memory of its sweetness.”
Her eyes — hazel, or brown, or some mix in between — met his for a moment before falling again. She curtsied, as if suddenly remembering herself, and folded her hands before her.
“I—” She hesitated. “I did not mean to interrupt, my lord. Forgive me. I thought perhaps you. . . well. You seemed alone.”
He considered her for a moment and pondered why she was still here. “I was.”
A flicker passed across her face, embarrassment, maybe, or disappointment.
“Would you prefer it to remain so?” she asked. Her fingers curled tighter around the sprig.
Henrik shook his head once to be polite. “You may stay, if you wish.”
She did, a touch quickly. Her skirts whispered against the grass as she settled beside him, a good pace of polite distance kept between them. The music beyond the pavilion faltered and picked up again, strings sliding uncertainly into the next measure. A bird called from some tree nearby, once, then again. He glanced at her. She was staring at her hands before daring to reach for a plum.
“They’re good,” Henrik offered, without looking at her. “Sweeter than they look.”
She smiled briefly and gratefully. “I prefer the tart ones, usually. But I thought — well. It seemed a shame not to try.”
“You are of Highgarden, my lady? You are kin to the queen-to-be,” he asked, though it was more statement than a question. The sprig between her fingers answered well enough.
She nodded, her fingers worrying the little green stem as she turned it between thumb and forefinger. “Yes, my lord. I am the daughter of Ser Leo.”
Henrik inclined his head slightly, the name falling into place now. Ser Leo Tyrell was the eldest son of Ser Victor Tyrell, nephew to old Lady Olenna, cousin to Lord Mace of Highgarden. Henrik recalled vaguely that Ser Leo’s brood was large, his daughters young, none yet married but all circling the edges of eligible court.
“Ah, yes. I beg pardon, my lady, I didn’t quite catch your name?”
Her cheeks flushed delicately, a soft rose-pink creeping up to her hairline. “Alla. Alla Tyrell.”
“Ah,” Henrik said, offering a smile. “Then I must be in gracious company indeed. I’m Henrik.”
“I know,” she blurted quickly. Then she hastily added, biting her bottom lip as her face turned red as the plums. “I mean. . . I was told.” She laughed softly.
He shifted slightly, fingers brushing the edge of his goblet, and said lightly, “I’m flattered you remember, Lady Alla. Especially when we’ve not been properly introduced.”
Alla laughed again, a bit breathless, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Well,” she admitted, glancing down shyly at her hands, “I suppose I was. . . curious.”
Henrik tilted his head slightly, watching her with mild, reserved interest. Curious, he thought. About him?
“I’ve heard you were raised near the sea, my lord?” she asked. “Faircastle is on the western coast, is it not?”
“It is,” Henrik said. “The sound of the waves is the only lullaby I’ve ever trusted.”
“I’ve never seen the western coast,” she said, brushing her fingers free of plum juice with a napkin. “I’ve been to Maidenpool once. And Oldtown, of course. But I imagine Faircastle must be very beautiful.”
She looked at him now and then like a bird peering out from the hedge. Her eyes did not linger long, as though she feared the weight of being seen too clearly.
“Faircastle can be beautiful,” he said at last, choosing the words the way a careful hand selects driftwood.
“I’d like to see it someday,” she said, quieter this time. “The sea, I mean. I’ve only read about it. My septa used to say it was where the world began.”
Henrik considered her a moment before replying. “In Faircastle, we say the sea is where men go to drown. I suppose it depends on your vantage.”
She laughed behind her hand, a sound as neat and practised as her stitching, though her eyes flicked toward him with something between amusement and caution. “That’s rather grim.”
“Only honest,” he said mildly. “The sea gives little and takes often.”
“I should like to see it all the same,” she said. “Properly. I’ve never been farther west than Oldtown.”
Henrik inclined his head. “Oldtown’s a fine place for books and bells. But if it’s wind and stone you want, come west of the Crag. The cliffs rise straight from the sea there, and the gulls cry like old ghosts.”
“I wouldn’t know what to do with cliffs,” she said, wrinkling her nose prettily. “I’m used to gardens.”
“Then you’d likely try to plant something,” he said. “And wonder why nothing ever grew.”
That earned a more genuine laugh. She leaned forward slightly, emboldened by his gentleness. “And you? Do you miss it? Home?”
Henrik shrugged, the motion just enough to shift the silver clasp at his shoulder. “At times. The wind keeps its own counsel. That’s more than I can say for most courtiers.”
She looked down, adjusting the fall of her sleeve. “You speak more like a maester.”
“Gods forbid,” Henrik murmured dryly. “I’ve far too much hair and far too little sense.”
She leaned slightly forward, her hands folding delicately on the table. “And do you always speak in riddles, Lord Henrik?”
Henrik gave her a slow smile, one eyebrow lifting just slightly. “Only to the ones who ask questions.”
“Is that meant to discourage me?”
“If I wished to discourage you, I’d speak of crop rotation. Or the Lannisters’ latest tariffs on Myrish lace. That tends to send even the boldest ladies running.”
Alla laughed again, soft and bright, like water over stone. She bit her lower lip as if to keep the sound from carrying too far, but the flush on her cheeks betrayed her pleasure.
“You’re very wicked, my lord. I—I like how you speak. You make it sound like everything means something.”
Henrik let that sit for a beat. Then he smiled again, careful and light. “I’ve been accused of worse.”
She flushed, clearly pleased. “Most of the knights here only talk about hunting.”
“Then I’ll try not to mention the boar I failed to catch last summer.”
“I’m sure it was the boar’s fault,” she said brightly.
“It usually is,” Henrik replied.
Alla reached for another plum. Her fingers were sticky with juice.
Henrik looked at her, polite, attentive, and said, “You’ll stain your sleeves.”
She blinked down, startled. “Oh — gods, I always do.”
He handed her the napkin, gently, like he’d done it a dozen times before. “A tragedy, I’m told.”
She smiled again, shy and grateful. “You’re very kind, my lord. I thank you.”
Henrik shook his head, faintly. “You honour me, Lady Alla. Only well-raised.”
The music beyond the silks swelled with another song, something courtly, forgettable and bright. Her voice came like petals plucked from a stem. He responded each in turn, smoothly, charmingly, never more than what was required. She smiled with each response, growing steadier. She leaned forward when he spoke, her hand drifting near his on the linen. He made no effort to pull away. Nor did he reach for her. Her perfume was something faint and flowery, probably hawthorn.
The breeze shifted, lifting the edge of the pavilion’s green-and-gold canopy. From somewhere down the garden path came the high, sweet trill of a Reach girl’s laughter, no doubt, Lady Margaery’s brood of rosewater doves. Bright girls, all of them, bred for charm and utility. Useful girls, his lord father had said. Well-favoured. Well-connected. Be agreeable.
Henrik swallowed the word like spoiled wine. He was being led in circles, measured and weighed, paraded like a prize stallion before a field of acceptable mares. That was the game. The Reach had daughters. The Westerlands had silver. And Lord Sebaston wanted a courtship played sweet and slow — a dance in full daylight, all smiles and manners.
Henrik smiled. He said all the appropriate things a lord ought to say to a lady. He asked if she enjoyed dancing, and when she said yes, he said that he did as well. He said he hoped they might dance together. Every word she spoke felt soft and distant, like a feather brushing his cheek through glass.
Her hands were delicate, her voice careful. She asked about falcons and bannermen and whether he’d ever seen a kraken. Then, without knowing why, he glanced down at her hands again. Not her fingers, but the space between them. A memory struck him without shape: the pale press of another girl’s palm against his chest. A strand of red hair clung to her cheek, darkened with sweat and smoke. Lips brushing his. . .
His stomach turned. He reached for his goblet too quickly. The wine was warm, too sweet, but he drank it all the same.
“And. . . do you play the harp?” Alla asked.
He blinked, dragging his thoughts back. “I’ve never boasted of being a singer, my lady.”
She giggled as though he’d said something in jest. He smiled, too, because it was expected. Because his father was watching, somewhere. . .
Her hand fluttered to her throat, like a bird startled by its own wings. A silence settled between them then. Her eyes darted toward the distant feast tables, where the others still drank and flirted and plotted their small ambitions. She would have friends among them — cousins who would whisper questions once she returned: Is he charming? Does he smile? Did he touch your hand? Henrik did not envy her.
Sansa’s voice was still there, faint and private. Her eyes — smoke-rimmed, blue, steady — had never quite left his private thoughts. He felt her fingers on his jaw still, the kiss like a brand hidden beneath his collar. His skin itched with the memory. He hated himself for remembering and then more for wanting.
Another song started, something from the Reach, lilting and soft, like honey on the tongue. Alla turned to it instinctively, and Henrik took the moment to look away. He felt cold despite the sun. Cold in the joints, cold behind the ribs, as if someone had left a window open in his chest.
He had not always been this way. Before King’s Landing, before the battle and when Jarak’s smile was something he could remember, Henrik had loved to make women laugh. Not cruelly, not with the sharp edges his father admired. He’d liked the softness of it. The light in their eyes when he said something unexpected. The way a girl’s mouth might twitch against a smile she didn’t mean to give. The blush that rose not from shame but delight. There had been a kind of rightness in it. The world grew gentler when someone was laughing. He had believed, perhaps foolishly, that goodness had weight. That lightness could hold a man aloft. He used to call it gallantry. Rubin had called it idiocy.
He watched Alla from the corner of his eye. She wanted him to like her. Henrik could see it in the way she leaned in ever so slightly, in the small tremor of her fingers. He didn’t mind. He answered her questions. He smiled. But it was all distant. Not because she wasn’t sweet — she was. Gods, she was exactly the sort of girl he might’ve tried to impress once, long before everything else.
But that boy was gone. Burned away, maybe, in the ash of King’s Landing. Something had snapped inside him when Jarak died. Henrik hadn’t screamed or torn at the sky like the songs promised. It had been quieter than that, a slow unthreading where you know a wound won’t close clean. He’d held the memory of Jarak’s voice like a stone for days, afraid that if he spoke aloud, it would vanish. And maybe it had anyway. His body ached in strange places these days, not from sparring or riding, but from something deeper. A quiet, persistent ache behind the ribs. Sometimes he thought that if someone pressed a hand to his chest, they might feel the hollowness there.
His father would be pleased. The Tyrell girl was agreeable. Malleable. She’d bear sons and smile in the right places and never ask too much. But even now, with her sitting there — with her perfume and questions and blushes — Henrik couldn’t muster any happiness. Alla tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and leaned forward, her eyes searching his face as if hoping to catch something there, some flicker of warmth, some spark. Henrik looked back at her, polite and steady, and did not offer it.
Suddenly, Alla reached for the wrong goblet, a half-finished one set aside by a Redwyne knight with a taste for stronger vintages. She lifted it without looking, her fingers around the stem, too busy trying to answer Henrik’s quiet question about the gardens in Oldtown. Then she sipped — too quick, too deep — and coughed, the sour bite of the wine catching sharp in her throat.
A splash of red arced from the rim, blotting across the tablecloth like blood. Alla froze. Then, in a flurry of motion, she set the goblet down too hard, snatched at her napkin, and began blotting the spill with desperate, fluttering hands. Her cheeks went red as summer roses. One of the Fossoway boys snorted into his palm. The Redwyne knight leaned back in his seat, smirking.
“Oh — oh gods, I’m so sorry—” Alla stammered, half rising from her seat. “I didn’t mean to — I wasn’t looking—”
Her voice was small, high and reedy with mortification. She glanced around the table, clearly hoping the earth might open beneath her gown and bury her whole. Her hand trembled as she tried to wipe at the wine spreading toward her skirts, but the cloth was too thin, and her fingers kept slipping.
Henrik blinked. Not at the mess, or the noise, but at the way her face hadn’t crumpled into tears, but something rawer. That fierce, shameful wish not to be seen. She wasn’t just flustered, she was humiliated. He stood without hurry and reached for a fresh napkin, which a servant quickly offered, thicker and folded properly.
“A mercy,” he said softly, offering it to her, “that it wasn’t Dornish red. That stain would never come out.”
Alla blinked up at him, startled. Her hands stilled. A breath caught in her throat — not a sob, but something near it — and she gave a weak, grateful laugh.
“I — I didn’t mean to—”
“Of course not,” Henrik reassured. He met her eyes. “It happens.”
“She’s lucky it didn’t land in your lap,” one of the Fossoways muttered, loud enough to carry.
Henrik turned his head toward the boy and stared at him. The laughter faded as quickly as it’d begun. Alla was dabbing uselessly at the edge of her gown now, still pink, her eyes fixed on the cloth like it might tell her what to say next.
“It’s an easy mistake,” he said with a shrug. “All these goblets look alike. I’ve done the same.”
She looked up, uncertain. “You have?”
“Once drank from a Maester’s cup,” he said solemnly. “Herbs and onions. Nearly wept on the spot. My lord father was furious.”
A startled laugh broke from her that was sharp and unpretty, a sound pulled from her gut. The wrong kind of laugh for a Tyrell girl in a silk gown. She instantly clapped a hand over her mouth, horrified, but the sound was already out, bright, unguarded, absurd. Henrik’s mouth twitched. Then, before he could stop himself, he smiled properly. Not the court-polished thing he’d worn all day, but a small, crooked smirk that came without warning. And for the first time since he’d arrived, he didn’t feel quite so cold.
➶✶
The gardens were quieter in the late afternoon, enough to think, or pretend to.
Henrik walked without aim. His boots whispered against the gravel path, hands folded behind his back. He had taken this route deliberately, choosing a lesser path that wound past the sun-dappled myrtle groves and beneath the slanted shade of olive trees. Above, the sky was beginning to turn, not gold yet, but leaning that way.
The turn came suddenly, just past the orange trees with their contorted limbs, where the stone path curved blind around a high hedge, and by the time he saw her, it was too late.
Sansa stopped like she’d been struck. Her eyes met his, blue and startling as a blade’s edge, and for a heartbeat neither of them breathed. The pale of her gown caught the light and glowed faintly, like something not quite meant to be seen. She held a small bundle of cut blossoms. A few crushed where her grip had tightened.
Henrik’s heart slammed once, hard, against his ribs. He didn’t flinch outwardly, but his spine straightened. His throat locked, and his body made the smallest shift, a twitch of his heel, an inch back.
Her gaze caught it. There was no dream-softness in her now, no gauze of memory to cushion the blow. This was Sansa as she was: present, alert, watching him not with shyness but with something closer to judgment. Her jaw was tight. If he’d ever imagined her weeping for him, how foolish that was. Henrik didn’t look away. He couldn’t.
“My lord,” she said with a flat tone he’d never heard before.
“My lady,” he returned, too quickly, too stiff.
The words felt dry in his mouth, ceremonial. He’d said them to a dozen girls today. But now, they felt brittle. Silence crept in around them. It wasn’t the easy quiet of shared peace, but something taut and close. She looked down, briefly, to the flowers in her hand. He followed her gaze. Lilies, half-wilted. One stem snapped, already browning at the tip. Something in his chest went hollow.
“I didn’t expect anyone here,” Sansa said after a moment. “I thought it was later than it is.”
“I could go,” Henrik offered. It wasn’t noble or gallant. But it was the only out he had, and his mouth offered it before his heart could refuse.
She didn’t move. “Do you always flee from things you don’t know how to look at?”
Henrik’s jaw clenched. “Not always.”
“But sometimes.” Her tone was unreadable.
The last time they’d spoken had been moons ago, before the battle. She’d worn green then, if he recalled right, and her hands had trembled a tad. He hadn’t spoken to her again. She hadn’t asked why, though she could feel her eyes on him. Now she stood before him like the ghost of a decision he hadn’t made, and he felt it in his marrow: the ache of something unfinished; a door half-closed; a wound sealed with frost, not fire.
He hadn’t meant anything by it. Not at first.
After the battle, after the screams and the fire and the choking dark, everything had simply. . . shifted. There’d been too much to do, too many people crowding the halls, too many voices calling his name: his father, Rubin, the stewards’, the knights’. He’d gone where he was needed. Smiled when he must. Drank when handed a cup. Answered when spoken to.
So it wasn’t like he’d planned to avoid her. There’d just. . . never been the right moment.
When he had seen her — passing in the gallery, or standing by the Sept, or sitting small and quiet among the noble ladies — his chest tightened in a way he didn’t quite understand. His steps slowed. His tongue stilled. He found himself thinking of other things, of duties, of meetings, of matters that pulled his feet the other way. It wasn’t fear, not exactly. He wasn’t afraid of her. Gods, no. What would he even say to her? What did they have to speak of? She was a lady of the North, and he. . . Well, he had other matters to tend.
And yet, standing here now, where he couldn’t back away without shame, Henrik felt the echo of all those little moments where he might have spoken, might have crossed a room, might have offered even a glance or a word.
He hadn’t, and he didn’t know why.
He drew a breath. “I didn’t know you walked these parts,” he said.
“I don’t. Not often.”
Henrik’s gaze dropped to her hands again, the half-wilted bundle of lilies clutched there. He thought suddenly of the handkerchief, the one she’d given him that was stitched pale and delicate, a curl of her initial hidden in the seam. It had stayed folded in the lining of his armour through the siege. He wondered if she remembered giving it. He wondered if she regretted it.
“I thought. . .” he began, then stopped. The words sat too high in his chest, crowded and uncertain. He gathered some courage to continue. “I thought you might’ve left the city.”
Sansa’s chin lifted, just a fraction. “And go where?”
He didn’t answer. The air was warm, but he felt cold beneath his collar, beneath his skin. His hands folded behind his back again. His eyes drifted to the blossom she’d crushed in her grip. A white petal clung to her sleeve. He wanted — absurdly — to brush it away.
“You could’ve written to me,” she said abruptly, still not looking at him. “Or said something. Even once. But it seems you’ve been avoiding me.”
Henrik’s mouth felt dry. “I. . .” There was no clear shape to what followed.
She turned to him in the softened light. “It’s not as though I was hard to find.”
He looked down, then up again. The breeze stirred the hem of her sleeve, caught a strand of hair loose that curled at her jaw. She didn’t fix it. He could feel his own stillness starting to fray.
“I didn’t think you’d want. . .” He stopped.
Her eyes narrowed. “Didn’t think I’d want what, my lord?” The title was clean as a blade.
Henrik shifted his weight. “To speak,” he said finally. “Not after—”
“After what?” she snapped. “After the siege? After you survived? After I gave you something and you vanished?”
Henrik blinked. Her voice hadn’t risen, but it no longer tried to be gentle. It didn’t need to be.
She shook her head. “You weren’t like them. I thought—” She bit off the rest. “It doesn’t matter what I thought.”
“It does,” Henrik said before he could stop himself. “It matters very much, Sansa. . .”
Sansa looked at him then. And that was somehow worse than the words.
“I needed a friend,” she said. “I thought you were one. It seems that I’ve been mistaken.”
He took a step toward her, not thinking. “Sansa, you still—”
“No!” Her answer was soft and firm. “You left me alone, and the worst part is, I don’t believe you meant to. I think you just. . . didn’t think of me at all.”
Henrik stood there, throat tight. He could feel the moment slipping, not like a thread but like the whole seam giving way, and he didn’t know how to stop it. He didn’t know how to do anything but stand there, like a boy too slow to parry a blow he’d seen coming.
He remembered every time she tried to speak to him: after Blackwater, when he was still healing, voice thin with fever and stitches fresh, she’d appeared by the maester’s solar and said his name, gently, like she didn’t want to startle him; he hadn’t answered, just turned away as if he hadn’t heard, and after that, it was easier to avoid the corridors she walked, to take his meals at different hours, to pass through the training yard instead of the godswood; by the time his wounds had closed and Lord Farman had arrived to oversee his recovery, Henrik had already begun carving paths around her presence, choosing different gardens, different galleries, different air because some part of him, raw and wordless, couldn’t bear to stand where she might look at him and see the boy he didn’t know how to be anymore.
“Have I done something to make you hate me so?” Sansa demanded. “Is that why you won’t talk to me anymore, why you’re avoiding me? Do I repulse you so much?”
She was not weeping, though her eyes glimmered and her lips curled downwards. Her eyes were steady, blue and blade-sharp, and they pinned him as surely as any sword. There was no plea in her face or soft look of old affection to take comfort in. Just the hard, clean edges of disappointment. Something quieter: the bone-deep certainty that she’d misjudged him.
He wanted to tell her it wasn’t true. That he had thought of her — too much, maybe. That she’d lived in the back of his chest all through the worst of it: the weeks of smoke and ruin, the dead counted by ash instead of name. There had been nights when the only thing that kept him breathing was the memory of her touch against his jaw, despite being a dream and the handkerchief she’d stitched with quiet care tucked like a secret in the seam of his armour.
He stood there in disbelief. That she could think he hadn’t thought of her — that he simply forgot her — feels like being split down the middle. In some shameful way, he understands why. He’d given her every reason to.
He couldn’t look at her. Not without remembering the dream. The dream that had felt so real, he’d woken with her name in his throat. A dream where she had touched him like he was something that mattered. Where he had fallen, and she had kissed him as the sky caved in. How could he speak to her after that? How could he meet her eyes — the very eyes he’d seen rimmed in soot and wet with ruin — and not betray what he saw every time he blinked?
Gods, he’d tried. He lingered and passed the corridors she might take from the solar to the Queen’s chambers. But the closer he got, the more it felt like walking toward a memory he had no right to hold. Henrik was not a stupid man. He knew the dangers and what it would mean to be seen at her side, to be caught caring. He was his father’s heir, and Lord Farman would never forgive weakness. Never forgive sympathy for a girl branded a traitor’s daughter.
Sometimes, Henrik wondered why he’d avoided her. Why the sight of her turned his stomach in that way that certainly was not from disgust, never that, but closer to a blow he hadn’t braced for.
Her kindness made him want to run. He used to hear Jarak’s laugh sometimes when he looked at her — the way he used to grin and say, “You’re soft for her, you know that?” and Henrik would just scoff and shrug and not admit to anything, because he didn’t understand it yet. That softness and fear could grow in the same place. Her eyes — clear and impossibly blue — reminded him of the river after the fires, of bodies half-burnt and faces he couldn’t name. Of the moment, he realised not all the dead had been enemies. That some had been boys younger than him.
“Sansa. . . my lady, you could never repulse me,” said Henrik in a pained voice. “I have been—”
She cut him off, her voice rising with sudden, uncharacteristic fury: “You have been pretending I don’t exist! I might be a stupid girl, but I know things.”
She stepped closer, not enough to stir scandal if someone happened to pass, but enough that Henrik felt the heat of her anger like a slap to the chest. He almost took a step back. He’d never seen her aim a glare at him like this or look so frustrated.
He felt speechless. He wanted to explain. To say that it hadn’t been her, it had never been her. That it was the blood on his hands, the stench of burning, the ash in his lungs that made him unfit to be near anything clean. But she was standing too close now, and her eyes were bright with something fiercer than tears, and the only thing he could think — the only thing he could feel — was how badly he had misjudged her.
