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Sansa II
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.
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!