Leo's reading: Thanks so much! I really appreciate it.
Allen Dragneel: Thank you! I'm so glad to hear that.
Henrik VII
In the serene embrace of the Red Keep's garden, under a canopy woven from the gentle shadows of overhanging willow branches, Henrik and Sansa found a bench overlooking the water fountain. Her handmaidens stood a few metres away, scattered yet attentive. Jarak, his shiny armour gleaming in the sunlight, was positioned nearby, clearly visible to Henrik. Despite the young lord's command for him to keep his distance for a while, Jarak remained within sight, ever vigilant. The air, fragrant with spring blossoms, carried with it the distant laughter of courtiers and the soft hum of bees.
Sansa's hands cradled an ancient tome. It'd been a lazy afternoon, and Henrik had coaxed Sansa into reading aloud, his eyes twinkling with delight not only for the tales but for the melodious timbre of her voice.
"I never took you for a reader, my lord," remarked Sansa curiously.
Henrik shrugged, his expression contorted with a hint of resignation. "I'm not truly learned, not as the maesters would say," he confessed, his voice tinged with frustration. "In the route of honesty, words on a page twist and turn before my eyes, giving me headaches that no potion can cure. I've always detested the endless hours among scrolls and tomes, the maesters and scribes my father insisted upon. No matter how diligently I tried, the letters eluded me, mocking my efforts, unlike my cousin Ronas, who devours books as a dragon feasts on sheep."
He meant it to be a jest. Still, Henrik gazed into the shimmering rivulets of the fountain, his thoughts heavy. He felt like an imposter — a lord who struggled with reading, who'd have thought it? This particular shortcoming gnawed at him incessantly. Was it his eyesight? No, that couldn't be it. Both his vision and intellect had been thoroughly assessed and deemed healthy. So why did the letters continue to elude him? If only he could navigate the written word as effortlessly as he wielded a sword.
He sighed bitterly. Though his father had never voiced it, Henrik sensed his disappointment. To have a lord father renowned for his eloquence and keen intellect, Henrik couldn't shake the feeling of being a failure. Am I even worthy enough to be your son, Father? Is your distance and scorn a reflection of your disdain for my inability to inherit your talents? Am I not dear to you?
A soft hand gripped his palm, cutting him off from his thoughts, and he looked to the side. Sansa smiled, surprising him. He'd expected derision or judgment in her eyes but there was a lack of that present.
"Perhaps books are indeed like dragons, and not everyone is meant to tame them," Sansa replied, a faint smile touching her lips as she idly turned the pages of her book with her other hand. Her voice carried wistfulness with a hint of forlornness. "I recall how my sister would fidget and sigh during our lessons with our septa. So, I can very much assure you that you're not alone in your feelings, my lord."
He blinked, staring into her eyes, which had glazed over with sorrow. Bringing up her sister probably brought bad memories. "Thank you. That's a comfort to hear." He chucked quietly. "Though I believe I am quite content with my chances on a training yard rather than a library — that seems a far less dizzying battlefield for me," he grinned, hoping to erase some of the despair from her voice.
Sansa's expression cleared. She giggled softly. "Yes, everyone has their path, and it is no less honourable to find your own way."
Henrik hummed. "I suppose you're right. But come, spin me a tale or two. I may not be much for reading myself, but there's nought I enjoy more than hearing a good story. My sister Alys had a gift for it, she did."
"I hope I can live up to that, though I may be at a disadvantage." Sansa opened the book more fully, revealing a detailed illustration of a Targaryen prince mounted on a mighty dragon, flames curling from the beast's mouth. "There weren't many books in the Keep's library but this is a history book. This is Prince Aemon the Dragonknight," she began, her voice low as if sharing a secret. "One of the most valiant knights in the history of Westeros. He once fought through a hundred men to rescue his queen from a siege at Crakehall."
Henrik leaned closer, drawn by both the story and how Sansa's eyes glinted as she spoke. "I've heard of him," he admitted. "Maester Orman mentioned him during our lessons."
Henrik noticed a shadow flicker across Sansa's face the further she recounted the tale. The lightness in her voice was practised, perhaps too finely tuned.
"As Prince Aemon defended the queen, he was not merely fighting enemies, but also battling the whispers of treason and treachery within his own ranks," Sansa continued, her fingers lightly tracing the edges of the page. "It's a beautiful story, full of bravery and noble deeds — the sort of tale that feels distant from the truth of courts and kings."
Henrik leaned in, captivated not only by the tale but by the hint of disillusionment in her tone. "You sound as though you don't believe such valour possible. Why is that?"
Sansa paused, her eyes meeting his — a glint of steel, not softened by her courteous mask, flickering. "In stories, knights fight for honour and glory. In King's Landing, I have come to learn that knights fight for many reasons. . . few of them noble."
Her honesty took Henrik by surprise, shattering the usual veil of formalities that defined their exchanges. "I see," he murmured, his voice tinged with confusion.
He struggled to grasp why she had become disillusioned with the tales of old. After all, the capital was teeming with knights in gleaming armour and bustling with guards and maidens, just like the stories told. And the songs, those same tales of valour and heroism, were still sung and celebrated throughout the streets. So they must have truth to them.
"And yet," he continued, his curiosity piqued, "you still find comfort in these stories?"
Sansa smiled faintly, more to herself than to him. "Occasionally, not always. They remind me of home. Of simpler times, when I believed heroes always prevailed, and villains always met their end. Now, I know the world is not so black and white." She turned her head. "But, sitting here with you, my lord, I find it's easier to pretend, even if just for a little while."
"That's. . ." Henrik started, then stopped, searching for the right words. "That's both sad and beautiful, Sansa."
"Much like life," she replied softly, turning back to the book. She clears her throat. "Shall we continue? The next part tells of how Prince Aemon was sorely wounded yet refused to yield until the queen was safe."
