Hensen I

He had just gotten off a boat. Now, Hensen Hightower would have to get right back on board another to sail to King's Landing to join his father on some fool's errand for the fat king. His father was excited to share his responsibilities as Hand with his son, hoping the opportunity of shadowing him would prove invaluable once Hensen was in a similar position.

To Hensen, they were unvaluable. He would rather spend a year at the Citadel attending lectures on the differences between bronze and steel. He wouldn't learn anything of value, but the time would be similarly wasted. At least at home, he'd have his nights to himself.

When following the Hand's wishes, Hensen's servants would damn near ignore his own, pushing him and pulling him to wherever his sire ordered him to be. If it were a normal morning, he'd have the luxury of rising at his leisure, eating whatever he pleased, and making his way into the common chambers only when he deemed it necessary.

The servants would also inform on him when he was caught taking whores to bed, but they would only find him out when his father ordered that he be prepared to do something in the morning.

Hensen hated sailing. Boats were foul and filthy things, home to disease and the worst and most wretched of people. The creatures he'd share drink and food with were like as not to have only gums where teeth should be rather than anything of interest or value to offer with their mouths, even the wenches. He hated the noise, loud calls from one side of the vessel to the other, with no regard for whether he was deep in thought or sleeping, the less than adequate arrangements for him to find any relaxation, and the rocking.

The rocking was the worst out of all of it.

He didn't get seasick, like some of his servants chose to, but it was a hindrance to nearly anything he wished to do, except lovemaking. Though that never mattered either, for there was rarely a wench aboard a boat he'd touch with another's member, let alone his own. On this boat, he'd rather fuck a fish.

Hensen demanded, from the Squire's Tournament on, Gods, what a colossal waste of time that was, that if he were to sail to King's Landing, that his father would have to charter a private vessel, for he would not bear another moment aboard a public one.

That seemed to be a demand his father either had forgotten about or chosen not to obey. This boat was not private. Not in the least.

His servants brought his luggage, which was not near enough for what he felt he needed, to the boat's belly, as if it were cargo to sell in another port. The captain certainly wishes it so. There's more wealth in my garments than the whole of this ship.

When they had finished, and Hensen checked to make sure they didn't muss anything up, he dismissed them. One he hadn't seen, younger than the rest, loitered around as if to wait for payment. They were all paid weekly, not by the task. So, Hensen ignored him and had a deckhand usher him away.

"Are we to set off? What's the hold up?" Hensen yelled up to the Captain, a man Gorgo, a short and wide man that hopped around the deck of the ship like a jack rabbit.

"Waitin' for one more," the Captain yelled down.

"One more? This ship has been chartered by my father, Lord Jon Hightower, Hand of the King, and Sovereign of Old Town. And I am his son, and we will leave now if I so choose. And I so choose. Set sail immediately, if not sooner. The less time I spend on this heap, the better."

"It was your Lord Hand father's orders to bring with us the one we wait for, young man. You may say and do as you wish, but my orders do come from your father, and he bids me to wait."

How dare you, father! You've made a fool of me! Hensen thought.

That blustery old fart can't die soon enough.

It was near an hour, or what felt like one, until the other passenger arrived. It was a maester of the Citadel. Of course. Father's favorite order of fools. Hobbling down the dock as if time mattered not.

"Hurry the man up!" Hensen yelled. "If he's too old, carry him. It's been near an hour."

"It's been a quarter hour, and you've done naught but bitch and moan. The man will be here soon enough."

"It's not him getting on board, it's me getting off at King's Landing, and that can't happen soon enough."

"Aye. You're telling me."

When the man finally boarded, it was no wonder it had taken him ages. The maester was not only a grey robed fool, but a cripple at that. Hensen hoped he was of the more solitary sort, and chose not to try and make small talk with him.

Despite his best attempts at avoiding eye-contact, nearly turning his back to the twisted man as he past, Hensen was dismayed hearing the man announce, "Good day, my Lord. Hightower, isn't it? I think I've seen you with your father before." He was older than Hensen, but still young, and foul to look on.

