Ineffable

by DefectivelyFlawless

Henrik never anticipated encountering a captured little dove with eyes as deep and blue as the Summer Sea itself.

11. Henrik IX

The evening air outside was thick with heat, clinging to the chipped stones of King's Landing like a lover who refused to let go. From the open window, the city stretched out before Henrik like an endless sea of flickering candles, the hum of life below a distant murmur. The Gilded Dove was a finer sort of brothel, where whores did not sprawl out of windows to lure passersby. It prided itself on discretion, a cut above the common flesh-houses that littered the city.

Distant gold cloaks patrolled the streets, their swords gleaming, while voices filled the alleyways. Perhaps the people knew it was the last few remnants of pleasure they were going to get — not when Lord Stannis swarmed their taverns, shops and pleasure houses. Most of them might be dead soon, Henrik thought dully, if it all goes badly enough.

Dusk was soon approaching and Henrik knew that Rubin would be wondering where he was. The Arbor wine in his cup glinted deep red under the candlelight, untouched. He sat by the ledge by the window, staring out, his shirt loose and open at the collar. His breeches clung to him, though he had cast aside his boots and sky-blue cloak a candlelight ago, letting their weight fall away. His skin still hummed with the closeness of Myra's touch — her fingers had been light, but now there was a space between them in the chamber.

Myra settled onto a velvet chair across from him, the silk of her robe slipping off one tanned shoulder as she leaned back, cradling her cup between delicate fingers. Her gaze rested on Henrik, her lips curving into a faint smile that didn't quite touch her eyes. She had always known when to speak, and when to let the silence linger — perhaps it was part of the profession of being a whore — and for a time, they sat like that, the space between them filled with the warmth of their shared breath and the cool night air.

"You've been very quiet tonight, m'lord," Myra said at last, her voice gentle, barely above a whisper. "Something bothering you?"

Henrik blinked, her words pulling him from the edge of his thoughts. His hand reached for his cup, but he hesitated, staring down at the deep red liquid that swirled within. His mind was not in this room, not really. It was out there, somewhere beyond the walls of the city, where the promise of battle loomed like a storm on the horizon. He had never been to war — he was a green boy in that respect — never felt the clash of steel or the blood of an enemy on his hands. And yet, he was ready — had to be ready.

"I'm thinking," he murmured, taking a long sip of the wine, though its taste seemed dull, foreign. "There's much to think about."

Myra's smile deepened, though there was something melancholy behind it. She crossed her arms and rested her chin on her other hand that wasn't holding a goblet, watching him with that same curious patience. "Men like you always have much to think about," she said, her tone light, teasing. "You come from castles and lands, with duties and titles that weigh on your shoulders." Myra tilted her head, watching him through half-lidded eyes. "Tell me about it, Henrik of Faircastle," she said, her voice soft and coaxing. "I've never been that far west. Is it as grand as the stories say?"

Henrik looked at her. "Grand?" he repeated, a faint smile touching his lips. "It's. . . quieter than this city, and the streets of Fairport are much cleaner. Stone towers on the edge of the world, overlooking the sea. The wind never stops, day or night, and the air smells of salt. If you stand on the highest parapet, you can see for miles. Nothing but water. On a clear day, they say you can see the coast of the Reach."

"It sounds like something out of a song."

"I suppose it does. But that's the truth of it. The world out there is wild, endless. Every time I stood on that parapet, I felt as if I could leap into the wind and let it carry me to places unknown. I'd watch the ships sail by, vanishing over the horizon, and I'd think — what's beyond that line? What lands lie waiting?" He set his cup down with a soft clink, the dull wine forgotten though his head felt numb and his tongue loose. "I always wanted to find out. To see it all — the Free Cities, the deserts of Dorne, maybe even the lands beyond the Narrow Sea. Faircastle is beautiful, yes, but quiet."

"I've never seen the sea," she said calmly. "Just the Blackwater from the windows but the waters are so dark. I imagine the Sunset Sea is clearer, a lot bluer like your House sigil. But I've never been beyond the walls of King's Landing. Sometimes I wonder what it must feel like. . . to stand on the edge of the world and look out at nothing but water."

Henrik glanced at her, surprised by the wistfulness in her tone. In the three occurrences that he'd seen Myra, she was not a wistful person — she was grounded, always present, a woman who had seen and heard it all. But now, as she stood beside him, her gaze far away, he saw something different in her, something almost fragile. Or maybe it was the wine that caused him to see things.

"It feels like freedom," Henrik said. "But even there, standing at the boundary, you're never truly free. The wind pulls you, the water beckons, but you can't follow. Not if you have a castle behind you."

"No one is ever free," she murmured. "Not truly."

They fell into silence again, the night pressing in around them. The city stretched beneath the moonlight, and his thoughts sat like stones in his chest.

"Will you go back?" Myra asked suddenly. "To Faircastle? After all this?"

Henrik stared down into his cup. The crimson was a shade too dark for his tastes. "I don't know," he divulged. "I don't know what waits for me, after. . ."

"Is it the battle that troubles you?"

"Everything's a battle these days. If it's not the sword, it's the mind. But yes, the closer it gets, the harder it is to think of anything else."

"You could just leave, go back to Faircastle, live your life out there. You can choose to, no, that's more than most of the people here can say?"

"I could, but no, I can't leave, not now. This is something I must face. To prove, perhaps, that I am more than I seem. More than just some boy chasing dreams of adventure."

Myra's gaze softened, the faintest trace of a smile playing on her lips. "And what will you do, Henrik of Faircastle, when the blood spills and the battle begins? What if it isn't as glorious as your stories say?"

Henrik stared out the window, his fingers tightening around the stem of his wine glass. The weight of her words pressed on him, but he pushed it aside. "It will be. Maybe not in the way the songs tell it, but there's honour in fighting for what's right, for your house and your people. That's what I know."

A soft sigh escaped Myra's lips as she set her cup down. "War changes men. I've seen that enough times. It hardens them, twists them. You can go into it with all the ideals in the world, but it doesn't care. And when it's over, there's no turning back. You'll never be the same."

Henrik shook his head, more out of defiance than certainty. "I won't let that happen. I won't lose myself to it. I have to believe there's still a way to come out of this with honour intact, with something worth holding onto."

"And if there isn't?"

Henrik didn't answer right away. The flickering candlelight cast shadows across the walls, and for the briefest moment, he allowed himself to feel the fear lurking beneath his bravado. But he couldn't let it show. Not to Myra, not to anyone.

"It doesn't matter," he said at last, turning toward the window. "I'll find a way. I have to."

"You're brave, Henrik of Faircastle. Foolish, but brave. Bravery is a luxury for men like you," she said, her eyes narrowing slightly. Her tone was anything but admiration. "Especially for those like us, who live in the margins. We cannot afford certain luxuries in our little lives."

"I'm sorry," he said. "You deserve more than this life. You deserve—"

"Don't," she interrupted gently, raising a hand to silence him. "Don't pity me. I made my choices, and I've found my way to survive. I am not ashamed of that. It's just that. . . I've seen what honour can do to a person when they're shattered."

"What do you mean?"

She leaned back in her chair, her expression contemplative. "I've watched men like you chase after their dreams, only to lose everything in the process. They fight for recognition, for glory, or anything else they tell themselves to drag themselves out of the mud — and in the end, it's never enough. War chews men up, swallows them and rarely throws them out whole. They're left empty, plagued by what they've sacrificed."

Henrik shivered, unable to look away from the hard features reflected in her expression. "And you don't believe in fighting for something?"

"I believe in surviving," Myra replied, her tone resolute. "I believe in waking up each day, finding a reason to keep going, no matter how small it might be. Some days, that's all you can do."

Henrik studied her carefully. There was something in her words, something beneath the surface — an edge of knowing, of experience, though she hid it well behind her soft tone and dreams — of her lowered gaze. "What do you know of fighting, Myra?" he asked curiously.

She didn't answer at first, her eyes still lowered, her fingers tracing slow circles around the edge of her cup. When she finally spoke, her voice was faint. "Everyone fights in their own way, m'lord. Even those of us who don't carry swords."

He thought of Sansa suddenly — the name clinging to his heart like a shadow he could not shake — and a lump rose in his throat, so fierce that he dared not look at Myra in case she peered right through him. He threw his head back and swallowed the wine down in one gulp. Myra's hair caught the candle flame and he noticed how wrong the shade of red was, lighter than the wine but not light enough. And her eyes — a soft brown than the blue he'd been accustomed to. The night air brushed against his skin, cooling the warmth of the chamber, but it did little to ease the tightness in his chest. Her words had unsettled him in ways he hadn't expected.

When she finally spoke again, her voice was more calculated. "Forgive me, m'lord Henrik," she murmured, her head bowing slightly as if she had overstepped. "It's not my place to speak of such things. I only meant — well, it's none of my business, truly."

Henrik turned then, watching her with furrowed brows. Myra's eyes were downcast, her hands lightly folded in her lap as though she were trying to shrink into the space she occupied. Her earlier boldness had receded, and she looked once more like the courtesan she was — a woman who knew her role, how to behave with the men who held coin and titles.