She was angry, yes, in the way her chin lifted, in the tremble of her mouth as she forced herself not to waver, in the steel behind her voice that cracked through the softness she’d been taught. Sansa was a lady: polished, gracious, court-perfect. He’d only ever known her like that — gentle and impossibly good, the kind of girl he had imagined in half-formed dreams or songs.
But this wasn’t a dream. This was real, and she was real, and she was furious with him. Not cruel, but sharp with hurt, brimming with the knowledge that he had ignored her and knowing, worse, that he thought she wouldn’t notice. In that moment, the girl from his dreams vanished like smoke in a breeze. And, even stripped of illusion, or maybe because of it, she was more beautiful to him than ever. He didn’t want her less for her anger. He wanted her more.
Henrik swallowed hard. “You’re not stupid,” he said quietly, because it was the only thing he could give her. “Not at all.”
Sansa didn’t speak right away. She only looked at him, that awful, searching look. He held her gaze as long as he could, but it scorched him.
“Now that I’m no longer promised to a crown, you find it easier to look through me than at me?”
Henrik flinched before he could stop himself. She was right, but not in the way she thought. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Because what could he say? No, Sansa, it’s worse than that. It was that she was untouchable, more so than when she’d been betrothed to King Joffrey. She was now not protected by the crown, not claimed, not secured, just vulnerable. Exposed and most dangerous.
He wanted to tell her that. He wanted to say something, anything, that would make her understand he hadn’t been avoiding her because she was less, but because he couldn’t bear how much she still was. It’s not you that I’m afraid of, it’s what they would do to you if I reached for you. What they would do to me. To my house. To you. He wanted to say, I would lay my sword at your feet if it would change anything. If it would matter and wouldn’t burn you alive alongside me.
But he didn’t because he was his father’s heir. And his father had made the rules of the game long before Henrik ever learned how to play.
Sansa was no longer promised to Joffrey, nor was she a future queen protected by the brittle certainty of a crown. What she had now was nothing but her name. And that name — Stark — was more a curse than a shield. She was a daughter of the North, sister to rebels, kin to traitors, and now stood alone in the aftermath, a pawn without protection. A marriage to her would bring no claim, no coin, no alliance. Only risk. No smart man would take her now unless the Lannisters handed her over like a prize.
He was standing, swallowing the ache in his throat, trying not to look at her hands as they curled at her sides, or her eyes, steady and burning, asking for something he didn’t know how to give.
“I’m sorry. . .” he murmured. “I don’t—” He stopped, clenching his fist.
He knew the path ahead of him, what his father expected, what duty demanded. Duty, he scoffed. That old, choking word. It lived in his bones like rot. He chose the lie. The cleaner one. The one that would not shame his house or betray the knife forever pressed to his throat.
“Lady Sansa,” Henrik said, and already, his voice felt wrong in his mouth, too distant, too cold. He stood straighter. “You must understand — it is not always wise to be seen. It wouldn’t be fitting.”
Her expression did not flinch. It hardened, subtle as a drawbridge closing. Her eyes, still bright with heat, dimmed into steel.
She stepped back. “No,” she said. “I understand perfectly. Good day, my lord.”
Her skirts stirred around her like the wind had followed her out of spite. Henrik did not move. The burn of her absence settled on his skin like sun-scorched metal. His hand twitched at his side, too late. The scent of crushed lilies still hung in the air, bitter and bruised.
She didn’t look back. He stood there until the last trace of her disappeared around the hedge. The trees rustled above him. A fig dropped to the path, split and overripe. A fly buzzed lazily in the hush. Henrik exhaled. It didn’t ease the ache in his chest. He had done what was expected. A clean exit. A loyal heir. His lord father would be satisfied if he’d ever known.
Henrik closed his eyes. For a moment, the sunlight on his face felt like punishment.
Later that evening, he waited until the candles were snuffed, the wine cups cleaned, and the last harp note dissolved into hush. Only then did he slip from his chambers, doublet undone, boots laced but not buckled, cloak thrown loose over one shoulder. His head ached. His chest was worse. He slipped out from his guard’s notice, one who wasn’t Rubin and not as alert, thank gods.
The postern gate loomed ahead. Not the great one where the banners flapped or where guards stood in polished ranks. This one was smaller. Iron-bound, functional and forgotten by most. It opened to a narrow overlook above the lower wall, little more than a crooked lip of stone clinging to the edge of Maegor’s Holdfast. Ras was there, leaning against the arch. His helm sat askew on the step beside him. A gold cloak draped like tired laurels across his back. Henrik joined him. Below, the city was shadow and smoke, rooftops stitched in darkness. He leaned against a rough-cut post, the stone cool through the thin linen of his sleeve. He crossed his arms, pressing them tight to his chest.
Ras let out a low whistle, his gaze falling on Henrik. “Well, if it isn’t the heir himself,” he drawled, grinning widely, his teeth crooked. The smell of cheap wine clung to him, sour and sweet. “Didn’t think they let you out after dark. Gods’ teeth, boy. You look like a man waiting to be flogged.”
Henrik said nothing. Ras swung a wineskin lazily from one hand.
“Come drink with me, little lord,” he crowed. “Then we can go find some whore with tits like pillows, and you can forget all about duty and banners.” Ras swung the wineskin again, the liquid inside sloshing softly against the leather. “Come on, m’lord,” he said, voice thick with wine and mischief. “You’re not made of marble, are you? Or are you?”
“I thought the City Watch wasn’t meant to drink on duty.”
Ras gave a snort, half laugh, half scoff. “Watch who? Me? I’m the night’s faithful shadow.” He tipped the wineskin toward the darkness in mock reverence. “And anyway — only rule is don’t get caught, you see.”
Henrik turned his head, one brow raised. “Not sure that makes me feel any safer.”
Ras barked a laugh at that. “Good. You shouldn’t.”
He slumped back against the stone arch, one boot planted against the wall, the other stretched out across the path like he owned it. The gold cloak puddled around his shoulders, more tarnish than gleam in the moonlight.
“So what is it this time, eh? Your noble father breathing down your neck? Betrothal talks? Some highborn filly crying too loud for your tastes?”
Henrik didn’t answer right away. His hands curled tighter under his arms. “You’re persistent.”
“I’m helpful. That’s different.” Ras watched him briefly, eyes glinting beneath his mess of hair, before chuckling low in his throat. “Gods, Farman.” He hauled himself upright with a grunt and slung an arm, light and half-jesting, around Henrik’s shoulder. “Come on. There’s a girl in the Street of Silk who swears she can make a man forget his own name. Or five, if you’ve coin enough, which I know you do. Maybe then you’ll stop looking like a godsdamned widow.”
Henrik stiffened beneath the contact and the stench, but didn’t shrug him off. Not yet.
“I’ll find someone to cover my post,” Ras said, already stepping toward the narrow stairs. “Some green idiot who thinks night duty at the Holdfast is an honour. Let him be a shadow tonight. You and me, we’ll go chase the heat.”
“I don’t want whores.”
“No? Then what do you want?”
The words snagged somewhere in Henrik’s throat, raw and useless. “I want. . .” he started, then stopped. His jaw clenched. “It doesn’t matter.”
Ras smirked, eyes gleaming. “Ah, I see. Can’t be seen fucking until you’ve signed the marriage parchment, eh? All that fluttering and perfume. Might as well announce it with a trumpet. Your noble father wants his heir all pure and polished — a nice little prize for the noble girls to unwrap.”
“Enough, Ras.”
“Mate, I’m being honest, truly. You’ll end up wed to some soft-lipped little lady who doesn’t know which end of a sword to hold, while the rest of us die with a bottle in one hand and a whore in the other. I’m telling you, these court-bred ladies — gods help you — they lie stiff as planks and pray to the Maiden you’ll finish quick. My advice is to enjoy the wedding night, m’lord! The first one’s always the sweetest!”
“This is unbecoming and not proper,” muttered Henrik with a sigh, used to Ras’s antics.
“Ah, but who gives a fuck about ‘proper’? You?” He gave Henrik a lazy shove. “Gods, you’re worse than the green boys. You want to go warm your cock on a girl, but you won’t. You want to drink yourself stupid, but you won’t. You want. . . something, but you don’t even know how to ask.”
“You really don’t tire of hearing your own voice, do you?”
Ras just shrugged, utterly unbothered. He tossed the wineskin toward him. Henrik caught it one-handed without thinking, then shoved it back at him, the motion sharp and clipped.
“I didn’t come here for this.”
“Yeah, well. I didn’t come here to freeze my balls off, but here we are. You should see what I came from before I ended up at this gate. Tyrells are parading like it’s a feasting day. All silk and flowers. Street of Flour — drunks pissing in barrels, two lads knifing each other over a crust of bread. And one fella swearing up and down his wife turned into a goose. A goose, Henrik.”
Ras kept going, voice loose with wine and the rhythm of someone used to filling silences. Henrik didn’t say a word. The mention of the Tyrells had tightened something behind his ribs. He could still hear his father’s voice from earlier. They’re soft, these Reach girls. Trained to please. And generous, now. Generous to Lannisters, to kings. To us, if we show sense. You’ll make a good match, Henrik.
“Night before that,” Ras continued, “I had to drag some bastard out of a privy who got stuck halfway in — headfirst. Said he heard coins rattling down there. Man’s teeth were missing when we got him out. Whole mouth like a grave.”
Henrik’s mouth twitched despite himself. “You know, it’s a wonder you haven’t been thrown off a battlement by now.”
“Plenty have tried. Turns out I’m slippery when I’m sober, and I’m rarely sober.”
Henrik glanced at him. “That explains the smell.”
“It’s charm,” Ras said, indignant. “Grit. World-worn manly scent. Like horse sweat and danger.”
“Like piss and spoiled grapes.”
Ras pointed at him with the wineskin. “Now that’s just hurtful.”
Henrik’s gaze drifted, not quite seeing the torchlit wall ahead. Somewhere past it, he could hear Jarak’s voice. Not the words — those were lost — but the cadence of them. That dry, unimpressed lilt, always a step behind Ras’s rambling nonsense, always quieter, steadier. And now he was gone. Henrik’s throat worked, the feeling behind his ribs dull like a bruise that never quite faded.
Ras went quiet, too. For a rare moment, he just studied Henrik sidelong through the haze of torchlight, his grin fading into something quieter. Ras never quite got to solemn but watchful. The way men did when they were deciding whether or not to speak a truth best left buried. Then he grunted and shifted the wineskin to his other hand.
“Come on,” he said.
Henrik looked at him, wary. “What for?”
Ras tilted his head toward the yard, which was empty now. “You’re wound up tighter than a maid’s bodice,” he said, already walking further. “Let’s knock it loose.”
“I’m not sparring,” Henrik muttered.
Ras barked a short laugh. “Didn’t say spar. Come on. You ever thrown a dagger blind before?”
Henrik hesitated. He hadn’t. There was no use for it in drills, no discipline in flinging steel without aim, only chance and bravado. Jarak would’ve called it folly. Said something about precision over impulse. But Jarak wasn’t here to say it. Ras turned to look at him. That grin was back now, a real one this time. Boyish, almost, if not for the years etched in the corners of his mouth.
“Thought not,” he said. “Let’s fix that.”
Henrik should’ve said no, left him to his wine, and returned in case his lord father noticed his disappearance. But his legs moved anyway, following Ras out into the yard.
The night was colder out there, and the ground was hard underfoot, uneven with churned dirt. Ras stepped to a squat training post half-cracked near the centre of the yard and pulled a dagger from his belt, which wasn’t his best by the look of it. The blade was chipped, the handle wrapped in some worn cloth that might once have been leather. He held it out. Henrik stared at it.
Ras jiggled the handle impatiently. “It’s not a wedding gift, Farman. Take it.”
Henrik did. The hilt was cold, the balance off, but it sat in his hand like something old. He didn’t ask why. Ras didn’t offer. His body remembered something his mind had forgotten — something simpler. Cleaner. Not a parchment. Not a contract. Not a fucking noose. Just the solid weight of a blade in his hand. It felt good.
They found what passed for targets: a sack stuffed with straw and patched at the seams. Ras had to dig it out from under a pile of training gear behind the practice armoury, muttering curses the whole time, swatting away flies that shouldn’t still be lingering in the dark.
“Close your eyes first. The first man to hit the sack wins,” Ras said. “Loser owes the other a bottle. None of that sour Arbor piss, either. Something worth bleeding for.”
Henrik gave a soft, disbelieving huff. He rolled his shoulders, and something shifted loose beneath his chest, some knot he hadn’t known was there. He stepped forward, squared his stance and raised the dagger. For the first time in days, he smiled. This one was unguarded as if some piece of him remembered he had teeth.
➶✶
Henrik was formally dressed, his doublet a rich shade of dark blue, stitched with the silver-threaded crest of House Farman. His hair had been combed neatly by some careful page under his father’s eye. He looked every inch the lord his father intended him to be.
But he felt like a hound on a leash. The weight of his sword was absent at his hip, replaced by the gleam of polished buttons and the expectation of charm. His cloak, lighter than his usual garb, bore the faint scent of cedar and pressed linen. Henrik shifted in it, the fit too snug across the shoulders, something worn by a stranger who shared his name but not his shape.
It smelled of jasmine here, and something sharper underneath, citrus, maybe, or the bitter bite of myrtle. Flowers were everywhere, some arranged, others left to grow wild between the stone borders. He knew what this was. The Tyrell girls are sweet-natured. You’ll speak to them. They’re soft like the Reach itself. That’s the point. You could do worse than a girl who smiles.
Henrik walked past the guards, the myrtle bushes and the climbing roses trained against the wall. The sun caught on the silver clasp at his shoulder, and he nearly tugged the cloak free. Rubin was a few paces behind. A pair of guards stood near the archway, half-shadowed by stone, and further down, two servants hovered by a table set. No one spoke to him directly, but heads turned as he passed.
The ladies were gathered under the shade of a woven canopy, their voices drifting like birdsong above a still pond, sweet, overlapping and a little too eager. Henrik saw them before they noticed him. Pastel gowns. Hair curled and pinned with fresh blooms. One was laughing too loudly. One kept glancing at a mirror tucked in her sleeve. A maid stood nearby with a tray of lemon water and mint cakes, mostly untouched. Bees hummed lazily through the garden, as though they, too, had given up on haste.
Then they noticed him, a soft ripple of awareness that passed through them like wind through tall grass. One elbowed another; a third dropped her gaze, then peeked back up from beneath her lashes. It pressed against him like heat.
There sat a septa behind them, grey-clad, apple-cheeked, hands folded. Her face was pleasant in the way Reachwomen often were, but her eyes were watchful. She sat just far enough to appear uninvolved, but near enough to remind them she was not.
Henrik inclined his head, just so. “Ladies,” he said, standing a few paces away. He hadn’t rehearsed anything to say. He’d tried, once, in his chambers, something kind, something courtly. But nothing had fit.
One of them stood, the confident one, with honey-brown curls and a smile that looked like it had been passed down through the women of her house. Her voice, when she spoke, was smooth and lightly mocking.
“My lord of Faircastle,” she said. “We feared we’d been abandoned to the bees.”
Henrik gave a short bow, just deep enough to be polite. “My lady,” he said. He didn’t know her name. He didn’t pretend to. “I could hardly let the bees have all the pleasure.”
Beside her, Lady Alla rose more hesitantly. Her green gown caught the breeze and clung to her frame, and she fidgeted slightly with the handkerchief in her fingers, twisting the edge. She smiled, and it was a real one, if too shy.
Henrik inclined his head towards her, formal enough to satisfy anyone watching. “Lady Alla,” he said. “It’s good to see you again.”
“My lord.” Her voice was quiet. “I hope the day finds you well,” she added, folding her hands again. She looked at him, not quite directly, just left of his gaze. “You are very welcome here.”
“More so in such fine company.”
That drew a few light laughs from the others, pleased, fluttering things. One of the bolder cousins — he didn’t know her name — leaned in and said, “He’s very welcome, cousin. Do say something charming, my lord. We’ve grown so dreadfully bored.”
Henrik turned his head slightly, offering her the barest arch of an eyebrow. “Then I’d best not disappoint. You honour me.”
“He honours you, cousin. Best not let it go to waste.”
“That’s what lords are for,” said the confident one — Elinor, perhaps, though Henrik couldn’t be sure. She plucked a petal from a rose bush behind her and let it fall like a coin as she said, “Honouring maidens. And perhaps stealing a kiss, if the gods are kind.”
Alla flushed, her hand tightening on her handkerchief. “Elinor—”
Henrik shook his head, the smile tugging faintly at one corner of his mouth. “You’ll find I’m far too dull for stolen kisses,” he said mildly. “They’d only be disappointed.”
“Pity,” said another. “You look like you’d be good at it.”
That drew a burst of laughter from the girls. One of them bit her nail to hide her smile. The other tilted her head, studying Henrik like a song too quiet to follow. He didn’t answer. He only smiled faintly, the kind of smile that made no promises, and somehow made everything worse.
“That sounds like a challenge,” one of the other cousins chirped, emboldened.
Henrik’s mouth twitched faintly. “If the gods are kind, ladies, they’ll spare me your challenge and you, your disappointment.”
His gaze flicked again to Alla, who was pointedly not laughing, though her mouth trembled with something like apology. Her eyes flicked up to his, just briefly, and in them he saw the same careful question he’d seen the day before: Do I please you? Am I enough? He didn’t know how to answer. He wasn’t sure it was a question meant for him at all.
“You’re different from what I expected, my lord,” Elinor said, her voice lighter than lace. “Not like the songs. Don’t they say the sea lords of the west are bold and roguish and always full of salt-kissed charm?”
“Only when we’ve been given reason.”
Elinor laughed. “And have we given you reason, my lord?”
“I’m still deciding,” he said.
“So you admit it, then? No salt-kissed charm? No boldness?”
Henrik tilted his head slightly, as though considering. “If I had all that, my lady,” he said smoothly, “I suspect you’d be far more on your guard.”
That drew a chorus of delighted giggles, one of the cousins half-hiding her face behind her hand. Even Alla glanced up, startled into a small, shy smile before quickly ducking her head again.
Elinor arched a brow, eyes bright. “Careful, my lord,” she said, her voice all playful warning. “You are sounding a little roguish now.”
The Septa’s voice came then, soft, mild as milk. “Ladies.”
The laughter dimmed by half. A few shoulders straightened. One cousin dropped her gaze to her folded hands like a scolded novice. Henrik didn’t miss the shift. He offered the Septa a respectful nod. She nodded back, serene, composed, and unmistakably there.
“Forgive us, Septa,” Elinor said lightly. “We’re only teasing.”
“As young ladies do,” the Septa murmured. “Though the gods remind us: wit is lovelier when it is modest.”
The laughter was just beginning to fade when Henrik looked to Alla again, properly, this time. Not as a man humouring a group of highborn girls, but as one finally settling his attention where he needed, where his father wanted.
“Lady Alla,” he said. “Would you care to walk a while?”
The words landed like a dropped glass. Alla froze for half a beat. Her eyes widened. She glanced at the Septa behind them almost instinctively. The woman was already rising, slow but smooth. Her expression betrayed nothing.
“If it pleases you, my lord,” Alla said carefully. Her voice was soft, but her posture straightened. “A little air might be kind.”
Henrik offered his arm, and she took it. Her hand trembled where it met the crook of his elbow. He didn’t react. The Septa moved a few paces behind them, not looming, but present. Henrik didn’t look back, nor did he seem to notice the servant girl who trailed a little further, likely to carry gloves or water or to run and tell tales when the moment was over. He guided Alla down the shaded path with practised ease.
“My cousin Megga insists the lemon trees here aren’t real,” Alla began. “She says they’re too perfect. She says the Maesters must change them out when no one’s looking, like candles or linens. Elinor says they’re enchanted. I think she’s joking, but sometimes she says things in such a way I can’t quite be sure.”
Henrik made a low sound that was part acknowledgement, part amusement.
“They do always seem to bloom, don’t they?” Alla added.
He nodded slightly, but his gaze had drifted, not rudely, just absently. The western tower stood in half-shadow ahead, the same one he’d walked past with Rubin two nights ago, when the stars had looked like cold eyes and the wine had failed to warm him. He wondered if it would rain. Alla didn’t seem to notice his quiet. Or perhaps she did and filled the silence on purpose.
“Margaery says if I ever marry a knight from the North, I’ll have to learn how to skin a rabbit,” she said, and then laughed lightly, though her tone wasn’t quite mocking. “I don’t think I’d like that. Not the rabbit. The cold, I mean.”
“It doesn’t suit you?” he asked, though he wasn’t entirely sure what he was asking.
“No,” Alla said. “I suppose I prefer the sort of winters where everything smells like oranges and cloves, and you can still walk in the garden without your nose turning red. Elinor says I have no constitution at all. She means it kindly. I think.”
She went on, telling him about a book, about a servant in Highgarden who’d once fed the swans too much almond paste and made them sick for a week. She said it as if it mattered, and maybe it did. Maybe not. Sometimes he nodded. Sometimes he didn’t. Sometimes his mind wandered. To Sansa, mostly, though he tried very hard not to. To Jarak. To his father’s voice at supper, pinning every movement in the room with calculation. To the sound of stone underfoot during the battle and the screaming of men.
“. . . and Megga once said I should braid my hair differently, but every time I try, I look like a milkmaid. Or a goose.”
Henrik blinked. “A goose?”
“Yes. A self-conscious goose.” She laughed. “You think I’m ridiculous.”
“I don’t.”
“You’re humouring me.”
“I’m not.”
Her cheeks pinkened. Then Alla said, “I hope you don’t think I’m silly. I know I’m not clever like Elinor. Or bold like Megga. I just. . . don’t always know what I’m meant to say.”
Henrik glanced sideways at her. “You speak plainly,” he said. “That’s not a fault.”
Alla’s smile flickered as if she hadn’t expected praise and wasn’t sure what to do with it now that it had come. Behind them, the Septa coughed delicately. Henrik slowed, and Alla matched his pace without thinking.
“I do like it here, though,” Alla said after a moment. “King’s Landing, I mean. The air is different, full of things. Soot and spice and secrets. It’s not like Oldtown. Or Highgarden. You can feel people thinking here.”
Henrik’s gaze flicked toward a bee tumbling through a lavender bloom, sluggish in the heat. He barely registered Alla’s voice for a moment, lulled by the rhythm of her speech, soft and winding. Her words had begun to blur. He nodded when it seemed expected. Smiled, here and there. His mind moved elsewhere. He hadn’t meant to drift. It was a kind of respite until her tone shifted slightly, brighter, touched with some half-formed delight.
“. . . and Elinor made the most awful face after tasting the lemon cakes, as if the gods had conspired to spite her, but I think she was only trying to make Lady Sansa laugh.”
Henrik’s steps slowed. “Sansa?” he said, carefully, the name barely more than a breath.
“Yes — Lady Sansa Stark,” Alla confirmed, not noticing the shift in his posture, or mistaking it for politeness. “She was invited. Just after she started dining with Lady Margaery, I think. I remember because Megga tripped over the hem of her gown, trying to show off, and Sansa pretended not to notice at all. She was very gracious.”
Henrik’s jaw flexed.
