The chamber was dim, lit only by a single candle that sputtered as if nervous of the dark. Sansa walked into her bed chamber, like Ser Dontos had urged her to, and approached by the window, her hands folded, perfect, as a lady's should, though her thoughts roiled like the green fire she saw licking the Southern sky. Even with the windows shut tight, she could hear the distant roar of the battle, the screams and shouts of men echoing faintly through the stone walls of Maegor's Holdfast.
Cersei's words coiled in her memory, thorned and clinging, the taste of wine sharp on every syllable. Pretty little bird, the queen had purred before sweeping from the room, her smirk curdled at the edges. So sweet, aren't you? A mocking tilt of her head, eyes glinting like green glass in the firelight. And you'll stay sweet, won't you? No matter what my son does to you.
More than once, Sansa wished Lady was here. She would curl at Sansa's feet, a silent guardian, unafraid of the battle outside or the monsters within these walls while Sansa would brush her fur. But there was no Lady anymore.
She turned to walk towards her bed. Perhaps she could sleep the moment away. This will all go away if I do. As soon as she reached her bed, a hand reached out from under the covers and Sansa flinched, her heart leaping to her mouth as she bit her tongue to stop herself from screaming. Her eyes widened as she saw Sandor Clegane — The Hound — looming in the candlelight. He reeked of blood and wine, his burned face pale and twisted in the flickering light of the chamber's lone candle.
His hand reached out and pulled her close and tight. The chamber seemed to shrink around her, heavy with the mingling scents of blood, sweat, and the sharp tang of wine. The Hound's grip on her arm was firm, almost bruising, as he leaned closer, his breath hot and sour against her cheek. His other hand held a knife, its edge glinting faintly in the candlelight.
"Little bird," he rasped, his voice raw, "thought I'd find you here singing your hymns. If you scream I'll cut your throat."
She swallowed, the motion painful. "I — I wasn't singing," she whispered.
"No? Then what good are you? All you ever do is sing and smile and lie."
Sansa shook her head. "I don't—"
"Shut up."
Carefully, she forced herself to breathe. "Please, let me go."
"You're just a little bird in a cage," he muttered, almost to himself. "Singing pretty songs while the world burns around you." His expression turned fierce as he looked up, catching her gaze and shaking her arm, tugging her closer. "Do you think they'll save you? Do you think he'll save you?" The words dripped with venom, and Sansa knew who he meant — the boy with the soft brown hair and a smile like spring. "You're wasting your time. He's likely burned to ash, or gutted like the rest of them out there."
Henrik, she thought again, her heart aching. She didn't dare ask if the knight had seen him, didn't want to give him the satisfaction of mocking her further. Instead, she straightened her shoulders, though her hands still trembled at her sides. He's lying, she thought. Henrik promised. He promised to come.
Sansa's heart clenched, but she forced herself to remain still, to keep her face calm. A lady must never let them see her fear. The candlelight danced on the jagged scars that marred his face, making him look less like a man and more like a monster pulled from the tales of Old Nan. Fear rose in her chest which she promptly tamped down.
"Ser—" she began hesitantly.
"You should be hiding," the Hound growled, his eyes flicking to the window where the faint green glow of wildfire painted the edges of the curtains. "Not sitting here like some fool maiden waiting for a knight who'll never come."
Sansa's lips parted, but no words came. She clutched the folds of her dress, trying to summon the courage she'd only ever heard about in songs. "I was. . . praying," she said softly, her voice trembling.
"Praying?" He let out a harsh bark of laughter, devoid of any mirth. "Pray all you like. The gods don't hear in times like these."
The Hound's laugh lingered like a thick, choking smoke from a dying fire. He tugged her closer, the clink of his armour filling the silence that followed. Sansa forced herself to remain still, though every fibre of her being screamed to back away, to flee. But there was nowhere to run. Nowhere safe.
"Your gods won't save you," he muttered, and for a moment, he simply sat there, staring at the single candle's flame. "Neither will mind. They never do and never will."
He's drunker than I've ever seen him. "You don't have to be cruel all the time," she said, the words slipping out before she could stop them.
For a moment, he said nothing. His dark eyes searched hers, and she thought she saw something flicker there. Then it was gone, shuttered behind his usual scowl.
"You don't know the first thing about cruelty, little bird," he said. The candlelight made his shadow loom long and monstrous on the stone walls. "But you will. If you live through this night, you'll learn. There's no place for songs and prayers where we're headed."
"Why did you come here?"
He staggered to his feet from the bed, his movements unsteady but the grip on her arm was unrelenting. "You promised me a song, little bird," he growled. "Have you forgotten?"
"I can't," she whispered, her voice trembling. She shook her head, her auburn hair catching the light. "Please, please, let me go. You're scaring me."
"Everything scares you," he spat. "Look at me. Look at me!"
Sansa flinched, the command like a lash against her skin. But she obeyed, forcing her wide, tear-filled eyes upward to meet his face. He was a shadowed figure carved of fury and despair, his burned flesh twisted and cruel under the wavering light. His hands — thick, calloused — dug into her arms, hard enough to draw a whimper from her lips. Even now, his face shocked her. No matter how often she'd seen it, the raw, melted ruin on one side never became easier to bear. She tried not to stare or let her gaze linger, but his demand had left her no choice.
"I could keep you safe," he rasped, the words more a snarl than a vow. "They're all afraid of me. No one would dare hurt you again. And if they tried. . ." His voice dropped lower, rough as a blade. "I'd kill them."