Hensen tried not to, focusing on the deck hands working the ropes of the ship to get it sailing. "Aye. I'm Hightower. What of it?"

"Just an observation, my lord." The maester must have understood his shortness, refraining from further reply. He didn't stop speaking, though, greeting and interrupting many of the deck hands from their duties, so much so, Hensen almost stood to reprimand them.

He feared what the captain would say to humiliate him, though. For his sake, Grogo should pray he finds wealth and respite before I am Lord. I will not forget those that slight me.

When the ship had finally set off, it began rocking. Hensen hated that, and since he feared crossing paths with the captain, he remained in his cabin, grumbling softly to himself.

Once they'd set off, and the passengers found their quarters, the working men about the ship seemed to all be laughing. About what, Hensen did not know, but it was infuriating to hear them so joyful in a setting so bleak. They've never tasted life, so they find solace even in the depths of living such as this wretched vessel.

Each muffled voice took their turn, exchanging words for amusement. The laughter kept on interrupting his angered thoughts, rousing what little rest he sought to find into a bubbling resentment.

And a slight curiosity.

If I'm to be miserable, I may at least find out what's the cause of it.

When he turned through the nearly rotten doorway of his cabin, to the tight walkway toward a common area, no bigger than a chamberpot, the cripple and three other men sat in a huddled circle around a cask of wine.

"Once, a woman even asked to touch it. I have a hard time keeping the contents of my stomach when I investigate it myself, but this one woman seemed fixed on how such a twisted shape could form," the cripple lamented.

"She told you to stick it in her, dinn't she?" one asked, too eager to hear the answer, in Hensen's mind. A base man, focused only on the basest needs.

"Those are the ones, my friend," the maester answered, lifting the large cask the best he could without looking as if his struggles were part of a fool's performance. He gulped its contents down, as the three men all cheered him on, laughing at his strained face, the wine spilling down his chin, and likely the ridiculousness of him holding the cask with that thing of an arm. He let the cask nearly fall from his face to the floor, catching its weight before it fell to a crash, and belched.

"Those are the ones even a freak like me, with no other prospects, should avoid at all costs. For if a woman is vile enough to find my misfortunate deformities appealing," he paused, "what other even more disgusting shit has been inside her?"

The crowd burst into a bit of bawdy laughter.

"Where she be, maester? A wench like that's the kind I'm after. The more disgusting, the better, I say."

"My good friend," the maester replied, after they were able to catch their breath. "I'm sorry to be the one to tell you, but that wench," the maester paused, like he had the first time. It was annoying. He looked around at all of them to build up what he was about to say like it held extra importance or something. He annoyed Henson, this crippled maester. "That wench is your mother."

"Oh shit Tippen!" the third yelled, as they all, even the one who'd been made the butt of jest, laughed again.

Why must men all laugh at the simplest jests and amusements. The mother bit seems as if it's been used since before even the Andals invaded and cleansed this land of the savages they called First Men.

Hensen grew up thinking they were known as Frost Men, since he spoke with a slight impediment as a child and no one had corrected him until he was much older. He felt it made more sense. There's no chance the first ever men were the worst ones. Let them be Frost in their cold, dark, north.

"Lord Hightower!" the maester called, seeing Hensen's head peering from his doorway. "Come, join us in drink and merriment. Your clothes are far too fine to stomach a smell as foul as Ryam here without enough wine to stifle even his stench. I'm a Redwyne, there's always another cask."

It's not just him that smell, I assure you. "I thought maesters of the Citadel had no second name once earning their chain?"

"Aye, most don't. But that's also because most either had none to begin with, or wish for others to forget that they ever were the men they were before the link and robes. I'm a Redwyne, and will be until I die. And as a Redwyne, I'll drink," the maester lifted the cask again. The men all cheered him on again. It was annoying.

