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Henrik VIII
Henrik's limbs were still heavy with fatigue as he made his way through the labyrinthine corridors of the Red Keep. He had not been sleeping well, his dreams haunted by unsettling visions of blood, fire, and the sea. These were not the usual dreams of exotic lands and grand adventures, nor the occasional images of his father. These were darker, more perplexing. The fire felt real, the blood tangible, and the endless sea overwhelming. The weight of his dreams clung to him, each step echoing with uncertainty and dread that had settled deep within his bones.
The castle was quieter than usual, the previous events casting a sombre pall over its inhabitants. The dawn light filtered through the high windows, casting long shadows that seemed to echo the darkness within his mind.
Henrik needed to see Sansa as desperately as he needed to breathe. He had to know she was truly safe. Days had passed with no news of her, not even a glimpse. Her entrance to her chambers was guarded day and night. The security around the Red Keep had tightened — a consequence of the King's growing paranoia of the common people's attempt to breach the castle walls resulting from the riot. Multiple guards littered around the hallways and the White Cloaks were posted everywhere. Even Rubin had become unbearably suffocating, more so than usual, and Henrik found himself itching to plunge a knife into him and rid himself of his presence.
Henrik's thread of patience was about to snap. And so he'd shaken Rubin and Jarak off his heels as he prowled through the hallways, offering a nod as he came across another noble. He pressed on, his eyes scanning every shadowy nook and corner of the castle as he moved. He knew Sansa often retreated to the gardens when she sought peace. It was a slim hope, but it was the only one he had before Rubin realised he'd disappeared. He headed towards the southern wing, where the windows overlooked the sprawling greenery of the royal gardens.
Reaching the southern corridor, Henrik slowed his pace, peering out each window he passed. His pulse quickened when he spotted a flash of red hair. It was Sansa, seated on a stone bench, her posture rigid with tension.
The nearest door to the gardens was also guarded, but, hoping to avoid that and any unnecessary questions, Henrik noticed a group of servants exiting a side door, baskets of laundry in hand. Seizing the opportunity, he followed them closely, slipping through the door unnoticed. Once outside, Henrik moved quickly, keeping low to avoid the watchful eyes of the guards stationed around the perimeter. He reached the cover of the trees and began to weave his way towards Sansa.
As he approached, he saw her gaze was distant, lost in thought. He called her name softly, not wanting to startle her. "Sansa."
Sansa looked up at him. Her face was pale, but her eyes were clear, and she offered him a small, tentative smile. She was dressed simply, her hair loose around her shoulders, and she looked almost fragile in the morning light. He couldn't help but stare. She was like the maiden come to life.
"My lord," she said softly.
"Sansa. . ."
His expression resumed its courtly mask. "I was just about to visit the godswood."
"Yes, of course. Um, may I join you?" he asked.
Her eyes flickered with surprise, but she nodded. "I would welcome the company."
Sansa bade her handmaidens to remain. They walked in silence, the noise of the castle fading as they entered the peaceful sanctuary of the godswood. The ancient trees stood tall and imposing, their leaves whispering secrets only the wind could understand. The weirwood tree, with its ghostly white bark and red leaves, loomed ahead, its face etched with eternal sorrow. Henrik shivered. He hadn't been here since his visions and it felt as if the face was peering deep into him, unravelling his soul. He swallowed and looked away, feeling as if he was turning stark-raving mad.
He'd never been a devoutly religious man — that had always been more Rubin's habit — but now, he couldn't shake the sensation of a thousand eyes watching him. It was an unsettling feeling, one he doubted he'd ever get used to. He glanced at Sansa, wondering if she felt the same unease. Or perhaps she found comfort in it, a sort of reminder of her home.
His thoughts drifted towards his beloved Faircastle, the grand fortress perched on the rugged cliffs overlooking the sea. He remembered the salty tang of the sea breeze that filled his lungs and the rhythmic crash of waves against the rocky shore. From his chamber windows, he could see the endless stretch of the Sunset Sea, its surface sparkling under the golden sunlight. The sight of ships in the distance, their sails billowing as they caught the wind, always filled him with a sense of wonder and wanderlust. He could almost hear the creaking of the rigging and the distant calls of the merchants as they bought in daily goods for trade. The surrounding hills were lush and green, dotted with wildflowers that added splashes of colour; the sweet scent of these blossoms mingled with the briny air, creating a fragrance that was uniquely Faircastle. The call of seabirds echoed through the air, blending with the rustle of leaves in the gentle breeze.
He inhaled deeply and stared at the delicate side of Sansa's face. She would love it there. The unexpected thought flickered in his mind suddenly like a raven's shadow across the snow. He wouldn't restrict her movements like in the Red Keep. He imagined her wandering through the castle's gardens, her laughter carried by the wind, her red hair catching the sunlight as she explored the rugged coastline and the meadows filled with vibrant blooms. He envisioned her standing by his side on the ramparts, the two of them watching the sun sink into the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange, pink, and purple.
It can never be, you fool. You forget yourself.
The voice in his head sounded suspiciously like Rubin's but his father's stern expression flashed into his mind. He cleared his throat. Yes, it would never happen, of course. Sansa was to be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and Joffrey her husband. Henrik's days would be filled with the mundane yet essential tasks of governance — ensuring the harvests were plentiful, maintaining the castle's defences, and managing the intricate web of alliances and loyalties that kept their domain secure. My life is duty's shadow, he thought.
They reached the godswood's heart, where a small stone bench sat beneath the weirwood. Sansa hesitated before sitting, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Henrik stood for a moment, watching, before taking a seat beside her. He was close enough to breathe in the sweet scent that wafted from her, causing him to feel as if he'd become intoxicated with cups of Dornish wine.
"How are you this morning, my lady?" he began.
"Quite well, I thank you for asking. And yourself?" she asked, blinking her blue eyes at him.
Henrik flashed a rueful smile, his eyes crinkling at the edges. "Well, I must admit I have seen better days."
