Ineffable → Sansa Stark

Henrik VIII

~*~

Henrik's limbs were still heavy with fatigue as he made his way through the labyrinthine corridors of the Red Keep. He had not been sleeping well, his dreams haunted by unsettling visions of blood, fire, and the sea. These were not the usual dreams of exotic lands and grand adventures, nor the occasional images of his father. These were darker, more perplexing. The fire felt real, the blood tangible, and the endless sea overwhelming. The weight of his dreams clung to him, each step echoing with uncertainty and dread that had settled deep within his bones.

The castle was quieter than usual, the previous events casting a sombre pall over its inhabitants. The dawn light filtered through the high windows, casting long shadows that seemed to echo the darkness within his mind.

Henrik needed to see Sansa as desperately as he needed to breathe. He had to know she was truly safe. Days had passed with no news of her, not even a glimpse. Her entrance to her chambers was guarded day and night. The security around the Red Keep had tightened — a consequence of the King's growing paranoia of the common people's attempt to breach the castle walls resulting from the riot. Multiple guards littered around the hallways and the White Cloaks were posted everywhere. Even Rubin had become unbearably suffocating, more so than usual, and Henrik found himself itching to plunge a knife into him and rid himself of his presence.

Henrik's thread of patience was about to snap. And so he'd shaken Rubin and Jarak off his heels as he prowled through the hallways, offering a nod as he came across another noble. He pressed on, his eyes scanning every shadowy nook and corner of the castle as he moved. He knew Sansa often retreated to the gardens when she sought peace. It was a slim hope, but it was the only one he had before Rubin realised he'd disappeared. He headed towards the southern wing, where the windows overlooked the sprawling greenery of the royal gardens.

Reaching the southern corridor, Henrik slowed his pace, peering out each window he passed. His pulse quickened when he spotted a flash of red hair. It was Sansa, seated on a stone bench, her posture rigid with tension.

The nearest door to the gardens was also guarded, but, hoping to avoid that and any unnecessary questions, Henrik noticed a group of servants exiting a side door, baskets of laundry in hand. Seizing the opportunity, he followed them closely, slipping through the door unnoticed. Once outside, Henrik moved quickly, keeping low to avoid the watchful eyes of the guards stationed around the perimeter. He reached the cover of the trees and began to weave his way towards Sansa.

As he approached, he saw her gaze was distant, lost in thought. He called her name softly, not wanting to startle her. "Sansa."

Sansa looked up at him. Her face was pale, but her eyes were clear, and she offered him a small, tentative smile. She was dressed simply, her hair loose around her shoulders, and she looked almost fragile in the morning light. He couldn't help but stare. She was like the maiden come to life.

"My lord," she said softly.

"Sansa. . ."

His expression resumed its courtly mask. "I was just about to visit the godswood."

"Yes, of course. Um, may I join you?" he asked.

Her eyes flickered with surprise, but she nodded. "I would welcome the company."

Sansa bade her handmaidens to remain. They walked in silence, the noise of the castle fading as they entered the peaceful sanctuary of the godswood. The ancient trees stood tall and imposing, their leaves whispering secrets only the wind could understand. The weirwood tree, with its ghostly white bark and red leaves, loomed ahead, its face etched with eternal sorrow. Henrik shivered. He hadn't been here since his visions and it felt as if the face was peering deep into him, unravelling his soul. He swallowed and looked away, feeling as if he was turning stark-raving mad.