"Very well, maester. Pour me a flagon if you will."

"A flagon? We're aboard a second-rate merchant ship. What manner of flagon do you expect a man such as myself to find in this mess of wood and shit?" The men continued to laugh at everything the maester said. Hensen already felt he despised the cripple and his cronies.

"As a matter of fact, you enjoy the wine. Just keep your amusements down. I'd rather be asleep than awake. Hopefully my eyes will close and when they open, we'll be at port."

"Hopefully when your eyes close, they open again at all," the maester joked.

"What did you say, cripple?"

"I said hopefully you open your eyes again. A vague hope I think we all share once they close."

"Is that a threat?"

"Hardly. How could a man like me," the maester replied, gesturing toward his deformities, "with the weapons I possess, begin to even consider making threats? I apologize, my Lord. Just too much fun is all."

"Mind your tongue, cripple. As a maester, you know what my second name means. Yours may mean you drink all day. Mine means I'll damn near own you once I come to power."

"If you come to power."

"Excuse me?"

"I apologize," the maester replied, holding back a snicker. His cronies weren't so diligent and all of the three of them began to mock Hensen with the look on their pox scarred faces, gawking goofily with wide gap toothed mouths, and nearly drooling smiles. "I meant only that not all heirs, as is the case throughout history, are always so fortunate to inherit their birthrights. May the Seven shine on you and grant you what hundreds if not thousands of heirs have missed out on over the centuries." The maester bowed.

He mocks me.

Hensen wished he had the words to make him pay.

"I'm sorry for the inheritance the gods have already bestowed upon you. I'd pray for you to not be a cripple, but some miracles are even beyond the mighty and benevolent seven."

"Aye," the maester replied. His cronies looked nervous awaiting his response. "Yet a miracle such as that is still likelier than a cunt like you ever growing to be more than a spoiled son of a Lord with a preference of whine," the maester feigned wiping tears, "over," he then held up the cask as high as his crippled form could, "wine."

Hensen was livid. A fury he could barely contain released from his lips, "You fucking freak!" He screamed in a child-like tantrum, going as far as stomping his one foot as he yelled it. "I'm more now, the son of a Lord, than the filthy lot of you will ever be!"

"If that's so," the cripple replied in an even tone, stoic where Hensen was storming. "Then how could just words from those beneath you move you to such fury when all we originally offered was a drink?"

"Where is the captain of this ship!" Hensen ordered, knowing that to continue his tantrum, he'd likely have to climb by the three men to the upper deck to report the insubordination to a likely deaf ear of Gorgo or Grogo or whatever in hells his name was.

"Let me begin again, my Lord. You see, when you made mockery of my shortcomings, it struck a sensitive string, and I barked back out of anger and the drink," the maester began, his good and twisted hands back around the cask to lift it again. "We're all uncomfortable on this floating heap. My estimation was, better to be half aware and giddy, than wide awake and miserable. Am I right?"

Hensen was still fuming, but saw no way to regain his dignity without backing down his counter attack. "Maybe for the first time in your little life." If he made kind with these strangers, at least he could sleep easier knowing none wished to kill him. That was another thing his father refused to consider. A guard to keep him safe.

"Hensen, if I allow you a sworn sword, you'll like as not behave worse, forcing whatever poor soul assigned to you into bad situation after bad situation. If you feel unsafe, mind your tongue more closely, or learn to protect yourself," his father had said.

Now look, father. I'm aboard a ship of sots and derelicts and I must make like a commoner in order to assure my safety. What Lord Protector of Old Town you are, when you can't even protect your own son?

The blond young man accepted the flask, and shuddered to think he'd either have to spill the wine and stain his garments, or touch his lips to the filthy opening shared with the toothless lot stinking up the belly of the boat.

"Bottoms up, little Lord. To becoming more than heir!" the dirty man Tippen toasted.

Fuck it. Can't be dirtier than some of those whores I settle for once the sun's already risen.