"Yes, let's," Henrik agreed, glad for the chance to linger in the fantasy a bit longer, to dwell in a world where heroes triumphed and adventure and honour mattered more than duty and responsibilities. "You tell it ever so well, much more than if I tried to read it myself."
Her voice, soft and musical, washed over him like a gentle wave. As he leaned back, resting his head and closing his eyes, the fierce clashes of battle came alive in his mind's eye — glorious and triumphant, the taste of victory palpable on his tongue. Time seemed irrelevant, possibly suspended in the mysterious hour of the wolf. When her melodious voice finally dwindled to a serene halt, he opened his eyes to find her looking at him, her gaze tinged with curiosity.
"Is that all, my lady? Do you have any more to weave?"
Sansa raised an eyebrow. "The book is almost over. Are you truly not satisfied?"
"Listening to your tales is almost better than besting a man in the dirt I've come to find," he admitted. "You do have a gift."
She narrowed her eyes as if trying to pierce him with her gaze. "You shouldn't tease me so, my lord. It's bad form."
"I speak nothing but the truth." He laughed, his chest warm. "Do you have any other songs? One you truly enjoyed?"
Sansa hesitated, her eyes flickering with uncertainty. She glanced around the garden, where her handmaidens stood at a respectful distance, and Jarak remained sharp-eyed nearby. The tranquil surroundings and Henrik's sincere curiosity coaxed her into a sense of safety.
"There was another song I cherished, one my mother used to sing to me before I slept every day when I was a child," she started hesitantly. When she saw that he didn't rebuke her, she continued. "I don't remember all of the details precisely but the song told of a noble lady of great, renowned beauty, fair as the moon and fierce as the winter storm. Lords and men would travel from all corners of the world just to catch a glimpse of her. She rode a white horse through the snows, her cloak billowing like the wings of a great bird."
Sansa's hands momentarily gripped the book tighter, her eyes distant but shining. "She was beloved by her people and guarded the North from any who dared threaten its peace. At night, they say, the stars themselves would pause in their journey to listen to her songs about love and honour."
Henrik listened, enthralled not only by the imagery but by the evident affection Sansa held for this piece of her past. The way her voice softened, it was as though she transported not just herself but also him to those snow-covered fields under starlit skies. A shiver ran through him despite the golden rays soaking his skin.
"The lady in the song," Sansa continued, "she was as brave as she was beautiful, feared by her enemies and adored by her allies. I would sing it every evening, hoping to embody even a shred of her courage and beauty one day."
When she finished, a silence lingered, filled only by the distant sound of rustling leaves and the occasional chirp of a bird, a dove perhaps. Henrik finally spoke, his voice thoughtful.
"Do you believe in that, Sansa? That people can be as brave as the songs say?"
Sansa's gaze drifted away, settling on the vibrant petals of a nearby rose. "Songs are just songs," she said after a long pause, her tone resigned. "They elevate us to something we aren't. We're flesh and blood, not heroes of myth. We can only do our best, which seldom matches the deeds of those in the songs."
Henrik watched her, seeing the burden of her experiences weighing on her young shoulders. "And yet, you read these stories with such feeling, as if part of you wants to believe in them."
Sansa met his gaze, her eyes a mix of defiance and sadness. "Perhaps I do," she confessed quietly. "But reality is often harsher, my lord, and expectations can lead to disappointment. One must guard their heart in places like these," she gestured vaguely toward the direction of the castle.
Henrik pondered Sansa's words. In the distance, the Red Keep loomed, a large fortress of power casting long shadows even in the bright afternoon sun.
"Sansa," he began slowly, choosing his words with care, "I know well the burden of disappointment, of trying to live up to expectations set by others — and by oneself. The songs and stories, they do indeed elevate us, but they also remind us of what we strive to be. There is strength in believing, even if only a little, in the virtues these tales extol." He shrugged, half-smiling as if sharing a secret. "Who knows, maybe it's precisely because the world can be so dark that we need these songs and stories."
Sansa considered this, an indiscernible glint appearing in her eyes as she looked back at the book, gliding her fingers along the torn edges. His stomach churned as weightier thoughts emerged in his mind in the pristine silence.
He cleared his throat, the sound sharp against the gentle whisper of the breeze. "Sansa," he started, his voice hesitant, "My lady. I — there's something of utmost importance I need to tell you."
She looked up, her blue eyes wide and questioning. Her expression was open and unguarded, a rare glimpse into her thoughts that Henrik coveted. For a moment, he was as mute as a spy lurking in the alleys of Flea Bottom. He swallowed and sharply inhaled, attempting to find his courage.
"I've, uh, received word from my father. He. . . he has instructed me to return to Fair Isle immediately. There are matters he requires my presence for, ones that cannot wait." The words felt heavy and clumsy in his mouth, like stones tumbling through the air.
Sansa's face paled, the book in her lap momentarily forgotten. "Oh, so. . . you're. . . leaving?" Her voice was a whisper, barely audible over the rustling leaves, laced with a vulnerability that Henrik had never heard before.
"Yes, I must. I have no choice," Henrik admitted, his gaze dropping to the gravel path, unable to meet her stare.
He felt a twist in his stomach at the thought of leaving her in this gilded cage, surrounded by vipers poised to strike. The looming spectre of her cruel fate — to be bound in marriage to the King — mulled heavily on him. It was a union steeped not in affection but in political machination, that much was clear. It was a thought that stoked an unexpected, silent fury in Henrik's heart, one uncharacteristic for him.
Perhaps it was the hulking shadow of his own impending betrothal, but Henrik found no comfort in the thought that the next time he saw Sansa, she might be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and he merely a lord. The prospect, which should have been a cause for celebration under different circumstances, now filled him with a sense of dread. Nausea rolled in his stomach as he thought about the golden-haired sons and daughters she'd have to bear King Joffrey. Perhaps it was good that he was leaving so he didn't have to witness that odious sight.
