GREAT CELESTIAL-DRAGON: Thanks so much, I'm so glad. I like a nice build too because the pay-off is better. There are some changes I want to make mostly regarding the show because I'm not following Dumb and Dumber's route.
Henrik VI
Henrik strolled through the bustling market square of King's Landing; he couldn't help but be drawn in by the myriad sights and sounds assaulting his senses. The vibrant colours of exotic fabrics fluttered in the breeze while nearby street performers captivated each passerby with acrobatic feats, adding to the lively atmosphere.
Sansa had declined his offer to accompany him to the market with an apology, though she did provide him with some suggestions. He'd almost forgotten that she was still bound by the restrictions imposed upon her — even if she was the King's betrothed — and wasn't allowed to roam outside the Red Keep without permission. Henrik couldn't shake off the pang of disappointment that settled in his chest. Sansa's absence left a silent acknowledgement of the barriers that separated them — she was essentially a traitor, a truth most recognised within the confines of courtly gossip.
He shook his head. Accompanying him was Jarak, his ever-faithful household guard, and Ras, who'd also been very eager to come because he had business to tend to in Flea Bottom. Henrik had learnt at this point that it was better not to ask.
"Step aside, you shit-stained fucks!" Ras bellowed, waving his arms theatrically. "The great lord is on a mission to find a present fit enough for his noble sister!"
Henrik couldn't help but roll his eyes at Ras's antics, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment as nearby merchants and onlookers turned to stare. "Must you be so vulgar, Ras?" Henrik muttered under his breath, attempting to rein in his unruly companion. "You're drawing undue attention to us."
Ras merely shrugged, a wicked grin spreading across his face. "Oh, let them stare. What's life without a bit of attention, milord? Keeps things interesting, doesn't it? Besides, it's your comely face they're drawn to."
Henrik smirked. "Ah, yes, Ras. My face is indeed a sight to behold, but let's not forget it's your charm that truly captivates the masses. . . or perhaps it's just your loud voice."
Jarak, ever the voice of reason, cleared his throat pointedly, hand on the hilt of his sword as he scanned the area with a narrowed eye. "Let us not forget our purpose here, my lord. Lady Alys's nameday approaches."
"What the fuck's wrong with that silk dress I suggested?" Ras asked. "Ladies like dresses, don't they? Not fancy enough for you nobles, eh?"
Henrik sighed. "As lovely as it is, I fear Alys would sooner use it as a curtain than wear it." He chuckled, imagining his sister's disdainful expression at the mere suggestion.
Jarak chimed in, "Yes, and we'd be lucky if she doesn't mistake it for a cloth and command a maidservant to clean the floors with it instead."
Henrik couldn't help but laugh at the image. "You may not be far off. Let's keep looking."
With a begrudging nod from Henrik, they pressed on, Ras's colourful commentary providing a constant stream of entertainment as they perused the various stalls.
"What about this?" Henrik suggested, indicating a display of intricately carved figurines.
Ras snorted derisively, eyeing them with disdain. "Figurines? You might as well give her a pile of horse dung, little lord. At least that would have some practical use."
Henrik shot Ras a reproachful look but couldn't suppress a chuckle at his brazenness. "Perhaps something a bit more refined, then."
"Look, why don't you just get her a good sharp knife? I know a blacksmith that does a fine job that I could take you to. He owes me a favour. And your lady sister might be good with a knife, once you train her up properly that is. In my opinion, it's the best damn present you can receive."
"No," rejected Henrik with a frown. "Alys doesn't like violence or fighting. She much prefers the company of Maester Orman and his books than she does with her Septa. And what does she need a knife for? She has guards to protect her anyway."
Ras placed a hand on his shoulder, stopping Henrik to stare at him. His face was pulled into a faintly serious expression. A few children ran in the background, chasing a dog, while the sounds of merchants beckoning customers echoed around them. Henrik blinked and stared at Ras in bewilderment.
"You can never be too careful, little lord. Never forget that. A knife can go a long way if you're clever about it," Ras said. "Some guards are just for show, decoration if you will like those fancy tapestries."