He yanked her closer. For a moment, she thought he meant to kiss her, and panic seized her chest like a vice. Her hands twitched at her sides, yearning to fight back — to pound her fists against his chest, to scream. But she knew it would be useless. He was too strong.
Henrik would have stopped this. The thought struck her with all the force of a falling tower. He would have seen the danger before I ever did. His deep brown eyes, steady and warm, had turned into a source of comfort, more than she'd realised. She could still picture the soft waves of his hair catching the light the last time she'd seen him. She could hear his voice now, wonderous and smooth, promising that everything would be all right. But Henrik was not here. There was no hand to pull her to safety.
"Still can't bear to look, can you, girl?"
The Hound's voice sliced through her thoughts, low and bitter. He released one arm only to wrench her around, shoving her down onto the bed with an ease that made her feel as fragile as glass. She gasped as her back hit the mattress.
"I'll have that song," he said, his tone grim and unrelenting. "Florian and Jonquil, wasn't it?" A flash of silver caught her eye — the blade of his dagger. He pressed it to her throat, its edge cool and sharp against her skin. "Sing, little bird," he growled. "Sing for your little life."
Her heart thundered in her chest, drowning out her thoughts. Every song she had ever known had fled her mind, lost in the suffocating haze of terror. Her throat was dry and tight as if even air dared not pass. The point of the dagger twisted slightly, a silent warning, and she flinched. Her eyelids fluttered shut, tears spilling down her cheeks.
And then, like a half-remembered dream, the faint echo of a melody drifted into her mind. It wasn't Florian and Jonquil, but it was a song — a fragile lifeline she clung to with trembling hands. Her voice, small and quivering, broke the silence. It sounded alien to her ears, thin and trembling like a frightened bird's call. But it was a song. And she sang.
"Gentle Mother, font of mercy, save our sons from war, we pray, stay the swords and stay the arrows, let them know a better day."
After a moment, the Hound removed the blade from her throat and remained in silence. Sansa clutched the silks of her gown, her fingers trembling as they twisted the fabric. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths, though she hardly dared to make a sound. The song had died on her lips, leaving only the faint crackling of the fire.
Her mind betrayed her, conjuring Henrik's face to replace the Hound's. She could see him so clearly: the smooth, unblemished curve of his cheek that she wanted to stroke oddly enough, the soft wave of his brown hair that always caught the light just so, and the deep, steady warmth of his brown eyes. Henrik, with his youth and his smile like springtime, and who had promised that he would come for her. Was he still out there? Fighting bravely, his sword gleaming under the glow of wildfire? Or had the flames already consumed him, the way they had so many others? She thought of the men she'd seen marching to the battlements, their faces hard and determined, some too young to grow proper beards. She thought of her father, his calm dignity as he walked to his death, and her heart broke all over again.
Suddenly, she flinched at the unexpected touch, her breath hitching as rough, calloused fingers brushed against her cheek.
"Little bird," the Hound mumbled once more. Then he rose to his feet, ripping the white cloak from his shoulders and leaving it crumpled on the floor. Sansa heard the softer sound of retreating footsteps.
She was alone. Again.
The first faint hint of dawn was visible in the east when she heard the bells of the Red Keep and the seven crystal towers of the Great Sept of Baelor. She could also hear men shouting in the streets, and something that could only be cheers. It was Ser Dontos himself who bought word of the battle's victory, still reeking of wine, but his face alight with excitement.
"Stannis' forces are broken," he said, his words tumbling over each other in his excitement. "The Lion's banner flies high, my lady. Tywin Lannister rode in at the head of his host, and with him, the banners of House Tyrell! Lord Mace Tyrell and his sons — oh, such fine knights, my lady! The battle turned in an instant. There was Lord Redwyne of the Arbor, with his fleet. Lord Tarly of Horn Hill. Lord Rowan. . . and Lord Farman, I believe, from the West. The Reach and the Westerlands united to crush the pretender! Oh, I could just make a song out of it!"
Sansa swallowed hard, her fingers clutching the edge of her gown. "Lord Farman," she repeated. "Did. . . did Lord Henrik ride with him?"
Ser Dontos wobbled where he stood, swaying slightly with the weight of drink. He scratched at his ruddy cheek. "Lord. . . ? I. . . I don't know, sweet lady. Ah. . . I could not say. Many knights rode beneath the Farman banner. A great host, truly! There were so many out there. But in the chaos of battle, who could pick out one man from another? I couldn't begin to tell you who lived or died." He chuckled as if it were a jest. "The Redwyne fleet, now there's a sight! Flames on the water, ships splitting like kindling, men screaming — oh, my lady, I wish you could have seen it! A victory most grand!"
Sansa's head spun, her knees threatening to give way beneath her. She reached out to steady herself on the edge of the bed, her breaths coming in shallow gasps.
She forced herself to speak. "Thank you, Ser Dontos. You've been most kind to bring me this news."
He beamed like a man reborn. "Come, my lady, do not look so pale! The city is saved! We'll all drink to this victory soon enough!"
The dawn struggled to pierce through the lingering smoke, casting a pale, muted light over the scene. The air reeked of fire and blood, the acrid tang sharp enough to sting Sansa's nose even through the gold-threaded piece of cloth she pressed against her face. The faint cries of the wounded rose and fell like the mournful notes of a dirge, weaving through the Red Keep's courtyard.
Broken bodies lay in makeshift rows upon the blood-slick stone, some wrapped in stained linen, others bare, their lifeless eyes fixed on nothing. A ghostly pallor clung to their flesh. A boy no older than Bran lay nearby, his arms flung wide as though in protest against some unseen foe. A healer swept past him without a glance, her skirts brushing his outstretched fingers.