But it wasn't just the disparity in their stations that troubled him; it was the realisation that their future encounters would be overshadowed by their formal roles within the merciless theatre of royal court politics. As a queen (the eternal connection to Joffrey leaving a sour taste in his mouth) Sansa would be ensconced in layers of duty and decorum, perhaps more untouchable than ever before.
Sansa's fingers tightened around the book, her knuckles whitening. She looked down, her long lashes casting shadows over her cheeks, and when she spoke again, her voice was so soft Henrik had to lean closer to catch the words. "Please, don't go. I — you're my only friend."
Her plea, silent and nearly inaudible, struck Henrik like a blow. He had seen her composed, resilient, even defiant, but never this raw, this desperate. It was as if she had peeled back a layer of her carefully constructed armour, revealing the fear beneath.
"I—"
Words failed him. How could he leave her to face that alone? How could he sail away to the safety of his home, knowing she remained ensnared in the web of the capital's merciless claws? Going home felt more like a curse than a respite all of a sudden.
Yet, the harsh reality remained — he had no power here. His influence was limited to the boundaries of his own lands, far from King's Landing. His presence by her side could offer little but fleeting comfort, and perhaps even draw dangerous attention her way.
With a heavy heart, Henrik acknowledged the brutal truth he'd been avoiding: his staying would serve no purpose but to satisfy his own desire to protect her, a selfish wish that could potentially bring her more harm. Rumours would spark, one detrimental to their reputations. His departure was not just an obligation but a necessity, for both their sakes.
"I have to, Sansa," Henrik said softly, his voice thick with regret. "I wish. . ." He trailed off, unsure of what he wished for anymore. Could he wish for her safety and happiness when he was leaving her in this place? It seemed hollow and a vain bid.
Sansa closed her book with a soft thud, a signal that the conversation — and perhaps their moment of shared vulnerability — was over. His heart sank, and he desperately wanted to grab her hand and tug her back gently towards him. His fists stood clenched to his sides.
She stood, her movements graceful and composed, the mask of the King's betrothed firmly back in place. The handmaidens caught sight of her movements and approached her closely. Jarak threw him a questioning gaze.
"Thank you for telling me, my lord. I hope your journey is safe," she said, her tone so formal now, every inch the noble lady, that Henrik wondered if he imagined the shared moment.
He watched her walk away, her figure retreating into the maze of flowering shrubs and winding paths. He remained seated, the weight of her unspoken plea anchoring him to the bench though he had an urge to dunk his head into the water fountain and drown his sorrows. He knew he would carry the memory of her sapphire eyes, wide and imploring, with him across the sea to Fair Isle.
The evening air was thick with the scent of impending rain, a weighty, damp promise that lingered just beyond the high windows of Henrik's chambers. Inside, the room was lit by the soft glow of a dozen candles, casting long shadows against the stone walls. Henrik, sprawled on a large, cushioned chair, watched Rubin pace slowly before the hearth where a modest fire crackled and spat. He'd been bored out of his mind and not even a game of cyvasse would entertain him. He wanted to swing his sword and throw his fists, but instead, he was stuck inside like an old crone. And very soon he'd be stuck inside another Keep altogether — a fact that Rubin wouldn't stop harping again.
Rubin shook his head. "You know, moping around won't change the outcome. Nor will jesting when your future is laid out before you."
Henrik scoffed, crossing his arms like a petulant boy of four years. "And your pacing is going to magically rewrite my future? Perhaps if you walk enough circles, I'll wake up somewhere more interesting?"
"This is no time to jest Henrik. It's not just any keep. It's Faircastle. It's your future, your people. A lord must—"
Henrik interrupted, rolling his eyes. His mind still lingered on Sansa's scared expression, so forgive him if his answers were a little short and clipped. "Rubin, if I had a coin for every time you said 'a lord must,' I'd out-rich the Iron Bank. Can't a man dream of being just a man, if only for a night?"
Rubin sighed. "Dreaming is fine, so long as you wake up. You have a duty, Henrik, not just to your title but to those who will depend on you."
"Ah yes, duty. My favourite bedtime story. Tell me, Rubin, does my duty include listening to you prattle on until I'm old and grey? Because if so, I'm excelling marvellously." Henrik smiled without humour, tilting his head slightly.
Rubin stopped pacing and fixed Henrik with a stern gaze. "If prattling on is what it takes to get you to see reason, then I'll gladly do it." He shook his head, exasperated. "I don't understand why you're so against going back to Faircastle. It's your home."
Henrik sighed deeply, feeling the weight of Rubin's words press down on him. He shifted in his chair, his eyes flickering to the window where the clouds hung low and heavy.
"Home," he murmured, almost to himself.
Rubin sighed loudly. The older man, normally a pillar of stoic, unyielding strength, seemed to carry a different sort of burden tonight. The lines on his face, usually hidden beneath his helmet or the shadows of his hood, appeared more pronounced, carved deep by worry. He stopped pacing and stared at the rain-battered window.
"You know," Rubin began, his voice softer, tinged with something like nostalgia, "Flea Bottom wasn't kind to a child. It's still the same shit-stained dump it is today. The stones are as hard as the lives living upon them." He paused by the fire, hands clasped behind his back, staring into the flames. "It was there I learned to fight, not just with swords, but with wits and will."
Henrik listened, his posture relaxed, but his eyes keen on Rubin's face, seeing him in a new light. This was not the unapproachable guardian who had trained him since childhood but a man shaped by a world harsher than he could imagine.
"I remember my first battle," Rubin continued, his gaze distant as if he could see through the walls of the castle to some blood-soaked field long ago. "It was chaos. . . men screaming, the clash of steel. I was terrified. But there was also clarity, knowing each move could be your last. You learn quickly what you're made of."