Sansa's eyes softened. "The castle feels different these days," she said quietly. "The air is thick with tension, and everyone seems on edge." She paused, her gaze dropping to her hands. "I've found it hard to sleep, too."
"You are not alone in that, my lady. Visions and dreams have haunted my sleep. They leave me feeling restless and weary."
"What kind of visions?" Sansa asked, her curiosity piqued.
He hesitated, unsure of how much to reveal. The dreams were deeply personal, and he had no wish to burden her with his troubles. But there was something in her eyes, a gentle concern that made him want to confide in her. They had become friends, had they not?
"Visions of fire and blood, of the sea crashing endlessly. They feel so real as if the gods themselves are trying to speak, yet their words are shrouded in shadows. I am no maester, no scholar versed in ancient tomes — I cannot decipher them."
Sansa's expression grew thoughtful. "My father used to say that the old gods communicate through the weirwood trees, telling us something. Perhaps your dreams are a message from them, a warning or a guide."
Henrik shivered once more, his eyes fixed on the weirwood's sorrowful visage. The warning it imparted felt ominous, its gravity pressing heavily on his mind. What could the old gods possibly want with him? "Perhaps," he muttered, his voice tinged with unease. "But what message would they have for me? I am no one of great importance." He was not a king, merely a lord. Or was this a cruel jest by the gods, a way to toy with mortals as if they were mere puppets, their strings pulled at the whim of divine hands? The thought made his lips tighten in displeasure, a deep frown etching across his face.
He was no man's or god's puppet.
Sansa shook her head. "The gods choose whom they will. Maybe you are destined for something greater than you realise. You are important," she emphasised, "You're important to me."
Something inexplicable flickered in his chest, something fearsome. He settled on surprise most likely and swallowed the lump in his throat.
"I appreciate your words," he said softly. "They bring me some comfort."
They sat in silence for a while, the sounds of the godswood enveloping them. The rustle of leaves, the distant chirping of birds, and the gentle breeze all seemed to create a cocoon of peace around them. Henrik felt the tension in his shoulders ease slightly.
"Sansa," he began, his voice hesitant. "I've been meaning to ask you — how have you been?"
"I've been perfectly well."
"No, I—" He sighed. "I just meant that I worry for you. I fear for your well-being, especially after the terrible riot—" He broke off.
She looked at him, her eyes wide with surprise. "I. . . I have guards and handmaidens to protect me. And. . . and my beloved Joffrey—"
"The King is the reason I worry," Henrik interrupted with his voice sharper than he intended. "He is unpredictable and cruel. You deserve better than to be trapped here, under his control."
Sansa's face paled, and she glanced around nervously. "You mustn't speak of such things, Henrik. It is treasonous. If anyone heard you. . ."
"I know," he said quickly, the words tumbling out in haste. He rubbed his hands across his face. "Forgive me. I just. . . I have come to care about you, Sansa. A great deal and I wish to see you happy and safe."
The confession hung in the air, vulnerable and raw. He hadn't meant to say so much, to expose the depth of his sentiments so plainly. But now it was done, and the silence that followed was unbearable.
Sansa's face was a mask, unreadable. She was still for a moment, as if weighing his words before she reached out and placed a hand gently on Henrik's arm. The touch was light, almost tentative, but it sent a shiver down his spine, one he barely managed to suppress despite the warmth of the sun.
"Henrik, I know your concern comes from a place of care, and for that, I am grateful." Her voice was barely above a whisper, and her eyes darted around, making sure no one was within earshot. "But we must be cautious with our words. The walls have ears, and it is easy for a careless whisper to turn into a death sentence."
Henrik took a deep breath, nodding. All he could focus on was Sansa. The thought that others might be listening hadn't even crossed his mind. "You speak true," he murmured, a note of resignation in his voice. "But the thought of you in pain. . . it rends me, deeper than any blade."
Sansa offered him a sad smile. "I have learnt to endure much, my lord. But knowing I have friends who care for me gives me strength, even in the darkest of times."
Henrik felt a wave of helplessness wash over him. An urge welled up inside him. "If there was anything I could do to change your fate, I would. I want to protect you, Sansa, with all that I am."
Her smile grew faintly, but the sadness in her eyes deepened, a sorrow that seemed to transcend words. It was a look that made him feel more wretched than any harsh rebuke could have.
"I believe you've forgotten that you're leaving soon, my lord. For Faircastle, are you not? Your duty calls you away, and though I am touched by your words, they cannot change what is. The path we walk is set."
"Leaving? Oh, of course, yes. . ." he muttered, the reality of his obligations crashing down on him with brutal clarity. He swallowed hard, trying to push down the bitterness rising in his throat. He hadn't even thought about that in a while — how could he, when every fibre of his being was consumed by the thought of her?
Sansa's hand lingered on his arm, her touch grounding him even as his mind raced. "You have a noble heart, Henrik," she said, her voice almost a whisper as if the words were meant for him alone. "But your duty lies elsewhere, as does mine."
Henrik gave a distracted nod, and they sat in a heavy silence. After a moment, he finally broke it, his voice low and tentative.
"How, um, how are you faring, Sansa, you know, after. . . after that dreadful day? The city was a storm of chaos, madness on every street. It felt as though the very world had turned against us, didn't it?"
Henrik regretted the words as soon as he'd said them. Sansa's face paled, the flush of youth drained away, leaving her ashen, her eyes wide and hollowed. Her hands, so delicate and graceful, trembled as she clasped them tightly together, the knuckles blanching to bone-white. He wanted to reach out and touch her hand but he feared that she'd flinch away from him, not that he blamed her. Henrik's anger flared, a hot, coiling serpent in his gut as he thought about the chaos of the riot and how everything could turn so wrong. It was as if the very heart of King's Landing had been laid bare, raw and festering, and the city had devoured itself in a frenzy of hunger and hopelessness.