"I'm not angry with you," Henrik said after a moment. The idea was absurd. "You're free to speak your mind."

Myra smiled faintly, though the curve of her lips didn't match her stare. "A kind offer, m'lord, I'm grateful. But men with titles rarely wish to hear what's in the mind of a girl like me."

Henrik felt a flicker of shame, though he wasn't entirely sure why. "I asked, didn't I? I came here."

"Yes, you did." Myra's gaze lifted to meet him for a brief moment, but then she turned away. "But asking and wanting to hear the answer is not always the same thing."

"Tell me," he said firmly. "I will listen."

"If you say so, m'lord."

"Good, then tell me something now, Myra, do you believe in hope?"

She giggled as if it was a jest, looking down at her hands. "Hope? It's a pretty word." Her smile slipped to a tepid expression. "I've seen what happens when people hope too much. They stick to it like a lifeline, and when it snaps. . . well, they're left drowning. War is no place for dreams."

Henrik flinched, not at her words but at the way they cut so close to the bone. His whole life had been built on dreams. But here, in this quiet chamber, those dreams felt distant, almost childish.

"So you believe I'm just a boy playing at war," he said quietly. "I'm right, am I not? That I don't understand what's coming. It's okay, I won't be angry, tell me."

"I think you're kind, my sweet lord," Myra replied, her gaze softening. "Kinder than most of the men I've known or who come here. But kindness doesn't survive war. Not in the way you think it will and it's naïve to think so."

Henrik frowned. He pushed himself to his feet. The city stretched out beneath them, bathed in the pale light of the moon. Somewhere in the distance, a bell tolled, its low, mournful sound echoing through the streets.

"I'm not naïve," he said at last, though the uncertainty in his voice betrayed him. "I know what's at stake."

Myra looked at him for a long moment. Finally, she sighed, her shoulders sagging ever so slightly. "I hope you're right," she said. "I really do. Perhaps you'll be one of the luckier ones."

Sansa returned to his mind once more. She was a flower blooming amidst the rubble of a war-torn garden, and the very idea of losing her was a wound that throbbed with each breath. He couldn't fail. The thought of Stannis's men overrunning the city sent a chill down his spine, a dark wave of dread washing over him. If he faltered, if he didn't stand strong, it would mean death — not just for him but for her as well. He wasn't afraid of death, not truly, as all men had to die someday. But the thought of Sansa's fate in the hands of others, of her being torn apart, violated by the cruelty of the enemy during war, was a torment he could hardly bear. Henrik tasted bitterness and the tang of iron, realising with a grimace that he'd bitten the inside of his cheek. He let his tongue settle as a soothing balm.

"M'lord Henrik?" Myra's voice was soft, coaxing. "Where did you go just now?"

"Nowhere," he said, watching as her robe dripped down to reveal a bit of skin. "I believe I should be heading back soon — Rubin will be looking for me."

She rose from her seat, and a smile that stirred long-buried desires played upon her lips, a smile that had once left him breathless as she leaned in to greet him with a kiss upon his arrival at the brothel, his cheeks aglow with warmth.

"So soon?" she teased. "Time has a way of slipping through our fingers, doesn't it?"

"Yes, it does." His heart pounded in anticipation as he rose while she walked closer towards him. Her auburn hair gleamed lighter all of a sudden and he felt as if he couldn't breathe. It was just the right shade he'd been thinking of all evening.

"M'lord?"

"Just. . . just wait," he murmured heavily as he leaned in towards her neck and breathed in deeply like a starving man, smelling hyacinths. It wasn't the heady perfume Sansa wore — not as dizzying or intoxicating enough to bring a man to his knees — but if he closed his eyes. . . Perhaps if I squint my eyes this way the red becomes more flamed-coloured. Kissed by fire, resembling a Tully's. "Just a bit longer," he repeated with a whisper.

Henrik reached out, brushing his fingers against her cheek, the warmth of her skin igniting a flame deep within him. He pulled her towards him by her waist and he heard a soft moan ringing against his ears. His breathing grew heavier and he began to lay kisses against her neck before trailing toward her collarbones. Myra leaned into him, her body pressing against his. He moved upwards and pressed his mouth against hers, his eyes closed and his mind racing. Her experience made her a good kisser and he groaned against her lips with a low heat burning in his belly.

"What is it that you desire, m'lord?" she asked between gasps.

"I want. . . I—"

Craving. The word twisted in his mind. His heart pounded in rhythm with her breath, and he leaned closer. He paused, his breath catching as he looked into her eyes — dark and sultry. I want, I want, I want. . . He desired so fiercely it near smothered him, like drowning in deep water. His mind, once clear, now swam with thoughts of soft blue eyes, clearer than the sky on a winter's morn — eyes that haunted his waking hours and whispered to him in dreams. His heart ached in ways it had never before, as though a hand had reached inside his chest and squeezed. A pain both terrible and sweet, a longing that consumed him more than fear or hunger ever had.

His mind was muddled, thick as if he'd downed a flagon of milk of the poppy, each thought sluggish and slipping away like water through his fingers; he blinked rapidly, watching her eyes shift from dark to blue. For a moment, they weren't hers anymore — another girl stared back at him, haunting and familiar. . .

Mayhaps it was just the reflection of the candle. Henrik found that he didn't particularly care. He could die tomorrow, or years from now, old and fat in his chambers at Faircastle, and never come close to what he truly desired. Yet, standing here, with her in his arms, it felt as if all he wanted lay within his grasp. I could have it all.

Myra's hands moved to Henrik's jawline, stroking his flesh, before drifting to his cheek and then tangling her long fingers in his brown hair. The room blurred as if he was trying to read a long letter with a tiny, indescribable script. He could feel her hard nipples against his chest. Her fingers, delicate as silk, glided down the panes of his chest, light as a whisper. The touch sent a shiver through him, one he couldn't suppress, and before he knew it, she was undoing the laces of his breeches.

Henrik's breath caught in his throat, heart hammering, each gasp harder to draw than the last. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think, lost in the sensation of her hands and the wild, aching rush it stirred in him. It almost felt like torture with how slow she was going. His head pounded as fast as the hooves of a large palfrey as her graceful, velvety hands reached for his dick.

Her hands are always so soft and delicate. Just like a perfect lady. No blemishes or scars. He marvelled at her hands sometimes, the way they'd fold neatly in her lap, so still and graceful; when she held a lemon cake, nibbling at its edges with such delicate care, never spilling a crumb, as if by some small miracle she could do no wrong. It was a quiet elegance, one that left him staring longer than he should, captivated by the simple grace of her every movement. Or when she poured a cup of honeyed tea, her nails trimmed and clean, each one a pearl against the delicate porcelain cup, with the faintest smile on her lips and the light catching in her auburn hair, the colour of a rich sunset.

He hissed as the cool air from the window slammed against his lower part. His mouth fell open as she began stroking. He bit his lip and held back a whimper, his breathing growing heavier. His eyes were lidded as she moved with deliberate slowness, teasing him, each stroke sending shivers through his body. He could feel his muscles tense, fighting the urge to completely lose himself in the sensation. A groan escaped his mouth. Then, she removed her hand abruptly as quickly as if she had touched a flame. His eyes snapped open and a desperate whine escaped him. . .

Suddenly, before he could voice anything, she dropped down onto her knees and he almost choked. He couldn't turn his gaze away from the auburn-haired woman — beautiful and inviting, as she released his shaft from the confines of his dark breeches. His whole body convulsed when she took his hard, leaking cock into his mouth. Blinding, hot, white spots erupted near his vision as if he were about to black out.

"Fuck. . ." he groaned, his chest rising and falling, "Yes. . . don't stop, please—"

It was so warm and wet, the sensation consuming him, sending waves of pleasure through his body. It felt amazing as if he could melt into it, dissolve completely in the heat and softness surrounding him. It was overwhelming, almost unbearable, and yet he wanted more — needed more.

She swallowed him down nearly entirely, her throat constricting around the hot, sensitive skin. Henrik cried out in hapless whines, his hands forming into fists as he balanced against the window sill, the marble digging into his palms, his knees weakening.

He threw his head back and shut his eyes, his mouth open and gaping. All he could picture was pale, blue eyes and somehow that made him harder. He could feel it. Feel the rolling of her tongue over the top, feel his own pulse pound down his dick when she swallows half its length. He couldn't just feel it, but see it too, and as the flame-haired girl bobbed back up before plunging again, once, twice. Henrik groaned and buried his fingers into her hair, pulling her towards him, holding her there. Don't stop. Please, don't stop. He'd die if she did. Mindless, incomprehensible words tumbled from his mouth.

She knew what she was doing, her tongue flat against his length, inviting Henrik to push his cock deeper into her mouth. And so he did and gave a loud shout. All he could picture was her. She consumed all his senses.