Sansa's foot caught on something — a splintered shield, half-buried in ash. She stepped over it, careful to avoid the blood pooling near the body of a man slumped against the courtyard wall. His breastplate had caved in, the emblem of House Lannister barely visible through the gore. She didn't let herself look too closely. A healer knelt beside a soldier with half his face burned away, murmuring as he pressed a poultice to the raw flesh. The soldier's screams pierced the air, but they felt distant. Sansa turned away, her stomach churning. I am a stupid girl. Why did I come? I should have just slept until the Queen or Joffrey called for me.
She hadn't meant to come here. Her feet had carried her, unbidden, past the smouldering remains of the gates, past the chaos of carts loaded with the dead. Her gaze flitted over the rows of the injured. I am being ridiculous, she thought. He wouldn't be in the courtyard among the common soldiers. He was heir to Faircastle, a lord of noble birth. If he'd been injured — if he'd fallen — they would have brought him to Maegor's Holdfast, to his bedchambers.
But even as her mind formed the thought, her eyes kept scanning. Her gaze caught a glint of brown hair, but it was the wrong shade. A soldier lay propped against a barrel, whimpering and cradling his arm as a healer stitched his side. Not him.
She passed the next row. The smell of death thickened here, cloying and suffocating, and she pressed the cloth tighter against her nose. Her heart lurched as she noticed a body near the edge of the courtyard, facedown in the dirt. His hair, dark with blood, was the same shade. Her breath caught in her throat, and her legs faltered.
"Lady Sansa," a sharp voice cut through her haze, startling her. A guard in Lannister crimson strode toward her, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. "You shouldn't be here."
Sansa froze, the colour draining from her face. "Forgive me, ser. I. . . I was only passing through," she murmured. Glancing back at the body near the courtyard's edge, she couldn't stop herself.
The guard followed her gaze and frowned. "This is no place for you. The queen wouldn't want you wandering around here. Nor would his Grace."
"Of course, ser. I did not mean to intrude."
"Come, my lady," the guard said firmly. A gloved hand closed around her arm, not unkind but firm. "Let me escort you back to your chambers. You're not to linger here with the dead."
Sansa cast one last look over the courtyard, her heart twisting. He isn't here, she told herself. Her chest felt hollow. She didn't know if she was glad or disappointed, and the uncertainty clawed at her. The guard began walking, and she let him lead her away. He followed close behind, his armour clinking softly with every movement. As they guided her back toward the safety of the Keep, she kept her eyes ahead, refusing to look back at the smoke-filled courtyard.
It was a few hours later when Sansa had been washed and clothed in a new gown of purple silk that everyone was called to the throne room with the denizens of Joffery's court. Tapestries depicting the crowned Baratheon stag and Lannister lion on crimson hung from the walls, their gold threads catching the light of a hundred flickering torches. At the centre of it all, perched atop the Iron Throne like a preening bird, sat Joffrey, his crown slightly askew as he grinned down at the assembled crowd.
Sansa stood at the galley with the other lords and ladies, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. The purple silk of her gown felt heavy against her skin. The courtiers around her buzzed with excitement, their voices rising and falling in waves of admiration and relief. They spoke of the victory, of Stannis Baratheon's retreat, of the bravery of the Lannister forces.
A fanfare of trumpets cut through the noise, and the room fell silent as a line of knights and lords began to approach the throne. They moved with deliberate slowness, their armour polished to a blinding sheen, their cloaks trailing behind them like banners. Each one knelt before Joffrey, offering their swords and their loyalty in voices that rang out with practised solemnity. Sansa's eyes flicked up briefly, scanning the faces of the men as they passed. She recognised some of them — Lannister bannermen, knights of the Kingsguard, lords from the Crownlands.
Trumpets blared, their brassy notes echoing off the stone walls as each noble stepped forward to pay homage. The Tyrells entered like a summer storm, their green velvet cloaks trimmed with sable rippling as they moved. Lord Mace Tyrell led the procession, his broad frame swathed in finery, flanked by his sons, Ser Garlan and Ser Loras, dressed in green velvet trimmed with sable, moved to greet the king with great show. Ser Loras asked to serve in the Kingsguard.
"Granted," Joffrey declared, his voice dripping with false magnanimity. He rose, stepped down, and pressed a kiss to Ser Loras's cheek — a gesture that drew a smattering of applause — before moving back to the throne.
Ser Garlan was next. He stepped forward and knelt in front of the throne. Sansa's heart stopped breathing with his next words.
"Your Grace," he said when the king turned to him, "I have a maiden sister, Margaery, the delight of our House. She was wed to Renly Baratheon, as you know, but Lord Renly went to war before the marriage could be consummated, so she remains innocent. Margaery has heard tales of your wisdom, courage, and chivalry, and has come to love you from afar. I beseech you to send for her, to take her hand in marriage, and to wed your House to mine for all time."
"You honour me with your words, Ser Garlan, and I do not doubt your sister's beauty, for it is spoken of in every corner of the Seven Kingdoms. But a king is not free to follow desire alone. My duty and my word are given to another, and a true king does not break his oath."