Alla went on without hesitation, smoothing the edge of her sleeve as she spoke. “She didn’t say much. But I think it was nerves. Elinor called her a bird in a thorn bush — all beauty and wariness.” Alla hesitated. “She seemed kind, though. I liked her.”
Henrik only nodded. His gaze stayed forward, fixed on a hedge he couldn’t name. The memory came unbidden: smoke in her hair, ash on her sleeve, the faint press of her fingers against his cheek as the sky cracked open. He swallowed hard.
“I think Lady Margaery meant to make her feel welcome,” Alla added softly. “It must be difficult, being so far from home.”
Henrik stopped walking. A pause.
Alla faltered beside him. “My lord?”
He shook his head slightly, as if clearing it. “Forgive me. I thought I heard something.”
“I suppose,” she began, almost idly, as they paused beneath the flowering arch, “there will be fewer ladies at court soon.”
Henrik didn’t answer. He was only half listening, his thoughts still circling the idea of Sansa sitting among the Tyrell girls, accepting lemon cakes and soft words like tokens passed between strangers.
“Lady Sansa is to go to Highgarden, I believe,” Alla said.
Henrik froze. Alla, perceptive despite herself, noticed.
“Oh,” she said quickly, “I only heard it from my cousins — it isn’t decided yet. I mean, no one’s said so officially. It’s just talk. But the Queen of Thorns has a mind for such things, and — well — they say Willas could use a sweet bride.”
Henrik’s head turned toward her before he meant it to, swift enough to betray interest. He masked it the next instant, tilting his gaze toward a nearby rose bush and pretending to examine a bloom. Pale pink, with edges curled faintly brown from the sun. The thorns caught the light. Beside him, Alla’s expression faltered. She flushed, pink blooming across her cheeks like spilt wine.
“I only meant,” she said, faltering, “it’s just silly talk. Nothing decided. Elinor says a dozen things every day that never happen. And Lady Olenna — well, she always has some plan, doesn’t she?” She laughed, a small, nervous thing, and wrung her fingers in the folds of her gown. The linen twisted under her hands. “It’s only foolishness. I shouldn’t have said anything. Please, my lord, don’t — don’t repeat it.” Her voice had dropped to a near-whisper. “If Lady Olenna were to hear—”
She stopped. Her teeth caught her bottom lip. Her fingers curled tighter. She looked utterly miserable. Henrik blinked once. He turned to her fully now, his expression composed, not warm but not cold either.
“You said nothing wrong, Lady Alla,” he said.
“But if it’s not true—”
“Then it will be forgotten,” Henrik replied. “And if it is, it’s hardly a crime to mention what others already whisper.”
Alla looked up at him then, uncertain and a little breathless, her panic easing under the balm of reassurance. Her smile returned, timid but radiant. It reached her eyes this time. For a moment, she seemed younger than she had been, and strangely older too, a girl trying so hard to be good.
Henrik offered the smallest curve of a smile in return, enough to quiet her fears. In that moment — gods help him — he wanted to mean it. She had done nothing wrong. She was kind. She was earnest. She was trying. What more could any lord ask?
The ache beneath his ribs deepened. Sansa. Highgarden. Willas. It shouldn’t have meant anything. It wasn’t a betrothal. It wasn’t official. It wasn’t final. Still, the thought settled heavy in his chest, like water seeping through wood: slow, cold, ruinous. He had not bled enough, it seemed. Not for the gods. Not for the memory of the dream. Not for the girl he could not name aloud without cracking something open in his throat. Still, the gods would have more.
Henrik looked at Alla again and wondered if he could learn to want the life offered to him. A kind girl. A sweet courtship. Lemon cakes and blushes. Duty dressed up in lace.
Henrik’s smile stayed, faint and courtly. It fit his face. It didn’t reach his eyes. And all the while, somewhere behind the curtain of roses, the gods watched: patient, cruel, unsated still.
Notes:
Hey. Sorry for the wait, I've been drowning at work. Law firms and their endless stream of clients are especially demanding this time of year, and it's been a lot. Currently counting down the days until summer holidays like a prisoner scratching marks on the wall so that I can have more free time. Please accept this long chapter as my apology.
This chapter is about the performance of duty versus the ache of desire as Henrik plays the part of a courtier. He’s doing what’s expected of him, being the heir his father wants, but he’s not in it. I don't blame him for being careful. I mean, Littlefinger is literally lurking around the corner, I fear.
Also, I re-read part two of A Storm of Swords recently and had somehow forgotten just how brutal the Red Wedding actually is. This story is based on Book Sansa rather than the show, if that wasn't obvious by now. I’ve always found the A Storm of Swords arc far more emotionally and politically compelling than what the show chose to do with her. That scene with Lady Olenna and the Bear and the Maiden Fair is one of my favourites.
Thanks for reading. Let me know what you think! I've got some mind-numbing wedding of my cousin's to go to in Florence in a few days, so I hope your week is going better than mine.
Until next time, when Henrik probably loses another battle with his feelings!
Chapter 16: Sansa IV
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The velvet drapes of her chamber felt like heavy shrouds tonight. Sansa sat by the window, though no moon graced the sky to gaze upon, only the bruised black of a King’s Landing night. Her fingers lay still in her lap, pressing against the worn silk of her gown. The chill seeping from the stone walls felt less cold than the one settling in her breast.
She had said his name aloud once, earlier that day, just to hear how it tasted. It had felt strange in her mouth, like trying on a dress that did not belong to he, familiar in shape, but wrong in colour. Now, she could not bring herself to repeat it.
He had barely looked at her or spoken. She had gone to him, not as a lady to her sworn sword, not as the betrothed of a boy-king playing at cruelty, but as a girl, as a friend, who remembered the softness of his voice in the godswood and the way he had once looked at her as though she were not broken. And what had he done? No, not nothing — he had bowed. Polite. Formal. Like a stranger performing a duty. He had offered her the hollow shell of courtesy and then dismissed her like she were one of Joffrey’s painted dolls, a thing to be acknowledged, and then put back on the shelf.
She had asked him directly — gods, foolishly — if she had offended him. And he had smiled. That same smile he used on lords and ladies and fat men at feasts. The one that did not touch his eyes.
“No, my lady.” That was all. No explanation. No warmth. No truth.
Her fingers curled slightly in her lap, tightening around the silk. She had believed — she wanted to believe — they were friends. He’d seen her in a way the others had not, when he shielded her during the riot, when his voice cut through the chaos like a balm, and her eyes met his and did not look away. And now—
Now, he would not even meet them.
She closed her eyes, and the ghost of him materialised before her, not the cold stranger from moments ago, but the boy who had once promised to protect her, a knight stepping into the riot’s maelstrom. She remembered the terror of the mob, the hands pulling, clawing, and then the sudden, blessed sight of him, a furious blur amidst the chaos, covered in blood that was not his own. He had stood for her, a singular, defiant figure, his voice a raw roar cutting through the braying court. He had spoken of her father with unexpected kindness. He had offered a brooch, a small, tangible anchor of his promised friendship.
“You’ve become my greatest solace here, Henrik.” The memory of her desperate whisper brought a fresh sting, hotter than any slap. How foolish she had been, a drowning girl clinging to driftwood, mistaking a momentary shelter for a solid shore. The sweetness of his concern, his dreams of the sea and distant lands, had been a false spring in the winter of her captivity. And now, it felt like poison in her veins, curdling the fragile hope she had dared to nurture.
Sansa leaned her head against the cold stone of the window frame, her breath fogging faintly in the glass. Perhaps she had imagined it all. She was always imagining kindness where there was none. Her mother once said she saw too much good in people, that it was both her gift and flaw. Sansa could no longer tell which it was.
Henrik had been kind. He had seemed kind.
But kindness did not disappear so easily. Not unless it had never truly been there. She thought of his voice in the godswood, low as he spoke of her father. The way he had stared at Joffrey as though he might strike him down for one careless word. Of the lemon cake untouched between them, as he said, he did not think her foolish.
And then — just days later, after the battle — ice. Nothing but ice.
Sansa closed her eyes. The ache in her chest felt familiar, an old friend with a new face. Trust was a lesson she should have learnt by now. No one could be trusted. Not the Queen, not the sweet-tongued ladies who whispered poison behind painted smiles. Not the knights who swore oaths by day and laughed at her behind her back by night. Not Joffrey or the Lannisters. Not Henrik.
Especially not Henrik.
She was alone again, truly. Whatever fragile bridge she thought had been built between them was gone. Burnt. Washed away in the tide. Perhaps it had never existed at all.
A soft voice came from the door, but she did not answer. Let them think her asleep. Let the night carry her silence like a secret. Let the wind rattle through the empty stone corridors and speak what she could not: that trust was a story for children, and she was no longer one. She was Sansa Stark of Winterfell. And she would learn, as the rest of them had, how to wear her cold with grace.
The moon remained hidden, but Sansa stared into the darkness, drawing strength from the cold clarity of her renewed isolation. Her heart, once a trembling dove, felt as though it had hardened to iron within her chest. She would not cry. A lady does not cry. And a queen, she thought, even a discarded one, must learn to be unyielding. There would be no more foolish dreams of saviours, no more whispers of solace in a world that offered nothing but thorns.
In another life, she might have confided in her mother, curled close and spoken softly of confusion, of heartbreak, of the way a boy could make the world feel momentarily bearable before letting it fall. But her mother wasn’t here. Her father was dead. Arya was gone. Robb was waging war in a land she could no longer claim.
Henrik was a shadow where once there had been light.
What had changed? Had she said too much? Revealed too much of herself? She had told him things she had never told anyone else — of her father, of her shame, of the little girl she used to be. Had that been her mistake? Perhaps that was always her mistake: the belief that truth could buy loyalty. That honesty might earn affection. But this was King’s Landing, and truths were coins with too many faces.
Through the lattice of shadows, the city pulsed below, golden fires flickering along rooftops like distant stars fallen from the sky. She watched without really seeing. The weight in her chest had not lifted, only settled deeper, like silt in a riverbed. She turned her head and let her gaze fall to the moonless dark. Her throat ached with unshed words. She would not cry. Not for him. Let him look through her, if he wished. Let him pretend the brooch had meant nothing. Let him forget the godswood and the sea stories and the sound of her voice.
She would not remind him. She would not break herself against his silence. Let him go, she thought, pressing her lips together until they stopped trembling. Let him vanish into all the others. One more name to bury. She had done it before. She could do it again.
Outside, the wind shifted, rattling the panes. Somewhere in the Keep, a door slammed shut. The hour was late. Her maid would come soon, and Sansa would be ready, her hair unbound, her expression serene, her nightgown modest and pale. She would smile if spoken to. She would lie, if asked. Yes, my lady. No, your Grace. I am well. I am grateful. I am happy.
If Henrik could forget her — if he could bow and smile and walk away — then so could she. Not yet. But soon. Soon, she would forget him.
➶✶
The feast was a soft glitter of candlelight and laughter, the kind of evening meant to soothe rather than stir. Strings of music curled through the air like smoke, and the scent of orange blossoms had been folded into the napkins, a small touch, no doubt from Lady Olenna’s direction, to remind the king’s court that the Reach brought refinement, not just armies and gold. Everything the Tyrells did was sweet, as if they were all made of lace and sunlight and the sort of love songs Sansa had once believed in.
The fire crackled, steady in the hearth, and roses floated in shallow bowls of scented water, their petals opening slowly and unbothered. It was not a grand feast, not one of the court’s stiff performances, but something smaller. The sort of evening that reminded Sansa of how it might have been, once, in a different world, in Winterfell, with her mother’s voice somewhere nearby and Arya’s feet scuffing against the floor.
Elinor sat beside her, legs tucked beneath her, nibbling on sugared dates and recounting how her youngest brother once tried to climb a statue of Garth Greenhand wearing nothing but a goose feather and a crown of hay. “He said he wanted to be remembered,” she laughed, her voice high and musical. “And he certainly was. Father still won’t speak of it.”
Sansa laughed before she could stop herself — a real laugh, quick and bright — and all the girls turned to her as if they were pleased simply to have earned it. She felt the warmth of it rise in her cheeks, unfamiliar and not unwelcome.
Garbed in soft green silk, her hair brushed and loose about her shoulders, Sansa felt more like herself than she had in weeks — no, in moons. It struck her that she had missed this, the simple pleasure of being among girls her own age, without fear. She had not realised how deeply loneliness had hollowed her until now, when the ache receded just slightly, replaced by laughter and shared glances and the clinking of cups.
The wine was sweet, and the conversation sweeter. They spoke of silly things: dresses and songs, dreams of courtship, of falcons and harp players and the warm breeze of Highgarden in spring. She let herself imagine it: a place where her days were stitched in sunlight, where she was Sansa, not a pawn or a prisoner, but a girl soon to be a bride. A girl with soft hands and a clever tongue, who might walk with her betrothed through gardens thick with roses, and speak plainly of books and birds. Tonight had almost felt. . . normal. Not like Winterfell, not truly — nothing would ever feel like that again — but for a little while, it had been easy to pretend. That she was only a girl at a feast, surrounded by friends, speaking of harmless things.
Willas. She had never met him, not truly. But Margaery spoke of him with such affection — kind, thoughtful, steady — that Sansa wanted to believe. She could be happy in Highgarden. Not the childish happiness she once dreamed of, but something gentler.
The door opened gently, and a new voice joined them. Deeper. Male. She did not look at first as she was laughing again, this time at Megga’s description of a suitor who wrote a poem about her smile and then tripped over his own sword during a tourney. But then she heard it: that voice. Polished, familiar. His. Henrik.
She turned her head, just slightly. He was standing just inside the threshold, speaking softly with Ser Garlan and a knight, the one with the easy laugh. Henrik’s eyes flicked across the room, courteous and composed. They passed over her — not quite resting — and then moved on. As if she were no more than another tapestry in the room.
He wore his colours tonight. His hair had been combed back, his usual storm-worn edges smoothed, and for the briefest, most shameful moment, Sansa thought he looked handsome.
Elinor was speaking again, saying something about how Garlan had tried to teach Margarey the mandolin, but she had no ear for it. The girls giggled. Even Megga leaned in with interest.
Henrik smiled. Not the practised smile. The true one. The crooked one, the one he had given her once in the godswood, when she had spoken of her father and thought, for a flicker of time, that he might understand. That he saw her.
Her chest tightened. She looked down quickly, her hands smoothing the soft green silk over her knees. Her heart was pounding too fast, and her breath caught sharp in her throat, like a fish on a hook. No. She would not let this ruin the night. Not this. She was so close. So close to being free from King’s Landing, from whispered threats and painted lies, from Joffrey’s ghost and Cersei’s cage. So close to Highgarden, Willas and sweet lemon cakes under real sunlight. To peace.
She would not let Henrik Farman spoil this for her.
Sansa raised her eyes, slow and deliberate, and forced her gaze past him. She smiled at Elinor. “Tell me more about the goose feather,” she said, her voice light.
The girls laughed again, warmth circling the room like a gentle wind, and Sansa let it carry her. She sat straighter. Smiled more. When the tray of spiced apple tarts came round, she took two and even offered one to Megga, who looked surprised but pleased.
She did not look at Henrik again. Not once. Let him laugh. Let him charm. Let him play the charming lord with all the grace the court expected. She would not give him the power to touch her joy. Not tonight, when hope was finally, finally within reach. The candlelight glinted gold on the silver rim of her cup as she raised it, and for a moment, she imagined it was a crown.
Across, Henrik stood with Garlan and Ser Talad, listening to a story about a knight who had mistaken a potboy for a squire and sent him charging into a melee. His mouth was tilted with laughter that softened his sharp cheekbones and made his eyes glint with shimmering warmth. He looked younger when he laughed. Not like the man who had bowed to her without meaning, but the boy who had once said her name as if it were a secret.
Elinor’s fingers brushed her sleeve, a light, affectionate gesture, and Sansa forced her gaze to return, her smile a beat too late.
“I said, perhaps you might take one of the pups,” Elinor repeated, her eyes bright with fondness. “A lady should have a hound, should she not?”
“A lady should have many things,” said Sansa lightly, her chest suddenly aching at the thought of her beloved Lady. “But a pup would be sweet.”
Elinor beamed and turned her attention elsewhere. And still, Sansa’s eyes betrayed her.
Henrik had turned slightly now, facing the table more fully, his goblet in hand. A flick of gold in the torchlight caught on the pin at his collar, not the brooch he had once given her, but another. But what cut sharper than that was the sight of Alla — sweet, stammering Alla — leaning in to say something to him. Her hand hovered near his sleeve. Sansa could not hear what was said. She only saw Henrik’s mouth twitch in response, the corner of it curling like parchment held too close to flame. Not mockery, not disinterest, something lighter, like he was pleased. Alla flushed. Visibly.
Sansa’s breath caught, shallow in her chest. She turned her face downward, as though inspecting her spoon, and forced herself to breathe evenly. Her smile had slipped — she felt it, knew it — and slowly, carefully, she pieced it back together. But her hands curled in her lap beneath the table, fingers twisting fabric.
Alla was kind. Too kind, perhaps. The sort of girl who blushed at compliments and never dared speak above the hum of conversation. Henrik had never spoken of her. Not to Sansa. Not once. He’d never much spoken of anything to her lately, Sansa noted angrily.
But he was speaking to Alla now. Sansa knew — with a clarity that turned her bones to ice — that she had no right to mind it. None at all. She had no claim on his gaze, his smiles, his brooches or his voice. Still, jealousy bloomed in her like a secret bruise, dark and aching beneath the skin.
She watched the candles flicker in their holders, their light bending and stretching with each shift of the air. The heat made her temples throb. She took a sip of watered wine and barely tasted it.
When she looked again, Henrik had turned back to Ser Talad, and Alla was speaking to another lady. Nothing lingered. Nothing of note. But that smile. That moment. It had already lodged itself in her memory, cruel and sharp.
Later, when the music had slowed and the guests drifted into conversation and quiet, Sansa excused herself with a small, perfect smile. Elinor kissed her cheek and told her to sleep well.
As she slipped from the hall, she did not glance back. She would not search for Henrik’s eyes across the room. She would not give him that victory. If he wished to laugh with other girls, let him. If he wanted softness, sweetness, shy glances and blushing cheeks — let him. She had given him her truth once. And he had returned it with silence. Let him speak gently to Alla. Let him smile. Let him vanish.
The night air outside was cool on her skin, a balm to her flushed cheeks. Sansa wrapped her arms around herself, the noise of the feast — harps, laughter, a clink of goblets — fading behind her like a dream already half-forgotten.
“Lady Sansa,” he said.
She turned, careful to keep her face composed. His gaze swept her, too quick to search, too slow to be careless. He looked like the boy she remembered — the smile he’d once worn was gone, replaced by something flatter, more distant.
“I had not seen you leave the hall.”
“You were occupied.”
He blinked, just once. “I suppose I was.” Henrik stood in the torchlight’s edge, his shadow reaching her before he did.
“My lord.” Her voice was steady. She was proud of that. “You’re far from the feast.”
“I might say the same.”
“I excused myself,” she said, folding her hands before her. “I was tired.”
Henrik inclined his head, though she thought she saw something flicker in his eyes, something cooler.
“I thought you might enjoy yourself tonight,” he said. “You seemed. . . well.”
“I was.”
“Ah. . .”
She could feel it rising, quiet as a tide. The bitterness she had pressed down all evening, masked beneath smiles and kind laughter and talk of hounds and lemon cakes. She had danced once. She had blushed once. She had allowed herself to imagine that this court, at least, might be gentler than the last.
But he was here now. And that fragile dream seemed to teeter.
Henrik took a step closer. “You laughed. You looked. . .” His voice faltered. “Happy.”
“I was happy,” she said. “Lady Elinor is a kind girl. They all are.”
“I’m glad it pleased you,” he said at last, though the words sounded hollow.
“You seemed well, too,” she said softly. “Lady Alla is. . . sweet.”
His lips twitched. “She is.”
“Quite pretty, too.”
Henrik’s gaze darkened, though the corner of his mouth tilted in something that tried to pass for amusement. “Are you jealous, Lady Sansa?”
She flushed. “Of course not.”
“Then why say it?”
“I merely observed.”
“You always do.”
She hated the way her cheeks burned. She hated that he had seen it.
He looked at her then. “What would you have me say?”
“Nothing,” she said snidely, lifting her chin. “Say whatever you like. Or nothing at all. You’ve done both before.”
Henrik’s eyes flickered. “If I’ve been distant—”
“You have,” she said, not letting him finish. “But it’s no matter. It’s not required of you, is it? Courtesy, not closeness — that is the rule.” Her hands were clasped before her, demure and still, but her nails pressed hard into the heel of her palm.
Henrik’s voice darkened. “And Willas Tyrell? He smiles from a thousand miles away, and yet you speak of him as if he were already yours.”
“I will be his wife,” she said. The words sounded strange in her own mouth, like something rehearsed for a stage. “He will be good to me.”
“Good,” Henrik echoed. “Is that all you want?”
Her eyes narrowed. “What else should I want, my lord?”
He didn’t answer. The torches hissed in the silence. Down the corridor, music drifted faintly, a harp, or maybe a flute, high and far away.
“I did not realise I needed your approval,” she added.
“You don’t.” Henrik’s voice was sharp. “But don’t pretend you don’t see it. The way they look at you now. The way they hover.”
“Do they?” she asked, cold and clipped. “I hadn’t noticed. And even if I had, I can hardly fault a knight for manners. Some are very charming.”
“Too charming, maybe,” he muttered, looking away.
The words settled between them, heavy as stones in a riverbed.
“I see,” she said softly. “Is that what this is?”
Henrik didn’t speak. Sansa stepped forward, just slightly. The air seemed to shrink between them, drawn tight like thread in a needle’s eye.
“If you wished to speak plainly,” she said, “you might have done so weeks ago. Instead of bowing like a stranger. Instead of smiling at her. Instead of pretending I was no one.”
“You said you were happy.”
“I said I seemed happy.” She held his gaze. “But I suppose it’s easier not to listen when you don’t want to hear.”
He flinched. Just enough.
Her breath caught. “You didn’t come to find me because you care about me. You came because I was laughing, and it wasn’t with you.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?” she said, her voice rising, sharper now. “You were the one who vanished. You who closed your mouth and your eyes and left me to wonder if I had dreamed the whole thing.”
“I didn’t vanish.”
“You may as well have.”
“You want Highgarden,” he said, and his voice had turned low and bitter now, as if the word itself had curdled in his mouth. “You want Willas.”
“I wanted a choice,” she snapped. “And I made one.”
Henrik took a step toward her. “Did you?”
Sansa stared at him. His face was close — too close — and the torchlight gilded the curve of his cheekbone, the shadow beneath his eyes, the pale line of an old scar she had never asked about. She could smell the wine on his breath, faint and spiced, and something else that was familiar and unbearable.
“I told you things I’ve never told anyone,” she whispered. “And you looked at me like I was a burden.”
“I never—”
“I saw it!” she snapped, voice trembling. “I saw it, Henrik.”
He didn’t speak. His jaw was tight. His hands were clenched at his sides, useless.
And then, softer and broken, he whispered, “You terrify me, Sansa. That is the truth. You make me want things I cannot have.”