"Forgive me, Sansa," Henrik said, his voice faltering. "I didn't mean to—"
"When the crowd surged," she began softly, "and I was pulled from my horse. . . I thought I was going to die," she murmured. "Their hands were everywhere, pulling at me, shouting. . . I could barely breathe. If it weren't for the Hound. . . Ser Clegane, I don't know what would have happened to me." She paused. "The fear in their eyes was more terrifying than their anger. It was like they had nothing to lose. I was certain that I would be trampled or left there to die. Sometimes, when I close my eyes, I can still feel their hands on me, pulling, clawing. It's as if I'm still there, trapped in that nightmare."
Sansa stared at the lace on her dress, her eyes barely raising to meet his. It was like she was elsewhere instead of with him, in another realm most likely, and Henrik didn't want to interrupt her.
She swallowed hard. "I remember falling, the ground rough beneath me. I was trying to crawl away, to escape, but they were everywhere. One of them grabbed my hair, yanked me back. I screamed, but it was lost in the chaos. No one was coming for me. I closed my eyes, praying for it to be over, for someone to help me."
Her eyes flickered with a strange mixture of fear and gratitude.
"Ser Clegane came then. He. . . he was very brave. He picked me up, carried me away from that hell. His face was bloody, his eyes wild. I think he killed some of them. I don't know. I was too scared to look." Sansa's hands were trembling now, and she clasped them tighter as if trying to hold herself together. She sharply inhaled and looked up at him. "Then. . . then you came. I saw you there. . . covered in blood, I think. I remember your face when you found me. You looked. . . different."
Henrik blinked against the bright light streaming through the canopy of the godswood. He nodded. "I was covered in blood," he admitted. "Not all of it was mine."
"You risked your life for me," she said softly, her voice laden with gratitude and something deeper, a hint of bewilderment. "Why?"
Henrik's heart clenched, and he met her gaze, his eyes earnest. He didn't understand why she was so baffled. Why wouldn't he come? "I couldn't leave you in that madness," he replied, his voice low.
"But you aren't a knight, my lord. Nor am I your duty."
"You're right," he said and held her gaze steadily. "But some bonds go beyond duty, and you are one of them. It's not about duty it's about what you mean to me. You're my friend, someone I care very deeply about. It's not a question of why I would risk my life."
A faint blush coloured her cheeks as she said softly, "You've become my greatest solace here, Henrik." Despair crossed her face before she quickly masked it. "I will miss you very much when you leave."
His chest felt heavy. The thought of leaving filled him with a deep, gnawing resentment — not just toward the circumstances that demanded his departure, but toward his father, who had insisted on his obligations, and Rubin, who seemed to carry none of the weight of duty that Henrik felt so keenly.
Sansa looked up, her eyes meeting his with a depth of emotion that made his heartache. "My handmaiden told me that the people are starving," she said softly. "She said they were desperate, that they would have done anything for a piece of bread. That's why they were so angry with Joffrey, with the Queen. If I had known. . . if I had the chance, I would have given them bread."
Henrik blinked, taken aback by her words. "You would have given them bread? Why? After what they did to you?" The question slipped out, his voice tinged with disbelief. It seemed almost absurd that she could harbour any sympathy for those people.
"Yes," she replied, her voice firm despite its softness. "They are suffering, Henrik. They are angry and scared. I cannot blame them for lashing out. It's the ones in power who have failed them. If I could ease their suffering, even a little, I would."
Henrik was silent for a moment, his mind reeling. He had expected bitterness, perhaps even hatred, but not this. "Sansa, you are. . . remarkable."
He felt tainted, as though his very soul had been blighted by the shadows of his actions. Flexing his fingers, he couldn't shake the vivid memories of blood and violence that haunted him. The riot had been a blur of carnage and desperation, and he had killed without hesitation. Men, women, probably even children — faces contorted in fear and anguish, just as Sansa had described. At the time, he had felt nothing but a cold detachment, a single-minded need to find her, to protect her at all costs.
But now, standing before her, he felt the damp warmth of blood on his hands, the desperate cries echoing in his ears. Sansa's kindness was a stark contrast to his ruthless efficiency. Henrik felt tears sting his eyes and blinked them back. He acted like the Gold Cloaks who cut down Alavin in the streets. Sansa would hate him. His father would think him some depraved, blood-lusted fool. This wasn't duty killing.
Henrik turned away, unable to meet Sansa's gaze any longer. He felt a deep, gnawing shame in the pit of his stomach. He clenched his fists, feeling the phantom stickiness of blood that would never truly wash away.
Henrik's boots trudged through the cobblestone path of Fishmonger's Square. Jarak kept behind him at his heels, hand resting near the gilt of his sword lazily, though his countenance remained alert. The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows that seemed to stretch out like grasping hands. The bustling market was filled with the clamour of merchants hawking their wares, the frantic cries of the hungry, and the occasional clatter of horse hooves against stone. The commoner's eyes were shifty at every stranger that came near or the swish of a Gold Cloak. They too were feeling the aftereffects of the riots. The King had put a city-wide curfew for all the common folk and anyone found would be cut down.
As he moved through the crowded streets, Henrik noticed the stark disparity between the Red Keep's opulence and the common people's destitution. The stench of unwashed bodies and the sharp tang of misery clung to the air, making Henrik's stomach churn. Faces lined with hunger and distress surrounded him, each one a poignant reminder of Sansa's words about giving bread to the starving. He marvelled at his previous obliviousness and pondered if his own people in Fair Isle endured similar hardships. Was his father unaware of their plight, or did he choose to ignore it? A lord's duty was to his people, after all.
A woman with hollow cheeks and a threadbare shawl caught his eye. She clutched a small child to her chest, the child's eyes wide and vacant. Henrik's heart tightened at the sight of the gaunt, malnourished face, which spoke of long days without enough to eat. He swallowed the lump in his throat. The woman met his gaze briefly, her eyes as empty and lifeless as his old wooden toy horses, before she turned away, disappearing into the crowd as a nearby Gold Cloak began to eye her suspiciously.