Sansa's breath caught in her throat, though she kept her face as still as a frozen pond. Her hands, clasped so tightly in front of her, trembled faintly, but she willed them to be still as she peered down at the polished floor. A king must keep his word. The words echoed in her mind, hollow and mocking. Joffrey's promise to her was no more than a shackle, a chain that bound her to a fate she now dreaded. But what was the word of a king like Joffrey worth? Nothing. Less than nothing. Please, she pleaded, wanting to sob. Listen to Ser Garlan. Take her. Take the Tyrell girl. Let her stand beside you in the Sept, draped in gold.
Her eyes drifted upwards to Ser Garlan, still kneeling. He was handsome, with the brown hair and liquid gold eyes as his brother Loras, though much broader in the shoulders. But Sansa felt nothing. No flutter of her heart, no blush creeping into her cheeks. I have grown weary of gold, she thought sadly. And of knights, and kings and all their empty promises. She had grown jaded of Lannisters and their glittering lies, their cruelty masked by finery. Gold had brought her nothing but pain. She thought of the times Joffrey had humiliated her, ordering Ser Meryn to strike her and laughing as she begged for mercy. Her thoughts were bitter. Gold. Gold crowns, gold cloaks, gold lies.
She thought of Henrik — of his soft hair framing a face that was gentle and unassuming. His eyes, deep and brown like the earth after a rain, had held no malice, no hidden cruelty. He had been kind to her, in a way that felt sincere. Perhaps it was because he did not seem to notice her, not in the way the others did. He did not leer or smirk or whisper behind her back. He simply was. And the brooch that he offered lay in her chambers, still untouched. She wondered where he was now. Recovering, she supposed.
"Your Grace," Cersei said, at last, rising gracefully from her place and moving beside the king. "Ser Garlan speaks wisely. A union with House Tyrell would strengthen the realm, a marriage that would bring harmony after such bloodshed." Her voice was measured, smooth as silk, but Sansa heard the quiet command beneath it.
Joffrey frowned, like a toddler about to throw a tantrum. "But I am promised to another, Mother. I took a holy vow — you know this."
Cersei turned her cool green eyes upon her son. "Lady Sansa is of great worth, but her house stands against us. She is the daughter of a traitor and sister to a pretender king in open rebellion against the crown. Lady Margaery is rumoured to be beautiful and fair, a far better choice for our people."
The High Septon also stepped forward, his voice resonating with solemn authority. "Your Grace, the gods hold betrothal vows sacred. However, your father, blessed be his memory, made this pact before the Starks of Winterfell revealed their treachery. Their crimes against the realm have absolved you of any promise you might have sworn. In the eyes of the Faith, there is no binding marriage contract between you and Sansa Stark."
A wave of approval surged through the throne room. Voices rose in unison, chanting, "Margaery, Margaery!" The sound swelled, echoing off the stone walls like a hymn. Sansa felt her chest tighten. Her fingers clenched the wooden rail, knuckles whitening as she leaned forward, her breath shallow and ragged. He has to say it, she prayed. Just say it, please.
"The gods are good. I am free to heed my heart. I will wed your sweet sister, and gladly, ser."
For a moment, the words did not feel real. They came to her distantly, like a song carried on the wind, half-heard and half-dreamed. Sansa swayed where she stood, her hands still clenched against the rail, as the room erupted around her. The lords and ladies, the knights and courtiers, the sycophants and flatterers — they all cheered. Could it be? Could it truly be?
Joffrey had cast her aside.
Joffrey had cast her aside.
A great weight had been lifted from her chest as if she had been unshackled, her chains shattered in a single breath. She did not dare move, did not dare exhale too deeply, lest someone look up and see the trembling in her hands, the way her lips had parted in something dangerously close to joy. You must not show it. They will see, they will know. She forced herself to breathe slowly, shallowly, though her heart pounded so fiercely she feared they might hear it. She then pressed her nails into her palm, hard enough to leave little half-moons in her skin.
The rest of the ceremony passed in a blur. Sansa was ready to flee to her chambers but the king hadn't given leave to anyone yet as they went down the rows of lords and knights were given their due rewards and punishments. Sansa's ear sharpened when a familiar name was announced.
The herald's voice boomed through the hall, cutting through the noise. "Lord Farman of Fair Isle comes before the crown!"
Farman. That's Henrik's lord father. Sansa's exhaustion seemed to have vanished as she kept her eyes peeled. The crowd parted as Lord Sebaston stepped forward. He walked with a stiff, almost mechanical grace, his face a mask of stoic composure. Lord Sebaston's bow was deep but swift before kneeling before the throne, his head bowed, his posture rigid and his face a mask of stoic composure.
"Your grace," he said. "House Farman serves House Lannister, as we have for generations. It was my honour to bring our strength to your cause."
"My lord grandfather has oft spoken of your steadfast service and the strength of your fleet, which turned the tide in our favour. House Farman has shown itself loyal, and such loyalty shall not go unrewarded. The favour of the crown is yours, now and always."
Lord Sebaston only inclined his head. "Your Grace is generous."
Sansa's breath caught in her throat as she watched, her fingers twisting the fabric of her gown. His brown hair, streaked with silver, was neatly combed, and his armour bore the sigil of Faircastle, though it was marred by scratches and soot. His voice was steady, his words precise, but there was no warmth in them, no hint of the triumph that coloured the voices of the other knights and lords. His eyes swept the room briefly, and for a moment, they met Sansa's. There was no recognition in his gaze, no flicker of emotion, but she felt a chill run through her all the same.
Henrik wasn't with him.
"Rise, my lord," Joffrey commanded, his voice high and imperious.