She blinked. The world seemed to tilt. Then, like in a dream, he leaned closer. Their faces were a breath apart. Her hand, she realised, had found its way to his chest, resting lightly atop the fabric of his doublet. She could feel the heat of him beneath her fingers, the beat of his heart. She did not move. Neither did he.
“Sansa,” he said, but it was a whisper.
She wanted, stupidly, to kiss him. Her eyes welled. She hated him. Hated that he could still say something that made her ache like this.
She turned. “Then let me do you the kindness of walking away, my lord.”
“Sansa—”
She walked away before her steps could falter. Before her hands could tremble. Before her heart could remind her of the godswood, or the riot, or the way he had once said her name.
She would smile again. She wanted Highgarden, and she wanted Willas. A place of green terraces and quiet girls. Of a man who might not laugh at her for speaking of books, or flinch at her mention of Winterfell. A man she had never met, not properly, not truly, but he was kind in Margaery’s stories, and kind men were rare as lemoncakes in winter. Willas would not look through her as though she were no one. Willas would not vanish or ignore her when she tried to talk to him.
But Willas had not touched her name like it was something sacred. Had not bled for her in the street. Had not made her feel — for one terrible, golden moment — like she could still be more than what the court had tried to carve her into. You make me want things I cannot have. Then he should have said so. Then he should have spoken weeks ago, when she still dreamed of brooches and sea stories and the sound of his voice rising above the riot’s roar. Now it was too late. . .
Sansa reached the door to her chambers. Her fingers shook a little as she unlatched it, but she held them still. She had learnt, in this city of masks, how to master her hands. The heart was harder. The heart kept pulling her back, throwing up memories like thorns.
She closed the door behind her with a soft click. The fire was low, but still alive. She was grateful for the solitude. Only then did she let herself sit. Her gown pooled around her like pale green water, and for a long moment, she stared into the hearth, watching the logs curl into embers. The shadows moved across the stones like ghosts. Sometimes, when she was tired enough, she imagined she saw her mother and father there, in the flicker of light, a hand outstretched, a voice just out of reach.
If her mother were here, what would she say? She would be angry. He left you nothing but silence. He owes you nothing now, sweetling. Or perhaps, she would be kind. You love too quickly, Sansa. You always have. She pressed her hands to her chest, just over her heart, and exhaled. It still hurt. She wished it didn’t.
Henrik was not Joffrey. She knew that. He was not cruel, not deliberately. But kindness could wound, too, when it was taken away. A soft thing, once withdrawn, left a sharper gap than outright hatred. She could almost bear hatred. It was predictable. It had edges. But Henrik had given her something close to safety. And then he had taken it back.
She would not see him again.
That was the truth she clung to now, simple and spare. She would go to Highgarden, and he would stay in the capital. They would part like two ships caught in a storm, sails torn, rigging broken, never quite reaching the same harbour. They had passed too close. That was all.
She would go to Highgarden. It would be warm there. Margaery had said the roses bloomed year-round, and that the air always smelled of green things. She had spoken of it as though it were a dream wrapped in sunlight, where songs were sung not out of fear or flattery, but joy. Sansa would be safe there. Or safe enough. There would be no queen to dress her like a doll. No throne room to parade her in. No Joffrey. No Henrik.
She would marry Willas Tyrell. She would learn to love the shadows of Highgarden’s towers instead of the ghosts of Winterfell’s. Willas would be good for her. He would not look at her with stormlight in his eyes, only to turn away the moment she drew near.
She would wear green silk and speak soft courtesies and smile when expected. She would write letters to Margaery. Help tend the orphanage, train falcons, or learn the names of flowers that bloom every season. She would be useful. She would be good. She could be the lady she was meant to be. Willas Tyrell read poetry. He had a crippled leg and a quiet smile and Margaery said he listened more than he spoke.
She would have children. She could almost see them — brown-haired or with hair like hers, like her mother’s family. Gentle children. Laughing children. She would name her son Bran after her brave, sweet brother, who had once clambered over towers like they were made for him. A second and a third son, too. Laughter in his mouth, always moving. She’d name him Rickon. A daughter, too, to brush her hair every morning like her mother had done for her.
They would be hers. Hers and—
She caught the thought before it could bloom.
➶✶
She ought to go to sleep. Her maid would come soon, and there would be questions if she were found still awake, gown unlaced, hair unbound. But her limbs felt too heavy to move.
Perhaps it was the gown. So fine, so stiff, it seemed to hold her in place like armour made of silk. Crimson, with golden embroidery at the sleeves — not lion heads, exactly, but near enough. She hadn’t asked for it. She never asked for anything anymore. The handmaidens had simply arrived that morning with soft smiles and too many compliments, and before she could protest, she was being brushed and dressed and made to stand before the mirror while they murmured how lovely she looked.
Cersei had praised her, too. Not sharply, not with that curled-lip disdain she usually wore like perfume, but gently in an unnerving way. “The red suits you, my dear.”
Sansa curtsied, smiled and said thank you. She always said thank you. Even when she didn’t understand why. There had been a new necklace on her table, too. Pearls, strung with gold. She didn’t wear it. It hadn’t come with a note, but she knew it was from the Queen.
When she walked the halls now, people seemed to. . . notice. Not in the way they had before, when she had been the sad Northern girl trailing. There was something sharper in their glances now. It made her uneasy, though she couldn’t say why. Everything made her uneasy these days.
The gown was still warm where it clung to her. In the firelight, she looked almost gilded. She wondered, not for the first time, whether Henrik might look at her again if she appeared as the Queen liked. Painted and perfect. Draped in Lannister red. Perhaps he would remember that she wasn’t some child with mud on her hem. That she could be a lady. That she could be worth looking at. The thought made her ashamed.
She folded her hands tightly in her lap and bowed her head. She didn’t want to be that girl. Not anymore. The one who waited for glances like crumbs, who wished on silences and made poems out of shadows. She had a future now. A good one, Margaery said. Highgarden. Willas. She wanted to believe in it. She had to. Even if Henrik would not look at her again. Even if he smiled at Alla. Even if his brooch was gone and his eyes were cold, and his voice no longer held warmth. She would not cry for him.
She wandered the godswood that evening, though the air was heavy and close and the trees seemed to lean too near. There was no weirwood here, no face carved in bone-white bark, only oaks and elms and the rustle of hot leaves. Still, it was the only place in the Red Keep that did not reek of perfume and secrets, so she came often, when she could. The gown she wore was green again, soft and simple, her favourite since Margaery had gifted it.
Ser Dontos, her Florian, stumbled from the shadows like a man already drunk, his hair wild, his doublet stained with old wine. He clutched a satchel to his chest as though it were treasure, though it smelled of damp leather and old apples.
“My sweet Jonquil,” he hissed, eyes darting. “Sweetling. You shouldn’t be here.”
“I only came to walk,” she said quietly. “It’s so stifling in the tower.”
He looked over his shoulder, toward the walls. “You have to listen. There’s no more time. They mean to wed you.”
Her breath caught. “To Willas?” Was this her chance? Would they take her by ship?
Ser Dontos made a strangled sound. “No, sweetling. Not the Tyrell. You were never meant for him. You—” He wiped sweat from his brow, eyes wild. “They’ll marry you to the Imp.”
Sansa stared.
He said it again, softer. “Tyrion Lannister. The Imp. They’ll have you in his bed before the moon turns.”
She swayed. “No.” Her voice felt small. “No, that can’t — Lady Margaery said—”
Her knees nearly gave out. It didn’t make sense. It couldn’t. Margaery had spoken of lemon cakes and hounds and sun-drenched walks. She dreamed of Highgarden — the way it would smell, the soft rustle of silk in the corridors. She had not dreamed of Tyrion Lannister. She had not dreamed of iron chains painted gold.
“I won’t,” she whispered. “They can’t—”
“They can,” Ser Dontos said. “And they will.”
She felt it, then — that old, familiar chill, like cold fingers sliding down her back. The one she had felt the day Joffrey made Ser Ilyn bare the sword. The day her father died. She could not speak. The trees wobbled, and her stomach turned, and for a moment she thought she might be sick right there, on the stone path beneath her feet.
“You must be brave, my sweet Jonquil,” Ser Dontos said, voice lower now. “I’ll come for you. Soon. The ship waits. Only a little longer.”
He kissed her hand like a knight in a story, though his lips were damp and shaking. Then he vanished, as quickly as he’d come.
The handmaidens came early, before the second bell, flitting through her chamber like a flock of nervous birds. They spoke little, but there was a tightness to their movements, a too-careful haste in the way they brushed her hair and laced her gown. The silver dress. The pearls. The lion-shaped pins she had not chosen. She asked no questions. She had been dressed like this before. The gown was too tight. Too white. Too fine.
Too much like something a girl would wear to die in. The silk bodice pinched at her ribs, and her maidens kept chirping about how lovely she looked, how pale and delicate. One even said the word pretty, as if that would make it better. As if that could explain the heavy ache in her chest.
Sansa stared at her reflection and thought she looked like a doll about to be placed in a crypt. Or on a pyre.
“You’ll want to smile,” one said.
She tried. The corners of her mouth lifted. Nothing reached her eyes. They did not bring her to Margaery or Elinor. There was no laughter, no sweet-smelling Reachmaid to take her hand and call her sister. Only two Lannister guards remained, waiting at the door. They offered her their arms.
The air was damp and cold as they crossed the stone bridge to the Great Sept. The fog had not lifted with the morning, and the city loomed dim beyond the mist, crooked rooftops jutting like bones. Somewhere far below, the bells tolled the hour. It was not the sound of celebration. Sansa’s steps were slow, deliberate. She kept her head high. Her mother would have done the same. No one told her, not properly. Not until she stood outside the sept, palms cold as snow. And then the truth bloomed like rot in her stomach.
The Queen said it sweetly. “Congratulations, dear. You’re to marry my brother. Smile, child, you are to become a Lannister.”
Her feet carried her up the steps, one after another, the stones slick beneath her slippers. The doors opened ahead with a low groan. The Great Sept yawned wide and cold, the candles already lit. A few witnesses stood at the edges — lords and ladies, their eyes glittering with interest. Lord Tywin watched from beside the altar, hands folded, gaze unblinking.
They walked toward the Father’s statue, Joffrey beside her, his stringy fingers curled around her arm bruisingly as he watched her gleefully. Her legs moved without her. Her mind did not follow.
The High Septon’s voice echoed beneath the high stone arches, low and solemn. Sansa could feel them watching, not just Lord Tywin, but the whole court: Cersei in her crimson gown, sipping at something like amusement; Ser Kevan with his solemn nods; Pycelle blinking too slowly; the knights in the shadows, and all the whispering mouths behind them. She was on display again, always.
She had dreamed of her wedding since she was a little girl. She had imagined flowers in her hair, her father’s proud smile, a kiss to seal a love story written in stars. She had imagined sunlight, songs, and a handsome prince’s arm around her waist. Stupid girl with stupid dreams.
But this was not a song. This was a sentence.
Tyrion stood beside her, stiff and awkward. He did not reach for her hand. He did not speak. There was a strained sort of silence to him like a man waiting for an arrow to fall. She didn’t know if he was angry or afraid. Perhaps both. She didn’t know what she felt. Hollow. Cold. A doll carved of snow.
The septon recited the vows. She repeated the words because she had to. Her lips remembered how to move, even if her heart had forgotten what hope felt like. She spoke softly, just as her mother taught her.
She did not lift her eyes. If she did — if she even tried — she knew she would see him. Henrik. Somewhere beside Ser Garlan, or just within reach. She didn’t know. She would not look. She could not. Because if she did, she would run. She would forget herself, forget her name and house and fear, and she would run to him. She would clutch at his doublet and bury her face in his chest and beg — beg him to take her from this place, from this city, from this farce.
So she looked only at the statue of the Father. Hard, unmoving. A justice carved of stone, who saw everything and judged nothing.
The septon’s voice droned on. “. . . the Father, who judges us all. . .”
The thought curled in her stomach like iron. He had come. He had not stopped it. What was he meant to do? Draw steel in the Great Sept? Defy the Queen’s will? Fight the lion and the throne with nothing but memory and silence? Still, she had dreamed it. In the dark. Between the turning of the bells and the clatter of cups, when her maids spoke of pearls and she could only hear blood. In her dream, he had appeared like a knight from the old tales, all shadows and defiance, his voice loud with rage, his hand outstretched.
But he hadn’t spoken. Not when they laced her into Lannister gold. Not when she was led, silent and white-lipped, toward a wedding not her own. And now he stood there, close enough that if she turned, their eyes would meet.
But she would not. She must not. Not if she meant to keep breathing.
The Great Hall swam with noise — cups clinking, lords boasting, music rising and falling in shrill waves. Gold glinted off the plates and the lion banners above. Sansa sat beside Tyrion on the high table, her mouth dry, her stomach hollow. Her new husband sipped from his cup like it might shield him. He had spoken little since the vows, and she didn’t fault him. There was nothing left to say. Every time someone toasted them, Tryrion raised his cup with a grimace that might have been a smile. His hand never touched hers.
Her gown had been loosened, but she still felt the phantom of it, tight around her ribs, a reminder. Every time she moved, the silk shifted like it knew something had changed in her, something final. Something irreversible.
Joffrey was already drunk. His laughter cracked across the hall like a whip. “Smile, my Lady Lannister,” he slurred, leaning over to leer at her. “It’s your wedding day. Where’s that Northern bloom everyone keeps praising?”
Sansa lowered her eyes. She kept her hands still in her lap. Tyrion muttered something that might have been a warning, but it was useless. Joffrey wanted an audience, and no one at court ever denied him that.
She tried not to look. She told herself not to look. But when the dancing began — when the first pluck of the lute sent noblemen and their ladies to the floor — her eyes found him. Henrik stood near the far end of the hall, flanked by Lord Rowan and another young knight. He looked older in his feast attire, more lord than boy, though his expression was like carved stone. His goblet hung untouched at his side. He was watching the dance — but not her. Never her. He hadn’t looked at her once since the sept. Her chest ached in a way that had nothing to do with stitches or silk.
“Go on, uncle,” Joffrey drawled loud enough for half the hall to hear. “You ought to show your lady wife off. A dance, surely?”
Tyrion stiffened. Sansa’s heart sank. Tyrion shifted. His cup hit the table with more force than necessary.
“I think Lady Sansa is tired,” her husband said, voice clipped. “It has been a long day.”
“Nonsense! She’s blooming with joy,” Joffrey said with a wicked smile. “Or is it you who tires so quickly? Are you afraid you’ll only reach her knee?”
The laughter that followed was ugly. Sansa felt it like thorns down her spine.
Joffrey’s laughter rang sharp and golden. “Oh, no, no,” he called, rising from his seat with the lazy cruelty of a cat toying with birds. “Uncle, it’s tradition. The bedding comes later, but the dance, that’s now.”
Tyrion’s hand stilled on the stem of his goblet.
“Let all the realm see how the Imp twirls his lovely bride,” Joffrey sneered.
Tyrion stood too. His face was red now, high and furious with humiliation. “I believe I’ve had too much wine, your grace,” he said stiffly. “It wouldn’t be fitting.”
“Come now. I’ll find a stool. Or perhaps we might hoist you up? Ser Meryn, fetch my good uncle a stepladder, would you? Or is there a bannister he might cling to?”
Tyrion’s face had gone a dangerous shade of red. He looked, for a moment, as though he might strike Joffrey, then simply smiled. Not the pleasant kind, not the one he wore when trading courtly jests, but something darker and sharper.
“I fear I might tread on your Grace’s toes,” he said. “Or worse — my dear wife’s hem. That would be a tragedy spoken of for decades to come.”
“Oh, come now,” Joffrey said, eyes glittering. “Surely you won’t deny us the sight. You can cling to her skirts if you like — I’m sure she won’t mind. She’s yours now, isn’t she? All yours.”
Tyrion’s knuckles whitened on the edge of the table. “My liege,” he said, voice smooth as poured oil, “may I offer you a word of advice?”
Joffrey tilted his head. “Oh, please.”
“Do shut up.” Tyrion turned to Sansa and sketched the barest, mockery-thin bow. “I fear, Lady Sansa, that I am not up to the rigours of courtly dance. I wouldn’t want to offend the gods with poor footwork. Or worse — tread upon my lady’s shadow. I hear that brings misfortune.”
“Are you refusing your king?” Joffrey’s voice was shrill now. “Are you defying the crown?”
Tyrion smiled. Slowly. Dangerously. “No, Your Grace. I’ve found the fools in this hall need no help making a spectacle of themselves.”
Joffrey’s face had turned red. “I should have you whipped. A traitor’s tongue deserves the lash.”
“Of course, Your Grace. Shall I kneel for the whip here, or would you prefer a stage?” Tyrion snapped. “I imagine you’d want the best view — though I hear it’s hard to see anything from beneath your mother’s skirts.”
Lord Tywin rose from his seat at last, impassive and heavy as a storm cloud.
Sansa’s breath trembled in her chest. She could feel the shame curling in her, thick and choking. Every eye was on them. Every smile was sharp. Every laugh had teeth.
“I will dance with her.”
All heads turned. Henrik stepped forward. His expression was unreadable. He did not look at her, not quite. His voice, though calm, cut cleanly through the hall. The air seemed to ripple around him, not with bravado, but resolve. He moved like a man walking into a storm of knives and choosing to bleed on his terms.
Joffrey’s eyes narrowed.
Henrik bowed, low and courtly, but when he straightened, there was no deference in him. “Forgive me, Your Grace. If I may — let me take the first dance, if Lady Sansa would allow it.”
Joffrey’s mouth curled. “Lord Henrik?” He sounded amused now. “You wish to take my uncle’s place?”
Henrik straightened. “Only if it pleases Your Grace.”
Tyrion’s voice was dry. “It pleases me. I’ve never been fond of dancing.”
Joffrey studied them for a moment, eyes glittering with something sharp and mean. Then he smiled — slow and serpentine. “Oh, let him,” he said, his voice thick with mockery. “Let the little lordling twirl the wolf girl. How sweet. How noble.” His gaze flicked to Tyrion with undisguised malice. “Perhaps Lord Henrik will show you how it's done, Uncle. Watch closely. You might learn something useful. How to stand tall. How to hold a lady without being trodden on.”
Sansa rose before she could stop herself. Her body moved on instinct, the mask returning. She placed her hand in Henrik’s. His palm was warm. Her fingers barely brushed his glove. He bowed again and then led her away from the high table, toward the centre of the hall, where the noble guests parted like mist before them.
The music began again, a slow, lilting piece, soft strings and soft tension. He held her at the distance the court expected, the shape of formality. But his grip was steady, sure. And beneath the mask of composure, his eyes found hers, just once, just long enough.
She did not look at him. But she felt the heat of his gaze like sunlight on frost. It made her ache. And yet — she did not pull away. The court watched. She could feel them, half-interested, half-amused. A few cooed, no doubt mistaking it for some sweet gesture. Some noble thing. They didn’t know what it meant to dance with the boy who once looked at her like she was something more than her cage. They couldn’t know.
Their gazes did not meet at first. They moved together in slow rhythm, a portrait of civility. But she could feel him watching her in the silences between their turns, feel it in the heat that climbed her throat. They hadn’t spoken since the corridor. Since she’d walked away from him.
“You look well,” he said at last, voice low enough for only Sansa to hear.
A harmless thing. Gentle, easy. But his throat moved tightly when he said it, like he had to force the words past something larger. Sansa didn’t answer right away. She knew she ought to smile, to offer some dry, courteous reply — And you, my lord, look splendid in House Farman’s finest — but something about the way he was holding her hand, so carefully, so tentatively, made it impossible to lie.
“Thank you,” she said. Her voice was soft, but not quite steady.
His eyes flicked down then away. “The gown suits you.”
You didn’t look at me in the Sept, she wanted to say. Not even once. They turned again. The air around them felt suspended.
“Thank you,” she said softly, eyes fixed on the line of his collar. “For what you did.”
Henrik was quiet. The space between their bodies was proper, formal. But his voice was not. “I couldn’t watch them humiliate you.” A beat. Then: “Not again.”
Sansa blinked. Her fingers twitched slightly in his. It was the first time in weeks that he had sounded like himself. Not the version of him who bowed and smiled and turned away.
“I thought I imagined it,” she said before she could stop herself. “I thought—”
“No.” His voice was raw. “You didn’t.”
The words landed like a blow. They turned again. The court blurred at the edges of her vision, all the colour and noise of a life she no longer wanted. She was here. He was here. Everything else was distant. Henrik’s mouth twitched like he meant to say more and then didn’t. Sansa studied the way he held his composure not for the court’s benefit, but hers.
“You’re angry with me,” he stated, quieter now.
“No,” she said truthfully. “Not angry.”
Hurt, perhaps. But that was a different thing. Deeper. Older. Less easily named.
“I said things I shouldn't have,” he murmured. “Forgive me.”
In that glance, she saw it. Whatever it was he’d been hiding since that night, since before, since the first time he bowed and pretended they had never spoken in shadowed gardens and smoke-stained chapels. The boy she had almost trusted. The man she had not dared hope for.
Henrik swallowed hard, his expression tight, unfamiliar. “I haven’t stopped thinking about you. . .”
The words were barely audible. They fell between them like something dangerous.
“I know,” she admitted.
She didn’t know how she knew. But she did. Maybe it was the way his fingers held hers like he was afraid they’d vanish. Maybe it was the fact that his voice was shaking now. Henrik’s breath brushed her temple as they turned again, too close now, too careful. His hand on her back wasn’t insistent, but it made her feel as if she might float straight out of her skin. Her gown suddenly felt too fine, too fitted, the silk too thin where his fingers rested. She did not look at him directly. But she saw the line of his throat when he swallowed. The small crease between his brows. The way he tried, and failed, to keep his lips still.
“You’re meant for Highgarden,” he said suddenly, bitter and quiet. His hand was trembling. “For sunlight and poetry and kindness. Not. . . not this. I-I didn’t know, Sansa, you must believe me. I. . . I was only told this morning by my lord father, I never meant—”
She stared at him. At the way his mask had slipped, at the boy beneath the lord’s son. There was something undone in him now, something real. It hurt to look at.
“You didn’t know,” she echoed. It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t quite forgiveness either. Just a quiet confirmation of the thing she had feared, and somewhere in her, hoped.
“I should have gone to you,” he said, voice low and taut. “I should have — gods, I wanted to. I did. But I thought—” He broke off again. Shook his head. “Everything I do around you feels like a mistake.”
Sansa’s throat burned.
“I thought if I could just let you go,” he said, softer now, “you might be free. You might choose something better. Someone braver and stronger. Who’s. . . who’s worthy of you.” Henrik flinched. “I mean someone who doesn’t turn cold when he’s afraid.”
They turned again, their steps too slow now, out of rhythm with the music, but no one in the court seemed to notice. Or if they did, they mistook it for grace. For anything but what it was: the unravelling of something long buried under silence.
“I didn’t want that,” she said, the words spilling before she could catch them.
It slipped out. It hung there between them, raw and quiet and terrible. Henrik stopped. Only for half a breath, but she felt it. The air folded around them like the moment before a fall. He looked at her as if the world had narrowed to just her voice.