Suddenly, Henrik noticed a commotion near a market stall. A young girl, no older than ten, was being roughly handled by a merchant. The merchant's face was red with fury as he gripped the girl's arm tightly, shaking her. Her tattered clothing — if you could call it that — barely covered her gaunt frame and hung loosely.
"Thief!" the merchant bellowed, drawing the attention of passersby. "This little wretch tried to steal from me!"
The girl's eyes were wide with dread, her face streaked with tears and dirt. She struggled to break free, but the merchant's grip was too strong. "I didn't steal anything!" she cried, her voice trembling and high-pitched. "I was just looking!"
"Looking, were you?" the merchant sneered. "With your hands in my basket of apples? You're a little liar, that's what you are! You know what the Gold Cloaks do with liars and thieves, girl? They cut their tongues and hands off just as you rightly deserve. Come, we shall pay them a little visit!"
"No, please, Mister! No! I didn't mean it! Please, no!" The girl's shrieks were unbearable; people threw a quick look in her direction but hurried quicker, lest they draw attention to themselves.
Without hesitation, Henrik stepped forward, his presence commanding attention. The merchant, alarmed, released the girl, his knuckles whitening as he loosened his grip on her arm. Jarak was quick to stand near him, hand on his sword. The girl stumbled back, clutching the empty space where she had been restrained, her wide eyes darting between Henrik and the merchant.
"What seems to be the problem here?" Henrik's voice was calm, yet it carried an unyielding authority that silenced the bustling market around them.
The merchant's anger flickered, replaced by a wary look. "This little thief tried to steal from me, m'lord," he said, his voice wavering slightly. "Had her hands right in my basket of apples."
Henrik knelt to the girl's level, noting the grime that clung to her cheeks and the sunken look in her eyes. He then stood, his gaze hardening as he reached into his pouch and pulled out a gold coin. "Here, see to it that this covers the cost of the apples and whatever else she requires."
The merchant's eyes widened at the sight of the coin, greed overtaking his previous indignation. He snatched it quickly, nodding. "Very well, m'lord." He turned to the girl and thrust a loaf of bread and a chunk of cheese into her trembling hands with a scowl. "Here, girl, take it and go."
Henrik looked at the girl, her eyes now fixed on the food as if it might vanish. "What's your name?" he asked softly.
"Elara," she whispered, her voice trembling like a leaf in the wind.
"Elara, take this food home. My guard will escort you to ensure you get there safely." He glanced at Jarak, who stood behind him, his expression a mix of reluctance and obedience. "Jarak, make sure she gets home without any trouble."
Jarak nodded curtly. "As you command, my lord."
Elara looked up at Henrik with a mixture of awe and confusion, her small hands clutching the bread, apples and cheese tightly. She hesitated, her small frame trembling.
"Go on," Henrik urged gently, nodding toward Jarak, who was already motioning for Elara to follow. "You'll be safe with him. I'll give you my word."
Elara's eyes flitted between Henrik and the food in her hands as if trying to decide whether this was all some cruel trick. She gave a small, shaky nod and took a step toward Jarak, who waited with an air of impatience. "Thank you, m'lord," she said, her voice barely audible.
Henrik nodded, watching as Jarak led the girl away through the sea of people. The crowd, which had gathered to witness the spectacle, began to disperse, murmurs of surprise and curiosity rippling through them.
The same merchant, having pocketed the gold, attempted a smile, but it came off as a grimace. "A kind deed, m'lord," he said, almost grudgingly. "But can't be too careful, especially these days."
Henrik turned his gaze back to the merchant, his expression hardening. "The city's full of people who are starving," he replied, his voice carrying an edge that made the merchant take an involuntary step back. "If more people showed kindness, perhaps we wouldn't have so many thieves to worry about."
The merchant swallowed, the colour draining slightly from his face. "Of course, m'lord. I meant no offence."
"See that you remember it," Henrik said coldly, his eyes narrowing. He turned away without another word, leaving the merchant standing there, clutching his precious coin.
Henrik moved quietly through the corridors, his eyes fixed on the figure of Ser Dontos. He'd more or less forgotten about the man until a certain sight struck his interest.
The former knight, now reduced to the status of the King's Fool, was hovering far too close to Sansa for Henrik's liking. There was something about the way Ser Dontos lingered that set Henrik on edge. He kept watching from the shadows of a column as Sansa walked through the castle courtyard.
As Sansa paused by a fountain, Dontos approached her. Henrik strained to hear their conversation but could only catch snippets.
"My lady. . . must trust me. . . your brave fool. . ." Dontos mumbled, his eyes darting around nervously.
Sansa's reply was too soft to hear, but her posture was tense. She seemed wary of him and Henrik didn't like that at all. Ser Dontos finally gave a clumsy bow, completely unworthy of the graceful curtsey she offered him and turned on his heels. Henrik lay flat against the column as he passed him, his breaths wheezing and his face red, just the amount of wine he'd drunk no doubt. Henrik covered his nose. Gods, even the stench of him from here was enough to make him flee and felt unwavering sympathy for Sansa for having to deal with the oaf of a fool.
Dontos turned into a secluded corridor, and Henrik quickened his pace, his hand instinctively moving to the hilt of his sword. The corridor was dimly lit by flickering torches, and the sounds of the keep faded, leaving an eerie silence.
"Ser Dontos," Henrik called, his voice low but firm. Dontos spun around, eyes wide with surprise.
"L—Lord Henrik," Dontos stammered, his face pale in the torchlight. "I—I didn't see you there."
Henrik closed the distance between them in a few strides, his eyes narrowing. "What business do you have with Lady Sansa?"
"My lord?"
"I will not ask again, Ser. State your business."
Dontos swallowed hard, glancing around nervously. "I. . . I mean her no harm," he insisted, his voice shaking. "I only wish to help her. She's alone here, surrounded by enemies."
Henrik's grip tightened around the hilt of his sword. "And what help could you possibly offer?" he asked, his voice a low growl. "You, a drunken fool, who barely stands upright without swaying?"