"That's a fine Arbor Red, my boy," the maester announced as Hensen began gulping it down, pleased to show one of the only skills he'd refined enough to impress an audience with. "Drink as much as you'd like," the maester began. But after more than enough moments, his own cronies now beginning to cheer on Hensen's drinking efforts, and the cask now fully inverted above the young Lord, the maester's only remark was, "Maybe not as much as you'd like, then, but if it pleases you, feel free to finish that one off while it continues to still pour in a constant flow from cask to your mouth. Gods, boy, where does it go? That cask was near full. In the name of the Father, my dear young Lord."

Hensen continued to drink. He had become proficient at this one thing, maybe as good as any he'd ever known, or better.

"I think it's finished then, lad," one of the dirty ones remarked.

"Just a few more drops left. I'd hate to waste such a fine vintage."

"Percin," the maester said, turning his attention to the dirty minded man with the dirtier mouth. "Fetch us another."

The maester then looked at Hensen. "Make it another two."

"Save yourself the trip, Percin," Hensen called. He belched, letting out a thunderous and rippling wave of hot wine air from deep within his chest. "Bring as many as your filthy fucking hands can hold."

The group all cheered at the enthusiasm in the Lord's voice. Henson would miss the Quill and Tankard, and his mates.

But the twisted monkey seemed to have more of the right of it, in the end.

Better to be pissed and shitty on this heap.

Henson could manage to forgive the company he was forced to keep. It was his father's fault anyway.

"May I have a private word, my Lord," the maester whispered. The passengers were slow to rise from their evening revelries. Hensen fought off the pain from the drink better than most, with all the experience he had drinking to excess each night, but the maester's soft words still ached in Hensen's head as he heard them.

"What?" Hensen replied curtly, not yet ready for anything more than more sleep.

"I greatly appreciate the honor, my Lord."

"Fuck off with the pleasantries. I liked you better when you spoke plainly."

"That is what I wished to discuss," the maester replied, continuing to whisper.

"No need. I'm sure, with your assignment to King's Landing, that the man you were in the moment you lashed out at me is closer to who you really are than the sniveling morning drunkard you are now. Words of that nature said in that vein haven't served you well at The Citadel, have they?" Hensen asked, pleased he was finally in control in this verbal spar against this mistake by the Gods.

The maester sheepishly failed to reply, either too lethargic from the wine aches or his tongue too tied with the fear of the consequences of his words towards a Hightower.

Hensen kept his eyes forward, failing to look the cripple in his eye, "I've learned that counsel from those stupid and courageous enough to speak as you do, is valuable in moderation." The young Lord then rolled back over in his cot, closed his eyes, and said, "One night of revelry doesn't change who you are, or who I am. But you need not fear further retaliation for your outburst. Luckily, it was done in front of eyes and ears that matter little, if at all, and can be easily forgotten. I'd normally enjoy a grudge, but if you're to be at court, I'd rather have use for you than ill will."

"I suppose that is the wiser course, my Lord," the maester admitted, much less pleased than Hensen assumed he'd look.

"I try to at least seem wise. Especially if I ever wish to be more than a spoiled cunt son of a Lord."

"Indeed."

Three weeks in the belly of the ship went more quickly with someone seemingly worthwhile to drink with. The cripple was much heartier than the young Lord imagined he would be, consistently drinking as much as Hensen did each night, laughing, jesting, yelling, and calling things what they plainly were. Each of them was a drunk, a sot, a lecher, and a freak, the actual freak Forman almost the most normal among them.

The dirty man Tiffen had once thought he came into a fortune, only to find out the silver he'd found was his wife's, money she earned whoring while he was out to sea aboard a fishing vessel, and saving to have him killed, to hear him tell it the one night. Hensen didn't remember which night, for most were the repeat of the previous, and they all jumbled into one drunken mess in his head.

He stole the money, redistributed it amongst the foulest of whores in Oldtown, and told the bitch if she meant to kill him, to have the courage to do it herself. "Coulda saved yerself from the army of cocks you rode to get all that," he told them he said to her.