“I thought,” he whispered, “if I stayed away long enough, the feeling might pass.”
She could barely speak. “Did it?”
His gaze didn’t waver. “No.”
He wasn’t touching her improperly. And yet, something in her ached like he was. His thumb brushed — unintentionally, she thought — against the edge of her wrist. A light pass. A nothing. But her pulse jumped like a startled bird, and the air in the hall felt too warm, too thick, too close. She couldn’t seem to draw enough of it.
Henrik said nothing. His gaze had dropped slightly, fixed somewhere near her collarbone. But she felt him. Every inch of him. The closeness of his body beneath the linen and silk, the restrained tension in his stance, the quiet holding back of him, as though he were wound tight with something he didn’t know how to release. And gods, she felt it in herself too, low and hot and an unfamiliar tightening just beneath her navel, a heat that pulsed with the rhythm of the music, deep and steady and utterly uninvited. She told herself it was the wine. The torchlight. The music.
But it wasn’t. It was the way his voice had gone ragged when he said her name. He stood too close when the steps didn’t require it. The way she could feel the body beneath the clothes — solid, warm, real — and not some courtly ornament, not a painted prince with sweet lies on his tongue, but Henrik.
He stilled. Then, quietly, brokenly: “Sansa. . .”
Her name sounded different this time, not tender, not choked. Ruined. And in his voice was something too large for the hall, too fierce for candlelight.
“You’ll be taken to his chambers after the feast,” he said, low and ragged. “There’ll be a . . . a bedding ceremony soon.”
The words made her skin crawl. She didn’t want to hear them. She didn’t want to think about what waited beyond the laughter and the wine and the roses in shallow bowls. About what Joffrey had promised her.
“I know,” she said. Or maybe she only mouthed it.
He turned her again, slower than the music called for. His hand gripped hers tightly now. He was shaking. But she felt it.
“I won’t let them touch you.”
She stopped.
He kept moving, but she couldn’t. The world did not notice. The court did not see. But Sansa felt it. The promise settled like thunder in her bones. Henrik stepped closer. Enough that she felt the whisper of his chest brushing her own, just once, before he drew back. Just enough to feel how hard he was breathing.
“I swear it,” he said, voice cracking in half. “Not one of them will touch you. Not even him. I’ll kill the next man who lays a hand on you. Even—”
He cut himself off. Too late. Sansa stared at him. The room blurred. Her heart beat like wings. Even Tyrion, he meant. Even the man she was meant to call husband.
He didn’t take it back. His hand was still in hers, and now she could feel the heat of his palm through the glove. Her whole body thrummed with it. With him. With something she didn’t have words for. Only heat and hunger and the dizzying ache of wanting.
The music reached its final notes, drawn out like the breath of something dying. His hand slipped from hers. But the imprint stayed. Henrik’s mask was gone now. His jaw clenched. His chest rose too fast. In another life, she thought, he might have kissed me then. Right there, in front of the court. In defiance. In despair.
She returned to her seat with the grace expected of her, a soft sweep of skirts, a curtsey following the clapping, a folded hand. A lady’s ritual.
She looked up. Lord Farman, Henrik’s father, was staring directly at her. He hadn’t moved. He hadn’t even blinked. His expression was unreadable, no furrow of brow, no frown. But his eyes were sharp and still, pale as sea-glass and twice as hard.
Sansa froze. There was nothing indecent in her posture. No stain on her dress. She had done everything she was meant to do. But still, he stared as though he knew something. As though she had taken something that did not belong to her. Her breath caught in her throat. Not loud enough to be heard or draw attention. But she felt the fear curling tight in her belly, low and cold.
She looked away at once, eyes dropping to the gold-threaded napkin in her lap. Her fingers smoothed it as if it mattered. A lady could not afford to be seen flinching on her wedding day.
Notes:
Hi guys, hope you're all well. Faster update than before with this chapter, so I hope you enjoyed it.
Sansa is trying to hold herself together with courtly poise while the world decides her fate again and again, and Henrik, for all his flaws and failures, doesn’t arrive as a hero to stop the wedding. Henrik, poor idiot, tries to be noble and distant and ends up making it worse, as all emotionally stunted men in tragic love stories do. He arrives too late, too afraid, too tangled in duty and fear, but still, he dances. Because I think sometimes the only defiance left is in the smallest acts. Love, especially in a place like King’s Landing, is never clean. It’s complicated and inconvenient. But it’s there, blooming in the darkest corners anyway.
As always, thank you for reading. Hope your weekend is going great. My family is currently taking advantage of the good weather we're having in the UK and decided to do a barbecue on the day that my cousin arrives to visit us from the Netherlands.
See you guys next time!
Chapter 17: Tyrion I
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The bedchamber was a tomb; a grand, crimson-draped, perfumed tomb, but a tomb all the same. Tyrion opened one eye, groaned and closed it again. The light cut through the slit in the curtains like a blade to the skull. Seven hells, had he truly drained that much Arbor gold? He shifted, felt silk, but no warmth. No movement beside him, not even the tremble of breath. Only cold sheets and the faint, almost mocking, scent of lemon and rosewater. A lady’s fragrance. His lady wife. Well, wife in the technical sense. In the legal sense.
“Lovely,” he rasped, tongue dry as dust. Gods, even his thoughts tasted like old coins.
Tyrion rolled onto his back and stared up at the canopy. It fluttered slightly in the breeze, as if waving farewell. Sansa Stark was gone, risen early, perhaps to pray, or to escape the sight of her drunken, misshapen husband. Wise girl. He couldn’t quite blame her.
Her composure last night had been uncanny. She had stood as still as a statue, all wide eyes and porcelain skin, her voice smooth and steady as she said the vows as if she were reciting a prayer she didn’t believe in. Her hand had no tremble as he cloaked her in his House colours. Only that maddening calm. Gods, how did she manage that? At her age? Not even a flicker when Joffrey made his crude japes.
Tyrion pushed himself upright, slowly, clutching his head. The room swam. Wine, always the bloody wine. The chamber swam back into focus. Rich, lavish, smug with Lannister excess. A golden lion carved into the bedpost yawned mockingly at him. Tyrion scowled at it.
“At least one of us enjoyed the bedding,” he muttered.
His wedding feast had blurred into a swirl of gold and red, sweet music and salt tears. He remembered Cersei’s tight-lipped smile, his loving father’s glinting approval, and his sweet nephew’s jeering laughter. And Sansa sitting with hands folded in her lap, spine straight as a sword. A political union. That was all it was. A masterstroke of Lord Tywin Lannister, sealing the North by binding its last daughter to the Imp of House Lannister. No matter that she was a girl of barely one and five, and he. . . well. He was no knight from her songs, that was for sure.
He rose, bare feet against cold stone, and staggered toward the pitcher of water. It sloshed as he poured with trembling fingers. The first mouthful nearly came back up. Did they lace the wine with pitch? He drank again, slower. He rubbed his eyes. There was no sign of her in the room — no slippers, no hairpins, not even a ribbon left behind. Just that stubborn trace of lemon and rosewater. He wondered if she had dared to run, then laughed at himself. Where would she go? Her brother waged war in the Riverland, the North was lost to her, and here in the Red Keep, every corridor led to Cersei.
No, she had done the wise thing. She had fled the room, not the city. She would return. In time. Perhaps not. Still, what had they expected of him? That he would mount her like some rutting dog and break her to heel? Perhaps that was how his lord father imagined it: the dwarf rutting the wolf girl beneath Lannister banners, sealing the alliance with sweat and blood.
Tyrion reached for the wine flagon. Empty. “Figures.”
He remembered her eyes, wide as a doe’s, as she undressed. Each layer she shed had felt like a condemnation. He had said it to be kind — if we must be married, let there be no secrets between us — but under her stillness, he had seen the fear and perhaps worse: resignation.
Now, Tyrion had known women. He had known whores who made a game of their work, courtiers who whispered pleasantries in his ear while calculating the value of his name. But he had never stripped a child of her innocence beneath lion-gilded sheets. He had looked. Of course he had. Yes, he was not blind, nor dead. He had wanted to look. A man can only be so pious before his nature rots through. She was beautiful and terribly so. Pale as milkglass, with pointed breasts and legs like willow branches. It would have been easy. She would not have stopped him and suffered her duty. That, more than anything, had turned his stomach.
So he had rolled away, taken the wine, and said the one thing he could. “I will wait until you come to me. Of your own will.”
Foolish words. Noble words. Shae would laugh to hear them. His father would not. Tywin Lannister had made this marriage for a reason. Not for love, certainly. Not for comfort. For Winterfell. For the North. For the same game he’d always played, with the same pieces. And Tyrion, as ever, was his smallest knight.
The goblet wobbled in his hand as he stared into the dregs at the bottom, as if meaning might hide there. Meaning. Ha. Meaning was for poets and fools. Marriage was politics. Bedding was politics. Even restraint could be politics, though the reward for that was thinner than Arbor gold and far less intoxicating.
Cersei would be disappointed. That thought struck him like a draught of icy water. He could hear her voice already, smug, sing-song, with a tilt of amusement so sharp it could open a throat. Poor little brother, too drunk to lift his cock. Or too frightened of a maiden’s blood? She would twist the story into something petty and obscene, whisper it into the ears of every court fool who fancied themselves clever. Let them all laugh. Let them bloody choke on it. She had laughed once. As children. When Jaime had hoisted Tyrion into the saddle, a daring little joke, and he’d nearly toppled off into a rosebush. Cersei’s laughter had rung out like a bell — pure, unkind, delighted.
He sat in the carved chair by the hearth. His toes curled on the stone. Somewhere below, bells rang with morning prayers or executions. In the Red Keep, it was hard to tell the difference.
His wife. He rubbed his eyes again. Seven hells, he hadn’t wanted to remember. But memory was like a dog: starve it all you want, it always comes back when it pleases. He saw again the quiet flicker in her lashes as she stood before him, saw how her lips pressed together, barely a breath between them. She had not wept. Not even when Joffrey leered about lifting her skirts for the bedding. She had only gone still, as if the very act of stillness could turn her to stone.
He ran a hand down his face, feeling the stubble, the folds, the ruin of features that had never been fair. Not even as a babe, if his father was to be believed. “The gods give gifts in crooked boxes,” his uncle Gerion once said with a wink. Gerion had been kind. Gerion was dead. The chair groaned as he leaned back, goblet cradled in his palm like a poor man’s crown. Cold hearth, cold stone, cold bed. He should be used to it by now.
Tysha. The name came unbidden, as it always did when he let himself sit too long with silence. Not whispered, not mourned, just there, like a wound beneath old bandages. Tysha. Her laughter was like bells in summer. Her fingers were sticky with honeyed bread. Her cries beneath him, so soft, so shy. Not whorish. Not false. Not a lie.
But that was what they’d told him. That she was a lie. A whore his brother had paid for his pleasure. A game, a lesson. A test of manhood. His first taste of love was bought and crushed in the same breath. He believed them. That was the worst of it. He remembered her eyes, not wide or glazed like Sansa’s, but warm, bright, foolish. He married her. A secret wedding, vows whispered beneath a hedge, and she kissed him like he was whole. There’d been no coin in that kiss. No calculation. No politics.
And then Lord Tywin had found them. Tyrion shut his eyes. He did not want to see it, but he saw it all the same. His father’s face, carved in stone. The way they made her do it, over and over, with the guards, a gold coin each time. Then, one for the last, for Tyrion. He could still feel the weight of it, that coin, burning in his palm.
Now he was wed again. This time with his father’s blessing in velvet and silk, with gold bands and lords watching. A feast and a bedding, minus the actual bedding. A public sham instead of a private dream. It was progress, of a kind you could say.
His temples throbbed. Thoughts of the ceremony rushed through his mind. Joffrey had been at his worst, grinning like a boy with ants under his skin, too pleased with his own cleverness, too eager to humiliate. Tyrion had kept his goblet full to avoid saying something that might get his head taken off by breakfast. Yet not all of last night blurred into wine. One moment returned to him with inconvenient clarity — the flash of movement, that young Farman boy stepping forward during the dance. Foolish, impetuous, valiant. Tyrion scoffed under his breath, more from habit than derision. It was a dangerous thing, that kind of valour: raw and unbruised, that made boys think they could change something simply because they wanted to. Honour gets you killed here. Just ask Ned Stark.
He could still see the boy’s face. Henrik Farman. A lordling from the Western Isles. Green, perhaps, but handsome in a way that turned heads. He had seen the ladies lean forward, seen the way even Sansa’s lashes had flickered, ever so slightly, when the boy had asked for a dance. Foolish gallantry, that. And yet Tyrion envied him. Gods, he did. Not that he begrudged Henrik the face that the gods had sculptured him, or the chin that didn’t disappear into his chest when he frowned. Tyrion had long since grown weary of such petty self-loathing.
Bold, bright-eyed, tragic in the way only the young and stupid could be. Tyrion had seen the look the boy gave Sansa. Not lewd, not mocking. Curious. A little too curious. The sort that gave a man pause. And Sansa, his wife, his Lady, how had she looked back? The boy — no, the young man — had stepped forward during the dancing like some gallant from a maiden’s tale, eyes burning too brightly for the cesspit they lived in. A fool’s fire, Tyrion thought, but even fools could strike sparks.
The court had begun whispering about him not long after Blackwater. Something about how he’d fought with reckless courage, how he’d pulled a wounded Gold Cloak from a collapsing barricade. Others claimed he’d killed three men in a burning alley with nothing but a broken spear. The details changed each time the tale was told — Tyrion knew that game well — but what lingered was the image: tall, sword-sure, and handsome where Tyrion was bent and broken. A son for the bards, not for the books.
Tyrion rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Fool,” he muttered to the empty chamber. “You sound like a jealous husband.” The gods were laughing somewhere.
Henrik Farman would be crushed, of course. That kind of softness did not last in the Red Keep. The boy would learn, as all boys must, that gallantry meant nothing here. That charm could not buy safety, that decency could not keep you from the pyre. Unless he was clever, and Tyrion had not seen enough to know. Just one flash of steel, a single insolent step forward in the middle of the feast, as if he’d forgotten who surrounded him. A pointless little flinch of honour in a court that fed on performance and poison. And Sansa had watched, hadn’t she? Her eyes followed the boy, just for a moment, before returning to her folded hands.
A chill ran down his spine, not from the cold, but something colder, unease. Perhaps it was nothing. A flight of fancy. A silly boy imagining himself her knight. Tyrion knew too well how swiftly fancies could become folly. He had fancied once too, and look where that had landed him. He still saw Tysha’s face when he closed his eyes. Still felt her kiss, her scream, the clink of silver against flesh. The cruelty of love, when twisted by power.
Sansa would not look at him like that. And if she did, he would flinch from it. No, he thought. Let her gaze on Henrik Farman. Let her dream, if dream she must, of boys with full bellies and fine faces and unscarred souls. Let her keep one lie to hold against the world. He could not begrudge her that. He only feared what the court would make of it. Cersei would smell it before it bloomed. Varys would watch with a spider’s patience. Even Littlefinger would mark a girl’s blush at ten paces. His father, however, would not care for whispers. He would crush the boy like a beetle underfoot if he thought it useful. Or worse — he would use him. The way he used all of them.
Tyrion drank again, though it tasted like rust. “Poor boy,” he whispered into the cup, “you should have stayed on your little isle.”
The sun was high now, cutting across the chamber like judgment. The game waited, as it always did. His father’s voice rang in his head: A lion does not concern himself with the opinions of sheep.
Tyrion set down the goblet. “But what does he do,” he murmured, “when the sheep sharpen their teeth?”
A few days later, the summons came as he was halfway through dressing, still bleary-eyed and resentful. Podrick had brought it in, hands trembling slightly, as if the weight of Tywin Lannister’s seal might burn through the parchment. Tyrion did not open it. He didn’t need to. When the lion calls, the cub comes running.
He arrived at the solar without fanfare. The guards let him in at once, no pleasantries, no delay. His father was already seated, a raven-scroll unfurled on the table beside him like a victory banner. A quill rested in Tywin’s fingers, still wet with ink. The scent of wax and parchment filled the chamber, sharp and dry as old bones.
The door shut behind him with a quiet finality. Tywin Lannister did not look up. Tyrion stood in silence, watching the steady movements of the quill as his father inscribed some closing flourish. The ink glittered wetly. The wax seal beside the scroll was already cooling, the lion’s imprint sharp, unmarred. A Lannister letter, sent and answered. A message, a death sentence, a bargain made. It was all the same.
At length, Tywin laid the quill aside. “Sit.”
The room smelled of parchment, dust, and power. Not wine — never wine. His father’s sobriety was its own weapon, honed and bloodless. The candles guttered behind him, casting the lines of his face into stone. Only his eyes remained alive, too pale, too cold.
Tywin lifted the scroll with one pale, deliberate hand. “From the Twins. Walder Frey has kept faith.”
Tyrion blinked. “Frey. . .?”
The words fell like stones in a well. “They are dead. Robb Stark. The Young Wolf has lost his head, and the North with it.”
Tyrion felt the words before he understood them. A pressure in the chest. “How?” he said, though the answer had already begun to form in the black corners of his mind.
“A wedding,” said Tywin. “Walder Frey proved himself more dutiful than expected. The girl was wed, feasted, and bled, though not in the expected fashion.”
There was no smile in his voice. Only that quiet, pitiless certainty he always wore when he believed himself correct.
Tyrion stared at the fireless hearth. “You gave them this plan.”
“I gave them a choice. A path. They took it.”
“A path to slaughter.”
“To survival,” Tywin said. “Would you rather we fought another year of war? Sent thousands more to die? Stannis is broken,” Tywin continued, as if reading a map. “The Riverlords are disorganised. Balon Greyjoy remains contained on his rocks. The Dornish are still sulking in their deserts. And now, the North is ours.”
Tyrion closed his eyes. “And you mean to claim it through Sansa.”
His father dipped his head slightly. “With no surviving male heir, she is the key to Winterfell. And she is your wife.”
“In name.”
“In law. The North belongs to her by blood, and to you by law. The rest is a matter of will.”
Tyrion looked up, slow as thawing ice. “Will,” he echoed, voice dry. “Is that what it comes down to?”
“It always does. In the end, those who shape the world are those who act. Those who falter are buried beneath it.”
He reached again for the quill, as if Tyrion’s presence were an afterthought, something to be inked and sealed like any other transaction.
“You will do your duty, Tyrion,” his father said, without looking at him.
“My duty,” Tyrion echoed, voice dry as bone. “And which one is that, precisely? I have a few. Jester. Scapegoat. Monster in the eyes of the realm. Clarify, if you would.”
“You will put a child in her. A Stark child, with Lannister blood. That is the future we have made. The North must be secured. There is no boy left to inherit Winterfell. The girl is the last claim. Your wife. Your duty.”
We. As if Tyrion had any hand in this marriage, any choice at all. He let out a breath that might have been a laugh if it weren’t so thin. He thought of her face the night of their wedding — that terrible, poised stillness. The way she had looked past him, not through him, not with hate, but with something worse, like a prisoner dressing for her execution.
“Tell me, dear father, do you think her more willing once I tell her that we’ve murdered her brother and mother?”
“The girl is a tool, Tyrion. A key. You do not weep over a key. You use it.”
Something stirred in Tyrion’s chest then, some dark alchemy between pity and anger. He wanted to leap across the table, throttle his father with the very scroll he’d penned in bloodless ink. But all he did was sit, hands clenched in his lap, jaw aching.
“A key,” he echoed again. “Yes, I suppose she is. A quiet, well-mannered key with auburn hair and too much grief to speak it aloud. Tell me, do you think she’ll sing for me when I break the lock?”
Tywin looked at him then with that piercing, golden gaze that made lesser men shrink into themselves. “Do not mistake your revulsion for principle,” he said. “You married her. You have rights, and you have responsibilities. I expect you to honour both.”
“So you would have me take her by force,” said Tyrion bitterly. “Breed her like a mare.”
“You will not do it by force. You will do it with care. With patience. With the understanding that all women come to heel in time, if handled wisely.”
Tyrion laughed, hollow and humourless. “And when she refuses to be handled? What then? Shall I write to the Twins and ask for the Frey’s advice on wedding customs?”
That earned a look, a flick of the eyes that were cool and assessing. “I see your wine hasn’t dulled your tongue.”
“I’ve tried drowning it. No such luck yet.”
Tyrion turned away from the desk and walked to the far end of the room, as if the extra space might clear his lungs of the stench of parchment and legacy. Through the narrow arrow slit, he could see the rooftops of the city, crooked teeth in a broken mouth. King’s Landing. Seat of power, pit of filth. It always looked better from a distance.
“She will not come to me,” he said, almost to himself.
“Then go to her. You had best pray she comes to you willingly. And soon. Winterfell will not wait on your conscience.”
“She is not ready.”
Tywin leaned back in his chair, folding his hands atop the desk. “That is no longer your concern. Ready or not, she is yours. And through her, so is the North.”
“And what if I cannot bring myself to do it?” Tyrion asked. “What if I cannot touch her?”
His father watched him with the same pale, patient disdain that had greeted him all his life. “Then you will have proven yourself every bit as weak and useless. You’re a Lannister, Tyrion, start acting like one.”
Tyrion thought of his wedding, not for the first time. The gods’ eyes had looked down from the high stained glass with their usual indifference. Seven colours for seven faces, none of them kind. She’d stood beneath the sept’s painted glass like a girl carved from ice, taller than him, paler than milk, eyes blank as fresh parchment. Not once had she looked at him. Not when they said the vows, not when he undressed her with shaking hands. Now his father, dry as dust and twice as cruel, expected him to mount her like a duty horse and breed her for Winterfell as if her silence were an invitation, as if decency were something to be punished.
And how am I meant to do that, my lord Father? Drag her beneath me like a prize sow and grunt out an heir while she lies there stiff as marble? Pretend her silence is consent, that her stillness is anything but dread? Would that make me a proper Lannister in your eyes? Would that please you more? He almost said it aloud, but what use was speaking truth to stone?
➶✶
The corridor was half-shadowed, thick with heat and hush, its high windows stained red and gold by the afternoon sun. Tyrion moved more slowly these days, from wine, from weariness. His legs ached more, his shoulder stiff, and the weight of his father’s words still clung to him like a second cloak. Servants hurried past him and bowed shortly. Gold Cloaks turned their eyes.
Tyrion walked alone today, and not for lack of options. Bronn would have come, grinning like a wolf with a bloody bone, ready with some crude jest or easy threat to fill the silence. But Tyrion hadn’t sent for him. He didn’t feel like playing the game this morning, not the game of blades or wit. What good were clever words when the only ones that echoed in his skull were his father’s?
Tyrion had not gone to his wife’s chamber. The thought of it turned his stomach. He turned a corner, and there he was. Henrik Farman stood by the window alcove like a statue coming loose from its plinth. He had forgone the doublet today. A plain linen shirt clung to him, his hair curled from the heat.