Sansa's chest tightened, and she quickly looked away, her fingers twisting the fabric of her gown. She shrank back instinctively, though she doubted Lord Farman would notice her. She wondered what he thought of all this — of the victory, of the boy king who claimed it as his own. And of Henrik. Did he know where his son was? Did he share the same quiet worry that gnawed at her heart?
The lord obeyed, standing tall as he faced the king. Joffrey leaned forward, a smirk playing on his lips. "You fought bravely in the battle, my lord. The realm owes you its gratitude."
"I only did my duty, your grace."
"Duty, yes," Joffrey said, waving a hand dismissively. "But it's not just you who distinguished yourself. I've heard that your son, Henrik, led the charge against Stannis's forces. He should be honoured for his heroics! Where is he? Bring him forward!"
The crowd murmured in anticipation, but Lord Sebaston's expression darkened slightly. "Your Grace, my son is recovering abed from his injuries. He is not fit to appear before the court at this time. He is recovering under the care of my household."
"A shame," Joffrey mused. "I should like to have met him who they call a hero. Perhaps he has proved himself worthy of the Kingsguard. A hero should be at his king's side."
"Your Grace is kind to speak so highly of my son."
Joffrey waved a hand dismissively. "No matter! His deeds speak for themselves. He fought bravely, and the Crown rewards its loyal servants." He gestured grandly, and a servant stepped forward, carrying a velvet cushion upon which rested a scroll sealed with the royal sigil.
"For his valour and leadership in the defense of King's Landing," Joffrey declared, his voice ringing out, "I, Joffrey Baratheon, King of the Seven Kingdom and Protector of the Realm, hereby grant a tract of fertile lands in the Riverlands, to be held in perpetuity by House Farman, along with the rights to its harvests and incomes. In addition, Henrik of Faircastle is granted a position of honour within the royal court, to serve as a trusted advisor and representative of his house. His loyalty and courage shall be remembered and rewarded, and his name shall be celebrated in the realm."
Sansa's chest tightened as she listened. Henrik would be elevated in status and influence, his house's standing secured. But at what cost? She thought of the battle, of the screams and the fire, of the bodies she had seen in the courtyard. Henrik had fought bravely, but he had paid a price. And now, he would be bound even more tightly to the Lannisters, to Joffrey and his cruel whims.
Joffrey leaned on the Iron Throne, a satisfied smirk on his face. "Let it be known that I, as your king, reward its loyal servants," he declared, his voice ringing out. "Henrik of Faircastle has proven himself a true hero, and his deeds shall not be forgotten."
The courtiers buzzed with excitement, their voices rising and falling in a cacophony of admiration and speculation. Sansa caught snippets of their conversations as they swirled around her like a storm. "Oh, what an honour." "And those lands in the Riverlands — fertile, they say. A fine reward for bravery." "But where is the boy? Surely he should be here to accept such honours."
Lord Sebaston bowed his head once more, his expression unreadable. "Your Grace is most generous. My son will be deeply honoured by your recognition, and House Farman is ever loyal to the Crown."
He turned and walked back to his place among the other lords, his movements stiff and deliberate. Sansa's gaze followed him, her heart pounding. The herald's voice boomed again, calling forward the next lord to be honoured, but Sansa barely heard it. Would he recover fully? Would he still be the same Henrik she remembered, with his warm smile and gentle eyes?
The ceremony dragged on, but Sansa barely registered it. She stood stiffly, her hands clenched so tightly that her nails dug into her palms. Only one thought was running through her mind. I am free. I will not have to kiss Joffrey, nor give him my maidenhood, or bear him children.
The courtiers around her chattered and laughed, their voices a distant hum. The light outside the windows was fading by the time the session drew to a close. Sansa felt limp with exhaustion as she made her way down from the gallery. She'd never before realised how lonely she felt in the throne room when Henrik wasn't present. Oh, how I wish to see him and tell him the sweet news.
When darkness arrived, Sansa donned her cloak and went towards the godswood for her Florian. She wondered why Ser Dontos looked so grim when she greeted him joyfully and shared the happy news. Sansa's blood turned cold when he explained.
"Oh, my innocent lady. The queen will never let you go, never. You are too valuable a hostage. And Joffrey. . . sweetling, he is still king. If he wants you in his bed, he will have you, only now it will be bastards he plants in your womb instead of trueborn sons."
The queen will never let you go. Ser Dontos's words echoed in her mind, dark and insidious. Her hand clenched around the edge of her cloak as if she could hold herself together through sheer force of will. She was free. She was not free. She was cast aside. She was still their pawn. Each thought crashed over her like waves upon the rocks, unrelenting and merciless. Sansa pressed her lips together, refusing to let the tears spill. A lady does not cry.
But her voice betrayed her, trembling as she asked, "Then what am I to do, Ser Dontos? What hope is left for me?"
Dontos stepped closer, his breath thick with wine. He placed a hand on her arm, his touch light, almost fatherly. "There's hope yet, sweetling, don't despair," he murmured. "The time is near. The ship waits for you, beyond the walls, beyond the city. Soon you'll be away from all this — away from the queen, and the boy, and their games. You'll be safe."
"A ship?" she echoed. "When?"
The wind stirred through the trees, rustling the red and gold leaves. Sansa swallowed, her throat dry as dust. Escape — the very thought of it was thrilling and nonetheless terrifying. And yet. . .
Henrik.
Her heart twisted at the thought of him, lying abed, wounded and unknowing. Would he seek her out once he recovered? Would he ask after her only to find she had vanished into the night like some phantom of a song?
"Soon," answered Ser Dontos. "The night of Joffrey's wedding. After the feast. All the necessary arrangements have been made. More patience is required and very near you'll be home."