Ryam chimed in though, "Or she coulda rode the same dicks and bought a fancy dress er somethin."

"What does she look like, Tippen?" the cripple Forman asked. "I apologize if we've ever met."

"She's likely not one to have worked on the maesters," Tiffen replied, in curiously good spirits for the topic. "Just take a look at me. Fer her to be my wife, she was not one you'd get caught staring at, not for that reason anyway. She had dirty red hair, and a mole on the side of her cheek. Her tits weren't so bad, but her ass was just the long top of her legs. More meat on a starvin' pidgeon."

"She does sound familiar," Hensen said as he took his turn at another of the Redwyne's casks. "But the woman I'm thinking of wasn't a whore. Did she have a scar on her back like a hook?"

"Yea. Yea she did," Tiffen replied, near speechless.

The cripple gasped. "Good Gods, Hightower. Did you fuck this man's wife?"

"No," Hensen replied between another long turn at the wine. "If it's the woman I remember, she'd stand naked on the tables and the men would pay to throw ale and rotten food at her while they were waiting their turn at their girl."

"She wasn't a whore?" Poor Tiffen must not have found the whole truth.

"Not if it was the same woman. Like you said, who'd pay a small fortune in silvers to fuck her?"

"Isn't that good, man?" Ryan asked Tiffen, whose face had paled and froze in a stupor. "Isn't it good your wife wasn't no whore?"

"Shit," Tiffen whispered.

"What? What's the matter Tipp?" the man they called person asked.

Tiffen replied, "I just saw her comin' outta there the one night with a bag full of coins. She didn't see me, and I followed her back to our room and I saw her empty it all into a bigger sack."

"Well, she was still saving up to kill ya, wasn't she?" Ryam said.

"I don't know," Tiffen mumbled. "I made that up to sound a better man."

"Here," Ryan said, handing over the cask in his hands, "Just drink, then. "None've us that gooda men down here, anyway."

Tippen slowly lifted the cask to his mouth and sipped it. His face was sunk, his dirty thin body sullen.

"What's the matter, then? You said it yerself, she weren't no looker or nothing. Why the long face?" Ryam asked. The cripple watched the whole thing intently, as if nothing else could have been more fascinating than these illiterate dregs suffering through the consequences of their inferior intellect.

Tiffen mumbled something inaudible.

"What, man?" Percin asked.

Tiffen raised his voice, though he was still babbling through his drunkenness, and said, "Just think of how much money she could still be making, then. Just think of how much MORE money!"

"You lot are the foulest, most vile and despicable creatures I've ever laid eyes upon. And you, cripple, may not even be the ugliest," Hensen couldn't help from blurting out.

Hensen felt oddly at ease with these men.

Yet they couldn't reach King's Landing soon enough.

They had been as drunk on the last night as they'd been each night previous, so when they finally reached port the one morning, the bright sun cut like daggers in Hensen's eyes, squinting to keep watch of his father's servants. The Hand didn't handle those serving him in a way Hensen could respect. They were far too lax with their duties.

One of the crates holding Hensen's garments tumbled off the dolly after going over a bent board on the dock. "Pick that crate up this instant, you twit!" Hensen yelled.

Forman had followed Hensen off the ship, as if there was something more to say. He had grown to admire the cripple, but in the way one might encourage a flightless falcon. The boy wondered if the maester would be worth anything, at the end of the day, and the friends you make in the belly of a stinking ship under influence of Arbor Red need not be friends life long.

Hensen didn't mind that the maester started to fade back, distancing himself from the young Hightower as he began to scold the dark-haired young servant at the top of his lungs.

It is arduous on its own just keeping the laborers in line. It's a wonder anything is ever done right at all.

Hensen was glad the maester had dismissed himself. The heir to the Hightower was finished with him at present and required most of his attention to see all of his father's servants at once. Rarely did he speak with the Seven, but he did ask the crone to guide the servants. His belongings were surely in need of prayer.