Ser Dontos straightened, drawing what little dignity he could muster. "I may be a fool now, but I was a knight once. I know how to protect a lady."
Henrik stared at Ser Dontos, his eyes piercing through the man's frail bravado. The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken threats. Disgust bubbled in Henrik's stomach the longer he kept looking at the pathetic fool.
"You were a knight," Henrik echoed, his voice dripping with contempt. "A knight who disgraced himself and now hides behind jests and wine."
Dontos flinched at the words, but he held his ground, his eyes meeting Henrik's with a fleeting spark of defiance. Henrik nearly admired his mindless courage. "I made mistakes, yes, but that does not mean I cannot do something right now."
Henrik took a step closer, his voice lowering to a dangerous whisper. "You speak of protecting Lady Sansa. If I find you causing her any distress, I will not hesitate to end whatever game you're playing. You will have me to answer to. Do you understand?"
Dontos swallowed hard, the flickering torchlight casting shadows across his pallid, ruddy face. "I mean her no distress, my lord. I swear it on my honour."
Henrik's grip on his sword tightened. He scoffed and moved closer again, glare deepening. "Honour? You speak of honour, yet you wear the motley of a fool. Let me make one thing clear — if I find out you've harmed her in any way, there will be no jest left in you. When the time comes, not a soul will mourn the absence of the King's Fool, and I will see to it personally."
Dontos bowed his head, a gesture that might have been respectful if not for the slight sway in his stance. His throat quivered. "As. . . as you command, Lord Henrik," he muttered, the words barely audible.
Henrik's eyes bore into Dontos for a moment longer before he finally stepped back, the former knight visibly deflating in his absence.
"Good. Now go."
Henrik watched as Ser Dontos shuffled away, his steps unsteady. The man's fear had been discernible, and Henrik couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to this fool than met the eye. He just didn't know what and he'd never been good at deciphering things.
He made his way to his quarters, the familiar surroundings offering little comfort. Henrik removed his sword and placed it carefully on the table. He poured himself a small cup of wine, more out of habit than desire, and sat by the window, looking out over King's Landing. The city flickered like a thousand stars.
What was his purpose here? He'd already sworn fealty to the king as his duty demanded. Was he to go back to Faircastle and hide away the rest of his days without getting a taste of battle? Of something more than the clanging of swords in the training yard. His skills could finally be put to the test if he did stay.
Henrik's thoughts drifted to Sansa. She had a strength that belied her fragile appearance, a strength that Henrik found himself drawn to. He couldn't bear the thought of her being trapped in a life of misery and fear, under the control of a tyrant like Joffrey. Was he to leave and never see her again? Never to see those bewitching ocean-blue eyes?
He stood up abruptly, the wine sloshing in his cup. He paced the room, his mind racing. He couldn't simply leave, not without trying to do something. Nobody would care for Sansa if he did leave. It was proven that the King certainly didn't as he didn't bother to return for his betrothed. Maybe the Hound considering he was the only other person to look for her during the riots. But Sansa still feared him. Henrik could tell by the way she stared at him. Henrik shook his head. The Hound was a wildcard, unpredictable and dangerous.
But what could he do? He turned away from the window, his gaze falling on his sword. The blade gleamed in the dim light. He had been trained to fight, to protect. Maybe that was his purpose, to use his skills and his position to make a difference. But how? He was just a lord, bound by duty and the expectations of his station.
The thought of Ser Dontos made him scowl. Why was that pitiful fool that close to Sansa in the first place? The man's drunken attempts at gallantry were deplorable at best and dangerous at worst. He dishonoured her by simply being in her presence. Henrik couldn't trust him, but he also couldn't dismiss the possibility that Dontos might be genuinely trying to help.
He took another sip of wine, the burn warming his blood. The truth is that he wanted to stay. He wanted to protect the city, to offer his sword and skills to defend it. He envisioned himself leading men into battle, his sword gleaming in the sun, his name on the lips of every bard and noble. He wanted glory, to prove himself in battle, to carve out a name that would echo through the ages. He had been trained for this, for bravery and honour. But more than that, he wanted to stay for Sansa.
The heavy wooden door creaked open, and Henrik entered, his steps hesitant yet resolute. The young lord's eyes darted around the room, taking in the details before settling on Tyrion.
"Ah, Lord Henrik," Tyrion greeted, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. He had a heavy tome laid out in front. Henrik eyed it warily. "Do come in. We have much to discuss."
Henrik approached the desk, nodding respectfully. "Lord Tyrion, you summoned me?"
Tyrion motioned to a chair. "Please, sit."
Henrik took the offered seat, his posture straight and attentive. Bronn leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching the exchange with keen interest. Tyrion held the scroll in his hands, the one that Rubin had scribed for him.
"I take it you're still leaving for Faircastle I assume," asked Tyrion.
Henrik hesitated, his brow furrowing. "I had intended to, my lord. But I have reconsidered."
Tyrion raised an eyebrow, curiosity gleaming in his mismatched eyes. He dropped the letter. "Oh? And what has prompted this change of heart?"
Henrik's gaze shifted briefly to Bronn before returning to Tyrion. "The city is in turmoil. The people are restless, and the threat of Stannis Baratheon looms ever closer. I cannot abandon King's Landing in its hour of need. My place is here, to aid in its defence."
Tyrion leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepling as he regarded Henrik with a measured gaze. The flicker of amusement in his eyes deepened, though his tone remained neutral. "Loyalty to King's Landing, how admirable. One might even call it. . . surprising."
Henrik shifted uncomfortably in his seat, but he held Tyrion's gaze. "It is not merely loyalty, my lord. It is duty. My house has long served the crown, and I will not be the first to shirk that responsibility. My men and I are ready to stand and fight."
Tyrion nodded thoughtfully, his gaze never leaving Henrik's. "Loyalty and duty, two virtues oft spoken of, yet seldom seen in practice. Tell me, my lord, do you believe they will keep you alive when Stannis's ships darken the horizon? When his soldiers breach the walls of this city?"