Sansa's slippered feet glided soundlessly over the cold, uneven stones of the Red Keep's corridors as she returned to her chambers after the meeting, the hem of her gown whispering against the edges of the rough floor. Her mind churned with Ser Dontos' words, his voice a persistent echo in her thoughts. I won't have the King's bastards, she vowed more firmly than she felt. I won't. I'd sooner throw myself off the tallest tower in the Keep. She knew she meant it.
The memory of Ser Dontos's drunken claim clung to her like a shroud, and she shuddered, though the air was not cold. The Keep was a place of secrets and shadows, and tonight, it felt as though the walls themselves were leaning closer, eager to swallow her whole.
Then, from ahead, voices broke the silence — low, urgent, and echoing faintly from a nearby alcove. She froze, her hand instinctively brushing the rough stone wall for balance. The first voice she recognised though not by name. He was the captain of Henrik's guard. His tone was deep and steady, like the toll of a distant bell, and it carried a weight that made her chest tighten. He seemed to be a man with the dulcet tones from Flea Bottom, his hair streaked with white. She had seen him often in the company of Henrik, his presence as solid as the armour he wore.
Sansa pressed herself into the shadows, her breath shallow, her heart pounding like a trapped bird in her chest. The torchlight flickered, casting long, jagged patterns on the walls, and she willed herself to be still, to be silent. The voices grew clearer, and she could make out the faintest edge of tension in the captain's words. The two Farman guards next to him stood rigid, their cloaks bearing the three silver ships. The captain's tone was measured, but there was a weariness in it, a strain that betrayed the gravity of the situation.
"He lives." The tone was grim. "The maester has done what they can. They say the blade went deep, nicked something inside. He bled so much I thought we'd lose him before we even pulled him from the field. A lesser man would've bled out there and then, but Henrik. . . he's as stubborn as his father."
One of the Farman guards, a younger man with a face too boyish for the scars already forming along his jawline, shifted uncomfortably. "He held the line?" His voice wavered, caught between disbelief and awe. "At the Gate? Against Stannis's men?"
The captain's jaw tightened, his gaze distant. "Yes," he said, his voice rough. "He did. Took his stand with the Imp's sellswords, the gold cloaks, and a handful of his own men. The Baratheon host came hard and fast after us, wave after wave, and we lost some men. We lost Jarak, but Henrik. . . he didn't flinch. He cut them down like a man possessed, rallied the men when they were ready to break." The voice softened for a moment, a rare flicker of pride breaking through the exhaustion. "They say he saved dozens that night. Maybe more."
The younger guard cleared his throat, uneasy. "Lord Henrik will want to know," the younger guard said hesitantly. "About Jarak."
The captain's mouth pressed into a hard line. "We won't tell him," he said, voice quiet but firm.
The boyish guard's brows pulled together in confusion. "What?"
The older Farman guard beside him spoke up. "Lord Farman's orders," he said grimly. "Our young lord has lost too much blood, and the fever's already creeping in. This—" he hesitated, shaking his head, "—this isn't something he needs to hear right now."
The younger guard looked stricken. "But Ser Jarak was his man. His friend."
"It's not our place to question it. Lord Farman is furious enough as it is losing a knight like Jarak and he doesn't need his son to know. Not any time soon at least."
The younger guard's throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. "But he will find out," he said, voice quiet, uneasy. "When my lord wakes, when he asks for Jarak—"
"Yes. And when that happens, we'll tell him what needs telling. But not now. Clear?"
They both murmured their acceptance.
The older guard, his face weathered as the stones of Winterfell, let out a slow breath. "I heard that his lord father had ordered his son back to Faircastle before the siege began, no? Said there'd be no glory in dying here. Yet here we are."
The captain's face darkened, and he rubbed at his brow. "Yes, Lord Farman made his will plain enough. Sent word three times, if you count the raven that came just before the fleet arrived. Henrik ignored every one. Said a man doesn't turn his back on the city that feeds him, even if it isn't his own. 'They need every sword,' he told me." His voice dropped lower, a note of bitterness creeping in. "Fool boy. Brave, but foolish."
The younger guard glanced at his companion. "And Lord Farman? What does he make of it?"
The captain snorted softly, though there was little humour in it. "What do you think? He's wroth, near to boiling. Says his son shamed him, flouted his command for all to see. Calls him reckless, headstrong — a boy playing at war. And mayhaps he's not wrong. Henrik could've died, and where would that leave House Farman? One stroke of the sword, one well-placed thrust, and it would all be over. No heir, no future. Just ash and salt in the waves."
The older guard crossed his arms over his broad chest. "The lordship would pass to Lord Henrik's sister, who's only a child. And a girl at that. Or his cousin most like. A weaker claim, and a weaker man."
The captain didn't reply immediately. Instead, he glanced down the corridor, as though ensuring they were alone. "I have never seen Lord Farman like this," he said at last, his voice quieter. "But it's not just anger. He's worried — more than he'll admit. Paces the halls outside the Maester's chamber, won't sit still for more than a moment. I've caught him at Henrik's bedside twice now, just sitting there. Doesn't say a word. Doesn't need to."
"Worried?" the younger guard echoed. "That's not how it looks."
"No, he hides it well. But it's there, just the same. He's afraid. Afraid because he nearly lost him. And afraid because he knows Henrik wouldn't hesitate to do the same again, if it came to it."
The older guard grunted. "That much is true. Stubborn as his father, and twice as proud. If he wakes, he'll find a way to fight again before the stitches are out."