"Are you drunk, Ras?" Henrik blinked at him.
Ras's expression stayed the same, solemn and grave until it broke like ripples on the surface of water. He grinned and shoved at Henrik's shoulder. Ras chuckled, shaking his head. "Not yet, milord. But perhaps after we find a suitable gift for Lady Alys, I might indulge in a flagon or two of ale. Gods know I need it."
"Very well then, let's continue our search."
As Henrik roamed through the labyrinthine streets, his gaze wandered, not truly seeing the chaotic swirl of people around him. Instead, his mind retreated to the sanctuary of his memories, where the laughter of his sister, Alys, resonated like a melody.
He found himself standing before the grand doors of their family's keep, the ancient stone walls rising high above him like guardians of a bygone era. Each step through the empty stirred dormant echoes of childhood mischief. In his mind's eye, Henrik saw himself and Alys darting through the shadowy passages, their laughter mingling with the flickering torchlight. They were a pair of sprites, dancing on the precipice of adventure, heedless of the consequences that awaited them.
One memory, in particular, stood out vividly. He recalled the day that they stumbled upon their father's prized collection of rare books, their eyes widening with awe at the treasure trove before them. But their curiosity soon turned to calamity when a misplaced step sent a priceless tome crashing to the ground, its delicate pages fluttering like wounded birds. Henrik stood before his father; his shoulders drooped in resignation, and he averted his gaze, unable to bear the disappointment. Behind, Ronas loomed, his smirk dripping with self-satisfaction, silently revelling in his role as the informant who had revealed the whereabouts of the children.
Yet, even as Lord Farman's stern gaze bore down on him like a burden, Henrik refused to betray his sister. He took the blame upon himself, shielding Alys from their father's wrath with a steadfast resolve. And Alys, with tears glistening in her eyes, reached out to him, her small hand finding solace in his own. But now, as Henrik navigated the bustling streets of King's Landing, the absence of his little sister's presence weighed upon him. The laughter that once filled the halls of their family's keep was but a distant echo, drowned out by the cacophony of the city.
"Oi, Henrik!" Ras exclaimed, his voice cutting through the haze of memories like a sharp blade. "You've got that look about you, like a lost pup in a storm, boy! Should I fetch a trail of bread to lead you back to the present?"
Henrik blinked, his mind slowly returning to the present as he chuckled at Ras's jest. "Very witty, Ras. Well done, you've managed to string together a couple of sentences more than usual."
"Ah, careful now. You wound me with your sharp tongue!" Ras snorted.
They ended up in the Street of Flour and amidst the stalls, a display of gourmet foods caught his eye, their rich aromas wafting tantalisingly through the air.
"Ah, now here's a treat," Henrik remarked. He turned around towards Jarak. "What do you think, Jarak? Shall we indulge Alys's palate with some of the finest honeycakes in the realm?"
Jarak smiled, his wrinkled eyes glinting with tenderness as he surveyed the selection. "Yes, my lord. Lady Alys has a sweet tooth, doesn't she?"
Henrik chuckled, nodding in agreement. "Indeed she does. It would be a shame not to let her taste such delights, wouldn't it?"
Their search led them to a nearby stall adorned with an array of decadent honeycakes and chocolates, their glossy exteriors shimmering in the sunlight. Henrik's mouth watered at the sight, memories flooding back of the time he and Alys would sneak extra sweet treats from the pantry, giggling like children caught in a forbidden indulgence. Sometimes, he'd place extra on her plate when his father wasn't looking and throw a discreet wink.
"I think these will do nicely," Henrik remarked, selecting a variety to add to their growing collection of gifts. "But we can't forget the pastries. Alys always had a weakness for those."
After he was satisfied with his choice, Henrik wandered through the lively marketplace and his attention was at once drawn to a merchant whose booming voice echoed through the bustling crowd like a beacon. The bearded man stood tall behind his stall, his flamboyant gestures and captivating words throwing promises of opulence and elegance.
