Ineffable → Sansa Stark

Henrik VI

~*~

Henrik strolled through the bustling market square of King's Landing; he couldn't help but be drawn in by the myriad sights and sounds assaulting his senses. The vibrant colours of exotic fabrics fluttered in the breeze while nearby street performers captivated each passerby with acrobatic feats, adding to the lively atmosphere.

Sansa had declined his offer to accompany him to the market with an apology, though she did provide him with some suggestions. He'd almost forgotten that she was still bound by the restrictions imposed upon her - even if she was the King's betrothed - and wasn't allowed to roam outside the Red Keep without permission. Henrik couldn't shake off the pang of disappointment that settled in his chest. Sansa's absence left a silent acknowledgement of the barriers that separated them - she was essentially a traitor, a truth most recognised within the confines of courtly gossip.

He shook his head. Accompanying him was Jarak, his ever-faithful household guard, and Ras, who'd also been very eager to come because he had business to tend to in Flea Bottom. Henrik had learnt at this point that it was better not to ask.

"Step aside, you shit-stained fucks!" Ras bellowed, waving his arms theatrically. "The great lord is on a mission to find a present fit enough for his noble sister!"

Henrik couldn't help but roll his eyes at Ras's antics, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment as nearby merchants and onlookers turned to stare. "Must you be so vulgar, Ras?" Henrik muttered under his breath, attempting to rein in his unruly companion. "You're drawing undue attention to us."

Ras merely shrugged, a wicked grin spreading across his face. "Oh, let them stare. What's life without a bit of attention, milord? Keeps things interesting, doesn't it? Besides, it's your comely face they're drawn to."

Henrik smirked. "Ah, yes, Ras. My face is indeed a sight to behold, but let's not forget it's your charm that truly captivates the masses. . . or perhaps it's just your loud voice."

Jarak, ever the voice of reason, cleared his throat pointedly, hand on the hilt of his sword as he scanned the area with a narrowed eye. "Let us not forget our purpose here, my lord. Lady Alys's nameday approaches."

"What the fuck's wrong with that silk dress I suggested?" Ras asked. "Ladies like dresses, don't they? Not fancy enough for you nobles, eh?"

Henrik sighed. "As lovely as it is, I fear Alys would sooner use it as a curtain than wear it." He chuckled, imagining his sister's disdainful expression at the mere suggestion.

Jarak chimed in, "Yes, and we'd be lucky if she doesn't mistake it for a cloth and command a maidservant to clean the floors with it instead."

Henrik couldn't help but laugh at the image. "You may not be far off. Let's keep looking."

With a begrudging nod from Henrik, they pressed on, Ras's colourful commentary providing a constant stream of entertainment as they perused the various stalls.

"What about this?" Henrik suggested, indicating a display of intricately carved figurines.

Ras snorted derisively, eyeing them with disdain. "Figurines? You might as well give her a pile of horse dung, little lord. At least that would have some practical use."

Henrik shot Ras a reproachful look but couldn't suppress a chuckle at his brazenness. "Perhaps something a bit more refined, then."

"Look, why don't you just get her a good sharp knife? I know a blacksmith that does a fine job that I could take you to. He owes me a favour. And your lady sister might be good with a knife, once you train her up properly that is. In my opinion, it's the best damn present you can receive."