Ineffable → Sansa Stark

Henrik II

~*~

The heavy wooden doors that led to the throne room creaked loudly as two guards opened them.

After he had reached the inside of the Red Keep, Henrik was ushered in by servants to lead him to his bed chambers. Rubin was given quarters to share with some of the Gold Cloaks.

Henrik was then instructed to rest and change as they would be having an audience with the King the next day. He felt glad about it. His bones were weary from riding, and he was all ready to collapse on the floor of his bed chambers, his eyes drooping. He was sure to snap at the King himself and lose his head for it.

Henrik paused in his thoughts. He was exaggerating. Obviously. The King wouldn't execute the son of a noble Lord for something as minor as that. The Mad King, yes, but King Joffrey wasn't that cruel, he surely hoped.

Moments before meeting the King, Henrik was dressed in his finest tunic and doublet. His hair was combed back and – to his utter dismay – the tiny prickles of hair on his upper lip and chin had been shaved off until Henrik was left looking like a boy of seven. Or at least that's what it appeared like to him.

Rubin would hear of no other. Henrik was a Lord's son, heir to Faircastle and would be Lord of Fair Isle one day, so he must dress like one, especially in the presence of the King and the Queen Regent. Henrik didn't argue with this logic. He would do his duty to make his House proud.

And yet, he still fought the urge to fidget and tug on the collar as he caught Rubin's stern eye. His groomsman often made his doublet too tight around the top, and it had Henrik restless like there was a knife pressing against his throat.

He bit back a sigh. Gods, he couldn't wait until this was over.

He knew he was representing House Farman, and his father would be furious if anything untoward happened. So, it was best to suck it up. Henrik sharply inhaled as one of the servants introduced him.

He tilted his head up as he walked in, sensing the multiple eyes on him from the rest of the Lords and Ladies. It was daunting, he had to admit – almost like he was the main puppet at a child's playhouse, everyone eager to get a glance at him. He heard the whisperings echo and tried hard not to listen. The steady, warm presence of Rubin behind him settled his nerves somewhat.

His gaze landed on the infamous White Cloaks of the Kingsguard in the forefront. Henrik stared, fairly in wide-eyed awe, at their shiny armour and the long swords strapped to their waists. Every boy in Faircastle knew of the Kingsguard since they could hold a sword.

And now Henrik could see one up close.

"All Hail his Grace, King Joffrey of the House Baratheon, First of His Name; King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm," boomed a messenger.

Henrik peered at the slouching boy on the Throne. His hair was spun golden, and a crown rested on his temples. And, though his thoughts might sound treasonous, there was a tilt of something arrogant in the King's lazy smirk as if the whole court was beneath him. Most of all, the King looked bored. He wasn't even looking at his new arrivals and his gaze trailed across the throne room.

Henrik couldn't help the disappointment that struck him suddenly. The King seemed so. . . unimpressive. Not at all like the past Targaryen Kings and Queens.

Henrik had read up on their history and liked the idea of how mighty and regal they were with their silver hair and violet-smeared eyes that hailed from Old Valyria. It had delighted the young mind of Henrik, who used to tug on the Maester's robes and implore him to tell more stories, particularly of Prince Daeron the Daring.