Henrik shifted, absorbing every word. "And what did you learn you were made of?" he asked quietly, genuinely curious about the man who had been his shadow, his protector, all these years.
Rubin chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that seemed to surprise even him. "Fear, at first. Then. . . something else. Something firmer. I had to be, to survive, to protect those who couldn't protect themselves." His eyes met Henrik's, a flash of something fierce within them. "It hardened me, but it taught me the value of life, too. The value of duty, of purpose."
The young lord nodded. "And now, you watch over me," he remarked, half in jest, half in annoyance.
"Yes," Rubin admitted, his expression softening. "And I find it's a heavier burden than any armour or weapon I've ever carried. I know you believe we are being harsh on you and you want to earn your glory and honour in the battle, but I've seen too much bloodshed, too much loss. . . I won't have you become part of it."
Henrik's eyebrows rose. "I won't be a boy forever, Rubin. There will come a time when I'll need to stand on my own, fight my own battles. Why not now?"
Rubin's gaze lingered on the young lord. "Would if you could, Henrik," he murmured. "Would if you could." He peered up. "As long as I can protect you, I will," Rubin said finally, the lines of his face settling into resolve as unshakable as the iron of his blade. "But the decision to leave the castle, it's the right one. The carnage that will follow this battle. . . it's no place for you."
Henrik recognised the wisdom in Rubin's words, and part of him — the part that still clung to the tales of knights and honour and glory and adventure — rebelled against it. But he saw the truth in Rubin's eyes, the unspoken fears that had shaped the man before him. For this time he will accept his duty.
"I understand," Henrik conceded, his voice low. "I will do as my lord father commands."
Rubin exhaled as if a large weight had been lifted off him. "Very well then, we set forth our preparations within the fortnight. On the morrow, I shall instruct the servants to commence the packing of your belongings." Rubin paused, his gaze shifting slightly as he considered his next words. "Now, as for the king, it's imperative he hears of your departure, lest His Grace perceive it as a slight against his authority." He leaned in closer, his voice lowering to ensure privacy despite being behind closed doors. "Mayhaps it would be wise to temper the truth of your reasons somewhat, my lord. It's not falsehoods we're spinning, merely. . . crafting the fullness of our honesty for royal ears."
Ah, more court politics, thought Henrik tiredly. Wonderful. "Yes, I suppose we must."
A throbbing headache emerged, its arrival akin to a sudden thunderclap in Henrik's mind, shaking him to his core with the stark realisation of what lay ahead. He walked over to his desk and stared blankly at the pile of parchment and ink before him, the tools that seemed more formidable than any sword he'd faced.
Rubin, watching closely from across the room, sensed Henrik's hesitation. "What if we dictated the letter together?" he suggested, stepping closer. "You tell me what you want to say, and I'll write it down for you, my lord. It'll still be your words, your command."
Henrik nodded, relief washing over him as he began to speak, his voice gaining confidence with each word. "Tell the Hand of the King that the security of the Westerlands' coast is under threat. As the heir to Faircastle, I must return to oversee the fortification of our defences against potential raids."
Rubin scribbled the words down, his handwriting steady and sure. "What else?"
Henrik continued, his thoughts now flowing more freely. "Make it clear that my duty to my people is paramount, and though my heart remains with the crown, my presence is urgently needed at home."
"Good," Rubin nodded, continuing to write. "Anything about your loyalty to the king?"
"Yes, add that my return to Faircastle is in the best interest of the realm, ensuring that the western shores remain a bulwark against our enemies including Robb Stark. That should satisfy him. Assure them of my unwavering support for the crown's endeavours."
Rubin completed the letter with precision. "There," he said, showing Henrik the final draft. "Shall I read it back to you?"
"Please," Henrik replied, listening intently as Rubin read. Satisfied, Henrik stood, coming to lean over the desk to examine the sealed letter. "Thank you, Rubin. This will work."
"I'll leave it on your desk, my lord, so you can see it safely delivered to the Hand first thing tomorrow," Rubin promised. "Is there anything else you need?"
Henrik shook his head, a weight visibly lifted from his shoulders. "Just that. You've done more than enough, Rubin. Thank you. You may go now."
As Rubin shut the door of the dimly lit chambers, Henrik moved to stand by the window again, watching the relentless storm, thinking once again if leaving was truly the right decision.
The clang of metal echoed through the training yard of the Red Keep as Henrik and Ras crossed swords under the grey morning sky. The air was sharp with the tang of fresh sweat and the metallic scent of oiled steel. Henrik's breaths came hard and fast, each exhale visible in the cool air, his focus entirely on the rhythm of the duel.
"Nicely done," Ras grunted, stepping back to wipe his brow with the back of his hand. His eyes, always watchful, narrowed slightly as he watched Henrik lower his sword. "But tell me, how are you feeling about the battle?"
Henrik paused, his sword tip dipping slightly in surprise. "Battle? What battle?" His brow furrowed, a line of confusion creasing his forehead as he straightened, eyes locking on Ras's knowing look.
Ras shrugged, an almost imperceptible lift of his shoulders as he glanced around the yard. The usual lazy atmosphere of their morning practices was absent, replaced by a tense energy that vibrated through the air like the hum of a drawn bowstring.
"Haven't you noticed? The castle's on edge. Drills have been more rigorous than usual, for us at least," he said, gesturing towards the far end of the yard where a group of Gold Cloaks was assembling in tight formation. Henrik's gaze followed Ras's gesture, noting the unusually stern expressions on the faces of the city watch. "And the beggars in the streets have been talking — war's not just whispers anymore, it's knocking on our doorsteps."
"Could just be the usual routine."
"Not likely in my opinion. Because I saw the Imp, the Hand I mean, looking worried, so that has to mean something," Ras continued, his voice lowering. "The King, though, he doesn't seem to care one bit."
"The King rarely does," Henrik muttered, his tone edged with disdain.
