Ineffable → Sansa Stark

Henrik IV

Because this is Game of Thrones, this is an M-rated chapter for a specific scene near the end.

~*~

The day dawned bright with a fair breeze when Henrik awoke from his chambers in the late morning. Excitement buzzed through the air and no expense had been held back for His Grace's nameday.

As he strolled past tents and pavilions to find his seat, Henrik looked dapper in his newly tailored clothes. The stands were full for the much-anticipated tourney held in the name of the King. It was all anyone could speak about the past few days, common folk and nobles alike, ever since it was announced. Henrik was looking forward to seeing an actual joust take place, not a farce one with the Knights at Faircastle. A few years before, he'd been disappointed that most tourneys only allowed Knights to participate instead of titled lords, and his excitement had dimmed somewhat.

And even if it were, his father nor Rubin wouldn't ever allow him to take part as he wasn't of age yet, but mostly because he was his father's sole heir. It'd take a small fly-away spear point pierced through his heart and it'll all be over, or that was according to Rubin. Henrik liked to believe he was more skilled than that. Besides, that wouldn't be the best way to die: struck down before he could prove his worth. Oh, no, Henrik hoped for a far better, grander and more courageous way.

Still, the lavish preparations and the sight of men and young boys in polished armour walking past caused his blood to quicken and to stare in wonder. He might not be taking part but he'd placed his bets on the champion, out of earshot from Rubin, of course.

Yet, he couldn't help but fantasise as he gazed at the gallery and lists in the outer bailey. He pictured himself for a moment, lance in hand, sitting victoriously on his horse after unseating his last opponent, a broad grin on his face as he soaked in the cheers and adoration from the lords and ladies, the sweet taste of glory and success in his mouth. He shook his head. It would've been nice but it remained a mere dream.

Among the spectators, the majority were guardsmen wearing the gold cloaks of the City Watch, while the nobles were few. Ras nodded at him as he caught his eye and Henrik gave a curt nod back. He liked to believe they were friends after the number of times they fought in the practice yard despite Ras being older by a few years. He finally reached Rubin, who was waiting for him.

Rubin raised an eyebrow. "You're late, Master Henrik. Woke up late, did we?" he said. "I pray you might be on time one day."

Henrik scoffed. "I am not," he protested. "The jousting hasn't even started yet. Men are still putting their armour on."

"No, but it will be soon. You are also expected to wish His Grace well on his nameday, which you haven't yet I might add."

Henrik groaned, his head falling back. "Do I have to?"

Rubin's expression was as hard as stone. "Yes, it is required, my young lord. As you are well aware ─"

Rubin should've been a Maester instead of captain of the household guardsmen, Henrik thought. Before Rubin went on his long-winded lecture, Henrik interrupted with a sigh.

"Yes, okay, I understand," he muttered. "No need to repeat yourself."

With a wrapped gift in Rubin's arm, they walked towards the King's canopy, and Henrik's gaze fell on Lady Sansa. Her alabaster skin looked lovely against the light purple dress she wore. Her eyes were downcast, her hands placed gently in her lap, and her spine as straight as ever as if someone had placed a steel ruler against her back. She looked so tall and regal like what a Queen should look like. She didn't look up when Henrik approached.