"Step right up, my lords and ladies!" the merchant exclaimed, his voice carrying over the din of the marketplace. "Behold the finest silk from across the Narrow Sea, fit for a queen herself! And as for these exquisite jewels. . ." He lifted a sparkling necklace high above his head, the gemstones catching the sunlight and casting shimmering reflections across the crowd.
Henrik couldn't help but be intrigued by the spectacle before him. He approached the stall, his curiosity piqued. Fine silks and fabrics surrounded the place. He thought of Sansa's dresses and the way they didn't seem to fit her. This would look good on her, he thought very briefly; she deserved expensive jewellery and fine fabrics. His eye also caught a gemstone inside a brooch. Henrik carefully examined the brooch, its blue gemstone glinting under the sunlight like a shard of the clear summer sky. Entranced, he found himself engulfed in a sea of cerulean.
"Ser, how much for all these?" he asked, gesturing.
The merchant's eyes lit up with a gleam of satisfaction as he regarded Henrik with a knowing smile. "Ah, my good lord, you have a keen eye indeed," he exclaimed, his voice dripping with honey and a hint of steel. "This exquisite brooch is a rare treasure, crafted by the finest artisans in the realm."
"I understand, Ser," he replied evenly. "But what would be a fair price for such a treasure?"
The merchant's lips curled into a sly smile as he named his price, a sum that would make even a wealthy lord pause in consideration. "For this exquisite brooch, I would ask three golden dragons," he declared, his voice carrying a note of finality.
Henrik's brow furrowed slightly at the steep price, but he knew that quality came at a cost. With a nod of acceptance, he reached into his purse and counted the required coins. He was relieved that Rubin wasn't by his side, sparing him from the tedious lecture on fiscal responsibility, a discourse he had endlessly grown tired of hearing.
"Uh, I thought you said that your sister didn't like jewels, milord," pointed out Ras.
"It's not for her," replied Henrik, handing over the coins to the merchant.
Jarak was ever observant. "Well, it seems you've found something special, my lord," Jarak remarked, his tone neutral but his eyes curious.
Henrik offered a tight-lipped smile. "Indeed," he replied, keeping his response vague.
Jarak nodded, respecting his lord's privacy, and said nothing more as Henrik packed the brooch into his pocket. Henrik appreciated the guard's discretion, grateful for the unspoken bond of trust between them. Ras, however, the provocateur, couldn't resist the opportunity and wiggled his eyebrows with a mischievous glint.
"Found a little trinket for a lady friend, have we now?" he teased.
Henrik flushed red and attempted to throw a scowl. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Ras chuckled, his grin widening as he leaned closer to Henrik. "Oh, come on now, little lord. You can't fool me. That brooch is far too fancy for a mere trinket. It's a token of affection, isn't it?"
Henrik's cheeks grew warmer, his attempt at a stern expression faltering under Ras's playful scrutiny. "It's none of your concern," he retorted, though his tone lacked the usual sharpness. "Don't you have business to attend to?"
"Alright, alright, keep your secrets." Ras's voice turned more pitying. "Well, just be careful, yeah? Getting caught in the likes of Myra is not wise I should warn you — she's had more men on her doorstep in Silk Street than you've had hot baths. So don't be stupid enough to go falling in love with a whore just because she sucks your cock once in a while, little lord."
"Mind your tongue!" said Henrik sharply, frowning.
Ras shrugged nonchalantly, his smirk unyielding. "I mean no harm. But don't say I didn't warn you when you find yourself with a broken heart and an empty purse. Like some of the dumb cunts who come there looking for something warm to stick themselves into."
Ignoring Ras's taunts, Henrik straightened his posture, his resolve firm. "I appreciate your concern, Ras, but I am capable of making my own decisions," he declared, his voice steady despite the turmoil. "And I suggest you go and attend to your business. Now would be preferable."
Ras shrugged again, seemingly unaffected by Henrik's rebuttal. "Suit yourself, little lord. Just remember: not all that glitters is gold."