Tyrion slowed. His steps simply caught, halted by the sight of him. Henrik stood with his back half-turned to the corridor, one hand braced on the stone sill, eyes fixed on some distant place beyond the glass. Sunlight cut across his shoulder, gilding the pale fabric and catching at the sweat glistening near his throat. For a moment, Tyrion said nothing. He only watched. Something was unsettling about the stillness. The boy had changed.
“Lord Henrik,” Tyrion said, almost weary. “You’ll catch fire, standing in that light for so long. The court is fond of burning beautiful things.”
Henrik turned at the sound of his name but only partway. Tyrion could see the slope of his cheek, the stiff angle of his jaw. No bow, no greeting, no jape about flames or courtiers or the heat.
“My lord,” Henrik said at last, voice low.
Tyrion studied him, eyes narrowed against the afternoon sun. “You used to look me in the eye when you spoke.”
Henrik said nothing.
A flicker of irritation stirred in Tyrion’s chest. He took a slow step forward, the stone cool beneath his soles even through his boots.
“Is this where you come now? To stew in the sun and glower at the rooftops?” he asked. “A poor habit. I’d recommend the cellars. Darker, damper. More honest.”
Henrik’s jaw worked. “I wasn’t glowering.”
“No?” Tyrion tilted his head. “You wear the face of a man who’s begun to understand what courtly life truly is. That alone tends to sour the mouth. I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Tyrion said, after a beat. “You seemed deep in thought. Planning to run away with the ravens, perhaps?”
This time, Henrik glanced his way. There was no warmth in it.
“I was thinking of the water,” he said. “Of home.”
Tyrion leaned against the nearest column, careful not to strain his shoulder. “Faircastle’s a long way from here.”
“I know.”
The silence that followed stretched thin, tight with unspoken things. You were brighter once , Tyrion almost said. You had too much heart and not enough caution. And now you’ve seen what becomes of that.
Tyrion watched him closely. There was a sharpness behind the boy’s eyes, dulled by weariness. Not the kind earned in battle, that kind burned hot, fast, and clean. No, this was the slow rot. The kind that crept in when you realised nothing you did made the world any less cruel.
“You fought beside me,” Tyrion mentioned. “At the gate.”
Henrik nodded once.
“You pulled men from the fire. Lost friends. Took wounds.”
Another nod.
“You were brave.” He rubbed his thumb over his lower lip, watching Henrik’s profile, the line of it too clean for this city. “Bravery,” he said as if tasting the word. “A flattering fiction we tell one another to keep the songsmiths fed. Most brave men I’ve known were simply too drunk, too proud, or too foolish to do anything else.”
Henrik’s mouth twitched into something tighter, like a splinter shifting beneath the skin. “You think me foolish?”
Tyrion tilted his head. “I think you danced with my lady wife under the eyes of every vulture in the court.”
No answer. The boy did not flinch, nor apologise. He stood like a cliff before the sea.
“She looked. . . pale,” Henrik murmured. The pause before the word said more than the word itself. “Tired, perhaps.”
Tyrion hummed. “The wedding night does that to a maiden. Especially when the king insists on providing a running commentary.”
Henrik did not rise to the jape. His gaze drifted back to the rooftops. “A shame the music was so fine. One might almost forget the occasion.”
That gave Tyrion pause. A subtle thing, that. Like watching a blade slide beneath velvet. He pushed off the column with a grunt.
“Yes, well. That’s the trick of it, isn’t it? We smile, we toast, we dance until someone remembers what was actually agreed to.”
Henrik’s jaw moved again. “Some agreements sit poorly, no matter the song.”
Tyrion glanced at him sideways. “I take it you didn’t enjoy the feast, my lord?”
Henrik hesitated. Then, “I enjoyed the dance.”
Tyrion licked his lips. “I imagine many did.” He reached for levity, but it rang hollow. Tyrion glanced sideways once more, studying the young lord as the breeze stirred the curtain near the window. “My lady wife is well cared for if you were curious,” he said, the words idling from his tongue like dice from a careless hand. “Silk, fruit, fresh flowers each morning. She has more luxuries than most princesses in Pentos.”
Henrik turned to him fully this time. There was nothing soft in his face now. No flicker of gallantry. No humour, feigned or otherwise.
“I am glad to hear that, my lord, but I did not ask.”
The air between them went still.
Tyrion’s brows arched slowly. “Forgive me. I wasn’t aware you had.”
Henrik stepped closer. The sunlight that had once gilded him now seemed to catch only on the hard edges. Tyrion merely folded his arms behind his back, cocked his head, and let his eyes narrow just so.
“I must say, my lord, you seem rather invested in that girl’s welfare.”
Henrik’s mouth pressed into a line. Tyrion could see the muscle jump in his jaw. Still, he gave no answer.
“It would be unwise, I think, to let one’s affections show too plainly at court. It invites complications.”
Tyrion stood in the archway longer than he meant to, the stone warm beneath his palm. He heard Henrik shift behind him, a foot scuffing faintly against the floor, impatient, perhaps, or simply unwilling to watch him go.
“I imagine you’d regret it,” the boy had said. Not boast. Not bark. No political polish to it. Just a truth, spoken plainly.
Tyrion turned back.
Henrik hadn’t moved from the alcove, but there was something raw in his eyes. He looked like he might speak again, or strike something, or both. Gods, but he wore his heart poorly, bare as an unsheathed blade, unfit for any court but a bard’s stage. And yet here he was, in King’s Landing of all places. The child of salt and wind, stranded among lions.
“You mean to frighten me,” Tyrion said at last, amusement in his tone. He kept his voice low, almost bored. “Is that it?”
Henrik shook his head once. “I don’t care if you’re frightened.”
Foolish, Tyrion thought, but not untrue. He believed that. You could see it in his face that he hadn’t come to deliver a warning. He’d come because he couldn’t help himself. Because something in him couldn’t bear the thought of her, that girl of ice and stillness, lying silent in Lannister red.
“And what would you do,” Tyrion asked, stepping back into the corridor proper to face him, “if I told you the bedding was done already? That she wept and I ignored it, and now the deed is done?” He let the words fall like coins on a table, one by one. “Would you challenge me in the throne room? Strike me down between the banners?”
Henrik looked at him — no, stared. There was a flush in his cheeks now, high and angry.
“I’d kill you,” he stated simply.
There it was. The heart of it. No hesitance. No needling cleverness. Just a boy who’d never learned the art of keeping anything hidden.
Tyrion gave a slow breath. “Honest men don’t last long here.”
“Then maybe it’s time someone honest did,” Henrik said.
Tyrion almost laughed. But there was no mirth in it, only a sound in his chest like something torn loose. “Gods save us. You’re serious.”
“I saw her face,” Henrik said again, quieter now, as if he couldn’t stop the words from tumbling out. “When she stood beside you. She looked like someone waiting for the sea to take her.”
“She’s had a hard year,” Tyrion said. “As have we all.”
“You think that’s the same?” Henrik snapped.
His voice cracked at the edge of it, just enough to make it real. No court-trained inflection. No calculated softness. Just feeling, raw and ill-timed and bleeding at the seams. Tyrion felt it like a splinter in his side. Not because he doubted the boy, but because he didn’t.
“She’s a girl,” Henrik said. “And you—”
Tyrion cut in, sharp. “I know what I am.”
The silence after that was thick. Tyrion let it sit. He studied Henrik again, this not-boy with too much heart and not enough sense. The danger here wasn’t in Henrik’s sword. It was in his refusal to play the game. In his belief — his foolish, stubborn, stupid belief — that a man might still live and act by his heart, and not be devoured by it.
“You love her,” Tyrion said flatly.
Henrik flinched. Only a little. But it was enough. Seven Hells, Tyrion thought. Poor girl. Poor boy. Poor fools. He stepped closer again, until he was nearly beneath the window, where the light made Henrik’s skin shine like sweat-slick marble.
“I haven’t touched her, I won’t touch her,” Tyrion said, and surprised himself by meaning it. “I’ve told her so. She’ll come to me when she wishes. If she wishes. My father doesn’t understand that. But I think you might.”
Henrik’s expression didn’t soften. “She won’t.”
Tyrion nodded. “I know. She won’t come to me,” Tyrion repeated. “Not in kindness. Not in hope. But perhaps in desperation. That’s the game, isn’t it? If we cage a girl long enough, she starts thinking the bars are safer than the open sky.”
Henrik’s hands curled into fists. “Don’t speak of her like that.”
Tyrion smiled. “You mistake me, my lord. I speak of the cage. Not the bird.”
There was a long moment where neither of them said anything. Then Henrik looked away, out toward the rooftops again, jaw tight.
“You don’t belong here,” Tyrion said, not unkindly. “And that will be the end of you.”
“Maybe,” Henrik said. “But if you harm her, it’ll be the end of you first.”
It wasn’t a threat. It wasn’t even rage. It was a promise. He merely stood there, eyes unwavering, as if daring Tyrion to pretend again that words were wind.
Tyrion turned. The corridor stretched before him, warm with the filtered light of dying day. Behind him, the air still hummed with something unresolved. He did not look back. But already, some voice in his head — the same voice that had survived the Vale, Blackwater, and his sister’s devious plans to get rid of him —was whispering: Be wary. If you touch her, truly touch her, you'll find the edge of his sword waiting before your belt is buckled.
➶✶
She came after nightfall, silent as fog, a silver chain low around her hips and a sheer shift clinging to her thighs. Her hair was up, curled, too carefully arranged for someone meant to be his secret. Tyrion did not hear her until the door closed behind her, that soft snick of wood and iron. He was at the table, hunched over a cup of wine he didn’t want, a ledger he hadn’t read, and a mind full of things he wished he could forget. Shae said nothing at first. She simply crossed the room with slippered feet, cast off her shawl, and poured herself a drink from his flagon without asking.
“You’re drinking again,” she said, eventually.
Tyrion did not look up. “You say that as if it ever stopped. “I’m married now. It’s the done thing.”
Shae curled into the chair across from him, bringing her knees up to her chest like a child. Her eyes were kohl-dark, her hair plaited like a lady’s maid. Not like a whore. Not like his Shae.
“You haven’t visited me,” she said, after a sip.
“I’ve been busy. My lord father enjoys reminding me of my duties.”
She crossed to him, settled onto his lap with the fluid grace of a cat. Her bare thigh pressed against the fabric of his doublet. He could feel the warmth of her through it, but his hands didn’t move.
“Well?” she said. “Are you going to tell me how awful it was?”
Tyrion blinked slowly. “What?”
“The wedding.” Her tone was teasing, but her eyes were sharp. “You didn’t slit your wrists, so I assume it wasn’t a complete disaster.”
He reached for his cup again. “Ah. That. No wrists were harmed in the making of the farce.”
“You didn’t answer me,” she said, after a beat. Her lips brushed his temple, but there was no warmth in them. “How was she? Was she pretty?”
He breathed in, not enough to give himself away, but enough to taste the bitterness blooming behind his teeth. Pretty. As if that were the question.
“She’s a Stark,” he said lightly. “They tend to run to wolfish charm. The sort of face that haunts a weepy bard.”
Shae wrinkled her nose. “So, pretty.”
Tyrion allowed himself a crooked smile. “If you like statues.”
Shae pulled back, just a little. Enough to look at him properly. “Did you bed her?”
A question lobbed like a stone into still water. The ripples spread even as he tried to ignore them.
“I drank,” he said. “Then I slept. There may have been some ceremony between the two, but I recall very little.”
“Is that a yes?”
“It is an answer.”
Shae narrowed her eyes. There had been a time, not so long ago, when she would’ve giggled at that. Slapped his chest and stole another kiss. Now she only watched him, lips parted, brow drawn tight — not angry, not yet, but watchful like a cat deciding whether to strike. Tyrion studied her. She wore court fashion well, too well. Her bodice pinched in at the ribs in the latest Tyrell style, and her shift shimmered faintly in the candlelight.
“You look like a lady,” he said, not quite gently.
“I serve one, don’t you remember?” Shae snarked. “Your wife.”
He exhaled slowly. “So you do.”
Her fingers trailed along his collar, but her voice stayed cool. “She doesn’t speak of you. Not ever.”
“She has impeccable taste.”
“She doesn’t speak of anyone.”
He gave a low chuckle at that. “She’s a girl imprisoned in a lion’s den. Would you?”
Shae’s touch paused at his throat. “You feel sorry for her.”
“Should I not?”
“She has silks and servants and silver combs. She’s safer than any girl in King’s Landing.”
“Safety,” Tyrion murmured, “is not the same as freedom.”
Shae went quiet. For a moment, the only sound was the faint clink of wine in the goblet and the hollow echo of boots down some distant corridor.
“If I had bedded her like my father asked, what would you have done?” Tyrion asked. “If I’d done as I was meant to, would you be here tonight?”
Shae’s mouth thinned. “I don’t know.”
He leaned his head back against the chair, the wood digging into the nape of his neck. The fire had gone low; only embers now, soft and red like a battlefield after the pyre’s been lit.
“Your little virgin bride — does she cry when you leave, or just when you stay?”
“She doesn’t cry. That would involve acknowledging I’m in the room.”
“Maybe the pretty lord should comfort her. The handsome one. I saw them dance.”
“If he tries, I hope he likes dungeon fare. I hear the black cells serve rats.”
Tyrion sipped his wine again. The taste was dull now, as if the flagon had turned sour the moment she said it. The pretty lord. Sword-blooded, sea-born, eyes dark. And, if the gossip was to be believed — and it usually was — twice as brave as he had any right to be. Reckless enough to step forward in a hall filled with lions and roses. Brave enough to look at Sansa Stark like she was still a girl worth saving.
Put a child in her, his father had said, in that voice of carved ice and stone. The North belongs to her by blood, and to you by law. But blood was a treacherous thing. It ran too easily. Too hot. Too fast. And sometimes, it ran where it ought not.
He thought of Shae. Her laughter, quick and false and lovely. Her lips on his brow. The way she said my giant of Lannister when she thought it would make him smile. It would be easier, perhaps, if the girl did take a lover. A pretty boy with good teeth and soft words. Someone to warm her through the long nights. Easier for her. Easier for the game. A child in her belly would please his father well enough, and who would question the blood? A Lannister by name, Stark by birth, an heir for Winterfell and a quiet answer to the North.
But Tyrion would know. And so would Shae. And Sansa too, of course.
He stared up at the ceiling, tracing the spider-cracks in the plaster. It would not take much. A glance too long, a word too soft, a door left open on a moonless night. She was young. She was lonely. She was not blind, and neither was he. If it happened — when it happened — his lord father would never know. Not truly. Not unless someone told him. And who would? The girl was his wife. The child would bear his name. The rest was ink on a page and silence in the bedchamber.
It would be a lie, yes. But then, so was the marriage. Let her take comfort where she could. Let her dream, if dream she must, of a gentler touch than his, a kinder face. There was no kindness left in him. Not for her. Not for anyone.
A child would bind her more tightly than any vow. And if it did not bear his eyes or his twisted gait — if it came into the world long-limbed and straight-backed, eyes too dark for Lannister green — who would dare name it bastard? His sister had done the same, had she not, albeit in a different way? And the realm had smiled, nodded, kissed her hand and called her son a king.
The city would smile and bow and send their sweetmeats to the cradle, and Tywin Lannister would nod once and think the realm secure. If his wife found warmth in another’s arms, it was no great treason. She was not the first bride to do so, nor the last. Only the stakes were higher and the shadow longer.
Tyrion drained the cup and stared into the fire until it was nothing but coals.
Notes:
Hey! Earlier update than before. I surprised even myself to be honest, considering there's still about five weeks of term left before the summer holidays. That being said, I needed to get this chapter out of my system.
Tyrion is my second favourite character in ASOIAF, particularly Book Tyrion rather than the show. I think the show tried to make him into a moral mouthpiece where he just made witty comments and made jokes now and then, but book Tyrion is a real piece of work lol. He’s so much worse. There’s no attempt to clean him up. He’s cruel, bitter, self-loathing, and often genuinely awful and vile.
Anyway, I hope you guys are having a good day. This heatwave is killing me, I swear. Can't wait for the rain to come again. See you again next time!
Chapter 18: Henrik XI
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
When Henrik was a child, the worst pain he ever knew came not from sword drills or the cold sting of sea spray slicing against his cheeks atop the battlements of Faircastle, but when his pride met flesh and bone.
He was four, perhaps five, not yet tall enough to mount a destrier, but old enough to know he should have been. That was the age boys began training in earnest in the yard, after all. Even the stablehands spoke of it. Henrik heard them once, murmuring behind a hay bale: Lordling wants a charger and barely fills his breeches. They’d laughed. He hadn’t.
So he’d chosen the largest of his father’s stallions. Not a pony, those were for green boys and bastards with weak chins. This one was a deep-chested, iron-tempered brute named Crake, named for the cliffs below Faircastle where men had dashed themselves leaping from the rocks. He was a war-trained mount, battle-tempered, clever and cruel. Henrik, all bone and wildness, had decided he would ride him.
He hadn’t meant to spook the beast. He was only trying to climb up, his fingers curled tight on the leather strap, his little boots scrabbling for a grip on the stirrup. It was the same stallion his father rode for parades, dapple and proud as a king. Henrik wanted to prove himself. He was only four, but bold with the kind of recklessness children mistake for courage.
No one had been watching. He had wanted no eyes on him until the feat was done, until he could swing himself up in the saddle and ride twice around the yard before the guards could stop him. He wanted to hear them say the boy’s got a spine, his Lord Father will be proud.
But, all of a sudden, the saddle was too high. He used an upturned feed bucket, his fingers clutched white to the cantle. One foot in the stirrup, the leather too long for his leg. He managed to hoist himself halfway before the stallion bucked. Not once. Not twice. It reared.
He remembered the sound before the pain. A wet, cracking snap like a branch giving way beneath snow. Then the sharpness, a white fire tearing through his left arm as he hit the stone floor. It did not feel like an injury at first, just pressure, then nothing at all. He looked down and saw his forearm bent wrong, unnatural, sickening, the skin already beginning to swell. He did not scream, not right away. There was the sound of the horse’s retreating hooves, the absence of triumph, the echo of failure ringing louder than the throb in his bones.
Then came his mother’s voice. Sharp with fear, sharper than he had ever heard it.
“Henrik!”
She was kneeling beside him, mud on her skirts, her hands flying over him, trying not to touch the break, whispering his name like it was a warding charm. He remembered her scent — lemon balm and linen — and how she pressed her forehead to his temple when Maester Ortengryn finally arrived, whispering to hold still, boy, hold still, while he boiled the needle. She did not let him go, even when they reset the bone. Even when he bit his tongue until it bled.
“Oh, my sweet love,” she kept murmuring, brushing back his hair, her voice sharp with fear she tried to hide. “Shh, you’re alright. The Maester is here. Shh. You’re brave. You’re so brave, Henrik.”
He didn’t feel brave. He felt like he was burning alive. The pain bloomed hot and hideous, and he screamed so loud he could feel it in his teeth. She wouldn’t let go. Not even when they cut away his boot or poured milk of the poppy down his throat. She held him, her hand stroking his hair, over and over, until the haze took him under.
Maester Ortengryn said it was a clean break, lucky, though Henrik hadn’t felt lucky, only humiliated. The sling itched, and Ronas made sport of him for weeks, calling him “little Crake” and mimicking the shriek he’d supposedly made when the bone snapped. Henrik hadn’t shrieked. He was sure of it. But the other boys laughed, and no one corrected them.
Still, it was not the arm that lingered. It was the weight of his mother’s hand in his hair. The way she sat beside him at night when the fever took hold again, whispering old stories from the western isles, brushing cool cloths over his brow, the scent of lemon balm on her fingers, her slight tremble in her voice, only just hidden. He noticed it, even then.
He remembered thinking: I must not die, not because I fear it, but because she does.
She died not long after.
They said it quickly, as if the words themselves might bruise — a girl, and she lived, but your lady mother. . . and then their voices trailed off. He remembered nodding, once, stiff and numb, though he hadn’t understood what it meant. How could she be gone? She was always there. In the crook of his arm. In the smell of lemon balm and warm wool. In the songs she hummed when she brushed the sea wind from his hair.
He’d seen death before: dogs put down, a kitchen boy who fell from the ramparts, but this was different. The world hadn’t gone quiet, but hollow. Henrik did not understand what that meant. Not until they brought out the black wool. Not until the septa made him kneel, too small for the funeral cloak he was told to wear, while the hall filled with people who had barely spoken to her while she lived. Not until he reached for her hand and found it cold. Not until they burned her bones by the sea, as was custom on Fair Isle, and he realised her scent — lemon balm, linen, safety — had vanished with her.
His mother always felt like the warmest room in a cold castle. Now every corridor echoed.
Afterwards, his father closed the doors to her solar. He locked the windows, had her dresses boxed away, and her keepsakes sent to storage or burned. The garden she had planted, wild lavender, rosemary, and a stubborn orange tree that never bore fruit, was left to rot. Lord Sebaston would not even speak her name.
Henrik did not understand how someone could vanish so completely, so absolutely. As if she’d never walked those halls, never laughed at his poor handwriting or sung him lullabies while brushing out the tangles in his hair.
For a time, he tried to remember her voice exactly. He would lie awake in the dark, repeating her words under his breath: Shh, you’re alright. You’re brave. But the sound in his head grew thinner with each passing year, like mist burned off by sunlight. Eventually, her voice slipped from him, too. He had not thought pain could surprise him anymore after Blackwater and Jarak.
But as the septon’s voice rang through the sept, solemn and unyielding, and the dwarf reached for Sansa’s hand, her slender, pale hand that had once rested lightly against Henrik’s arm beneath a lavender sky, it returned. Not the sharp, clean ache of a blade between ribs. No, this was slower. A wound you could not dress. A kind of breaking that did not swell or bruise, only echoed.
Henrik kept his face still. That was important. The Lords and Ladies of the court were watching. He stood with his hands folded behind his back, his jaw set, and let the moment crush him. He had not meant to look at her. Not when she entered, not when she passed him in the aisle, not when she stopped beside the Imp. But his eyes betrayed him. They always did, when it came to her.
She had looked like something carved of frost and sorrow. Distant. Beautiful. The maiden made flesh. Henrik did not remember the rest of the words, only that they sounded like nails against stone.
When he was a boy, the worst pain he had ever known came in a stable. A moment of pride, of foolish, reckless yearning. He’d looked down and seen his arm bent wrong, a wrongness so complete it made him tremble. But that pain had been honest. It had rules. You bled. You broke. You screamed.
This was something else.
This was standing still in the gods’ house, while they gave her away. While the gods and men both deemed her to belong to another. While she looked nowhere near him, and everywhere else but. While she gave her hand to the Queen’s brother. He watched her fingers disappear into Tyrion’s palm, and something cracked, one that won’t be able to heal so quickly as bone.
It should not have mattered. She was a Stark. A nobleman’s daughter, promised and traded like any other. Henrik, for all his boldness and bluster, knew better than to think himself immune to the game.
But the feeling still came. It was the same thing he’d felt the day the Maester reset his arm: a hot, helpless pressure building in his throat, like something he could not name. Like fury, but not at the horse. At himself. For thinking he could control it. For thinking he was big enough to ride it. For being foolish enough to try.
