Kinghts and Maidens (Patreon)

Sansa eyed the scene with rapt attention as the King walked down the stands, his movements heavy and unsteady. Ser Arys Oakheart of the Kingsguard, immaculate in his white cloak, followed him like a shadow, his hand never far from his sword hilt.

Her father, Lord Stark, stood up too, anticipating with a grim look what the King might do next, especially given his state.

Robert was clearly quite drunk, stumbling down the steps and relying heavily on the support of Ser Boros Blount, his other guard for the day, a man whose reputation for loyalty was questionable at best.

Sansa held her breath as she saw Prince Joffrey remain seated, his back rigid, but he didn't utter a word. He didn't need to; his face, contorted into a hideous grimace of pure anger and resentment, told the entire, miserable tale of his wounded pride.

The Queen, on the other hand, was smiling—a tight, genuine smile—at her son, Haridon, as she stood up, but she wisely chose not to follow the King down to the dusty lists.

The King finally reached his son, who stood amid the scattered remnants of the melee, his black armor still gleaming. Robert's eyes, usually dull from drink, were bright with a fierce, paternal pride.

He let out a booming laugh that cut through the expectant silence that had fallen over the crowd as he descended.

"Atta, boy! You are a true Baratheon, my son," the King roared, his voice carrying easily over the lists. "I have never been prouder!"

He enveloped his child in a fierce, bone-crushing hug that was more warrior than father, slapping Haridon's armored back with joyful abandon.

Sansa saw a true smile break through the handsome Prince's composure as he hugged his father back, their height now nearly the same. The exchange was rough, genuine, and utterly unlike the formal stiffness Robert usually exhibited toward his other children.

The King finally separated from his son and held Haridon's face between his large, scarred hands, his gaze misty.

"I must have done some pure deed in a past life," the King slurred, though his heart was in the words, "to have a son like you."

The Prince's face dimmed momentarily, just a flicker of complicated emotion, but the smile remained firmly fixed as he nodded.

"I have done you a disservice, Haridon," the King declared, his voice regaining a sudden clarity of purpose. "This cannot wait." He announced to the roaring crowd: "I must knight him, and I must do it now!"

"Bring me a sword, right now," He bellowed at the top of his lungs.

Ser Oakheart, looking equally surprised but efficient, immediately unsheathed his own personal sword—the fine, well-kept blade of a true knight—and handed it over to the King.

Robert's eyes shone with ceremonial fervor as he smiled, then ordered his son to kneel.

Sansa's eyes widened in sheer awe. She had never seen someone being knighted, never, outside of songs and stories. This was a first for her, a moment of pure, living chivalry, and that too, performed by the King himself in front of half the nobility of the Seven Kingdoms. It was glorious.

Haridon knelt, the great black mass of his armor dropping with a muffled clang into the dust.

The King, surprisingly steady now, placed the sword flat on Haridon's shoulder, reciting the sacred oath in the name of the Seven.

"In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just. Fight for the right."

"I shall, Your Grace," Haridon's voice rang out, clear and loud.

"In the name of the Mother, I charge you to protect the innocent."

"I shall, Your Grace."

"In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave."

"I shall, Your Grace."

"In the name of the Maid, I charge you to defend the pure."

"I shall, Your Grace."

"In the name of the Crone, I charge you to be wise."

"I shall, Your Grace."

"In the name of the Smith, I charge you to be strong."

"I shall, Your Grace."

The King paused, looking down at his son with an almost reverent solemnity. "In the name of the Stranger, I charge you to face the unknown with courage."

He then tapped the other shoulder. "Arise, Ser Haridon Baratheon!"

The newly knighted Prince rose and raised his hand, bowing slightly to his father, a proud, triumphant smile back on his face.

For the first time since leaving Winterfell, seeing the handsome prince—now Ser Haridon—standing there, triumphant, powerful, and truly smiling, Sansa blushed furiously, feeling her heart hammer a desperate rhythm against her ribs.

But Sansa's breath hitched, and the rosy haze of chivalry vanished as the King turned toward her half-brother, Jon. Jon, who stood slightly apart, watched the Prince celebrate his knighthood with a proud, genuine smile.

As Jon's eye caught that of the King, his posture instantly went rigid, his back straightening like a newly drawn bowstring. The King's already narrowed eyes grew sharper, focused entirely on the bastard.

Robert moved forward, the gleaming sword, Ser Arys Oakheart's blade, still heavy and ready in his hand.

"Your Grace," Jon said, his voice quiet, immediately looking down, his posture one of immediate deference and respect.

The roar of the crowd, which had been enthusiastically cheering the Prince, suddenly slowed, the sound fading into an awkward, weighty murmur of anticipation.

Prince Haridon instantly turned toward his sworn shield, his expression changing completely. A strange light seemed to catch in his eyes, making them look greener than usual, or perhaps that was simply how Sansa, her heart pounding with sudden terror for her brother, interpreted the shift in his attention.

The King looked first at her brother, then down at the distinctive longsword Jon held, the one with the unmistakable wolf-head pommel.

"A wolf? What a fitting pommel you've chosen, bastard," Robert said, a hint of something unreadable in his tone.

There was no immediate malice in the King's words, but Sansa still saw her brother's stiff posture become even more rigid, an involuntary response to the casual use of the despised word.

The King then issued a command: "Kneel, Snow."

Jon looked up, wide-eyed in astonishment, a rare display of surprise on his usually controlled face. Ser Boros Blount, ever the sycophant, immediately snarled at the bastard, "The King commands you to kneel, boy!"

At the guard's unnecessary aggression, Sansa saw the Prince's fist tighten just slightly beneath his heavy armor, and the celebratory smile instantly vanish from his face, replaced by a cold, watchful tension.