Henrik strode into the throne room. The heavy velvet drapes hung ominously around the room, casting long shadows that danced across the floor. Only a few nobles were scattered here and there. There was no sign of the King or the Queen Regent which was a blessing in disguise.
Rubin intercepted him with a knowing gaze, his expression a mix of concern and disapproval. "Henrik, there you are," he greeted, his voice carrying a weight of observation, "you seem unusually preoccupied of late. Any reason?"
"Not particularly. I don't think I have to explain myself now, do I?" Henrik looked at him in slight amusement, causing Rubin's lips to go white with displeasure as he pressed them together.
"Have you written to your father yet? I hope you haven't neglected your duties, my lord."
"Yes, my noble lord father," he mused, a hint of irony lacing his words. "No need to worry, Rubin. I shall attend to it in due time. My duties are not neglected, merely. . . prioritised," he replied curtly, his tone clipped.
Rubin raised an eyebrow knowingly, his gaze piercing through Henrik's defences. "Prioritised? Ah, yes, matters such as. . . frequenting the company of women of ill repute I should assume?" he suggested pointedly, the implication hanging heavy in the air.
Henrik's face flushed with anger, his fists clenching at his sides. "That is none of your concern, Rubin," he snapped, his voice edged with irritation. "And how did you know? Are you spying on me?"
"My lord," Rubin sighed loudly, clasping his hands together in front of his stomach. "I make it my business to know where you frequent the city — your father trusted me with your safety and protection and that is not something I tend to do lightly. And your father only wishes what's best for you, Henrik. Indulging in such sinful pursuits will only lead to ruin."
Henrik's patience snapped, his temper flaring as he rounded on Rubin. "I am not a child to be scolded. You forget yourself easily. I am lord of this House while my father is away. His Heir." His voice was laced with authority. "I will conduct myself as I see fit."
Rubin stepped closer, leaning his head in to murmur quieter lest someone should overhear. He chose his words carefully. "Perhaps, I must speak more plainly. Your father has entrusted me with more than just your safety; I am supposed to be guiding you in his absence. You must remember the weight of your responsibilities, not only of your own reputation but also of the reputation of your House. A lord must lead by example, and fathering a bastard could tarnish the honour of your family. Do not let it be stained by impulsive actions. I implore you, Henrik, to exercise caution and prudence in all your dealings."
Henrik gritted his teeth. "I am well aware of my responsibilities, and rest assured, I am not so reckless as to father a bastard."
Rubin pursed his lips, his eyes holding a silent accusation. "Very well, my lord. But I only offer a warning about the importance of discreteness. House Farman cannot be tarnished. Especially since. . ."
Henrik's head snapped up. "Yes?" he said.
"Well, there is news from your father's correspondence. He sent a raven yesterday."
Henrik turned his attention to Rubin, his brow furrowing in curiosity. "What news?" he inquired, though a sense of foreboding gnawed at his gut. "Why didn't he write to me about this?"
Rubin hesitated for a moment before delivering the news. "He's very busy, my lord, as I'm sure you know. But your father has written of seeking a match for you," he revealed, his words hanging heavy.
Henrik's heart sank at the announcement, his chest tightening with a mixture of surprise and resignation. "A match?" he echoed, his voice barely above a whisper.
Rubin nodded solemnly. "It seems your father believes it is time for you to do your duty and take a wife, secure the future of House Farman."
Henrik's mind raced with a flurry of emotions; his thoughts scattered like leaves in the wind. "You — you can't mean marriage?" He repeated, his voice laced with incredulity and simmering frustration. "Has my father truly decided this without consulting me?"
"He believes you to be old enough. He was betrothed at your age, so it's high time for you to be too." Rubin placed a reassuring hand on Henrik's shoulder, his touch a rare gesture of comfort. "Your father only wishes to see House Farman prosper, Henrik. He believes a betrothal will strengthen our alliances and secure our legacy."