Ras let out a short, humourless laugh, then shrugged again. "Well, if it's here then we're all fucked. Best thing to do is to treat it like I'm clearing out the riff-raff from the city. Give me a jug of ale and a warm body to lie with, and I can die a happy man."
Henrik shook his head. "That's an awfully bleak way to think about dying, Ras."
"It's merely the truth. Tell me, little lord, how would you choose to die if given the choice?" Ras paused, dropping his sword to his side with an expectant look.
Henrik's eyes narrowed as he considered Ras's question, the grey sky seeming to press down around them, squeezing the colour from the training yard. He weighed the sword in his hand, the edge glinting sharply.
"I'd prefer not to think about dying just yet," Henrik said finally, his voice carrying a hint of youthful defiance mixed with a touch of melancholy. "But if I had to choose, I'd want it to be something out of the old stories. Dying in a blaze of glory, maybe on some grand battlefield, saving the realm or. . . something equally heroic."
Ras scoffed, but there was a spark of amusement in his eyes as he sneered, "You nobles and your grand illusions. Always thinking you'll be the hero of some bard's tale. It's never as pretty as the songs make it out to be, Henrik."
Henrik shot him a challenging look, his youthful idealism clashing with Ras's seasoned cynicism. "Maybe not, but it's better to strive for something greater, isn't it? Better than just resigning yourself to the muck and ale of Flea Bottom."
Ras chuckled, a wry grin playing on his lips. "Ah, but muck and ale have their charm, my friend."
"Be serious, Ras."
Ras instead gave Henrik a playful shove with his shoulder, the clank of their armour echoing softly in the yard. "I am serious. Maybe one day you'll get your chance to be the hero. Just don't be too disappointed if it doesn't come with a chorus of minstrels singing your praises."
Turning his gaze back to the training yard, where the clatter of swords continued unabated, Henrik felt the stirrings of a determination that went beyond the confines of the Red Keep. "Then what about you? If you don't believe in the songs or honour, then what are you fighting for? Just ale and company? Is that it?"
Ras paused, the humour fading from his expression. He looked out across the yard, his gaze lingering on the younger guardsmen pushing each other in their drills. For a moment, Ras's rugged face softened, and his eyes drifted away, lost to a reflective shadow. "I never knew my mother," he said uncharacteristically quietly, almost to himself. "For all I know, she could have been a common whore. So, I had to accept the life the gods dealt me." His gaze returned to Henrik, sharp and clear. "We don't all get to choose our battles, nor how we leave this world. A quiet, unassuming death is all we can pray to the Gods for — wherever the fuck they may be."
Henrik felt a pang of sympathy mixed with a sombre realisation of the different worlds they both came from. He clapped Ras on the shoulder, a firm, supportive gesture, respecting the honesty. "There's something in that, too, I suppose. Even if it's not sung about in the great halls," he said.
Ras nodded, a grim smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Ah, that'd be the day — a little lord calling me honourable." He raised his sword, the earlier heaviness lifting slightly. "Come on then, let's get back to it. If war is coming, I'd rather not be rusty when it arrives."
As they resumed their positions, the clashing of their swords resumed. With a sudden burst of speed, Henrik lunged forward, his blade darting towards Ras with a series of quick feints. Ras, seasoned but momentarily off-guard, parried too slowly. Seizing the opening, Henrik executed a precise, controlled thrust that tapped gently against Ras's chest, marking the victory point. He then stepped back and sheathed his sword with a soft clink. Ras eyed him curiously.
Henrik swallowed. "I am going back to Fair Isle, and I thought that you should know."
There was a long silence. Ras frowned and considered Henrik critically. "Fair Isle? Why are you going back there?"
"I — my father has commanded me. I have no choice in the matter."
Ras's frown deepened, and he sheathed his sword with a resounding clank. "That's quite the journey. Your father's bidding, then?"
"Well, yes, I believe so."
"Hmm."
"What is it?"
"Nothin'."
"I just wanted to say goodbye in case our paths don't cross again."
"Goodbye then, Henrik," Ras muttered curtly, his tone betraying a hint of irritation. "Seems like your noble blood binds you tighter than any chain. Off you go then, back to your cushy life while the rest of us deal with whatever mess comes our way."
Henrik blinked, taken aback. His face flushed as he glared at Ras. "It's not like that!" he snapped, his hands balling into fists at his sides. "My father's instructions are clear, and Lord Farman has forbidden me from taking part in the battle. I must obey him."
Ras's annoyance simmered as he continued, his words sharp and biting. "I hear ya. But just remember, when you're sipping wine in your father's halls, there are those of us here who'll still be swinging swords and shedding blood for whatever cause comes next."
Henrik's chest tightened and his jaw clenched. "Look, I—"
"Answer me this. Are you a lord or not?" Ras challenged, stepping closer, his expression blunt and unforgiving.
Henrik recoiled slightly, winded by the verbal blow. "Not yet," he muttered.
His thoughts raced, turmoil bubbling within him. He couldn't help wondering. What would happen if he stayed and went against his father's wishes? Lord Farman was a forgiving man, yes, and it was always easier to ask for forgiveness than permission. But the memory of his father's look of unbearable disappointment held him back, anchoring his feet to the ground.
Ras sighed. "Look, you're a lord, Henrik, or well, you will be soon, as you say. Makes no fucking difference to me. I can't tell you to stay or go but sometimes, you have to make choices that no one else will like. A man has to make his own decisions. Us common folk learn that at age five."
"But how do I know if I'm making the right choice?" Henrik's voice was tinged with desperation.
"You don't," Ras said bluntly. "You make the best decision you can with the information you have. And you live with the consequences, come what may."