As he spilt himself deep into her mouth, she swallowed each rope that escaped, and a primal fire ignited within him. He bit his lip hard, feeling the sting as blood welled forth, a desperate attempt to ground himself in the moment. The pleasure surged through him, overwhelming and exquisite, and he could not contain the cry that tore from his throat — her name echoed loudly in his mind again and again like a desperate prayer to the gods.

It was raining when he finally left The Gilded Dove. He pulled the hood of his cloak over his head, the fur heavy with the weight of the rain. It shielded his face, casting his features into shadow, enough to keep him from being recognised. The streets were nearly deserted at this time, save for a few drunks stumbling home and the occasional shadowy hooded figure darting between alleyways. Henrik moved with purpose, his boots barely making a sound as he swerved around the large puddles gathering in the uneven stone.

When he entered the tavern, longing for a quick drink after the tasteless Arbor and a few moments to himself before Rubin breathed down his neck once more, the room was lit only by flickering candles and the occasional glow from the hearth. The smell of stale ale clung to the air, mingling with the faint trace of sweat and smoke. Henrik slipped inside, shaking off the lingering coolness of the night, his cloak still damp from the streets of King's Landing. The small chatter of patrons filled the room — one or two tradesmen and three soldiers crowded around tables, their mugs raised in laughter or quiet conversation. He ensured that his sword was concealed. Gods knew he didn't want any trouble.

Henrik made his way to the far corner of the tavern. He settled into a worn wooden chair, its legs creaking beneath him, and nodded at the young barmaid, slipping over a coin from beneath his cloak. She didn't ask what he wanted — just set a chipped mug of ale in front of him, swiping the coin, before moving on, her skirts rustling as she passed. He raised the mug to his lips, letting the sour liquid slide down his throat. He peered around and his eyes fell on a nearby table.

There were three of them — two young, scruffy-looking men and an older one with a face lined from years of hard living. Their clothes were worn, dirt clinging to the edges, and their hands were calloused, workers or former soldiers by the look of them. The younger men listened intently as the older one spoke, his hand slicing through the air with each bitter word.

"King Joffrey," the man hissed, leaning in closer, his eyes flicking left and right. "He's no king, just a brat sitting on a golden chair while we starve. Ho'w many nights have we gone without bread? Them Lannisters don't give a damn shite about us folk."

Henrik tensed, keeping his eyes on his drink, though his ears were now finely attuned to every word. He'd heard discontent in the city before, been caught up in it at its worst, but this. . . this was different. There was venom here, deep and festering. His gaze caught on the fine leather gloves and the richly lined surcoat resting on his arm, the silver thread of the three ships of Fair Isle gleaming faintly in the firelight. The garments marked him noble but now was not the time for that. Best not to draw attention, not here. He shifted slightly, letting the sleeve fall to obscure the embroidery.

"Joffrey's no king," the older man spat, leaning close to his companions. His voice was thick with resentment, the cadence of Flea Bottom in every syllable. "Bastard's just a puppet fer them lions. Lannisters feasting on roast while we choke on piss-water and stale bread."

Well, the man had the right of that for sure, thought Henrik with a raised eyebrow. Joffrey was no King to be proud of. Still, Henrik kept his eyes lowered and pulled his hood up. He didn't know if these men would recognise him from the day of the bread riots but it'd be best to be cautious.

"Seen it m'self," one of the younger men growled, his voice cracked like a man who hadn't eaten well in weeks. "Me mam's got nothin'. Nothin'. Gave her the last bit of coin I had, but it don't stretch far. If this goes on for long, she's gonna be forced, ain't she, to sell herself to any man that comes by, and I ain't letting that happen. While that boy sits in his silks, we can't even scrape a loaf o' bread. What kinda king lets his people starve?"

"Ain't no king," the older man slurred, his mouth curling into a sneer. "Never was. He's the bitch queen's brat. She's the one runnin' things, spinnin' her web and all. And that Imp. . ." He spat onto the floor, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "That little demon's no better. He's the cause o' all this, I'm tellin' ya, ne'vr trust a dwarf, lads."

"And Stannis? They say he's coming. Say he'll take the city and burn the Lannisters out any day now."

"Aye, Stannis is the true king, not that golden-haired pup. And when he comes, we'll see them lions thrown from their bloody towers. The whol' bloody lot of them. Stannis'll give us what we need. Bread on our tables, meat in our pots. He don't suffer no fools, that one. Them Lannisters'll choke on their gold, mark me."

Henrik shifted in his seat, careful not to attract attention. His fingers drummed against the worn wood of the table as he listened.

"And they say that girl. . . that Stark girl, the king's betrothed, she's still sittin' pretty up there with them lions, ain't she?" The older man's voice was thick with contempt, his eyes gleaming with malice. "Bet she's jus' as bad as the rest. Traitor's daughter. Probably dancin' with them, eatin' her fill while we choke on last year's shit."

Henrik's jaw tightened beneath the shadow of his hood. He set the mug down with a soft clink, his pulse quickening. Sansa. Her name tasted like iron on his tongue. He bit his lip in anger lest he draw his sword. How dare these worthless, good-for-nothing louts even mention her name?

"Pretty little thing, though, ain't she? That Stark girl. Saw her in the streets once, I did." He licked his lips, his eyes narrowing as if picturing her in front of him. "All highborn airs with her blue eyes an' sweet face. Bet she's a right handful, she is. Ain't it a waste, though? Wastin' away up there with them lions. Probably could fetch a good bit o' coin if someone took her outta the castle." His grin was crooked, dark with implication.

Henrik's grip on the mug tightened, the wood creaking softly under his fingers. He could feel the heat rising in his cheeks, blood rushing to his ears. He slammed it on the table and rose to his feet swiftly, slamming his hands on the table with a deafening thud, the wood of the chair creaking loudly. The heat of his anger was making his vision blur. He noticed that the conversation had halted as they turned to stare at him, blinking suspicious looks. He stood out like a sore thumb. His hand shot inside his cloak and circled the hilt tightly. I could cut through these fuckers easily enough. It'd be like slicing an apple. I wouldn't even break a sweat. Who will miss them?

"Is there a problem, boy?" one of the younger men drawled, eyeing Henrik up and down. "What is it? Wife left ya or somethin'?" He snickered. The bravado in his voice masked a hint of uncertainty, but it only fueled the fire inside Henrik.

One swift movement, one flash of steel, and he could silence this mockery, this degradation.

But then, through the haze of his wrath, he caught a glimpse of the barmaid. She stood behind the counter, her hands trembling as she wiped down a tankard. Her wide eyes darted between him and the men, repressed fear etched deep into her features. The sight of her frightened expression pierced through his anger like a sharp dagger. Henrik took a deep breath, willing himself to stay calm.

"Nothing's wrong. Maybe it's the hunger talking," he said coolly, the words dripping with disdain. "Or perhaps your heads are just as empty as your bellies."

The older man scowled, his bravado faltering for a moment. "What's that supposed to mean, eh?"

"It means," Henrik replied, voice low and laced with disdain, "if you had half a brain, you'd know better than to speak of a lady like that. Especially a highborn one. But then again, it's easy to forget decency when you've never had to stand for anything in your pathetic little life. Enjoy your piss-water while you can."

For a moment, there was silence, thick and heavy, as Henrik's words settled over the table. The older man's face twisted, the sneer faltering. His eyes narrowed, studying Henrik more closely now, the rough lines of his face twitching as he took in the cloak, the gloves, the richness of the surcoat hidden beneath. The silver thread of the three ships on Henrik's sleeve had slipped into view again.

"Wait a bloody moment. . ." one of the younger men muttered, his voice suddenly uncertain. His eyes flicked between Henrik's cloak and the surcoat, recognition dawning. "I recognise that. . . he's a lord."

The change in their demeanour was instant. The bravado, the bitterness, it drained from them like blood from a wound. The younger men exchanged uneasy glances, their hands pulling back from their mugs, fidgeting nervously. Even the older man, who moments ago had spat venom with every word, shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"A lord, eh?" the old man muttered, trying to keep his tone steady, but the edge had slipped away. He eyed Henrik's hand where it still rested on the hilt of his blade. "Didn't mean no offence, m'lord. Just talk, that's all. The times bein' what they are. . . folk are hungry, is all."

Henrik stared down at them, his gaze cold, letting the silence stretch a little longer, watching them squirm. His pulse still pounded in his ears, and the urge to draw his sword, to shut them up for good, still burned in the back of his mind.

"Is that what you call it?" Henrik's voice was smooth, but it carried the weight of iron, striking like a hammer in the quiet. "Talk? You'd do well to remember who you speak of, and where you are. Men have lost their tongues for far less."

With a last look at the barmaid, who stood wide-eyed and trembling behind the counter, Henrik turned on his heel. He pushed the door, stepping back into the rain-soaked air, his heart still racing. The sounds of the tavern faded behind him, replaced by the distant clamour of the city. The rain had let up and he took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the crisp, cool air. When Stannis came, he hoped that those men were one of the first to go. He pictured them impaled on spikes and a satisfied smile crept on his lips as he strode towards his horse to take him up Aegon's Hill to the Red Keep.