Bronn snorted from his place by the wall, his amusement evident. "Loyalty doesn't stop a sword from spilling your guts, lad."
Henrik's lips thinned, and he leaned forward slightly, his own hands gripping the arms of his chair. "My house has fought in wars before, and we have always emerged stronger. I will do whatever is necessary to protect my people, and that includes standing with you against Stannis Baratheon."
Tyrion regarded him for a long moment, the silence in the room thick and oppressive. Finally, he nodded, almost imperceptibly. "Very well. Your resolve is commendable, Lord Henrik. We shall need every sword and every ounce of courage we can muster."
"Of course."
"But seeing as you're here, I must caution you that the city is on edge, as you've no doubt understood by now," Tyrion began, his tone serious. "The news of the northern victories has everyone from the highest lords to the lowest beggars in a state of unrest. We need to ensure King's Landing is prepared for any eventuality."
Henrik nodded. "And what is it that you require of me, my lord?"
Bronn interjected with a smirk. "Well, for starters, keeping your head on your shoulders would be a good move. And making sure your men are ready to fight, not just parade around in their shiny armour."
Tyrion shot Bronn a mildly exasperated look before turning back to Henrik. "Bronn is right, though his delivery could use some polish. We need your men to be ready for the front lines. Defence fortifications are crucial. How are your troops faring?"
Henrik straightened. "They are trained and loyal."
Tyrion nodded approvingly. "Good. We need every sword we can muster."
"But, my lord hand, my men are simply household guards, the real troops are with my father I fear."
"Yes, well, we need every able-bodied man ready to defend the city. I trust you're prepared. Your presence here is more crucial than you realise. The city is on the brink, and we need people who can inspire and protect."
Henrik nodded, decisiveness etched in his features. "We will stand ready, my lord Hand. Whatever is needed."
Tyrion leaned forward in his chair, a crease between his brows. "The city is a tinderbox, and one spark could set it aflame and turn us all into ashes. We must tread carefully. Every second we spend sleeping or waking or talking, Stannis inches closer to us." Tyrion stood, motioning for Henrik to follow. "Come."
Henrik blinked and rose from his chair. "My lord?"
"Come with me to the war room. Your input would be greatly appreciated. We need fresh perspectives and strong wills."
"As you wish, my lord Hand."
Bronn pushed off from the wall and gave him a curt nod. "Good luck, lad. War's a nasty business. Keep your wits about you."
The three men made their way through the dimly lit corridors of the Red Keep, their footsteps echoing off the stone walls. He knew Rubin was going to be furious but Henrik couldn't muster any care within him. He made his decision and felt light and heavy all at the same time. Besides it wasn't Rubin he didn't want to face but his father. He pushed the thought from his mind.
As they neared the war room, Tyrion spoke again, his tone more sombre. "I'm aware of your father's absence, Henrik. His men would certainly bolster our forces, but we must work with what we have. The city's defenders are few, and morale is. . . tenuous at best."
Henrik inclined his head. "I understand, my lord. My men may not be seasoned soldiers, but they are disciplined and loyal. They will follow orders."
"Good," Tyrion replied as they reached the heavy door of the war room.
As they entered, Henrik noted the maps spread across the large wooden table, candles flickering at the edges, and the smell of wax mingling with the scent of old parchment. A few lords and advisors stood around the large wooden table, pouring over maps and models of the battlefield. King Joffrey, Henrik noticed, was not present.
Tyrion strode to the head of the table. "Gentlemen, we have much to discuss," he announced, his voice cutting through the murmur of conversation. "Stannis Baratheon's forces are nearing, and we must finalise our plans for the defence of King's Landing. Where are we at?"
Henrik took his place among the gathered lords, his gaze sweeping the table. He recognised several faces, each marked by worry or grim determination.
A bald man, who Henrik assumed to be Lord Varys leaned forward, his fingers locked together. "We must consider every angle of attack, Lord Hand. Stannis is a skilled commander. He will exploit any weakness."
Ser Jacelyn Bywater, the commander of the City Watch, spoke up next. "His fleet is formidable. The sea approach is their strength. We need to fortify our naval defences."
Someone else chimed in. "And our land defences are no less important. We should bolster the Mud Gate and set traps in the streets. We need to make every inch of this city a deathtrap for Stannis's men."
"We must ensure that our men are prepared to defend every alley and street. The smallfolk must be kept in line as well. Panic will only serve Stannis."
Henrik, listening intently, saw an opportunity to contribute. "Uh, M—My lords," he began, drawing their attention. He swallowed and drew a deep breath. "Er, while our defences on. . . on land and sea are crucial, we must also, uh, consider the morale of the people."
One lord frowned as if Henrik had suggested something absurd. "The morale of the people?" the lord scoffed, his voice dripping with derision. "What do they matter in the grand scheme of war?"
Henrik felt his cheeks flush but pressed on, emboldened by the urgency of the situation now that attention was focused on him. "With respect, my lord, panic and despair can spread like wildfire, undermining our defences from within. If the smallfolk feel abandoned or hopeless, they might turn against us or be too paralysed by fear to provide any assistance. We should organise the distribution of food and supplies to keep them calm and loyal."
Another lord, older and more seasoned, nodded thoughtfully. "The boy has a point," he said, his gravelly voice cutting through the tension. "A cornered animal fights more fiercely when it believes it has no chance of escape. If we let fear take hold, Stannis will have won half the battle without lifting a sword."
Henrik continued, encouraged by the nod of approval. He puffed his chest out and pressed on, stepping closer to the table, his eyes scanning the map laid out before him. "King's Landing is a maze of narrow streets, alleyways, and hidden passages. Most of Stannis's men won't be familiar with the layout of the city — they'll be expecting a straightforward siege, fighting from the outside in. But what if we use the city's structure to our advantage?"