"If he wakes."
A silence fell over the group, broken only by the distant crackle of torchlight. Sansa held her breath, her back pressed tightly against the cold stone wall. The flickering shadows seemed to stretch and twist around her as the captain's voice dipped lower, more pragmatic now.
"For now, our orders are clear. The men are to guard Lord Henrik's quarters day and night. No one but the Maester or Lord Farman enters without my leave. The rest of us will stay ready. The city's still raw, and we don't know if Stannis will try again. The boy needs time to heal, and we can't afford another blow like this."
The younger guard nodded, his voice small but steady. "And if he doesn't heal?"
The captain's expression darkened, though he said nothing for a moment. When he finally spoke, his words were clipped, almost growled. "Then the Seven help us all."
Sansa couldn't bear to hear more. If he wakes. The words gnawed at her like a dull knife. If. A single syllable, but heavy as stone. She had not let herself consider it before — Henrik wounded, Henrik dying. Henrik, who had stood in the hallways of the Keep, speaking softly, laughing lightly. Henrik, who had pressed a brooch into her hand and offered her friendship and kindness.
He could die.
She had watched her father kneel before the Sept of Balor, had seen the sword fall, heard the awful, wet sound of steel meeting flesh and bone before losing consciousness. She had smelled the thick, sticky scent of blood and watched the crows circle over the dead. Henrik could be one of them.
She turned, moving blindly through the corridors, her feet knowing the way before her mind could catch up. Her heart was pounding now, a frantic rhythm against her ribs, too fast, too wild. She had to see him. If she could just see him—
But the thought shattered before it could fully form. The men are to guard Lord Henrik's quarters day and night. Even if she tried, even if she pleaded, even if she wept, they would not let her near him. She was a highborn lady, a ward of the Crown, a hostage. She had no claim to his bedside.
And yet, she could not banish the thought. He had saved men and held the line while others fled. Had he been afraid? Had he thought of his father, of his sister, of Faircastle's high cliffs and the smell of salt on the wind? Had he thought of her?
Sansa swallowed hard and forced herself to take a slow breath. You are a lady, she reminded herself. A lady must not let them see her falter.
But what was left of her now? A stupid girl without a home, without a future. She had been promised to a prince, only to be cast aside like a worn gown. She was free of Joffrey's grasp, and yet, she was not free at all. The queen would never let her go, Ser Dontos had said.
She pressed a hand to her stomach, feeling the slight tremor there. Would Henrik go back to Faircastle once recovered? The thought unsettled her. If he left, if he returned to his father's halls by the sea, would she ever see him again?
Sansa did not know what she wanted. She longed for home — not just the cold, sturdy walls of Winterfell, but the warmth of Robb's laughter and the comforting embrace of her mother. She missed the way Arya would scowl at her embroidery, the scent of fresh bread drifting from the kitchens, the sound of the direwolves howling in the godswood. Even Bran's endless questions and Rickon's small, grubby hands tugging at her skirts — she missed it all. Every fibre of her being ached to return to the life she had once known, a life that now felt like a distant dream slipping further and further from her grasp.
But Henrik had been kind to her. That was enough. That was rare.
Sansa lingered in the corridor, her breath slow and measured, her hands clasped before her. She should return to her chambers. She should draw the covers over her head and wait for morning.
She found her feet moving before she could stop them.
She had been careful, cautious. Joffrey had taught her that well. The wrong word, the wrong glance, even a breath out of place could bring his ire down upon her. But now, for the first time in what felt like forever, she was no longer betrothed to a monster. The weight that had chained her so tightly to his whims had loosened, if only by a fraction.
Henrik had been kind to her. And he was her only friend here. She didn't want him to die.
Her slippers made no sound as she walked the winding halls of Maegor's Holdfast. The hour was late. The halls were eerily quiet, save for the occasional clink of a guard's armour in the distance. When she reached the chamber guarded by the men of House Farman, she hesitated.
A short man with thinning hair but a bushy beard stood at his post. His weary eyes met hers as she stepped into the torchlight, the flames casting long shadows against the walls. He did not speak at first, only regarded her in silence, his brow furrowing slightly.
"My lady," he said at last, his voice quiet but suspicious. "You shouldn't be here."
Sansa swallowed. She had no reason to be here, no claim, no excuse. She was neither kin nor betrothed, not even a promised companion. And yet, the words left her lips before she could reconsider.
"Please, ser, I only wish to see him."
He exhaled through his nose, as though weighing his options. "Lord Henrik is still weak," he said, his voice carrying the edge of warning. "I'm not permitted to allow anyone in."
"I won't wake him," she said quickly. "I only want to see for myself that he is. . ." She could not bring herself to say the word.
The guard's expression did not soften. If anything, his frown deepened. "He needs rest, my lady. If Lord Farman knew I let you in—"
"He would not need to know," Sansa said, lowering her voice. She stepped closer, glancing down the corridor, but the halls remained empty. "I swear it, I will not wake him. I only need a moment."
"This is unbecoming, my lady, forgive me, my order—"
"You are sworn to him, are you not?" she asked. "You fought beside him. You watched him bleed for his men, for his house, for you."
"I did," he admitted, voice low.
Sansa took another step forward. "Then grant me this kindness. As he would."
The man hesitated for a long moment, then let out a slow sigh, casting a look down the corridor. "Very well," he murmured. "But be brief, my lady."