---

Henrik was never a devout godly man despite Rubin's offering to lecture him on it. He'd kept the faith of the Seven and there'd been a Sept in Fair Isle as long as anyone could remember, but to him, it was little more than stone and sermons. He paid his respects as was expected, bowed his head at nuptials and funerals, even dropped a coin or two in the alms box when his lord father gestured for him to.

The Sept of Baelor loomed before Henrik, its pale domes and spires etched against the dusky sky like the outstretched fingers of forgotten gods. His boots echoed across the marble floor as he entered the sept, the vast space hollow and cold despite the golden light filtering through stained glass. The flickering flames of a hundred candles cast wavering shadows over the statues of the Seven, their faces blank and distant, as if they, too, had abandoned the city to its looming fate.

A place of peace, they said, a place to find strength. But now, the silence felt like judgment.

He didn't know what compelled him to come here. But he didn't know what else to do. Sansa prayed to her old gods, perhaps he could do the same, gain strength from it somehow. He needed every bit of it soon enough. Steel might not be enough to keep them from the arms of the Stranger, so perhaps prayer might do. His fingers brushed the hilt of his sword. His armour would be heavier still in battle, but nothing felt as heavy as the uncertainty gnawing at him now. The battle was upon them. Ships, wildfire, steel, and blood — those were the tools of war. But here, in this place of whispered prayers and quiet desperation, it felt as if none of that would be enough.

Henrik's steps slowed as he approached the altar, his eyes catching the flicker of shadows that clung to the corners of the sept. The air felt dense, like a slow breath he couldn't release. Before him, the statues of the Seven rose in judgmental silence — the Father with his scales of justice, the Warrior's sword glinting in the candlelight, the Mother's arms forever outstretched in mercy. He had seen these images a thousand times, but tonight, the stone felt more like a barrier, something between him and the gods who might listen. Please, gods he prayed, clasping his hands together, the cold marble digging into his knees. Please, guide me through this.

A soft rustle stirred the stillness, and Henrik turned his head to see the Silent Sisters moving ghost-like along the walls, their veils low, their hands gentle as they lit candles at the feet of the statues. They were the keepers of the dead, a constant reminder of what lay ahead. Death walked with them, unseen but felt in every step, and the sight sent a shiver down his spine. How many men would they tend to after tomorrow? A hundred, a thousand? Would they tend to him before his body was shipped to Fair Isle to join his ancestors?

Henrik swallowed hard. He wasn't sure what to say. His lips moved silently at first, the words sticking in his throat like dry ash. How does one pray when one does not believe? His hands clenched and unclenched, the prayers from his childhood circling his mind but slipping through his grasp like water. He closed his eyes and breathed in the scent of old stone, candle wax, and faint incense.

"Father, give me justice," he murmured. His voice sounded foreign in the silence. "Warrior," he whispered next, his eyes opening to the statue with the sword. "Give me strength and courage."

He had been taught that men did not ask for courage, that they were born with it or forged it through deeds. But courage felt elusive now, slipping like shadows. The fire of battle, so often sung of by knights and bards, seemed distant — unreachable for a boy who had only trained with dulled steel.

The steel blade in the Warrior's grip looked so solid, so sure. Henrik's own sword hung heavy at his hip, but the assurance of the blade was a poor substitute for the doubt that gnawed at him. He thought of his men, each one relying on him, trusting him with their lives. What would he do if he failed them?

He was but one and five years old. What did he know of leading men? He had seen the maps, learnt the strategies, heard the old tales of heroism, but they were just that — stories, words on parchment or sung by bards. He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting the wave of fear that rose within him, clenching his fists and forcing himself to focus.

"Maiden," he began softly. Sansa's face flashed in his mind — soft, gentle, framed by hair that shimmered like copper in the sunlight. "Grant me mercy. Protect her. Keep her safe from harm. And my men. And my house." He squeezed his eyes shut again, desperation creeping into his voice. "Mother. Give me the wisdom to know what to do, and the bravery to do it."

He bowed his head lower. His father's absence was a chasm he could not cross. The Lord of Fair Isle should have been here, should have led their men, should have stood at his side. But he was gone, and Henrik was alone. He had always dreamed of this — of the day he would stand tall as heir, command his house's forces, and lead them to glory. But the reality was far crueller than his boyish dreams.

"Let me not fail my family or shame my lord father," Henrik whispered, the words raw in his throat. His father's voice echoed in his mind, stern and unforgiving, the weight of his legacy pressing down on Henrik like a stone slab. My son, Henrik, quick with a sword but slow with a scroll. It'd stung him, far more than he'd be willing to admit, but now it was all it could think of. The fate of Fair Isle rested on him. There would be no second chances, no kind words to guide him. He had to be the man his father expected him to be — the man he had not yet become. He had no choice as death was waiting to greet him on the other side if he didn't.

The oppressive silence of the sept wrapped around him. The gods stared down at him, their stone eyes unreadable. Henrik felt small beneath their gaze, a child playing at a man's game. For the first time in his life, he hoped the gods were listening.

---

Outside, the faint murmur of the city stirred beneath the night, a distant hum that mingled with the rustling of banners and loud shouts. Henrik stood at the edge of the yard, his back leaning against the cool stone wall, watching the sky turn from a pale blue to the bruised purple of dusk. Men moved in and out of the yard, their armour clinking softly, muted conversations rising and falling in hushed tones. He wondered how many of them would survive and come back. The smell of sweat clung to the breeze that swept in, along with something else — something graver, a weight in the air that made Henrik's chest feel tight.

Ras approached, feet scuffing against the mud-splattered cobblestones as he made his way toward Henrik with a grin. He clapped a hand on Henrik's shoulder, his breath already reeking of cheap wine.

"Come on, little lord. If this is to be our last night, might as well make it worth remembering, eh? I know a place down by the docks. Good girls. Won't cost us much, either."

Henrik stiffened under the weight of Ras's hand. He glanced at the older soldier. Henrik had witnessed all too often in the past few days men laughing a little too loudly, drinking a little too much as if they could chase away the imminent fight by drowning in wine and flesh. He thought of Myra and the flash of Sansa's deep, blue eyes and felt a rush of shame. He would be dishonouring himself and Lady Sansa.

"I'm not in the mood," Henrik muttered. He shrugged off Ras's hand, pushing himself away from the wall.

Ras gave him a sidelong look, his grin fading. "No one's ever in the mood for dying either, but here we are."

Henrik's chest tightened, the familiar nibbling doubt creeping back in. He didn't want to snap at Ras, didn't want to let his frustration spill out. But the thought of losing himself in a seedy brothel while the city stood on the edge of ruin — it felt wrong. Hollow.

"Go, if you must," Henrik said, softer this time. "But I'll not join you."

Ras hesitated then nodded once. Without another word, he turned and walked away, joining a crooning group of men, his figure fading into the shadows. Henrik sighed wearily, rubbing his temple. The knot in his chest hadn't eased. He glanced up at the towering walls, an overwhelming urge consuming him. He began to walk through the dimly lit corridors, the cold stone echoing beneath his boots as he left the yard behind. It was as if the castle itself was holding its very breath.

He saw Sansa at the far end of the hallway, staring out of an open window. She was alone, with no sign of servants or her handmaiden or even the Kingsguard hovering near her. Henrik stopped for a moment, just watching her. She looked so far away, lost in thought. Her back was straight, hands folded lightly in front of her, her face calm but unreadable. But Henrik could sense the tension in her posture, the quiet weight she carried like a mantle.

He took a breath, then stepped forward, his movements quieter now, almost reverent. She turned at the sound of his approach, her enchanting blue eyes meeting him. A vision stirred in his mind, vivid and haunting — Myra, alluring and playful, gazing up at him from her knees, her eyes, the wrong colour, swirling with a tempest of promise. He swallowed the lump in his throat, a feeling of guilt slamming against his ribs like a bruising fist. He felt like a lecher, unworthy to meet her gaze, for his thoughts were stained with sin, twisting like a serpent in the dark corners of his mind. She's a lady, he reminded himself almost desperately. A highborn lady about to be Queen of the Realm someday. He should fall before his knees, begging for her forgiveness for acting so dishonourably as if he were a common sellsword. They lingered there for a moment, neither saying anything, the silence between them thick.

"Sansa," Henrik said roughly, clearing his throat. Her name felt like a prayer on his lips. "I wanted to see you. . . before the morrow. I'm sure you've heard by now. Stannis intends to attack."

She tilted her head slightly, her lips parting as if she wanted to speak but wasn't sure what to say. The silence stretched for a heartbeat longer before she nodded, her eyes never leaving his.

"I wasn't sure if you would see me," she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. "Everyone else is. . . preoccupied."

Henrik stepped as close as he dared, stopping just in front of her. He had no right to touch her, not after his wicked thoughts but it was as if some invisible string pulled his gaze to her. His eyes drifted to the window, taking in the view of the city below, then back to her.

"I needed to see you," he admitted quietly. "I couldn't. . . leave without—" He stopped, the words catching in his throat. Without saying goodbye. Without seeing you, one last time. "This could very well be our last night for most of us. Though I'm sure it won't come to that if the gods are just." He tried to smile.