Ser Jacelyn Bywater frowned. "And how do you propose we do that? Stannis's men will outnumber ours. Using the streets could easily turn into a bloodbath."
Henrik nodded. "That's why we won't just use the streets defensively. We'll use them to control the flow of battle, to draw Stannis's forces into traps where their numbers count for nothing. My suggestion is this: we create false barricades at key points throughout the city, leading Stannis's men into dead ends and ambushes. We station small, agile units in the alleyways — units that can strike quickly and then disappear before the enemy can retaliate."
The room fell silent as the lords considered Henrik's proposal. Lord Varys, his eyes narrowed in thought, was the first to speak. "A tactic of misdirection and confusion. . . it could work if executed properly."
Another lord, older and more grizzled, crossed his arms with a sceptical frown. "It's a risky move. We could end up scattering our forces too thin, or worse, getting them trapped in their own city."
Tyrion, however, was intrigued. "But it also plays to our strengths — or rather, to Stannis's weaknesses. His men will be looking for large-scale battles, not skirmishes in dark alleys. If we can keep them off balance, we may be able to grind them down bit by bit."
Ser Jacelyn looked thoughtful. "A sound strategy. We can use the terrain to our advantage. It would also help if we had a clear line of communication between the different defensive points."
"Well, we can install runners or use signal fires from the rooftops to relay messages quickly," suggested Henrik.
Henrik's advice hung in the air, the lords around the table exchanging glances as they weighed the merits of his plan. It was a bold idea, one that required careful coordination and a degree of unpredictability, but it had potential. The silence in the room was finally broken by Ser Jacelyn, who spoke up with a measured tone.
"Signal fires could indeed work," he agreed, his gaze thoughtful. "If placed strategically, they would allow us to relay messages across the city without relying on messengers who could be intercepted or delayed."
Tyrion, satisfied with the direction the conversation had taken, clapped his hands together, drawing everyone's attention. "It seems we have a plan, then. Let's give Stannis a battle he won't soon forget."
Henrik looked up startled as his chamber doors slammed open. Rubin stood in the doorway, his face a storm of fury.
"Have you lost your mind?" Rubin's voice was low, seething. He stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a deliberate, forceful motion.
Henrik met Rubin's blazing eyes with a steady gaze. "Rubin, what—"
"Do you have any idea what you're doing?" Rubin interrupted, his fists clenched at his sides. "You've put our men on a war footing, readied them to die for a city that's not ours! And you — sitting in the war room with the Hand and those lords, talking strategy like you've any business there. Do you even know what you're doing? This is not our fight!"
Henrik rose from his chair, feeling a surge of irritation. "I know exactly what I'm doing, Rubin. I'm staying. King's Landing needs every man it can get. This is our fight too even if you can't see it."
Rubin's face reddened. "Our fight? This is not our fight, my lord. Our duty — your — duty is to your father and Faircastle. You were ordered to return, to ensure the safety and stability of our own lands. What do you think your lord father will say when he hears of this? When he finds out you defied him?"
Henrik felt his jaw tighten, the weight of Rubin's words pressing on him, but he refused to waver. "I don't care what he thinks. This city is on the brink of destruction. If Stannis takes King's Landing, it won't just be the capital that falls. The entire realm will be thrown into disarray. Hiding out in Faircastle won't stop him from coming for us. Did you expect me to tuck tail and hide away like a coward?"
Rubin's eyes narrowed, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "You are not a soldier of King's Landing! You have no obligation to this city or its people. Your place is in Faircastle, not in the middle of a war that isn't yours."
Henrik's eyes blazed with a rare intensity, his patience wearing thin. "My place is where I choose it to be. I have seen the suffering of the people here, the fear in their eyes. I will not abandon them."
Rubin took a deep breath, his anger giving way to a pained plea. "My lord, Henrik, please. Think of your father, your family. Think of Faircastle. They need you, my lord. Don't throw your life away for a lost cause. This is madness!"
Henrik walked towards him, his hands crossed behind his back as he tried to stand tall. "Rubin, I understand your concern. But what kind of lord would I be if I only thought of my own safety? I would be unworthy. If King's Landing falls, do you think Faircastle will be safe? The chaos will spread, and eventually, it will reach our home. Stannis will punish us for simply fighting on the wrong side. I need to be here. We need to be here."
Rubin shook his head, frustration and desperation warring in his expression. "Listen, please, Henrik. Your father entrusted me to protect you, to bring you back safely. I cannot in good conscience support this decision. Your father will never forgive me if something happens to you."
Henrik placed a firm hand on Rubin's shoulder, his grip strong and reassuring. "Rubin, you have always been loyal to our house, to my father. I'm not asking you to betray that loyalty. I'm asking you to trust my judgment. The people here need leaders who will stand with them, not flee at the first sign of danger."
Rubin searched his face for a few moments, his brow furrowed in thought. Then his expression darkened. "This is about that Stark girl, isn't it? You forget your duty, your family, for what? A fleeting fancy? For a traitor's daughter?"
Henrik stiffened and his voice turned cold as he stepped back. "You tread on dangerous ground, Rubin. My decisions are not based on mere whims or affections."
Rubin's lips pressed into a thin line. "Henrik, I have known you since you were a babe in your lady mother's arms. I've seen the way you look at that girl. You think no one notices, but I do. The Stark girl has clouded your judgment."
Henrik's patience snapped, his tone sharp and cutting. "Enough! She is our future Queen and deserves our respect. If you cannot see the broader picture, then perhaps you are not fit to advise or protect me."
Rubin recoiled slightly, the sting of Henrik's words evident in his eyes. He spoke after a while, teeth gritted. "I have always served you and your father faithfully. This risk is sheer, reckless madness. You must see that!"
Henrik's eyes, usually so calm and collected, now flashed with an uncharacteristic fury. His voice rose. "And I have always valued your counsel, Rubin, but you forget your place. You are the commander of the household guards, not my keeper! It is not your responsibility to question my decisions or my loyalty to the realm or Faircastle and I won't have you thinking otherwise!"