He had wanted so badly to prove himself. To the guards. To his father. To himself. To her. He remembered his mother’s hand in his hair. Her voice, the tremble she tried to hide. You’re brave, Henrik. You’re so brave. No one said that now.
He did not remember leaving the sept. The whole hall blurred like smoke behind glass. He moved through it without feeling as if he were still in the dream where she had looked at him, only him, her hand reaching out and—
Henrik’s feet carried him without command. Somewhere past the gates, past the garden wall, until the stone gave way to soil beneath his boots. He kept walking. He thought of the cliffs below Faircastle, where the sea came in black and gnawed the rocks to bone. There was a wind there that sang like a widow, and it scraped salt into every wound, even the ones you could not see.
He remembered what had truly shamed him: the moment he’d looked down at the arm, bent and blooming, and thought he could cry from the failure. From the silence after. From how he’d wanted so badly to be brave, and wasn’t.
Today, again, his jaw ached because when she walked past him in her wedding gown, draped in gold and grief, her face still and far as moonlight on snow, he wanted to weep. Gods help him. Right there, in the gods’ house, among banners and blood-bound oaths, he had stood still and felt his throat seize, and for one long, sickening moment, thought: I cannot bear this.
She had not looked his way. And why should she have? He was nothing. No kin. No match. Just a lord’s son from some damp corner of the western coast. A boy who’d whispered half-truths in gardens and fed her scraps of kindness like they might feed a fire; a fool who thought, for one breathless moment, that she might choose him.
He pressed a knuckle to his mouth. The air stung. His chest hurt. It was the same pain as then. When he lay in the dirt and watched the blood well up and felt the hot, unreasoning terror that he had broken something that could not be mended.
He turned his face to the wind, hoping it would dry the heat from his eyes before it could spill. His hands clenched at his sides. He had no words for the thing twisting inside him, shame, perhaps. Or loss. Or rage at himself for ever believing he could change the shape of her fate.
He did not remember climbing the stairs, only the sound of his boots against the stone, muffled by the press of silence that seemed to follow him like a second shadow. The guards posted outside his chamber did not speak, and he did not look at them. His fingers fumbled with the latch. The door opened without resistance.
Inside, the room was dark, and the pale light that slanted through the high window carved the bedframe in half. The air was close, perfumed with the cloying scents of court: spiced wine, sweat steeped in silk, rose oil, and some sweeter fragrance he could not name, though it clung to him still.
He undid his cloak, let it slip from his shoulders to the floor. The rest followed slowly. First the gloves, then the belt, the cuffs stiff with embroidery. He tugged them loose with fingers that trembled, though he told himself it was only the cold. The doublet he wore was a fine thing, sea-dark blue lined with satin, fastened with silver clasps in the shape of a silver ship. It reeked of smoke and revelry, of other men’s laughter. He pulled it off and cast it across the bench by the hearth.
He did not light a candle. Instead, he crossed to the washbasin and braced himself over it, palms pressed flat against the stone, breathing hard. The water in the basin had gone still, catching the light in a way that made it look like glass. He stared into it for a long moment, until his face began to cloud. Then he dipped both hands in and brought the water to his face, over and over, heedless of the chill. It soaked his collar, ran down his neck, and pooled in the hollow of his throat.
He closed his eyes. The godswood. The shadows. Her mouth. “I waited,” she had declared to him like it was a fact that did not require punishment, and she’d already resigned herself to the wound.
He could remember the faint furrow between her brows and how her fingers had gone still in his. The music had gone on behind them, fiddles, harps, the soft percussion of noblemen’s shoes against marble. But he had heard none of it. Only she and he, silent. Craven.
He had wanted to kiss her. The thought came as a blow. A dull one, bone-deep. He had wanted to kiss her like a man possessed. The wine had given him the courage to ask her to dance, and then, like a curse turned inside out, it had taken all else from him. Left him sodden and stammering, not drunk enough to forget her mouth or her nearness, but to falter when it mattered. He had let the moment pass. He had let her go.
Henrik leaned forward and pressed his brow to the cold stone wall above the basin. The stone bit into his skin. He welcomed it. His stomach turned. He had stood so close he could smell the faint sweetness of myrrh from her hair. Her lashes trembled once as if she were waiting for him to lean in, for him to speak, for him to do anything at all.
But he hadn’t. Because what if she pulled away? What if it ruined her? What if it ruined him?
He let out a breath and heard it shake. The wine dulled his tongue but sharpened everything else: his shame, his hunger, his useless, clattering hope.
Outside, the city was still alight with the afterbirth of celebration. He could still feel the imprint of her fingers. He swallowed against the dryness in his throat. I failed you, he thought. Sansa, forgive me, please. I have failed you.
Henrik let his hands hang between his knees, staring down at his palms as if they held the answers. They didn’t. They never had. These were the hands that had once clutched a leather strap too high for him. That had bled in the mud and rain. That had held Jarak’s shoulder. That had reached for Sansa and then faltered. He flexed his fingers slowly. They felt stiff and cold.
He could still feel the curve of her spine beneath his hand. They moved as one, slowly at first. The steps were courtly, expected, and drilled into them both, but there had been something in the space between. Her fingers lingered half a second longer than decorum required.
He had seen the North in the set of her mouth, the defiance in the line of her throat when she tilted her chin. Her hands had trembled at first. But not when she touched him. Never when she touched him.
He had almost kissed her. He should have kissed her. It was there in the air between them, thick and humming. Her breath caught. He felt it against his cheek, that small hitch when the world slowed. His hand had been at her waist. His other cupped her palm. He’d leaned in. She had not pulled away. She looked at him. And he had — he had—
Coward. The word hissed through his skull, sounding a lot like his father’s. He had not kissed her. That should have been the one right thing — noble, restrained, proper. I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner. I’m sorry I couldn’t save you. I think of you every gods-damned day. She was married. He’d told himself that again and again, as if repetition might drive it deeper. She is married. She is not yours. She never was. Still, the thought came: She should never have been his.
➶✶
The court was in session, but Henrik barely heard the words.
It was some petition about land boundaries, or wool tariffs, something dull that made the older lords nod and the younger ones shift in their seats. Dust motes danced in the high shafts of sun from the tall arched windows, and the air in the chamber smelled of warmed stone and rose oil. Henrik sat stiffly in his place along the benches, clad in silk too fine for his mood.
He hadn’t slept. Not well, truly. The hall buzzed with muted chatter between judgments, whispers behind fans, and low chuckles behind sleeves from the courtiers. Henrik ignored most of it. He watched the floor, the ceiling, and the pattern carved into the arm of his chair, anything to avoid looking down the dais. Sansa had not looked his way once.
Somewhere near the front, Lord Gyles coughed wetly into a handkerchief, and the Master of Laws spoke in slow, measured tones about trade violations along the Mander. Henrik barely heard him. His eyes strayed. Sansa was there, just beyond. Her hands were folded neatly in her lap, her gaze fixed somewhere above the heads of the assembly. He turned away before anyone could catch him looking.
“My lord Farman,” said a voice, light as meringue and just as sweet.
He recognised it before he turned. Lady Alla Tyrell. Pale rose silk, a ribbon at her throat, a lock of hair curled just so. Her green eyes were bright, and her smile was pleased to see him, too pleased.
She offered a small smile, leaning in to murmur. “It’s warm today, isn’t it?”
Henrik gave the faintest nod. “Warmer than Faircastle, my lady.”
Henrik looked at her. Her face was pleasant — lovely, even — and she had the courtesy to speak to him with gentleness. But there was a brightness at the edges. Or perhaps he had simply forgotten how to enjoy light.
“I almost fainted,” she offered, sitting so near the windows. "Lady Falyse said the heat means storms are coming.”
“Perhaps,” Henrik muttered. “Storms always come.”
A pause. Alla folded her hands tighter. “Would you—” she began, then faltered. “That is, a group of us are to take hawks out tomorrow morning. Just for a few hours. If the heat breaks.”
The chamber stifled. The sun came through the windows like a punishment. Somewhere, a man laughed, muffled behind his glove.
He twisted the ring on his finger. “I’ve no fondness for hawking,” he said at last.
Lady Alla folded her hands atop her lap. “There’ll be riders, too. Ser Fortheryn says he’s bringing his hounds.”
“Hounds and hawks,” Henrik murmured. “It will be a noisy morning.”
She smiled at that. Not bright, not bold, but soft, almost hopeful. “Better noise than stillness, some days.”
“Hmm, I suppose.”
There was a pause, light but noticeable. She looked as though she might speak again — her lips parted slightly, her posture careful, composed — but whatever words she’d gathered, she let go. Henrik filled the silence.
“Your gown suits you,” he said. “The colour.”
“You’re kind to say so,” she replied.
“It’s the truth.”
That earned him another smile, gentler, more certain.
“Elinor says pink makes me look childish,” she said.
“I’d not mistake you for a child, my lady.”
“No,” she said, and something behind her eyes shifted, pleased, perhaps, or merely startled. “Nor I, you.”
His eyes slipped past her before he could stop them. Sansa sat very still, her profile sharp against the flood of morning light, gold caught in the threads of her auburn hair.
“What is it?” Lady Alla asked, turning her head.
He blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“You looked. . .” She tilted her head. “I only wondered.”
Henrik straightened. “A passing thought, that’s all.”
“Oh,” she said. “You seemed quite fixed.”
“I often am.” He gave a faint, polite smile.
The Master of Laws concluded with a rustle of parchment, and the herald struck the floor with his staff. Murmurs rose. The session was closing. Henrik rose with the others. He bowed, precisely enough to satisfy form, and turned toward the side doors.
“Lord Henrik?” Lady Alla rose beside him.
He paused. “Yes, my lady.”
“I hope you’ll consider riding with us.”
“I shall try,” he said, knowing he wouldn’t. “If the heat breaks.”
The chamber opened like a wound, spilling courtiers into the long, sun-blasted corridors of the Red Keep. Henrik passed beneath tall windows without looking out, his boots soundless against the polished floor. The sword at his hip felt heavier than usual. He should have spoken more. Asked after her sisters. The right courtesies. The ones his father would expect.
He was halfway to the outer gallery when he felt the stare — needle-fine, lingering just long enough to draw blood. Henrik slowed his pace. A servant passed between them bearing a tray of iced towels. The man bowed. The hallway quieted. Lord Petyr Baelish stood there, clad in plum and charcoal, his hands neatly clasped before him, his smile sharp as a tailor’s shears.
“Lord Henrik,” Littlefinger said.
Henrik stopped, wondering why the man was talking to him. “Lord Baelish.”
“A pleasure, as always,” the older man said. “Though I’ve had scarce opportunity to congratulate you on your recent. . . ascension.” He tilted his head, eyes glinting. “The Lords of Fair Isle are not often seen in such fine form. Your father must be pleased.”
Henrik bowed his head slightly. “My father’s health allows him to remain active. He remains at court, as you know.”
“Yes. Still commanding.” A small, almost imperceptible pause. “Still sharp.”
There was something behind the words, too neutral to object to, too deliberate to ignore. Henrik said nothing.
“Still sharp,” he said again, softly this time, as if he meant the words to twist inside Henrik’s chest. “Much like his son, I hear. Quick with a sword, and quicker with his feet, particularly on the dance floor.”
Henrik inclined his head slightly. “I make no boast of it. But I dance as I was taught.”
“Modesty,” said Littlefinger, with a voice like spiced wine. “A rare trait in the capital. Almost refreshing. You danced well. I would be taken, were I a maiden.”
Henrik did not smile. He offered the bare curve of his mouth, a courtly flicker, hollow as an empty goblet, eager to return to his chambers. “You flatter me, my lord.”
“Oh, I never flatter,” Littlefinger said lightly, stepping closer. “I observe. We all play parts at court. Some of us just wear our masks more comfortably than others.”
Henrik offered a shallow smile. “Some masks chafe more than others, I’ve found.”
“Indeed.” Lord Baelish’s voice held the trace of amusement, though it curdled quickly. “But I imagine you’ve little need for one, my lord. Young, gallant, well-born. . . and lately very well-seen.”
A tilt of the head. The kind of pause a man might take before bearing steel.
“I’m told the lady was quite taken with the dancing as well.”
Henrik felt it like a thumb pressed to the base of his throat. He kept his expression even. “She is gracious to her partners.”
“Gracious, yes.” Littlefinger’s smile thinned. “Still—” he stepped forward, just a breath closer “—we all have our soft spots.”
Henrik blinked. “Soft spots?”
Littlefinger studied him. “Weaknesses. Things that undo us. A tilt of the head. A glance. The way her hair catches the light in the godswood. Not that I blame you,” he added lightly, with that same spiced-wine cadence. “We are all drawn to beauty in its rawest form. And Lady Sansa. . . well. She’s very nearly art. Her mother was very much the same.”
Henrik’s shoulders tensed, almost imperceptibly beneath the fall of his doublet. He didn’t speak at once. That, too, had been drilled into him on Fair Isle: a pause can strike harder than a blade, if you let it land in the right place. But his fingers curled slightly at his sides, and something cold settled behind his breastbone.
“I think you mistake her for a painting, my lord,” he said. “Lady Sansa is not meant for display. She is her own person.”
Littlefinger smiled, slow and toothless. “Oh, but isn’t that what courts are for? The right light, the right gown, a glance across the floor. . . Hearts can be won on less.”
Henrik’s gaze didn’t waver. “Hearts aren’t coins, to be won or bartered.”
“No. But they can be spent. Or broken. You must forgive my wandering tongue. I’ve always had a fondness for beauty and for watching how men move around it.”
Henrik’s jaw tensed. “She’s not a prize.”
“Of course not,” said Littlefinger smoothly, as though agreeing. “She is a maiden of impeccable birth and admirable composure. No doubt her future will be. . . carefully arranged.”
Henrik’s hand shifted. Not to reach for the hilt, but his fingers flexed all the same, as if remembering what it felt like to draw. There was a kind of violence in him still, hidden under the calm and courtesy that remembered Jarak’s death in the rain. The part that had survived Blackwater and learnt the rhythm of blood, and how quickly a man could go quiet when steel found flesh. He had not felt it in moons. Not since the war. But now, looking at Petyr Baelish and the curve of his mouth, Henrik felt the impulse again, raw and sick and hot in the back of his throat.
“You Westerlands men do move well,” Baelish said lightly, as though still speaking of dances or war. “It’s a talent, I think. Knowing when to step forward. And when not to. Faircastle has always had a reputation for producing. . . disciplined men,” Baelish went on, almost idly. “Far from the Reach, far from the shadow of Lannisport. It teaches a kind of discretion, I expect.”
Henrik kept his voice even. “Discretion is a virtue, my lord.”
“Indeed.” Baelish smiled faintly. “Though in King’s Landing, even virtues can be misread. A glance too long, a word too gentle. . . and suddenly one finds himself cast in a part he never auditioned for.”
Henrik offered a small, tight smile. “Then perhaps it’s best not to speak at all.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t advise that.” Littlefinger gave a quiet laugh. “Silence can be loud, in the right company. A careful man watches where he treads. Especially when the steps ahead are steep, some climbs are more treacherous than they appear.”
Henrik’s throat felt dry. Baelish’s tone never changed, but the words settled like dust in the lungs.
“The air near the top can be thin,” he continued, almost warmly. “And one never knows which stone will give way. But I find the view can be worth it — if one survives the climb. Do tread carefully, won’t you, Lord Henrik?”
Henrik stood motionless. He felt it still, that wrongness. Something more like the aftertaste of poison. He didn’t like Tyrion Lannister. Henrik could not look at him without feeling a taut, animal anger coil behind his ribs. But Tyrion never spoke of Sansa like that. Baelish had said nothing truly wicked. But there was something in the way his mouth shaped her name. A kind of possession, veiled beneath praise. As though she were a tapestry, not a girl.
Henrik exhaled slowly, his fingers flexing again. He felt foolish for how close he’d come, for how much he wanted, in that moment, to put a hand to the man’s chest and rip his heart out. He had not felt that impulse in a while. But here it was again, rising like heat. He didn’t know what Baelish meant by steep climbs and slippery stones. He only knew that the man smiled too easily and looked at Sansa too long.
“I thank you for your. . . reminder,” Henrik said, after a beat too long.
“Think nothing of it. We all lose our footing from time to time.”
The Lord of Coin swept away, steps light, voice vanished. Only the scent of spiced cloves lingered behind him. Henrik remained where he was. The corridor was empty again, but he didn’t feel alone. He let out a breath. His hand twitched once at his side. He was used to swords. This left him guessing. There was no blade to parry, no strike to dodge. Just words, and looks, and something darker beneath.
What did the man mean by it? The warnings wrapped in silk. The sweet-smelling threats. The implication of something watched, something whispered. Henrik wasn’t slow, but he wasn’t trained in this play of words and glances.
Baelish had struck him with a smile and left him unsure where the wound even was. It was a wound, wasn’t it? That’s what made his skin feel too tight, his breath too shallow. Not pain. But a kind of bruising as if he’d exposed something and hadn’t realised until the man’s gaze found it.
He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. The skin there felt hot, and he didn’t know if it was from the heat of the corridor or something closer to shame.
➶✶
The sun was low, catching on the gilded windows of Maegor’s Holdfast as if the Keep itself might burn. Henrik didn’t notice the light at first. He was too focused on the garden.
It had been a mistake to come. The southern courtyard was mostly quiet this hour, with just a few knights idling in conversation, a pair of Tyrell guards laughing near the fountains. Henrik had meant to cross the stones quickly. But then—
Sansa. And beside her, Tyrion Lannister.
They stood near the arbour, shaded by flowering vines. Tyrion was saying some clever, half-witted jest, no doubt, and Sansa smiled, which turned Henrik’s stomach. It made him feel worse than if she’d wept. He slowed, then stopped entirely. He should have turned back. There was nothing here for him. But his legs, traitorous things, held him fast in the shadow of the cloistered wall.
Her hair caught the light, a thread of copper where the sun touched her temple, where the breeze moved through the vines and stirred loose strands around her face. But Henrik felt it, keen as a sting. The same way he’d felt it in the godswood, and at the feast, and once, months ago, when she passed him in the corridor and their eyes met and she looked away too quickly.
Henrik shifted, slowly, carefully, as though movement might quiet the thing inside him. The stone of the courtyard pressed cold beneath his boot. The scent of the arbour drifted faint, heat and something overripe.
He should not be watching. It wasn’t seemly. Nor was it wise. He knew that. The girl was married. Henrik repeated it like a curse, like a mantra. A thing that might, if he thought it hard enough, hammer the heat out of his blood. He’d faced worse things on the field — broken spears, screaming flesh, the hiss of fire arrows cracking against stone — but this quiet ache in his gut, this tightness behind his ribs, was unlike any wound he knew.
Tyrion said something else. The man had a voice like coin against glass, sharp, precise, always clever. Henrik loathed it. He loathed him, the way he looked at her, as though he understood her. As though the marriage meant more than chains woven in gold.
Henrik’s jaw locked. A flush rose beneath his collar, hot and unbidden, crawling up his neck. He looked away, then back, his fingers twitching at his sides. Not reaching for a weapon, but wanting. Gods, he didn’t even know what he wanted. To drag her away? To break the man’s teeth against the stones? To tell her that this was wrong, and cruel, and should never have been allowed?
He had no right. He knew that. But knowing didn’t cool the fire in him. She shouldn’t have to pretend. Not for him. Not for any of them. She shouldn’t have to smile like that for him. Tyrion wasn’t cruel, Henrik would grant him that. He had not taken her forcefully or raised a hand. But kindness in the name of ownership was still a chain, no matter how softly it clinked.
Henrik wanted to walk into the arbour and knock Tyrion flat on his back for existing near her. For standing close and saying things that made her smile like that, like she didn’t mind.
Henrik was furious.
At himself. At Tyrion. At the air. At her. No, never at her.
At her hair, maybe. The way it caught the sun like it meant to.
Gods, he was losing his mind.
He could feel Rubin behind him again, or near enough. The man didn’t speak. It was worse than mockery, this quiet awareness of his slow unravelling.
She turned her head, just slightly, and Henrik tensed as though she’d drawn steel.
She wasn’t even looking at him.
He was nothing.
He wasn’t her husband. He wasn’t her kin. He had no claim, no cause, no bloody excuse. He couldn’t speak to her without someone noticing. And yet. . . if Tyrion Lannister so much as breathed too close, Henrik thought he might do something unwise.
He didn’t like who he became when she smiled at someone else. Didn’t like the pulse in his jaw or the heat behind his eyes or the voice in his head that sounded dangerously close to something possessive.
She is not yours. The thought came fast. It came cruelly. And it was true. But that didn’t stop him from hating Tyrion with a kind of venom that felt almost adolescent. If she smiled again, if the dwarf dared touch her wrist or lean in too close. . . well, Henrik wasn’t sure what he’d do. Only that it wouldn’t be courtly. Or anything his father would be proud of.
He heard Rubin clear his throat beside him.
“Sun’s low.”
Henrik didn’t answer. His jaw worked silently, teeth pressed together like a man biting down on something bitter.
Rubin folded his arms. “You’re going to grind your teeth down to nothing, standing like that.” He glanced toward the stones beneath their boots, as if assessing the courtyard itself. “They polish these too often. Slippery when the heat’s on them.”
The vines rustled overhead. Henrik said nothing, but his posture shifted.
Rubin let the silence stretch. Then, low and matter-of-fact: “Standing still like this, you’d fool most men into thinking you’re calm.”
Henrik exhaled slowly. “I am calm.”
“Aye,” Rubin said solemnly. “And I’m a harpist.”
They parted on the terrace. Rubin said nothing more, only offered a quiet nod and turned down the servants’ stairs. Henrik watched him go. Then stood for a long while. He placed his hands on the balustrade and leaned his head. He needed stillness.
When he saw them, something in him had gone quiet, like the pause before a horse rears or a bowstring snaps. Wind stirred his hair. He didn’t move. The city clattered behind him, bells ringing for the seventh hour, the sound of carts in the lower bailey, some faraway laughter that did not reach him.
Henrik let his eyes close.
He could still see her in pieces, fragments, the turn of her head, the fall of her sleeve, the way she stood very still when others spoke. He’d noticed her, of course. From the first day. A pretty girl, yes, with northern blood and court-trained grace. But he had seen pretty girls before. He had even held some, kissed one or two in gardens, or under banners.
This was not the same.
He had stood beside her in the godswood and watched her too many times. And each time, he had told himself it was curiosity. Sympathy. Pity, even. But pity did not feel like this. This hollowing. This tightness behind the ribs. This unnameable ache when she smiled at someone else. This shame came not from what he wanted, but from how deeply he felt it.
Henrik opened his eyes.
Somewhere, a nightingale began to sing. The sound was thin and silver, threading through the heat like a ghost. He watched the light fade from the sky, the stars slow to wake. A breeze stirred again, and with it came the faintest breath of something familiar, lemon balm, maybe. Or the memory of it.
There had been admiration, at first, or a song half-remembered. Then, a guarded gentleness. She had shown it once, when her fingers brushed his wrist beneath the godswood, and he had felt it then: the first sting of something dangerous.