She shifted slightly, her hands tightening around the edge of her cloak, revealing the intricate layers of her attire beneath. The gown she wore was a deep sapphire blue, the fabric shimmering like a pool of moonlit water, adorned with delicate silver embroidery that traced the curves of her waist and flowed down the length of her skirts. His eyes trailed her every movement as if he'd be struck down by some outer power if he missed a slight exhale from those pink, maddening lips. She was a vision of divine beauty. The air between them felt taut, stretched like the moments before a bowstring snapped.

"I'll protect the city," Henrik said, his voice low and steady, but the weight behind the words clung to the quiet like a vow. "Whatever happens, I'll stand at the gates. We'll hold them back. I'll fight until my sword shatters and my shield breaks."

Her gaze flickered to the side, her lips tightening. She nodded, but the motion was small, distant. He wasn't sure if she believed him. He wasn't sure if he believed himself, but the need to offer her comfort outweighed the fearful doubts chewing at his gut.

"And I'll come back." He tried to catch her eye again. "I promise you that. Will you, uh, will you be safe?"

She nodded, brief, fleeting. "Yes, with. . . with the other ladies and the Queen in Mager's Holdfast."

A lock of red-gold hair slipped loose across her temple, fluttering gently in the evening breeze. Henrik wanted to reach out, to brush it back, but his hands stayed at his sides, clenched into fists. Her eyes flickered, and Henrik thought he saw a flash of something — fear, perhaps? Sadness? She was afraid. And so was he.

But neither of them said it aloud though they could see it in their eyes.

She turned away slightly, glancing out the window again. The soft twilight bathed her in a delicate glow, and for a moment, she seemed almost unreal to him, as if she might vanish like a dream when morning came.

But she couldn't be, she had to be flesh and blood, for no dream he could conjure would ever hold a fraction of the loveliness that was Sansa, no vision so luminous or alive could ever compare.

Sansa turned then, her eyes meeting his, searching his face for something. She parted her lips as if to say something, but the words seemed to falter on her tongue. Instead, she reached up, her slender fingers trembling slightly as she pulled a small handkerchief from the folds of her cloak. The fabric was pale and delicate, embroidered with silver thread — a lady's token, unmistakable in its finery. His breath hitched, not willing himself to dare.

Henrik suddenly remembered the day Lady Alina had visited Faircastle, a distant cousin of his father. She was a radiant beauty, with hair like spun gold and laughter that sparkled like sunlight on the river. He'd fancied himself hopelessly in love at the time, blushing and stuttering over his words when she so much as looked at him. The castle buzzed with excitement at her arrival, and Henrik, a wide-eyed boy of five, was tasked with escorting her through the gardens. They wandered along the blooming paths, where the scent of honeysuckle filled the air and the soft chatter of the castle staff faded into the background.

As they strolled, Henrik, eager to impress, had narrated the tales of knights, lords and their ladies. Lady Alina had smiled softly, her dark eyes sparkling. "A true knight always carries a lady's token," she told him, her voice like music. "It reminds him of his duty and the heart he fights for."

Sansa's favour vividly brought back that memory. And he found himself speechless as he stood there. Sansa spoke once more.

"For luck, my lord," she whispered. She held it out to him, her hand steady, but her breath caught in her throat. "You'll. . . you'll come back. I know you will. I will pray for your safe return."

Henrik stared at the handkerchief for a moment, unsure of what to do. The gesture was intimate, laden with meaning, and he hesitated. His thoughts tumbled over themselves, wondering if this was meant for someone else — someone like King Joffrey, her betrothed. His stomach twisted at the thought. This wasn't his place. He was no King, no rightful protector of the highborn lady before him.

An urge surged through Henrik's throat, an impulsive tide that surged forth before he could silence it. "Sansa," he blurted, his voice urgent and resolute, "you must listen to me. If the city falls, if the fires of chaos consume us all, you must escape. Flee King's Landing at once."

Her eyes widened, surprise etching itself upon her features. "My lord—"

"Please. Do not become prey to their savagery. I fear for your life amidst this brewing storm. If you find a way to send word. . . if I yet draw breath when the dust settles, I will come for you. I swear it upon my honour."

Without thinking, he took the handkerchief from her hand, his fingers brushing hers for the briefest moment. The fabric felt cool and smooth in his palm, and Henrik clenched it tightly as if the gesture itself could bind him to his promise.

He looked down at it, then back at her, his voice thick. "Thank you for trusting this to me, my sweet lady," he murmured. "I will cherish it dearly and will keep it safe."

---

On the fifth day of the month of the moon, scouts reported seeing Stannis's fleet gathering and preparing for an assault. Lord Tyrion suspected that Stannis would choose to attack on the morrow due to the favourable conditions of the tide and the moonlight, which would benefit a night assault.

The moon hung high over King's Landing, casting pale streaks of silver across the stone floor of Henrik's chambers. The attendant tightened the strap of his cuirass. The air was full of tension, and the sounds from beyond his walls — the clatter of soldiers readying themselves for battle — seeped through like an ominous drumbeat.

Henrik stood still, his frame rigid beneath the weight of the battle armour. Unlike the ornamental doublets and tunics he'd worn to feasts or tourneys in Faircastle, this armour felt oppressive. Cold steel pressed against his skin, heavy plates layered over his body, locking him into place. He flexed his fingers, trying to loosen the stiffness in his limbs, but the metal clanked awkwardly, reminding him how little control he had in this new shell.

"Almost there, my lord," muttered Caven, the attendant. His hands worked efficiently, though his voice was low and rough.

Next came the breastplate — dark steel with the sigil of House Farman engraved on its front, three silver ships. Henrik traced the outline of the ships with his eyes as Caven hoisted the plate up, the thick leather straps securing it to his frame. The weight increased, pressing down on him like the looming shadow of the night ahead. He shifted again, attempting to adjust, but his limbs felt awkward, constrained. His mouth was dry and his chest tight.

Henrik had worn armour before, of course — finely wrought pieces, light and polished, crafted more for spectacle than survival. He'd paraded through the streets of Fair Isle, cheered by the smallfolk, his brown hair catching the sun, his smile wide and sure. That armour had been a symbol of his status, an heir to House Farman. It gleamed in the sunlight, so magnificent that he felt like he was a prince. Henrik the Heir, they called him, with his bright smile and idle confidence.

But this. . . this was different.

This armour was built for war and, gods, could he feel it.

It clanked into place with a sound that echoed in the chamber, a hollow reminder that this was not practice, not a drill. Henrik's sword leaned against the wall, waiting, sleek and sharp. It gleamed with a cruel beauty, a weapon meant for killing, not for display. He had it forged recently, to cut through flesh and armour as easily as an orange. It had always been an extension of his arm, a familiar companion. Yet now, with the weight of steel wrapped around him, even the idea of wielding it seemed strange.

He rolled his shoulders, trying to get accustomed to the bulk, but it only made the weight feel more suffocating. He could feel the rising panic in his chest as he glanced at his reflection in the dark glass of the window. The armour transformed him, swallowing him whole. He looked like one of the statues in Faircastle's hall, frozen in stone, unmoving, unfeeling. What if I am making a mistake? Myra's right, he thought bitterly. I am just a silly boy playing at war. No wonder my father didn't want to bring me with him to the Riverlands when he answered Lord Tywin's call for the banners.

Perhaps he should've listened to Rubin and gone back to Faircastle where it was safe before the castle walls. Back to where Alys waited, alone. His throat felt considerably tight as he tried to swallow. If Cavern saw any panic or anxiety painted on his face then he was considerate enough to not pay any attention. Henrik, quick with a sword, slow to a scroll. Well, it was very clear that he'd need the quickness of his sword much more now than any time before. The stakes here were not a broken lance or a bruised rib — they were lives, his among them.

The obviousness of his inexperience was clear to him when he caught sight of some of the soldiers in the courtyard. Their faces were battle-worn and grim-faced, beards overgrown and hard patterns lining their temples. Some had visible scars across their faces or arms and their arms and shoulders were thick with muscles. He traced his own face in the mirror, clean-shaven, smooth, and soft as a babe's cheek, while his wide brown eyes were uncertain, causing him to feel ashamed. Too green, too young.

Caven's hands continued their work, silent and methodical, fastening the pauldrons to Henrik's shoulders. Henrik's legs almost buckled. He took a slow breath, trying to calm the erratic rhythm of his heartbeat. With each piece of armour locked into place, he pushed the boy from Faircastle further away from his mind.

Caven stepped back, wiping sweat from his brow, his eyes flickering over the armour one last time. "It's done, my lord," he murmured.

"Thank you." He barely recognised his own voice and felt like an imposter. How was he going to get through this when the battle hadn't even started? Caven gave a bow and stepped back towards the door, most likely to report to Rubin of his task. A weary sigh escaped Henrik's mouth as he strode around the chamber, the metal clanking with each step. He looked like one of those actors in the theatre, dressed as Aemon the Dragonknight or Florian the Fool. He felt far from any knight he'd know or heard about.