He stepped aside and pushed open the door, allowing her to slip past into the dimly lit chamber beyond. The air inside was thick with the scent of herbs and burning tallow, a mix of both unpleasant and medicinal. A single candle burned low on the bedside table, its wax pooling in uneven rivulets, casting a soft, flickering glow upon the figure lying on the covers.
Henrik lay motionless, his face pale. His dark brown locks clung damply to his forehead, slick with sweat. The bandages around his torso were fresh, but she could still see the faint stain of blood seeping through. His breathing was shallow but steady.
Sansa hesitated at the threshold, unwilling to break the heavy silence of the chamber. She felt stupid for being there. He looks so different, she thought, taking a slow step forward. Henrik had always carried himself with quiet confidence, a strength not born from arrogance but from something deeper, something steadier like an anchor. Now, that strength seemed drained from him, leaving only this fragile thing before her because he had chosen to stand against Stannis's men when he could have ridden away to the safety of Faircastle. He had not abandoned them.
She moved closer, drawn by some invisible force she could not name. Her gaze lingered on his face. He seemed younger in sleep, softer somehow, despite the scraps and bruises littering his face.
Before she could stop herself, she reached out, her fingers ghosting over his cheek. His skin was warm beneath her touch, though his fingers remained slack. She barely let herself feel the contact before pulling away, ashamed of her own foolishness. What am I doing? What was she hoping for? That he would wake, smile at her, whisper something reassuring? That he would reach for her hand and press his lips to it while murmuring 'my lady' in that tone that made her shiver?
Just then, a soft sound — barely more than a breath — escaped Henrik's lips.
Sansa froze and bit her lip. His brow furrowed slightly, his fingers twitching, but his eyes remained closed. A faint groan left his throat, pained and sluggish. She took a step back into the shadows, her heart hammering in her chest. If he woke and saw her here, how would she explain herself? And worse — if someone found her, if Joffrey or the Queen knew she had been here. . .
The thought sent a chill straight to her heart. She could not be found. Not here. Not now.
She cast one last glance at Henrik, at the slow rise and fall of his chest, at the flickering candlelight playing across his skin. He was alive. That should have been enough.
Slipping out as quietly as she had come, ignoring the guard's curious look, she moved quickly through the halls, her breath coming in quiet gasps as she pulled her cloak tighter around herself.
She told herself she had gone only to see that Henrik lived, that it was gratitude that had driven her to his bedside. He had kept his word to her, after all. He had fought for this city, for its people. He had fought while others had fled. But gratitude did not explain the ache in her chest, the way her fingers still tingled from the briefest touch of his hand.
She could not afford such foolishness. Henrik was nothing to her. His family was sworn to Tywin Lannister. He could not be anything to her. Not if she wanted to draw attention. She was a Stark in a lion's den, and she had no room in her heart for anything but survival.
The next morning, Sansa slipped away from the prying eyes of her handmaidens towards the godswood. Something was compelling her. As she made her way in front of the heart tree she lowered herself to her knees and closed her eyes as she clasped her hands together.
"Please," she whispered, her voice barely more than breath as she thought of those great eyes staring back at her. "Please, let him live."
She did not know why she prayed for him above all others. Hundreds of men had died that night. Brave men. Foolish men. Soldiers and sellswords, highborn and low. Why was it his name that caught in her throat? Why did she care if he lived or died when she had no claim upon him, no right to such grief?
"I am selfish, I know it," she murmured, barely able to give voice to the thought. "The gods must see it. A selfish girl."
She did not ask for the kingdom to be at peace. She did not ask for the end of war, for the end of suffering. Her heart wished for the heads of the Queen and Joffrey, for Robb to prevail and win against the Lannisters, for justice for her father, and to see Arya and Bran and Rickon again.
And yet, at this moment, she prayed only for one man, a single soul among thousands. It was unseemly, unworthy of a lady. But she had seen so little kindness in this place that when it found her, she clung to it like a drowning girl to driftwood.
Honour had led her father to his death. The man who held her as a child when she cried, who had taught her the names of all the flowers in the godswood, and whose presence had been a quiet, unshakable foundation beneath her feet. Was Henrik the same? Was that the same bravery and steadfastness that had doomed her father?
"Don't let him die for it," she whispered. "Please, don't let him die for it."
She did not know if the gods heard her.
Hey guys, I hope you enjoyed this chapter and it was good. I really wanted to capture the chaos of Blackwater in the aftermath.
This is the beginning of Act Two. Act One is about survival and disillusionment, and Act Two is going to be about shifting power, choices, and the slow unravelling of carefully built walls. Sansa may no longer be Joffrey's betrothed, but she is still a prisoner, a piece on the board, especially with Littlefinger lurking about.
We're back to Sansa's perspective, which was fun to write. I really wanted to explore Sansa's shifting perception of safety, freedom, and loyalty here — how she clings to Henrik's kindness in a world that has offered her nothing but cruelty. She has had everything taken from her but prays for Henrik's survival. It's a small and personal thing she's ever allowed herself to want, though she doesn't understand why it matters to her.
It's funny to me that Henrik had one job — to stay alive and not piss off his dad — and he failed spectacularly at both. Also, Lord Farman is going through all five stages of grief in real time but refuses to say anything about it because Westerosi men do not communicate their feelings sadly enough.
But with Henrik, I wanted his role in the battle to feel earned but he's also not invincible, and now his future is more tangled with the Lannisters than ever. He will lose those rose-coloured glasses as the battle will shatter his perception.
Anyway, that's enough of me rambling. I would love to hear your thoughts and thanks so much for your comments.
I hope you guys are having a good day. See you next time!