He stood alone and felt it break in him, soft, silent, and final. The word came without ceremony, a slow, inevitable truth, like water seeping through a crack in stone.
He loved her.
He loved her.
How pathetic it must look. A war-tested heir to Faircastle standing in the shadow of a southern terrace like some half-grown squire nursing a failed crush.
But it wasn’t a crush. He knew that now. Knew it in the tightness behind his ribs and the sting rising behind his eyes. He didn’t cry. He hadn’t cried properly since he was a boy. Since they burned his mother’s bones on the cliffs and sealed her solar shut like she’d never lived at all. Since the cold settled in his chest and never quite left.
He ran a hand through his hair, rough and thoughtless, like he could scrub the feeling out if he just pressed hard enough. His eyes burned. He blinked and then swallowed. The back of his throat tasted like smoke and salt.
His shoulders rose with each breath, shallow, uneven, like his lungs couldn’t quite decide whether to hold the air or let it go. He loved her, and it did not feel like triumph. It felt like ruin.
There was no path forward. No quest to win her, no battle to fight, no boon to offer. She was married. He was heir to Faircastle and would be returning once the royal wedding had commenced, with a bride of his own most likely. Faircastle awaited. Its towers and tides. Its people. Its duties. A hundred responsibilities he had no desire to name. He would return there, and he would ride the coast again, and no one in the West would speak of the godswood or the dancing or the look she had given him once.
Sansa was to be sent west. To Casterly Rock. She would sit beneath red-and-gold banners and speak in a voice that was not quite hers, surrounded by people who would praise her beauty while plotting over goblets. She would wake in a chamber far from home, far from him.
Henrik’s hand pressed flat to the balustrade, knuckles white. His jaw ached from how tightly he held it shut.
He had seen Casterly Rock once. Stark and terrible, rising from the sea like a monument to pride. There were no trees. No softness. Just stone and shadow and the roar of the surf crashing far below. He had been a boy then, trailing behind his father, all shoulders and careful words.
He swallowed hard. The pressure behind his eyes didn’t break, but it hovered there. She will be gone, the thought came again, more like a blade than a truth. He would have to live with that. He could not offer her safety. He could not offer her freedom. All he had were these quiet, curdled longings. This bitter, wordless want. It would rot quietly in his chest, a thing he could not bury, and could never bring to bloom.
➶✶
The torchlight had guttered low. Shadows spilt like ink across the stone.
Henrik stood just beyond the reach, spine pressed lightly against the cold wall, his cloak heavy with the scent of damp wool. He could hear the wind in the tower windows. Somewhere below, the city creaked in its sleep. But up here, all was still.
His heartbeat echoed in his ears. He had been standing there too long. A coward’s vigil, drawn out by some hope he couldn’t name. He told himself he needed air. He’d only taken the long way back. Told himself a dozen lies just to stay where he was.
Tyrion had gone, summoned by Lord Tywin or perhaps to visit one of his multiple whores. The thought angered Henrik suddenly, sharper than it should have, sudden and hot beneath the skin. Henrik’s jaw shifted. There was no harm in the Imp’s absence. He’d returned to his duties, or else wandered off in search of comfort. Henrik didn’t care which. It was only, well. . . He happened to be passing. And it was late. And he had been thinking. That was all.
He hadn’t believed it at first. Whispers in the hall, voices too careful, too satisfied. Bits and pieces, pulled like threads from a larger weave. A passing remark from a Reach knight. A page carrying a raven with the wrong sigil on its wax. A chamberlain whispering to another, too loudly, near the stables. “The Young Wolf,” someone had said. “His mother.” A joke Henrik didn’t understand at first. And then, he did.
Sansa had not yet been told. Or had she? That was the trouble. No one knew what she knew. No one asked. She was a wife now. And wives, it seemed, belonged to silence.
Henrik’s hands were cold.
He had paced the outer yard after the training yard. He’d meant to return to his rooms. But something turned in him, and now he stood here, near enough to her door to see the grain of the wood, near enough to hear her stir if she so much as breathed.
He took a step forward, ensuring that no one was in the corridor, then raised his hand and knocked. The sound barely echoed. There was a pause. Then the soft shift of movement behind the door. The latch turned.
She opened it only slightly. A narrow sliver of her face was visible in the dim firelight. Her robe was pale, cinched loosely at the waist. Her hair hung down her back in loose, unguarded waves, no pins, no braid, as though she had forgotten to finish brushing it. His chest ached, and he had a sudden urge to gather her in his arms and press her to his chest until she stopped shaking. It was something quieter and more unbearable: a need to do something, anything, that might lessen the look on her face.
“. . . Lord Henrik?”
He exhaled. His name sounded different in her mouth.
“My lady.”
His throat tightened. He had thought he could do this. That he could come to her door, speak plainly, offer whatever gentleness was within his keeping, and walk away. But standing here, so close he could smell the faint trace of myrrh on her skin, so close he could see the small lines of sleeplessness beneath her eyes, he found he could not be plain. He could not be anything.
“Forgive me, I hope I did not disturb you.”
Sansa shook her head. Her hand still rested on the edge of the door, knuckles pale where they pressed the wood. She hadn’t stepped back. But she hadn’t closed the door either.
Henrik’s gaze dropped to the delicate line of her collarbone, the slight tremor in her sleeve where her fingers gripped her opposite arm. The fabric there was thin. He could see the fine shiver of her skin underneath. He wanted to take her hand. That was the first thought. But the second, quieter, meaner, was the knowledge that she might not let him.
She looked up at him. Her expression was unreadable, too composed for the hour, for the softness of her body wrapped in a robe instead of armour. She had not expected visitors tonight. She had not dressed for company. Yet, she stood like she had known he would come.
He knew how improper this was. Not just the hour, but him outside the chamber of another man’s wife. No servant in sight. No chaperone. No excuse. Henrik clenched his jaw, forcing his hand to his side. She’s not a girl, he corrected himself, suddenly and without meaning to. She’s endured more than most men twice her age.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she said, as if reading his thoughts.
Henrik inclined his head. “I know.”
“My maids have gone to bed.”
That, too, was plain. A courtesy, one that held the shape of warning, even if her tone did not. If anyone saw them, there would be no explaining it. No witness but the walls. She did not say more. She did not need to.
“I won’t stay,” he said, and meant it. “Only. . . I needed to see that you—”
He stopped himself. That you were all right. That you weren’t alone.
Her eyes held him, quietly, warily, and in them was no warmth, but no fear either. And still, she did not close the door. Instead, she stepped back. Henrik bowed his head. He stepped across the threshold. He did not speak. The door shut softly behind him.
The chamber was dark but for the low burn of coals in the hearth and a single candle near the window, its flame half-eaten, wreathed in its own smoke. Her bed was neatly made. The silk hangings were untouched, the coverlet smooth as riverstone. There was a book lying on the table, its ribbon tucked cleanly between pages, and beside it, a length of pale blue embroidery, the needle still threaded.
Sansa said nothing as she crossed the room. She moved like moonlight across snow. She sat on the small cushioned bench by the fire, straight-backed, hands folded in her lap, her eyes trained on the flames. She did not speak.
Henrik remained where he stood. Just inside the door, his shoulders drawn tight beneath the weight of his cloak, the heat from the hearth touching only the edges of him. He felt the space between them like a blade.
“Do you think the roses will bloom before the month turns?”
Henrik blinked. “I — what?”
Her gaze remained fixed on the fire, but her voice was steady, smooth as combed linen. “The roses. In the Queen’s courtyard. The Tyrells brought new cuttings from Highgarden, didn’t they?”
“Aye,” he said, slower now. “The southern heat helps them. But this stone doesn’t take kindly to growing things.”
“No,” she murmured. “It doesn’t.”
But she kept her hands folded, her posture perfect, her grief buried beneath a dozen layers of silk and civility. Henrik understood it. Not fully, but enough.
“They say the golden ones are the first to open,” she added. “The roses, I mean.”
“I wouldn’t know,” he said. “Fair Isle has gorse. Salt-brush. Thornbushes with berries that stain your hands red, if you pick them.”
She gave the faintest hint of a smile, a quiet lift at the corners of her mouth. “That sounds unpleasant.”
“Only if you’re foolish enough to try and eat them.”
“You did, didn’t you?”
He shrugged, eyes on the fire. “I was five. My older cousin dared me. He said they’d make me strong enough to fight a kraken.”
“And did they?”
“No,” he said dryly. “They made me sick behind the sept. But I told him I saw a kraken in the water after. He believed me.”
She laughed then. A real sound, small, but not empty. He felt foolish for how it staggered him. For how badly he wanted to hear it again. Henrik looked at her. She did not look back.
“I used to believe birds could talk,” she said. “Not ravens, but garden birds. Thrushes. Finches. I thought they spoke in rhyme, only very softly, so you had to be kind if you wanted to hear them.”
“Did they ever answer?”
She tilted her head. “No. But I pretended they did.”
He did not smile, but the ache behind his ribs eased.
She turned her head again, her eyes catching the candlelight. “Do you still have your scars?”
He looked at her, steady. “I do.”
There was a long pause.
“I’d like to see Fair Isle one day.”
Henrik’s voice was quiet. “It’s not as fine as the songs the bards sing.”
“They never are,” she said. “But I’d like to see the cliffs. And the gulls. I imagine they’re louder than the ravens here.”
“They are,” he said. “And ruder.”
“I think I’d like them better for that.”
A shadow passed across her face, quick, quiet, vanishing before it settled. He said nothing. They sat in the hush again, and the fire shrank to a low, steady glow. Somewhere below, a bell rang softly, the hour late. Her maids would wake early. The guards would change posts soon. Sansa unfolded her hands and laid them atop her knees, perfectly still.
“I used to think,” she said softly, “that the world was full of people waiting for me. My mother would be in the solar, and I’d run up the tower stairs just to find her. Arya was always underfoot, even when she was cross with me. Septa Mordane would scold, but there was always lemon cakes after.” Her voice remained steady, almost dreamy. “And Robb. . . well, Robb was everywhere. Laughing in the yard. Talking to Father in the godswood. I never had to look for long.” She folded her hands tighter. “There was always someone. Somewhere.”
The quiet pressed closer. Henrik watched her carefully, the way one watches a crack in a wall that hasn't yet split. Henrik opened his mouth. The words were there. He had rehearsed them in the stairwell, in the garden, in the silence after the council adjourned. I am sorry. I swear it. If I could give you peace—
“Now,” she said, “the halls are quieter. You get used to it, I suppose. People stop coming. The doors stay closed. You tell yourself they’re only away. But the hours pass, and no one arrives.” She drew a breath.
Henrik felt the words lodge in his chest. Sansa’s eyes were on the embers now.
“I used to talk to my pillow,” she said, almost idly. “When I was small. If I were frightened, I’d whisper to it as if it were someone else. A knight, maybe, comes to rescue me. He always listened and never told me I was foolish.”
Henrik’s voice, when it came, was low. “You’re not foolish.”
Sansa glanced at him. Then looked away again.
“I’ve stopped doing that. I don’t think there’s anyone left to answer. There’s no one left in the world,” she whispered. “It’s just me. Everyone I love is dead. And I’m married to a man I barely know. I must smile. And curtsy. And remember my courtesies.”
Henrik walked over and kneeled on the cold floor in front of her, resting one hand beside her. When Henrik finally spoke, it was low. “My father once left me behind at a port.”
That made her blink. Her gaze flicked toward him, uncertain.
“I was eight. We were returning from Lannisport, and I’d wandered off. He told me to stay by the ship while he met with a merchant. I followed him instead. Thought if I kept close enough, he wouldn’t notice. He boarded without me. The ship pulled away from the dock, and I was still standing there, mud on my boots, a sweetcake in my hand, too shocked to cry.”
Henrik’s mouth curled at the memory, faint and self-mocking.
“There was a dockhand, a boy not much older than me. He asked if I was lost. I told him I wasn’t. I told him I’d chosen to stay behind.” He gave a soft snort. “I said I was meant to join a guild of swordsmiths. That I’d been offered an apprenticeship.”
Sansa’s brows lifted slightly, her lips pressed together.
“I slept in a crate of oranges that night,” he said. “The salt wind made the skin sting under my eyes. I remember I tried not to fall asleep, thinking that if I stayed awake long enough, someone might come back. And in the morning, someone did. Rubin. My father’s man. He’d come ashore before dawn. Said my lord father had noticed I was gone.”
He exhaled. “They didn’t speak to me the whole journey home. Not my father. Not Rubin. I sat between barrels and crates, and I thought — I could vanish, and no one would say my name again.”
Sansa was very still now. Her hands had fallen loose in her lap. One had drifted toward the hem of her robe, fingertips brushing the embroidery in a slow, unconscious motion.
“I wasn’t alone,” Henrik said, “but I thought I was. And for a long time after that, I kept a pouch of orange peel under my bed. Just in case I had to sleep somewhere that wasn’t home.”
Sansa turned to him, and when she looked at him, there was something in her face that hadn’t been there before. She tilted her head.
“And did you?” she asked.
He blinked. “Did I what?”
“Sleep somewhere that wasn’t home.”
Henrik hesitated. Then gave a small, wry smile. “I suppose you could say that I never really stopped. You say there’s no one left. But I’m still here, if you’ll have me.”
She found his eyes. Dark, steady, unflinching.
He held her gaze. “I’m here, Sansa. I came because I needed to see that you were not alone,” he finished, and it sounded truer than anything he had spoken all day.
Her mouth parted. Her gaze searched his face, quick and quiet, like a girl trying to read a map by candlelight. The silence stretched between them. Then—
She moved. Her hands seized the collar of his doublet, fingers curling tight in the linen and thread, and before he could speak, before he could breathe, her mouth was on his.
He froze.
The hall tilted. The fire roared in his ears. For one heartbeat, he forgot the war, the court, the grief that clung to his ribs since boyhood. Her mouth tasted of salt and something like iron and honey, sweet and sharp and too much.
He kissed her back.
His hand found her waist, his palm spreading over the curve of her hip like a man finding anchor. The other lifted, almost blind, and buried itself in her hair, tangling there, pulling her closer. Her gasp bloomed hot against his cheek. Their teeth knocked, clumsy and desperate.
This was not the kind of kiss a bard might weave into verse. It was a thing torn raw from silence, blood-warm and shaking. She tasted like sorrow. Like defiance. She made a noise low in her throat and pressed harder, her fingers fisting tighter in his collar like she meant to pull him through the door and into the fire.
He let her.
He would have let her do anything.
Sansa’s fingers tore at the fastenings of his doublet, not skilled, not patient, just needful. The laces caught, and she growled, a sound he’d never imagined her capable of, low and furious, and then his hands were there too, pulling at the knots, yanking the cloth free, baring the linen beneath. Her palm slid over his chest, half-pushing, half-clutching, and he thought he might shatter with the pressure of it.
She kissed him again. Harder this time. Open-mouthed and searching. Her teeth grazed his lower lip, her tongue chasing the breath she’d just stolen from his lungs. His hands slid up her back, feeling the curve of her spine beneath the thin shift, and she arched into him like she needed the contact to stay upright.
Gods, she was so warm.
She pressed closer still, her knee bracketing his thigh now. There was no careful placement, no courtly restraint. Her hands tugged at his hair, fisting there, pulling him back down when he tried to catch his breath.
“Don’t stop,” she whispered, and the words weren’t tender; they were bitten off, hoarse with something broken.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he rasped.
His mouth was on her again, her jaw, the hollow beneath her ear, the place where her pulse beat fast and frantic against his lips. She trembled when he kissed her there, and he felt her nails dig into his shoulder through the fabric of his shirt.
Her shift had slipped low on her shoulders. Her thighs straddled his hips, the curve of her pressed flush against him, heat and motion and too much all at once. Her weight atop him was dizzying. Every point of contact sang. He could feel the warmth of her through every layer of cloth between them, could feel how easily this could tip, how quickly he might lose the thread of his better nature.
She shifted against him, not boldly, not even knowingly, but enough to make him feel the shape of her. And he was a man, and she was—
He shut his eyes. His pulse beat hard behind his teeth.
She was warm, and soft, and wholly unknowing of what her closeness was doing to him. Or maybe she knew, but did not understand. Or maybe she didn’t care.
Her hand slid up, uncertain, to the side of his face. It was a small, trembling gesture. Her thumb brushed the edge of his cheekbone, light as a breath. Henrik nearly groaned from the unbearable ache of it.
“Sansa,” he gasped, barely breathing, his mouth breaking from hers.
She chased the kiss. Her hands tangled in his hair, pulled him closer again. “Don’t stop.”
He swallowed. “We can’t.”
She looked at him, and he could see the flicker of shame trying to rise in her throat, the old familiar armour of a highborn girl taught to be untouched. She started to draw away.
He stopped her with a hand on her back. “I want you,” he said again, gentler now. “But not when you’re grieving. Not when you’ll wake and wonder why I let it happen.”
Her breath warmed the skin beneath his ear. She hadn’t moved, still pressed against him, forehead resting against his, her fingers knotted in the folds of his shirt. He thought she might weep or tell him to go because she had lost her mind for one moment and meant to take it back.
“I — I don’t want to be alone tonight, Henrik,” she whispered.
It was so soft he almost didn’t catch it. Her voice was a raw, bruised thing, scraped thin by silence and all the words she’d not been allowed to speak. Henrik didn’t move. Her words struck something deep, an ache old as childhood, as cold mornings on the cliffs and the empty space where his mother’s voice used to be.
“I won’t leave,” he vowed. “Not if you don’t want me to.”
Her hands didn’t release him, but they loosened. The grip in his collar faded, fingers sliding down to the edge of his chest, where they rested now, curled there like a question she hadn’t dared to ask aloud.
Then, softly, she said, “You’ll forget me.”
The words were not bitter. Just. . . hollow. Like a truth she had already accepted.
“I won’t,” he said, voice low and certain. “I couldn’t .”
She didn’t look at him. Her gaze had drifted over his shoulder. As if she couldn’t bear to see his face when he broke the promise.
“If they find out,” she whispered, “they’ll kill you.”
Henrik exhaled. “I’d still come back,” he said.
And he meant it more than anything in his life.
Even if it ruined him.
Even if she never asked again.
Even if she forgot this night, and the fire, and the way her voice shook when she asked him to stay.
Because he would rather remember holding her once than live a thousand safe days without her.
Notes:
Hey guys. Thanks for reading, especially if you’ve made it this far into the story. Your support and comments mean more than I can say. I hope you enjoyed it.
This is a pivotal chapter emotionally. Henrik’s line — "He loved her, and it did not feel like triumph. It felt like ruin." — is the whole thesis of the chapter. Henrik basically learns that trauma makes excellent kindling, that you should never make eye contact with Littlefinger, and that trying to be honourable in King’s Landing is like bringing a lute to a swordfight.
And if you’re worried about where this is going. . . good. You should be.
Anyway, hope you're all having a good day. I'm heading to Seven Sisters tomorrow, and I’m pretty sure if the hike doesn’t kill me, the heat will. The problem with having athletic, spontaneous friends is that when they suggest 'a little walk,' you end up roped into stuff like this.
See you next time!
Pages Navigation
rummy_cat on Chapter 1 Wed 16 Nov 2022 07:51PM UTC
Comment Actions
DefectivelyFlawless on Chapter 1 Wed 16 Nov 2022 10:15PM UTC
Comment Actions
PeanutButterGirlie on Chapter 2 Fri 25 Nov 2022 11:01AM UTC
Comment Actions
DefectivelyFlawless on Chapter 2 Fri 25 Nov 2022 07:41PM UTC
Comment Actions
Antares_Graceford on Chapter 4 Wed 28 Dec 2022 09:07AM UTC
Comment Actions
DefectivelyFlawless on Chapter 4 Wed 28 Dec 2022 05:52PM UTC
Comment Actions
turtlegirl56 on Chapter 4 Thu 29 Dec 2022 05:01AM UTC
Comment Actions
DefectivelyFlawless on Chapter 4 Thu 29 Dec 2022 07:49PM UTC
Comment Actions
Timballisto on Chapter 5 Fri 20 Jan 2023 08:24AM UTC
Comment Actions
DefectivelyFlawless on Chapter 5 Fri 27 Jan 2023 11:03PM UTC
Comment Actions
akseltheboy on Chapter 6 Sat 28 Jan 2023 10:50AM UTC
Comment Actions
DefectivelyFlawless on Chapter 6 Sat 28 Jan 2023 10:08PM UTC
Comment Actions
DarthSanguine on Chapter 7 Mon 15 May 2023 09:09AM UTC
Comment Actions
Fatalromance on Chapter 8 Wed 03 Jan 2024 05:01PM UTC
Comment Actions
DefectivelyFlawless on Chapter 8 Wed 03 Jan 2024 08:29PM UTC
Comment Actions
Timballisto on Chapter 9 Sat 20 Apr 2024 01:32AM UTC
Comment Actions
DefectivelyFlawless on Chapter 9 Sat 27 Apr 2024 04:03PM UTC
Comment Actions
Timballisto on Chapter 10 Tue 28 May 2024 01:25AM UTC
Last Edited Tue 28 May 2024 01:27AM UTC
Comment Actions
DefectivelyFlawless on Chapter 10 Sat 06 Jul 2024 05:25PM UTC
Comment Actions
Timballisto on Chapter 11 Sat 17 Aug 2024 12:48AM UTC
Comment Actions
DefectivelyFlawless on Chapter 11 Sun 08 Sep 2024 11:55PM UTC
Comment Actions
Readerfan224 (Guest) on Chapter 11 Sat 17 Aug 2024 01:53AM UTC
Comment Actions
DefectivelyFlawless on Chapter 11 Sun 08 Sep 2024 11:54PM UTC
Comment Actions
Timballisto on Chapter 12 Sat 23 Nov 2024 03:35AM UTC
Comment Actions
Tommyginger on Chapter 13 Sat 22 Feb 2025 02:12AM UTC
Comment Actions
DefectivelyFlawless on Chapter 13 Mon 24 Feb 2025 01:44AM UTC
Comment Actions
David3_11_7 on Chapter 13 Sun 23 Feb 2025 01:28PM UTC
Comment Actions
DefectivelyFlawless on Chapter 13 Mon 24 Feb 2025 01:40AM UTC
Comment Actions
JCesear (Guest) on Chapter 13 Fri 21 Mar 2025 08:38PM UTC
Comment Actions
DefectivelyFlawless on Chapter 13 Fri 21 Mar 2025 11:51PM UTC
Comment Actions
Tommyginger on Chapter 14 Mon 07 Apr 2025 10:45AM UTC
Comment Actions
DefectivelyFlawless on Chapter 14 Mon 14 Apr 2025 11:30PM UTC
Comment Actions
JCesear (Guest) on Chapter 14 Tue 08 Apr 2025 01:46AM UTC
Comment Actions
DefectivelyFlawless on Chapter 14 Mon 14 Apr 2025 11:27PM UTC
Comment Actions
supertrooper (Guest) on Chapter 14 Sun 13 Apr 2025 11:53AM UTC
Comment Actions
DefectivelyFlawless on Chapter 14 Mon 14 Apr 2025 11:27PM UTC
Comment Actions
Pages Navigation