An unbidden thought came to him then. He thought of Ser Devron, Master-At-Arms at Faircastle, the man who had trained him since he was a boy. "You don't have to be the best fighter in the realm, lad," Ser Devron had told him once, "but you have to be the bravest. Your men won't follow a sword — they'll follow a heart." Henrik had laughed then, thinking Ser Devron was trying to comfort him after a poor sparring session. But now, those words struck him with a force he hadn't expected. What kind of heart did he have, here on the eve of battle? One that quaked under the weight of armour and doubt? Or one that could rise to meet the storm, no matter how ill-prepared he felt?

One thing was for sure. The battle was coming, whether he was ready or not. It was far too late to back out now.

---

The moon, now swollen and pale, bathed the city in its cold light as Henrik stood atop the city walls. Beneath his feet, the ancient stone of the battlements felt solid, but his legs trembled within the confines of his armour. He gripped the stone parapet with steeled hands, trying to steady himself as he peered out into the night.

Out in the Blackwater, Stannis's fleet moved like a silent beast creeping toward them, the outline of ships just barely visible in the dim light. Their black sails billowed as the wind carried them closer, and with every moment, the dark shapes seemed to grow, swallowing the horizon. His heart drummed in his chest, his breath short, ragged. Henrik's mouth was dry, and no matter how hard he swallowed, the lump in his throat refused to go away.

His men stood behind him, about a hundred or more, their faces lit by the flickering torchlight from the walls. They were silent, eyes focused on the water or their feet, some whispering prayers under their breath. Some seemed even older than Rubin. He wondered what they thought of him. For the first time, he was grateful that Rubin stood beside him, expression set, and looking far better than Henrik.

He felt ashamed.

Fear coiled around his heart, tighter with each passing second. What would they think if they saw him now, heart hammering, palms sweaty under his gauntlets?

He felt like a coward. No, he was a coward. The truth was undeniable, nibbling at his insides as surely as the dread gnawed at his soul. The sight of the approaching fleet sent icy shivers down his spine, and with it came the urge to flee. To throw down his sword, to disappear into the night like a thief, to go back to Faircastle where the sea would protect him. To be safe.

Henrik clenched his jaw, pushing the thought away. Safe. There would be no safety in flight — not for him or anyone he cared about. Stannis's men would breach the walls, and the city would fall into chaos. He could already picture it: the bloodshed, the screams of the innocent, the sight of Sansa, her fiery red hair pulled by some rough hand, dragged through the streets as her captors gloated over their spoils. The thought alone made his stomach turn.

He saw Tyrion in the distance and his mouth was moving. Henrik's heart pounded so violently he thought it might burst from his chest. His vision narrowed, ears straining to catch every word from Tyrion's mouth, though the dwarf's voice was barely audible over the crash of waves. Tyrion stood at the edge of the battlements, his face set in a grimace beneath that misshapen helmet. Henrik couldn't help but grimace at the sight of him and he had a horrible feeling stewing in the pit of his belly. The flick of Lord Tyrion's hand was all it took — one small gesture to set hell in motion.

A shout went up from the men below, their green-robed forms bustling in the shadows near the waterside. Henrik squinted into the gloom, barely able to make out the figures as they scurried about. What the fuck were they doing? They weren't armoured with steel or armour. For a moment, the world held its breath. A single ship launched into the middle of the Baratheon fleet, lonely and pitiful.

Then it happened.

A line of brilliant, sickly green erupted from the riverbank, shooting across the water like a serpent unleashed. Henrik gasped, recoiling as the Blackwater itself seemed to ignite, the flames crawling hungrily over the surface, licking at the sky with fervent intensity. His breath caught in his throat, and his grip on the parapet tightened. He'd never seen anything like it, this was no mere fire, it was uncontrollable. All the water in the known realms wouldn't be able to evade the monstrous flames. Was this hell?

The wildfire spread quickly, too quickly. At first, it was a thin line, tracing a path across the bay. But then it exploded outward, consuming everything in its path. The ships — Stannis's ships, dozens of them — were caught in the inferno before their crews had time to scream. The first burst sent plumes of emerald fire swirling into the night, and soon the bay was aflame, a wall of light and heat surging toward the horizon.

Henrik stood frozen, transfixed by the sight. Awe and horror mixed in his chest, a sickening brew. The flames danced in grotesque shapes, flickering wildly. A ship's mast snapped with a groan, collapsing into the water as its hull burned from within. Henrik thought he could hear the men aboard screaming, though the roar of the wildfire drowned out all sound. He prayed it was his imagination.

A cheer rose from his men, a ragged cry of triumph. Some even pounded their shields with gauntleted fists, exhilarated by the destruction. Their voices were hoarse, driven by the sheer terror of what they had witnessed — or perhaps by the desperate need to believe this was the end of it, that Stannis's fleet would turn back, broken by the devastation. Please, Henrik begged inwardly. He was a lot less sure now than he had been a few moons ago. Surely Stannis couldn't mean to go through with it now. The number of his men had to have dwindled, right?

But Henrik knew better. He felt it in his bones. This was no victory. Not yet.

The ships burned, yes, but they had not all been destroyed. Those too far from the first explosion were now struggling to pull away, their sails still unfurled, black against the green-lit sky. And more were coming, their hulls cutting through the water as if the firestorm ahead meant nothing. For every ship engulfed, another seemed to take its place. Stannis's fleet was vast, unrelenting.

Henrik swallowed hard, trying to banish the fear lodged in his throat. He glanced at Rubin, standing as stoic as ever, eyes fixed on the flames. He wondered what was going through his mind: if he was horrified or merely indifferent to the spectacle. His men were still cheering, but Henrik felt none of their relief. The battle hadn't truly begun, not for them. The fleet might burn, but Stannis's army was still out there, on those ships or in the camps beyond. And once they reached the city walls, no amount of wildfire would keep them back.

A sudden gust of wind sent a flurry of embers swirling toward the battlements. Henrik flinched, watching the sparks drift across the sky like fireflies in the night. The heat from the flames was palpable even from here, burning against his skin, the smell of burning wood and flesh carried on the breeze. His stomach churned, bile rising in his throat as he forced himself to look away.

From the distance, the faint sound of drums echoed over the water, a deep, relentless rhythm. The ships still advancing carried siege weapons, massive battering rams and ladders meant to breach the walls. He could see them now, clearer in the glow of the flames, their outlines dark and menacing. His pulse quickened. He suddenly realised how ill-prepared they were for a siege.

"Hold the line," Rubin muttered beside him as if sensing Henrik's unease. His voice was steady, calm. "They'll be here soon enough."

Henrik nodded stiffly, though his legs felt like jelly beneath him. He tried to will the fear away, tried to force himself to breathe, but his heart wouldn't slow. The cheer had died down now, replaced by the quiet rustle of armour and the shuffling of feet. Henrik felt their eyes on him again, waiting, watching. He straightened his back, forcing himself to meet their gazes. He had to look strong, even if he didn't feel it. He had to be their lord now.

Brave, he reminded himself. I can be brave.

They were approaching the Mud Gate, intending to break through there and take the city. Henrik watched as they landed on the northern shore of the Blackwater. The walls groaned with anticipation. His breath puffed in ragged clouds into the night, the cold air doing little to cool his sweat-slicked skin beneath the armour.

Rubin's hand clamped down on Henrik's shoulder. "Look," he muttered, nodding toward the water.

The first wave had reached the shore.

With a creaking groan, wooden gangplanks slammed down, bridging the gap between the enemy ships and the muddy banks. Dark figures, armour gleaming faintly in the unholy light, began pouring out, swords and spears raised high, banners whipping in the wind. Henrik's heart pounded, drowning out the sound of the Blackwater's hiss and crackle. Stannis's men moved with purpose, disciplined and unflinching as they surged toward the walls.

A single arrow loosed from the ramparts above, its shaft hissing through the air before embedding itself in one of the advancing soldiers. The man stumbled, his body crumpling into the mud with a muted thud. Nobody stopped for him, some trod on him, but the force pushed forward. That one arrow was all it took. In an instant, the world exploded into motion.

Arrows rained down from the battlements, a deadly storm that fell upon the attackers. Men screamed, shields raised too late to stop the onslaught. Henrik watched, numb, as bodies began to pile, blood seeping into the earth, mixing with the mud. Some rushed on land to join those, swords and shields raised, their cries of pain and anger audible. Henrik's sword felt impossibly heavy in his hand as he unsheathed it. The enemy was at the gates, pounding on the wooden door with massive battering rams. The gate shook under the force, wood splintering, the groan of it echoing in Henrik's chest.

Rubin, always composed, took the lead and barked orders at the men, but the words barely registered in Henrik's mind. He felt some of his men move to join the thick of the fighting but Henrik's pulse thundered in his ears. Move. He tried to command his legs. Do something. But his body stayed frozen, locked in place by the weight of fear. He could only watch as his men were hacked to death, their faces torn and bloody. He recognised some of them. Alaric. Garrick. Owen. Joren with the crooked teeth. Some he didn't even know but his father had trusted them to keep him safe and instead, he'd led them to their death.