Henrik took a deep breath, absorbing Ras's words. He glanced around the training yard, taking in the faces of the men who depended on their leaders to make those tough calls. Disappointing Lord Farman was a task he loathed but he'd become a natural at it at this point in his life. He let out a tiny, bitter laugh. What was one more added? Was he truly willing to leave the capital and miss the battle defending the Keep against Stannis' forces, his first real chance at proving himself to be more than the reckless and thoughtless boy everyone thinks him to be?
Henrik sat mounted on his horse and grabbed the reins loosely. Jarak was on his right and Rubin to his left. The sea breeze tousled his hair as he watched Princess Myrcella, resplendent in her travel attire, ascend the gangway of the ship that would carry her to Dorne. The scene was one of parting sorrow and well-wishes, yet Henrik's attention was elsewhere.
Ahead, King Joffrey sat astride a magnificent palfrey, the morning light glinting off his golden crown while the Kingsguard flanked him. Beside him, Sansa rode a gentle mare, her face a mask of composed grace. It pained Henrik to see her tethered to him.
The narrow streets were lined by men of the City Watch, holding back the crowd with the shafts of their spears. He wondered if Ras was part of that retinue. He exchanged glances with some of the common folk. They look positively feverish and starved, he thought. Their faces were unwashed and glazed with resentment as they watched the riders. Henrik shifted uncomfortably in his saddle, a knot of discomfort emerging in his chest. Jarak lingered close as he noticed the faces. They won't hurt me, Henrik wanted to say. How can they? The thought was laughable at best. Most of them are unskilled labourers and common people who have never held a sword before.
They set off, traversing Fishmonger's Square, and proceeded along Muddy Way before turning onto the narrow, twisting Hook to begin their climb up Aegon's High Hill.
Jarak, who had been watching the crowd with a wary eye, murmured, his voice just above a whisper, "The people seem restless today, more than usual. It's as if they could break at the slightest provocation."
Rubin nodded, his gaze sweeping over the thin, hungry faces of the crowd with faint disgust. "Tensions are high, and food is low; it's a dangerous mix. We should be moving quicker."
Henrik glanced at Jarak, noticing his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, a reflex against potential unrest. "They need hope more than fear," Henrik stated, his voice firm yet low. "And food. See if you can throw them some coins."
Before anyone could reply a shout from a woman came from the crowd: "Whore!" she shrieked. Her face was twisted with loathing as she stared at the Queen Regent. "Kingslayer's whore! Brotherfucker! Brotherfucker, brotherfucker, brotherfucker."
Henrik's eyes widened in horror, not at her words but because the child in her arms suddenly went limp, falling like a sack of flour, lifeless as a straw dummy used for sword practice, as the woman let her arms fall wide. Rubin, his face pale, whispered a fervent prayer and traced the Seven-Pointed Star across his chest. At a subtle gesture from Jarak, several Household guards closed in around Henrik, their movements tense and alert.
A scream cut through, this time from the King, who looked practically rageful as he was splattered with dung all over his face. Henrik barely had time to soak in the glorious sight because his attention was captured by a fearful and wide-eyed Sansa. He wanted to move closer to her but he was blocked on all areas. He gnashed his teeth together and wished those in front to move quicker.
A resounding tempest of rage, fear, and hatred enveloped them from all sides, echoing through the air like a storm unleashed. "We want bread, bastard!" A thousand voices took up the chant. "Bread," they clamoured. "Bread, bread!"
Rubin's face was like thunder, hardened and like stone. "We need to go," he instructed Jarak. "Get him to the castle, to safety now!"
As the chants for bread swelled into a roar, Henrik felt the undercurrent of desperation in the air tighten like a noose. The sea of faces before him, no longer just a blur of suffering, surged with life — each wrinkle a story of hunger, each scowl a tale of anger unaddressed. They moved as one, a wave crashing against the shore of the royal procession. The crowd was a writhing entity, their faces blurred yet haunting in their despair. He felt a pang in his chest — an ache for the city that felt as sharp as a blade.
Jarak's eyes narrowed, scanning the crowd with the precision of a hawk. His hand never left the hilt of his sword, his stance coiled and ready. "We must make haste, Henrik. This is no place for parleys or pity."
Beside him, Rubin's features set into a grim mask, his lips barely moving as he muttered his orders to the guards. At that moment, a rock sailed through the air, narrowly missing Henrik's head and crashing against the cobblestones with a sharp thud. His heart skipped, adrenaline coursing through his veins, as the reality of the threat bore down on him. Jarak reacted instinctively, pushing Henrik forward, their horses' hooves clattering against the stone in a hurried rhythm.
"Keep your head down, and ride!" Jarak barked, his voice barely audible over the cacophony. He and Rubin formed a tighter circle around them, their armour clinking, a moving fortress.
The crowd pressed on like a line of advancing soldiers, crashing against them. Henrik was shoved from side to side, barely maintaining his seat atop his horse. The commotion intensified as Jarak, reacting to a sudden movement, drove his blade through a man who lunged towards them with the intent of. . . something. The man's life ebbed away on the ground, barely registering Henrik's shocked gaze.
"He wasn't armed!" Henrik snarled over the chorus of voices and shouts. "You didn't need to kill him. Can't you see — these people are crying for help!"
"He did have to die if you wanted to live. We can argue about this later, now, stop gawking, lad, and start moving," snapped Rubin, moving in circles close to him, his sword drawn and glimmering with scarlet.
Anger licked at his insides at being spoken to in such a way from someone beneath him but as they pushed through the throng, Henrik felt each jostle and shove like an accusation and the rebuke that sat on his tongue faded. The stones beneath them were slippery with refuse, the alleys echoing with cries for sustenance and justice. He glanced over his shoulder, catching a glimpse of a young boy's face, hollow-cheeked and wide-eyed, reaching out; a woman in the crowd, her hair wild around her shoulders, screamed herself hoarse from shouting, and a tear streaked down her dirt-smudged cheek, cutting a clear path in the grime.
"Focus, Henrik! Eyes front!" Rubin shouted, his voice a sharp command over the din.
