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Because this is Game of Thrones, this is an M-rated chapter for a specific scene near the end.
Henrik IV
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, 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.
Thanks for reading and for your kind support. I hope my writing is not too rusty.