"My lord," he heard Jarak's voice urge him. "My lord, what are your orders? Do you want us to send out more men?"

"I. . ." Henrik could barely speak, his voice far away, foreign to his ears. He felt much like Ser Ilyn Payne then, tongueless and robbed of speech, unable to give voice to the terror gripping him. Never in all his days had he seen so much blood — not even when he had slipped into the kitchens as a boy and watched them gut a fowl from feather to bone. Could a man truly be carved down to mere meat so easily?

Above the din, Henrik heard a guttural growl, followed by the clanging thud of armour stomping down the stone steps. The Hound appeared, his hulking frame pushing through a cluster of soldiers. His face was pale, eyes wide with fury — or was it fear? His helm dangled from one hand, his greatsword from the other. Henrik's stomach twisted as the Hound looked up at the flames that licked the sky. His broad, scarred face was pale beneath his helmet, his eyes wide. He wasn't moving. Men rushed around him, screaming orders, hauling stones to drop on the attackers, but the Hound just stood there. His sword hung uselessly at his side, his hands shaking.

Henrik couldn't believe it. The large man was pretty much terrified. He wanted to scream, to shout at the man to move, to fight. But the words died in his throat. The Hound was broken, terror holding him in place as surely as it did Henrik.

Not him too. Gods help us.

Tyrion recoiled, his eyes narrowing. Henrik could see the disbelief, the outrage, as the dwarf's small form seemed to swell with anger. "Then I'll do it myself," he spat, turning away from the Hound and toward the wall, eyes sweeping over the panicked soldiers and sellswords. "Form up!" Tyrion shouted, his voice cracking with urgency. "They say I'm half a man. What does that make the lot of you?"

Henrik could feel the shift in the air, the desperation. The men were breaking, their fear tangible, thick as smoke. The gate below groaned again, splinters flying as the battering ram slammed into it with renewed force.

Only a handful had responded to the Hand's command, no more than twenty. Tyrion's gaze flickered toward Henrik, meeting his eyes for the briefest moment, and Henrik felt the weight of that look. The expectation. The demand. He could see it in the dwarf's face — the recognition that they were running out of time, that if someone didn't step up, the city would burn. They wouldn't heed Tyrion; to them, he was but a twisted little dwarf, nothing more. It would take more than clever words to turn the tide, yet Henrik knew the hour was late. The odds were grim, one hundred to one. The battle would be lost unless someone stood forward, and soon.

Henrik's heart pounded, his legs still trembling, but something inside him snapped. He couldn't just stand by and watch the city fall, watch his men die because of his cowardice. Brave, be brave.

Henrik's throat felt dry as dust, but his voice burst out before he could stop it, rough and jagged. "Archers!" he bellowed, forcing the word past the lump in his throat. His voice cracked but held firm. "Archers, up on the walls! Draw now!"

The men flinched, some of them startled at the sudden command from him, of all people. He hadn't led a charge in his life, not truly. But in the flicker of torchlight and wildfire's eerie glow, their gazes turned to him. His heart slammed in his chest, but he swallowed his fear. He was their lord, their commander. He had to be.

More arrows were notched, quivers emptied as they took their positions, eyes wide with steely fear but moving nonetheless. Henrik paced along the battlements, his armour clinking with each step, the weight of it no longer suffocating but grounding. He gripped his sword tight, the leather wrapping biting into his palm as he pointed toward the advancing force.

"Loose!" he shouted.

The sky filled with arrows. They hissed down into the darkness below, cutting through the night like black streaks. Henrik's eyes tracked their path, seeing them disappear into the mass of Stannis's men. The thuds of impact were lost beneath the clamour of battle, but the enemy stumbled, shields raised too late, men falling into the mud as shafts pierced armour and flesh.

A momentary victory, but it wasn't enough. The gate was still splintering under the relentless battering ram.

"Spears to the front!" Henrik's voice was hoarse, but it cut through the noise like steel on stone. "Ready for the breach!"

His men scrambled, forming shaky lines, shields lifted and spears angled toward the gate. The sight of them, disjointed, uncertain, filled Henrik with a cold fury. These weren't just soldiers. They were his men, his responsibility. And they were breaking. The fear in their eyes mirrored his own, but he couldn't — wouldn't — let them crumble.

Without thinking, Henrik turned toward Rubin. "My horse. Now."

Rubin hesitated for only a heartbeat before nodding sharply, disappearing into the shadows to retrieve the mount. Henrik's breath came quick and shallow as he watched the soldiers around him. They needed more than orders, more than barks from behind the walls. They needed someone to show them how to fight, how to stand.

Within moments, Rubin returned, leading Henrik's horse by the reins. The beast's flanks gleamed in the sickly green light, its breath coming in thick, nervous puffs. Henrik swung himself into the saddle, legs trembling as his feet found the stirrups. He gripped the reins tight, his sword raised high, and a wild sort of resolve settled into his chest. Henrik's horse snorted beneath him, its breath rising in clouds. He placed his helm on his face, slamming down the visor and his vision narrowed. All he could see was his target.

The gate exploded inwards.

Stannis's men poured through the breach like water spilling from a broken dam — dark shapes in shining steel, their faces obscured by grim visors. Henrik's throat tightened, his grip faltering for just a moment. He saw the faces of his men behind the shields, pale and terrified, spears trembling as they faced the onslaught.

Tyrion's form appeared beside him, the dwarf's helmet askew, his eyes blazing beneath the mismatched iron. He didn't look up at Henrik but instead stared out at the battlefield, his jaw set in sober determination. His voice, when it came, cut through the noise like a blade.

"You're still here," Tyrion said without looking at him, his tone half-surprised, half-mocking. "Didn't think you'd make it this far, but good. They won't wait forever." He gestured wildly toward the gate with his axe. "You wanted to play at lord? Well, here's your chance to act like one!" The words were laced with venom, but there was something else there too — an urgent, desperate command. He wasn't mocking Henrik now, he was demanding him to step up. To lead.

Before Henrik could think, his hand shot out, yanking the reins hard, spurring the horse toward the broken gate. He didn't speak. He didn't need to. His men, and perhaps the others too, saw him move — saw him charge — and like iron to a lodestone, they followed.

He swung with brutal efficiency, his blade carving arcs through the air, finding flesh with a sickening thud. The first soldier he encountered fell forward, eyes wide with shock. Henrik didn't hesitate, driving his sword into the man's gut, feeling the resistance of muscle and bone before he yanked it free, a spray of warm blood painting the air crimson. The soldier collapsed, lifeless, into the mud, but Henrik barely registered it; his focus was singular, a feral instinct ignited within him.

Another soldier came at him from the left, brandishing a spear. Henrik angled his mount, driving forward, using the weight of his horse to crash into the enemy, sending him sprawling into the mud. He followed up with a downward stroke, the sword slicing through the man's throat. Henrik felt the warmth of blood on his skin, sticky and hot, mingling with the rain. The battlefield had become a blur of movement, each kill blending into the next. Dismembered limbs lay scattered like forgotten toys, the ground slick with crimson, and yet Henrik didn't notice the true extent of the carnage; he was consumed by the fight.

He could barely count the kills anymore — one, two, ten? — they became mere numbers in the onslaught of violence. The bodies stacked higher, dismembered limbs and fallen men littering the ground. One man fell, his body crumpling to the ground, another staggered back, clutching his severed arm. A spear whistled past his ear, and he barely ducked in time. Blood and filth caked his armour, mingling with sweat and grime, looking nothing like the shiny, gleaming ensemble he'd had strapped to him during the beginning, and a savage thrill coursed through him, dark and heady.

But fatigue crept in like an unwelcome fog. His muscles screamed, each swing growing heavier, each breath more laboured. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to push through the exhaustion that clawed at the edges of his resolve. He couldn't stop, must not stop. Stopping means death. Means defeat and shame. The world blurred in and out of focus before it morphed into a swirling mass of shadow and sound.

Suddenly, a sharp pain erupted in his side. He gasped, shock ripping through him as the blade cut deep. A scream escaped his lips. His horse cried out, collapsing beneath him, its legs crumpling in a sickening thud. Time seemed to slow as he crashed to the earth with a bone-jarring thud, the breath driven from his lungs. He lay there for a heartbeat, stunned, before rolling onto his side, gasping for air. With trembling hands, he tore off his helm, the icy wind biting at his sweat-slicked brow and tangled hair. His breath came in ragged gasps, tears leaking from his eyes, carried away on the wind like ash on a cold winter's night.

Henrik scrambled to rise, but the battlefield was relentless. A heavy-set enemy soldier bore down on him, pinning him into the muck. Cold water gushed around him, a chilling grip that threatened to drag him under. No, no, no, no. Panic surged; his limbs thrashed, but the man above him was a mountain of flesh, heavier and stronger by far. No amount of pushing or scratching would loosen those iron-hard muscles, and the taste of salt and copper filled his mouth as the fear of drowning devoured him whole.