Henrik chewed the inside of his cheek, though his thoughts churned with uncertainty and unease. The prospect of a betrothal cast a dark shadow over his thoughts. He knew the importance of securing alliances and ensuring the future of House Farman, but the suddenness of his father's decision left him feeling unsettled. Henrik couldn't shake the feeling of being trapped. His heart longed for freedom, for the ability to chart his own course. But now, with the spectre of a betrothal looming over him, those dreams felt increasingly out of reach.
Rubin's words echoed in his mind. He knew he couldn't ignore his duty to his family and his House, no matter how much he yearned for something else. Still, it didn't stop his heart from clenching as if grasped by icy fingers, the chill spreading through his blood like a creeping frost.
Henrik nodded slowly. He always knew this day was coming but didn't realise it was going to be so soon. He thought he'd have a little bit more time, perhaps to board a ship across the Narrow Sea before he settled down. "I understand," he murmured, though doubt lingered in his heart.
"Good," said Rubin with a satisfied nod. "You will have your pick, I'm sure of that. This will be a good opportunity, my lord. A new dawning."
The afternoon sun cast a warm glow through the windows of Sansa's chambers as Henrik entered. Sansa stared at him as she opened the door, a look of surprise crossing her features. He was puzzled to find that there were no guards posted outside her door, no one to protect her. Then he remembered that all the Starks and their supporters had been slaughtered in the upheaval of Lord Stark's treachery.
"Lord Henrik," she greeted, her voice tinged with curiosity. "To what do I owe this unexpected visit? Come in, please."
As Henrik's gaze swept across the room, he couldn't help but notice a handmaiden standing in the corner, her presence strikingly unfamiliar. There was something about her that seemed out of place amidst the surroundings of Sansa's chambers. She looked like she'd come from elsewhere, a foreign woman with an air of mystery surrounding her. Henrik's curiosity was piqued as he studied her, trying to discern clues about her origins. Lys maybe, or Lorath.
The strange thing was that the handmaiden didn't shy away from his gaze; instead, she met it with a hard, piercing stare that sent a shiver down Henrik's spine. There was a silent challenge in her eyes as if she dared him to take another step towards Sansa. Henrik raised an eyebrow, silently wondering who this woman was and why she was there. She seemed to carry herself with a sense of confidence and defiance that was rare among handmaidens.
Henrik cleared his throat and looked away, offering Sansa a warm smile, though there was a hint of determination in his eyes. "I, uh, hope I haven't disturbed you, my lady," he said. "And thank you for the suggestion for the present. Alys will appreciate it very much I should think."
"Oh, you're very welcome. I hope the market was to your liking."
Henrik's smile widened slightly, a playful glint in his eyes as he met Sansa's gaze. "Indeed," he said, his voice taking on a slightly teasing tone. "The market would have been even more enchanting with your company, Lady Sansa. I find that everything is brighter and more beautiful when you're around."
Sansa blinked, a shy smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "You flatter me, my lord," she murmured politely, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Ah, but is it truly flattery when it's merely stating the obvious?"
There was a beat of silence.
Henrik smiled softly, his heart racing with anticipation as he held out a small bouquet of wildflowers, their vibrant colours contrasting against the muted tones of the castle's interior. "I brought these for you, Sansa," he explained, his voice gentle. "A small gesture of kindness to brighten your day."
Sansa's eyes widened in surprise at the sight of the flowers, a soft gasp escaping her lips as she reached out to accept them. "Henrik, they're. . . beautiful," she breathed, her fingers brushing against the delicate petals with reverence. "Thank you."
Henrik's smile widened at her reaction, a sense of warmth spreading through him at Sansa's genuine appreciation. "It is my pleasure," he replied, his voice sincere. "I thought they might bring a bit of cheer to your chambers."
"I'm very grateful, my lord."
"I've also brought you a gift," he said simply, holding out the package he shielded behind his back towards her.
Sansa's eyes widened in shock, her hands instinctively moving to protest. "Oh, Henrik, you shouldn't have," she exclaimed, her voice turning high-pitched. "I can't accept this. It's too much."