Rubin's mouth opened in shock, the reprimand stinging more than he had expected. "I only seek to—"
"To what?" Henrik interrupted, his voice now a commanding boom. He glared at the older man and stepped forward, closing the distance between them, his presence dominating the space. With each word, he jabbed a finger into Rubin's chest, forcing the older man to take a step back. "To defy me? To undermine my authority? You would do well to remember your place, Rubin. You are here to serve, to protect, to offer counsel — not to challenge my decisions or undermine my command."
A silence fell between them, thick with tension. Rubin, his pride wounded and his loyalty questioned, took a step back, his face pale. His lip trembled as he spoke quietly. "I. . . I would never seek to undermine you, my lord. My life is yours to instruct. But I beg you, reconsider."
Henrik took a deep breath, trying to rein in his temper. He knew Rubin's words came from a place of genuine concern. He turned away, walking to the window and looking out over the city. Rubin stayed silent, his gaze fixed on Henrik's back.
"Look at them," Henrik continued, gesturing to the city below. "These people, they look to us for hope. If we abandon them now, we betray everything we stand for. Everything I have been trained for: what would be the point? To hole up in a castle until I turn fat and old?" Turning back to face Rubin, Henrik's eyes were filled with determination. "We have a chance to make a difference here, to protect the innocent. Isn't that what we've always fought for?"
Rubin's shoulders sagged slightly. "My lord," he said, his voice heavy with resignation, "if this is truly your decision, then I will stand by you."
Henrik nodded, a small smile breaking through his uncommonly furious expression. "And Rubin, one more thing."
The older man paused as he was about to leave, looking back with a raised eyebrow.
"Send word to my father. Inform him of my decision and assure him that I act in the best interests of our house and the realm."
Rubin hesitated then nodded. "I will, my lord. May the gods be with us all."
As dusk settled over the Red Keep, the sun sank slowly behind the distant horizon. The panoramic view from the ramparts offered a breathtaking sight of King's Landing and the lands beyond, with the city below flickering with the lights of torches and hearth fires. Henrik stood at the edge, his eyes scanning the city below.
From his vantage point, Henrik could see the bustling activity in the streets. Soldiers were making their rounds, their armour clinking softly in the evening air. Along the city walls, archers were stationed at regular intervals, their eyes vigilant and bows at the ready. The gates were reinforced with additional guards, and patrols moved with a heightened sense of alertness.
Henrik's gaze shifted to the harbour, where a fleet of ships was anchored. Sailors were busy unloading crates of supplies and weapons, their movements brisk and purposeful. The docks were a hive of activity, with guards barking orders and crews working to ensure that the defences were well-stocked and ready.
The sound of soft footsteps approaching made him turn, and he smiled as he saw Sansa walking towards him. Her handmaiden, Shae, eyed him suspiciously but remained silent as she kept a few feet away from her lady. Sansa looked ethereal in the fading light, her red hair catching the last rays of the sun. Her gown, the deep blue of a twilight sky, was embroidered with delicate silver threads that mirrored the stars beginning to twinkle above. He suddenly found it hard to swallow.
"My lady," he greeted her, his voice warm.
"Lord Henrik." Her tone was soft and hesitant. She joined him at the edge, her gaze following his over the sprawling city. "I've never seen the city from up here."
Henrik nodded. "It's a different kind of beauty, perhaps. One that hides its dangers and troubles beneath a veneer of tranquillity."
Sansa looked out over the city, her eyes distant as if seeing beyond the present moment. "It looks so peaceful, almost like a painting. But beauty and danger often walk hand in hand," she said softly. "I've learnt that much."
"What brings you here, Sansa, at this hour?" he asked curiously.
Sansa turned her gaze back to Henrik. "I needed to clear my head," she admitted. "There's so much happening."
Henrik nodded, understanding the weight of her words. "The Red Keep can be a suffocating place. I've finally figured that out."
She glanced at him, her blue eyes reflecting a kind of vulnerability. "You've been kind to me, Henrik. You are the only one I feel is my friend here."
Henrik smiled gently. "Trust is a rare commodity, my lady. But know that you can always count on me."
Sansa sighed softly, her eyes still fixed on the scene below. "The castle has been on edge. Everyone is tense, whispering of the battle to come."
Henrik turned to look at her, his expression softening with concern. "I understand your fear. The thought of what might come is enough to unsettle anyone. But you must trust that we are prepared. You will be safe within these walls."
Sansa shook her head, a sad smile gracing her lips. "I do not worry for myself, Henrik. The castle is strong, and I am well protected. And my ladies will be with me but you. . . you will be out there, fighting. The thought of losing you. . ." Her voice faltered, and she took a deep breath. "I have never had a true friend here, not until you. The idea of you being taken from me fills me with a considerable amount of dread."
Henrik chuckled softly, trying to lighten the mood. "My lady, I'm far too stubborn to let a little thing like battle keep me away. Besides, I've grown quite fond of your company. So, you see, I have every intention of returning."
Sansa frowned at him. "Don't jest. You must promise me that you'll be careful."
Henrik sobered and reached out, gently taking her hand in his. "Sansa, nothing's going to happen to me. No matter what happens out there, I will come back. I'll crawl back on my hands and knees if I have to."
Tears glistened in her eyes as she looked up at him, her voice trembling. "Promise me."
He squeezed her hand, his gaze steady and earnest. "I promise. You have my word."
Hello to anyone still reading this! As an update, work got hectic for the number of people I had to train and then my mum's uncle passed away so had to do a wake and everything.
But thank you for your support and comments, they mean a lot to me. The Battle of the Blackwater is coming up, in the next chapter if all goes well hopefully. These seem to be getting longer with each chapter for some reason.
Anyway, hope you guys enjoyed it. Hope you're all having a lovely evening/day. Excited to be going to Botany Bay in Margate tomorrow with my friends so excited to for a day out finally. This summer has been so shit honestly.
See you next time!