A roar ripped from his throat, primal and fierce, as Henrik reached for the knife strapped to his belt. The blade glinted before he plunged it into the man's neck, feeling the resistance of flesh giving way, over and over again. The soldier's eyes widened in shock, then glazed over as he collapsed, his body crushing Henrik further into the mire.

Blood gushed from the wound, spraying Henrik's face and filling his mouth with a sickening warmth. The sharp tang of iron overwhelmed his senses, thick and bitter on his tongue. He gagged, the hot fluid slipping down his throat despite his efforts to spit it out. His stomach churned, the foul taste mixing with bile as he retched.

With a desperate shove, he pushed the corpse off him, staggering to his feet, soaked in blood and grime, his hair slick with gore. He coughed until he felt that all of the blood had escaped his mouth. He's not sure he'd ever get the taste out. The battlefield stretched before him, the waters running red with the life that had spilled. He doubled over as a sharp pain gripped his side and as he drew his hand up to his face, the whole palm was covered in blood. White spots danced before his eyes as he could feel the blood still pouring from his side. He was losing vision, and fast. Is this how I die? He saw no sign of Rubin or Jarak. He hoped they were okay.

Henrik stumbled forward, his breath ragged, each step heavier than the last. His hand pressed to his side, warm blood seeping through his fingers. His vision blurred, the world swaying as he tried to steady himself. His legs trembled, threatening to give out beneath him, but he forced himself upright, teeth clenched against the pain. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear Rubin shouting — or was it Tyrion? He couldn't tell. The sound barely pierced the fog that had settled over his mind. He wiped a trembling hand across his lips, only smearing more of it across his face.

A figure loomed before him — tall, armoured with the sigil of the crowned, fiery stag on the front, faceless behind the steel of his helm. Henrik's grip tightened around his sword, the leather slick with blood, but his muscles screamed in protest. He raised the blade, a feeble gesture, more instinct than strength, as the soldier charged. He wanted to sink there and sob. How many more would there be? Would this never end?

The clash of steel against steel reverberated through Henrik's bones, his arms shaking from the impact. The enemy's sword slid off his, catching him in the shoulder as he failed to raise his shield in time. The pain was immediate, white-hot, shooting through his entire arm. Henrik gasped, his knees buckling as he staggered back, slipping in the muck. His vision swam, dark spots blooming at the edges as he fought to stay upright.

He stepped back, mud sucking at his boots, the sound of a sickening squelch. His foot caught on something — a body — and he fell, his back hitting the ground with a deafening thud that knocked the breath from his lungs and the blade from his hands. The cold seeped into his armour, thick and cloying as if the earth itself was trying to drag him under.

The man's sword rose, glinting briefly. Henrik's breath hitched, and for a heartbeat, he froze. So, this is how it ends? Forgotten and bloody on some battlefield. Would my father even mourn for me or would he shake his head with sighing annoyance, muttering, "Foolish boy, I warned you, didn't I?"

With a desperate grunt, Henrik jerked to the side, the soldier's blade whistling down into the mud where his chest had been only moments before. The sword bit deep into the earth with a hollow thunk and the soldier let out a loud grunt as tremors pierced up his arm. Henrik's hand shot out, fingers curling around the hilt of his fallen sword. His muscles screamed in protest, but his grip tightened, the rough leather familiar and comforting. He twisted, his body moving on instinct, and slashed upward in a wild, brutal arc.

The blade caught the soldier's leg — steel against steel — but it was enough to stagger him. The man grunted, his footing slipping in the slick mud and twisting at an awkward angle. Henrik didn't wait. With a savage growl, he pushed himself to his knees and lunged forward, clambering atop the fallen man. The soldier beneath him thrashed, trying to shake Henrik off, but his movements were sluggish, the mud and wound in his leg sapping at his strength. Henrik could feel spittal escaping his mouth as he gritted his teeth in desperation.

The man's gauntleted hand rose, grabbing for Henrik's wrist, fingers curling around his arm like a vice, creating bruises. Henrik growled, twisting his wrist free, and slammed the hilt of his sword down onto the soldier's helm with a hollow clang. The man grunted, his head jerking back into the mud, the sharp ring of metal on metal cutting through the chaos. Henrik didn't pause — he couldn't. He yanked his arm back and struck again, harder, feeling the jarring impact shoot up his injured arm as the helmet dented inward.

The soldier's hand spasmed, his grip faltering. His legs kicked weakly, trying to find purchase in the mud, but Henrik didn't give him a chance. He raised his sword high, both hands shaking as he drove the blade downward, straight for the gap in the man's visor, between his throat and his helm. The steel slid through with sickening ease, meeting flesh with a wet, crunching sound.

The soldier gasped, his body convulsing and then going beneath Henrik, fingers twitching as the blade sunk deeper. Blood, hot and sticky, gushed from the wound, seeping through the visor and coating Henrik's hands. He felt the warmth of it trickle down his wrist, mingling with the rain and grime. The man gurgled beneath him, a grotesque, wet sound as blood bubbled up through the cracks in his visor. Henrik knew it would haunt him for days to come, if it came. The man's eyes were wide, terrified, their whites glowing in the dark slits of his helm. Henrik could hear the rasping wheeze of the man's breath, each one shallower than the last, but still — still — he clawed at Henrik's arms, fingers scrabbling weakly, nails scraping against the steel.

Henrik pressed his knee down on the soldier's chest, grinding him down further as he wrenched the sword free. The blade slid out with a sickening schlick, and the man let out one final gasp — a wet, sucking noise as the air escaped his punctured lungs. Blood sprayed in a fine mist from the opening, splattering across Henrik's face, warm and sticky, mingling with the rain that beat down on them both.

The soldier's eyes froze, wide and empty now, no longer seeing anything. His hand fell limp to his side, fingers curling into the mud. His body twitched once, twice, and then stilled completely.

Henrik staggered back, legs shaking as the bloodlust drained from his body. Then, a distant sound cut through the tumult — a horn, blaring its call through the fog of war. It was a sharp, resonant sound, rising above and seeping into the depths of his weariness.

Henrik's head snapped toward the horizon, and there they were — banners fluttering like fierce birds above the chaos, bright crimson and gold emblazoned with the sigil of House Lannister: a lion, fierce and unyielding.

His breath caught as he recognised the familiar banners being carried by a knight, the three silver ships on blue of House Farmam. Amidst the charging cavalry, he spotted his father atop a great warhorse, its powerful muscles glistening under the rain. Lord Farman's visage was grim, eyes sharp and piercing.

But then, as if fate were mocking him, an enemy soldier broke through the ranks, charging towards his father with a determined rage, a glimmer of malice in his eyes. Time seemed to stretch and slow; Henrik's heart thundered in his chest, a frantic drumbeat urging him to act. His muscles screamed in protest as he dropped to his knees, and grasped his knife from the mud.

With a breath that felt like it might be his last, he hurled the blade through the air, a flickering streak of silver that glinted. The world around him fell silent for a heartbeat as he watched it sail. . .

The knife found its mark with a sickening thud, sinking deep into the enemy soldier's chest. The man gasped, surprise etching across his features as he faltered and then crumpled to the ground like a puppet severed from its strings. Lord Farman's knights and guards surged forward, forming a protective barrier around their lord. Henrik's heart overflowed and he grinned.

Henrik's victory was short-lived, the thrill quickly overshadowed by the fog of exhaustion that rolled in, thick and suffocating. The pain in his side flared to life, sharp and insistent, like a thousand daggers stabbing into his flesh. He staggered back, hands braced on his knees, gasping for air as the world began to tilt. The whole thing had been too much for him, his body groaning in protest and anger.

Through the haze, he caught fleeting glimpses of the battlefield — men shouting, swords clashing, and horses rearing in the tumult. But everything seemed to blur, the colours bleeding together. The mud beneath him felt more like quicksand, pulling him down, down, down. . .

"Henrik!"

His father's voice pierced the fog, but it was muffled, like a distant bell tolling. He looked up, squinting against the rain, trying to focus on Lord Farman's frowning face through the haze. He came, Henrik thought deliriously. You didn't leave me to die here. You see, father, I'm not just a boy. Are you not proud of me, of your heir?

And then, with a final gasp, Henrik crumpled to the ground, the mud rushing up to embrace him. He lay there, staring at the rain-soaked sky, the droplets splattering against his face like a thousand tiny fists.

---

Hey guys. Apologies for the long wait, I didn't expect that it would take me this long. Work and annoying clients took over and I was horribly ill for a period when I couldn't get out of bed with everything aching and my head spinning. Not fun times I'm afraid. But it's all good now thank god, the worst of flu season is over.

This is my longest chapter yet, so I hope you guys enjoy it. Thanks so much for reading I really appreciate it. Hope this was okay, especially the minor smut scene at the beginning.

In other news, I'm going on holiday tomorrow to the USA to meet my cousin for Thanksgiving. I've never experienced what that entails exactly as so eager for the experience. She apparently wants to make pumpkin pie, whatever that is.

Anyway, I hope you guys are having a good day. See you next time!