Henrik's focus snapped to a more pressing concern. There was an empty space beside the King. Sansa's gentle mare was riderless, the reins dangling loosely from its neck. Panic clawed at his chest.
"Sansa!" he called out, his voice lost in the cacophony of cries and curses. He twisted in his saddle, eyes darting frantically. She was nowhere in sight. A cold dread settled over him. "She's gone!" he shouted, louder this time, hoping his voice would carry over the roar of the crowd and alert some attention. "Find her! You go and look for her right this second!" he barked at his guards, his voice cracking under the strain.
Jarak looked pained as he looked over but his face was resolute. "We are sworn to protect you, my lord."
"And as your future lord I am commanding you to go out there and look for her!" spat Henrik, clenching the reins of his horse tighter as it buckled and neighed under his strain.
Rubin, his face a mask of fury and concern, grabbed Henrik's arm. "This is madness! We must return to the castle!"
"No! I'm not going anywhere! She's not here, don't you understand?" His voice came out in a hiss.
Rubin, grim-faced and irate, grabbed Henrik's arm, ignoring him. "Enough of this childish argument! We need to leave, now!" His voice was a low growl, barely audible over the chaos.
They weren't listening to him at all. Why the fuck weren't they listening? He would have to do things himself it seemed. Ignoring Rubin, Henrik shoved him away and dismounted before he could think, his boots hitting the ground with determination. He heard Jarak and Rubin's panicked yell but they were swallowed by the crowd. He had no time for regrets. Time was of the essence. He shoved his way through the mass of bodies, desperation fueling his movements. He drew a dagger from his belt, the blade glinting ominously. It'd be quicker and more efficient than a sword at this moment as it gave him more space.
A shout drew his attention to the front. King Joffrey, his golden crown askew, sneered down from his horse, clearly uninterested in the plight of his subjects or the missing Sansa. The golden silhouette of the King's head disappeared into the distance, the Kingsguard in close formation around him, their armour catching the glints of the fading sun. They moved with relentless urgency towards the Keep's promised safety. Amidst this ordered retreat, the stark absence of Sansa was painfully evident.
Rage boiled over in Henrik. How could the King just leave like that? Where the fuck was Sansa? Without thinking, he pushed forward, his dagger finding its mark in a bystander who blocked his path. Blood spurted, staining his hands and clothes. His eyes wild with fury, Henrik plunged deeper into the crowd. Another obstacle, another desperate assailant met the same fate as the first, Henrik's blade slicing through the air with lethal precision. The rhythmic pounding of his heart echoed the screams that reverberated around him. Any hand that dared clutch at his cloak or doublet was swiftly met by the deadly kiss of his blade. He'd never been a religious person but he found himself praying to the old and new gods as a plea.
Covered in blood and his face smeared with dirt and gore, Henrik resembled less a noble knight or a perfumed couturier than a man possessed — more beast than man. The stench of blood and iron mingled with the acrid tang of fear, smothering Henrik as he cleaved a path through the sea of despairing faces. His breaths came in ragged gasps, the raw chill of the air scalding his lungs as if he were inhaling shards of glass.
Please, please, please.
Suddenly — a streak of red, a flash of a pale face marked with terror. Sansa. He couldn't breathe. She was pressed against a wall, her blue eyes wide with fear, her gown torn. Her appearance, so stark against the chaos around her, seemed to draw him with the force of a beacon. Henrik's focus narrowed, all else fading into a blur. He pushed forward, the crowd's resistance seeming to lessen as his determination grew.
He reached her side, his breath catching as he saw the stark terror in her eyes. "Sansa!" he called out, his voice hoarse. She looked at him, recognition flashing through her fear.
Before he could reach out to her, a large figure stepped between them. The Hound, his face a twisted mask of scars, his eyes mocking. Henrik's hand instinctively went to his sword, drawing it with a swift, ringing sound that sliced through the noise around them. The crowd steered clear at the sight of the blade.
His scarred face twisted into a sneer. "What's this, little lordling? Come to rescue your fair maiden?" The Hound's voice was rough, gravelly, carrying over the tumult like a jagged edge. His stance was relaxed, almost lazy as if he were toying with Henrik.
Henrik felt a surge of adrenaline coursing through him, his grip tightening on his sword. He ignored the mocking tone, his gaze fixed on Sansa, his only concern for her safety.
"You think you can protect her?" The Hound's laugh was a low, menacing rumble. "You're out of your depth, boy."
Henrik's jaw clenched, anger flaring hot and fierce within him. "Step aside," he growled, the tip of his sword steady despite the chaos around them. His stance was firm, the weight of his anger grounding him. He saw Sansa's hand reach out slightly, her fingers trembling.
The Hound snorted, his gaze shifting briefly to Sansa before settling back on Henrik with a dismissive scorn. "And what will you do, little lord? Kill me?" His challenge hung in the air, heavy and taunting.
Henrik's grip on his sword tightened, his knuckles whitening. He stepped closer, the point of his sword inching toward The Hound. "If I must," he said, each word punctuated with the seriousness of his intent.
Sansa's voice broke through the tension. "Please," she whispered, her voice shaky. Henrik's gaze flicked to her, her distress a sharp sting that bolstered his courage.
The Hound studied Henrik for a moment longer, his eyes narrowing. Then, with a grunt, he stepped aside. "We need to get her to safety quickly," he said gruffly, turning to blend back into the crowd. "These cunts are still braying for blood, they don't care whose."
"On that we both agree."
Henrik sheathed his sword quickly, reaching for Sansa's hand. Her fingers clung to his, cold and desperate. "It's going to be alright," he assured her, though his voice was thick with the dust and emotion of the riot.
Leading her through the thinning crowd, Henrik kept his body angled protectively around hers. His heart still raced, but now with a different urgency. He left his horse in the middle of the street and grimaced as he thought about how angry Rubin was going to be.