Henrik shook his head, his expression unwavering. "It's no matter at all, Sansa," he insisted gently. "Friends give each other gifts, and I wanted you to have this. Please, won't you at least open it?"
Reluctantly, Sansa took the package from him, her fingers trembling slightly as she carefully unwrapped it. Inside, nestled within layers of delicate silk, was a small brooch adorned with sparkling gemstones.
"It's. . . it's beautiful," Sansa breathed, her eyes wide with awe as she gazed down at the intricate craftsmanship. "But I can't possibly. . . the flowers were already too much and—"
Before she could finish her protest, Henrik reached out and gently placed the brooch on a nearby table, a resolute look in his eyes. "Then at least let it be near you," he said firmly. "A token of our friendship, let's say, to remind you when I'm not here."
"Thank you. I — your kindness means more to me than you know," she said.
Their moment was interrupted by the sound of footsteps approaching, and Sansa instinctively tensed, her eyes darting towards the door. Henrik's expression mirrored her concern, but he quickly composed himself, stepping back slightly to give her space. He hadn't realised how close he'd been standing. He caught the handmaiden's eye and quickly looked away, feeling his ears burning in self-consciousness as if he'd been caught doing something wrong.
As the door creaked open after a short knock, a servant entered the room, casting a wary glance at Henrik before addressing Sansa. "My lady, the Queen requests your presence in the throne room," he announced briskly.
"Of course." Sansa turned to Henrik. "Excuse me, my lord. I must leave you now."
She dipped into a graceful curtsy, the folds of her dress cascading around her like a waterfall, as Henrik inclined his head in a deep, respectful bow. His eyes lingered on her as he pulled up. He turned around as she left her chamber, her maid following at a respectful distance before shooting Henrik a dark glare.
When the raven finally alighted upon the windowsill of his chamber in the Keep, its dark plumage a stark contrast against the pale stone, Henrik's heart quickened with anticipation. With a deft movement, he reached out, his fingers brushing against the glossy feathers as he retrieved the sealed parchment clutched in the bird's talons.
The seal, adorned with the familiar emblem of the three ships, bore the weight of Henrik's heritage. With a mixture of reverence and trepidation, Henrik broke the seal, feeling the satisfying resistance of the wax giving way beneath his touch.
Unfurling the parchment, Henrik's gaze swept over the elegant script, the flickering candlelight casting shadows upon the inked words. The air in the chamber seemed to be still. The letters on the page swirled and blurred before his eyes, mocking his attempts to make sense of their arrangement. He had to read it several times to actually make sense of the words, pacing around the room until his head hurt. He traced each letter with his fingertip, mouthing the words silently to himself, half-wishing that Rubin was here for a brief moment so he could read it out loud for him.
Dear Henrik, my son,
I hope this letter finds you well, though I fear the news it carries may unsettle you. It is with a heavy heart that I must inform you of grave tidings. Intelligence has reached us of Stannis Baratheon's intentions to launch an attack on the capital in the coming days. The winds whisper of war, and the storm gathers on the horizon.
In light of these perilous times, I implore you to heed my counsel and act swiftly. Your safety, and that of our family, is paramount. Therefore, I command you to make haste and return to Faircastle without delay. The capital will soon become a battleground, and it is not a place for you to linger.
I understand the weight of this directive, Henrik, but trust in my judgment. I have seen the tides of war before, and I know the devastation it brings. You must retreat to Faircastle, away from the thick of the fighting, and await further instructions.
Remember, my son, your duty lies not only in valour on the battlefield but also in the preservation of our lineage and legacy. May the Seven watch over you and guide your path in these troubled times.
Lord Sebaston Farman,
Lord of Faircastle
Hope this chapter was okay and you enjoyed it. Let me know what you think, of course.
I'm also posting this before I go for birthday celebrations with my friends in Central London, so excited about that because I'm trying an escape room for the first time.
I'm also on Twitter and Tumblr under the same username if you wanna come and vibe there instead. I don't post much, but I haunt those sites like a ghost, I promise.
Anyway, hope you guys are well this evening/day. See you next time.