There was no time to waste, so he urged the servants to draw a steaming bath to cleanse him from his time aboard the boat. The smell of salt and fish seeped deep into his skin and the strands of his fine golden hair, and the least his father's servants could manage was to rid him of any such stench for all the trouble they put him through on the journey from the port to the Red Keep.

My servants in Oldtown have grown accustomed to my expectations and aren't nearly as tiring to manage. Just like my father to continue to employ workers whose efforts are unbecoming of their level of status and wages.

Not many could serve a Hightower. Most were beneath such an honor. The least they could do to show their gratitude was perform their simple duties with competence.

At least the younger girl's hands are delicate enough not to irritate my scalp.

None of the women were old enough or fair enough to order them to dress him, so he dismissed them once he felt the boat had been cleansed from his person, and he dressed to see his father.

He better not leave me waiting in some chamber while the King bullies him into this task and that. I've been summoned. I'm here. There need not be any more wastes of time.

While Hensen loitered outside the Small Council Chambers, escorted by an arrangement of Goldcloaks, he worried over possibly seeing that childish brat, Princess Daenerys. It was his father's vague hope that they could be matched, not immediately, but eventually, and he'd been convinced the Squire's Tournament would be the perfect venue for an introduction.

As he always seemed to be, his father was wrong. The girl was little older than a toddler, and her friends as childish as she. None likely even flowered yet spoke of men like they knew a knight from a eunuch.

Luckily, she seemed out of sight.

He feared speaking to the brutes around, all trained to be little more than the blunt instrument of lords and dignitaries, so what words of worth could they even begin to utter? It was tedious, though, and he felt compelled to fill the thick silence with something.

"They seem busy," he announced generally, and softly, as if to urge them to speak more than he wished to himself.

None responded. Not the White or any of the Golds.

Hensen remained mostly still until his father was dismissed.

"My son, so good to see you," Jon cheered, opening his arms to embrace Hensen. He wore his official Hightower green tunic and surcoat, the High Tower blazing bright in an embroidered patch Hensen swore had a defect in one of the windows. His hair looked even thinner, which seemed impossible since the last time he'd seen his father, he looked nearly bald then.

And his face looked drawn. His eyes weary. Some heavy business faced him, and Hensen was not sure if he was with his father to learn or to teach.

"It would have been better as a visit home, not this journey about the realm for the King."

Hensen wondered if his father still felt it was good to see him after that.

They strode the depressing halls back to the Tower of the Hand. Then, they ascended a staircase Hensen assumed the Targaryens erected to punish each Hand, regardless of House, for all of time, as it never ended, and the steps themselves seemed a tick too tall to be the proper height.

His father was nearly exhausted by the time they reached his quarters, and his servants had already made their way from Hensen's guest chambers, to the Tower of the Hand to make ready his father's things.

"To the solar, my son. Let us speak."

"Father, what could we have to discuss? We're going places and doing things, and that's about as much interest as I have in it. I'd ask to bring whores, but I'd get bored of the same ones over and over. I'd ask to bring mates, but you and I both know I haven't any. Can we just do what we must and I'll find my own way to manage through?"

"Hensen, don't be crass. And don't be so useless. If only your mother knew the man you're becoming."

"If only she were sober enough to notice."

"Don't dare slander your mother's name in my presence. Speak ill of all others if you think it will further you in life. Make that mistake, if you must, but not with your own mother. My lady wife!"

"Father, you misunderstand," Hensen said as he smiled and relaxed into the comfortable pillowed chair in his father's solar. "That is the best part of either of you. When mother's drunk, at least we laugh. What have you done since your appointment as Hand other than fuster and muster about these halls trying to please the unpleasable? Trying to quench the thirst and satiate the hunger of the thirstiest and hungriest man in Westeros."

His father replied, but Hensen failed to listen.

Gods, please at least have this journey not be by boat.