Henrik's relief at finding Sansa was short-lived. As they neared a clearing, Rubin's silhouette emerged from the shadows along with Jarak. Their eyes found Henrik's, sharp and assessing. The moment was tense, charged with unspoken questions about rash decisions made in the heat of the riot.
"Henrik!" Rubin's voice was a sharp crack in the relative quiet, his tone layered with relief and reproach. His gaze blazed with an intensity that promised a reckoning and then shifted subtly towards Jarak, signalling something unsaid but understood.
The Hound, with a gruff efficiency, had already lifted Sansa back onto her horse. She met Henrik's eyes, and he gave her a reassuring nod, though he knew he must look a damn sight with dried blood caked to his skin. He turned his head around.
As Henrik opened his mouth to respond, the world blurred — a sharp pain at the side of his head where Jarak's sword hilt met his temple with downright precision. Darkness edged his vision, a creeping blackness that swallowed his sight and senses. He heard the Hound curse, a distant sound as if underwater, and felt himself falling, the ground rushing up to meet him.
When consciousness returned to him, it was to the rocking motion of a horse. His head throbbed painfully, a dull, persistent ache that matched the rhythm of the horse's gait. Henrik blinked against the discomfort.
Rubin's face came into focus above him, the older man's expression a mix of relief and exasperation. "Fool boy," he muttered, but the anger had softened, replaced by a weary resignation.
"Where's Sansa?" Henrik's voice was hoarse, his throat dry.
"What is your obsession with the Stark girl I will never understand," grumbled Rubin. He sighed and then said, "Safe." He nodded toward the front where the Hound rode, Sansa's figure visible beside him, her posture stiff but secure on her horse. "Jarak thought it best to knock some sense into you, slow you down before you got yourself killed."
Henrik, despite the throbbing in his head, managed a wry grin and murmured, "Instruct Jarak to next time just send a raven," then his eyes fluttered shut as he succumbed to the darkness again.
Henrik's limbs ached as he washed the blood from his body. The warm water sluiced away the grime and gore, but it did little to cleanse the stain in his heart nor the tempest roiling within his mind.
Freshly clothed in simple, clean linens, he felt a hollow echo of peace that he knew wouldn't last. The weight of the day's revolt, the screams of the common folk, and the haunting image of Sansa, pale and frightened, swirled through his thoughts like a dark storm, urging him toward the godswood for solace. It was the only place that he felt he could bear right now.
As he approached the heart of the godswood, the sight of the ancient weirwood tree with its weeping face seemed to draw him closer with an invisible pull. Its stark white bark and red sap tears stood sentinel in the quiet twilight. Henrik felt his knees buckle, not with physical weariness but from the overwhelming burden of his responsibilities and fears. He sank to the ground before the eerie visage, his head bowed, seeking answers or perhaps forgiveness.
A sob escaped his lips, cutting into the sharp air.
He still felt the dry residue of blood clinging stubbornly to his skin, an unwelcome reminder of the irreversible path he had chosen. Despite his frantic attempts to cleanse himself, the stain persisted, an indelible mark etched not just upon his flesh, but upon his very soul. Would he ever stop seeing the faces, feverish and starving? Was this the price of his sin? The price of taking lives.
The sounds of the castle and the city beyond faded into a hushed whisper, and his eyelids grew heavy with a sudden, mystical fatigue. The last thing he saw before his vision blurred into sleep was the solemn, bleeding face of the weirwood, watching him with age-old sorrow.
Henrik stood in a vast hall shrouded in shadows and whispers. The atmosphere was charged with an ancient tension, palpable and thick. Torches flickered along the walls, their light casting long, sinuous shadows that danced like spectres on the stone floor. At the end of this spectral hall, a great throne rose majestically — not wrought of twisted iron but of roots and branches that wove together to form a seat of primal power. His brows furrowed. This was not the Iron Throne, of that much he was aware of.
An old woman, her back as crooked as the limbs of the tree, beckoned him closer. Her finger, gnarled and twisted as the roots of the throne, seemed to pull at the very fibres of his soul. Henrik, his heart pounding with a mix of dread and awe, moved toward her, his limbs moving not of his own accord. He felt like he knew this woman, like an old distant relative maybe. Her eyes, deep and fathomless as the ocean, fixed on him as she whispered with the rustling sound of waves crashing against a rocky shore, "The North remembers, young lord, but so should the son of the sea."
Compelled by a force he couldn't understand, Henrik approached the throne cautiously. As his fingers brushed against the intertwined roots, the hall seemed to dissolve into a vision of tumultuous seas. He was on the deck of a ship, its sails battered yet resilient crested the storm-tossed waves. The scene was a chaotic symphony of thunderous skies and surging ocean.
The vision changed yet again, and Henrik found himself walking across sands that turned from golden to blood-red with each step he took. The sands whispered of battles fought and yet to come, of blood spilt in the name of honour and conquest.
Suddenly, flames erupted around a distant, shadowy figure obscured by smoke and the red glow of fire. A dragon, its scales a mirror of the night sky, soared overhead with a deafening roar. From the inferno, a woman with hair of pale silver strode towards him, her features obscured by the intensity of the flames enveloping her.
As the vision shifted once more, Henrik reached for a crown that appeared before him, wrought of thorns that transformed into laurels upon his touch. He lifted his gaze to see the maiden with flame-coloured hair, her head crowned with snow, stepping forward from the realm of shadows. She offered him a branch of weirwood, its leaves rustling with a promise of untold secrets.
Henrik awoke with a start, his breath ragged and chest heaving.
Hello! This is probably my favourite chapter I've written so far. Hope this didn't suck, but let me know of course.
Anyway, posting this before work tomorrow but it's half-term for us here in the UK so some silver lining at least. Praying that it's going to be quiet.
Hope you guys are having a good week. See you next time!