Henrik III
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.
Thank you for reading. Hope this was okay.