Arya, beside Sansa, was looking down at the unfolding ordeal with a face contorted by fury, her hands clenched into tiny, impotent fists. Their father's hand was hovering instinctively over the hilt of his sword, a barely perceptible warning at Ser Boros's sharp word.

But just as the Prince started to take a purposeful step toward Jon, ready to intervene, Sansa's half-brother yielded to the command.

Jon knelt.

The King's tight smile broke into a wider, more genuine expression. "You're brave, and you are honorable, just like your father, Snow." He offered a loud, unexpected praise for Jon's swordsmanship.

"You're one of the best swordsmen that had ever come out of the North," The King said, looking back at her father. "A good warrior, just like your father, Ned Stark."

The King paused, turning the sword over in his hands.

He then recited the solemn oath for knighthood, but with an unprecedented, shocking alteration. Out of clear respect for his best-friend's traditions and the North's history, he did not recite the oath in the name of the Seven. Instead, he recited the oath in the name of the Old Gods.

"In the name of the old gods and the new," Robert boomed, his voice echoing off the stone stands. "I charge you to be strong."

"I shall, Your Grace," Jon replied.

"In the name of the heart tree, I charge you to speak true."

"I shall, Your Grace."

"In the name of the forest, I charge you to be brave and face the enemy."

"I shall, Your Grace."

Sansa's eyes widened. Her mother had taught her the faith of the Seven, and while she always respected the old gods of the North, she had never heard of anyone, let alone a King, performing a knighting ceremony in their name. It was an astonishing, deeply respectful gesture.

Jon responded as he should for the final question, and the King told him to rise as the knight, Ser Jon, a Stark knight.

Sansa saw a wide, relieved smile bloom on Haridon's face as he instantly strode over and embraced Jon in a tight hug.

As the King, his duties complete, turned and walked back toward the stands, Arya made her move. She slipped out from beside her sister and ran down the stairs and across the dust.

Her father frowned slightly at her sudden departure but did not call her back, understanding the girl's need. Arya reached the newly knighted Jon as soon as he separated from the Prince and threw her arms around him, burying her face in his shoulder.

Jon looked up past the head of his fierce little sister, his newly knighted status forgotten, his eyes searching for his father. Their eyes met, and Jon's smile was the most genuine Sansa had ever seen it.

Lord Stark smiled back, his face softened by pride, offering a single, profound nod of silent approval to his son, the newest knight in the realm.

Tyrion revelled in the chaotic, drunk feast that was currently going on in the private dining room of a bustling King's Landing inn.

Haridon had spirited away a select, if unusual, group from the tedious formality of the Red Keep: himself, Jon Snow, Ser Arys Oakheart of the Kingsguard, and his younger uncle, Renly Baratheon.

The joust had been a total hit, proving to be the perfect conclusion to the day's spectacle. As expected, Sandor Clegane had been unable to compete due to the wound Jon inflicted, and Gregor Clegane hadn't joined the lists either, undoubtedly for the same humiliating reason—his sudden, public defeat in the melee.

The final had been a highly anticipated showdown between Ser Jaime Lannister and Ser Loras Tyrell. The latter, the famously handsome Knight of Flowers, had won it on the fourth tilt after destroying twelve lances on Tyrion's brother.

Renly Baratheon was a welcome, new addition to their secretive little party. With him had come his sworn shield and the actual winner of the joust, Ser Loras Tyrell.

The official feast in the Red Keep had been a slow, deeply uninteresting affair, as the King had already been completely out of order by the time the Joust ended, the unending cups of wine finally doing their job.

Tyrion leaned back, watching the room with a practiced eye. He caught Renly and Loras sharing a series of increasingly intimate, mysterious smiles. It seemed the persistent rumors regarding the youngest Baratheon brother were entirely true: Renly was inclined toward rods more than wells.

A strange choice, if Tyrion were asked, but he wasn't, so he simply remained silent and observed the subtle dance.

Haridon, for his part, didn't seem to have any issue whatsoever with Renly's inclinations, treating the Lord of Storm's End with the same casual affection he always did.

The uncle and nephew had always been notably close, almost from Haridon's childhood. Renly had been like an older brother to the younger prince, a position that, technically, was Joffrey's, but the Crown Prince didn't seem to hold that familial bond dear, or capable of keeping it.

Renly, on the other hand, genuinely treasured his bond with his nephew.

The Lord of the Stormlands had only recently arrived in the capital for the tourney and had been immediately assigned a chamber near to Tyrion's nephew, a convenience secured at Haridon's explicit request.

Tyrion could clearly see Ser Jon sending awkward, quick glances toward the youngest Baratheon brother. The new knight was clearly becoming uncomfortable as Renly leaned closer and closer to Ser Loras.

The tension peaked when Renly ultimately disregarded the company and kissed Loras, a soft, deliberate moment that was entirely out of place in a rough inn. Tyrion smirked as Jon immediately looked away, flushing a deep red, eyeing the boisterous barmaid serving on his table before looking sharply down into his empty plate.

The boy was an honorable knight now, but still a sensitive Northman who clearly hadn't seen much of the capital's decadent behavior.

Tyrion decided the moment was ripe for conversation and instruction. He slid his chair closer to Jon, taking a strong, full cup of wine with him, the liquid sloshing slightly as he maneuvered through the tightly packed table.

He positioned himself just close enough for a quiet word, a knowing glint in his mismatched eyes.

"Don't worry, Ser Jon," Tyrion murmured, his voice low and confidential, drawing Jon's attention sharply away from the sight of Renly and Loras.

"It's all quite natural, if a touch dramatic for a public setting. A man takes his pleasure where he finds it. If you spend too much time blushing at two beautiful men kissing, you'll miss the real sport of King's Landing."

Jon immediately stammered, his cheeks flushing even darker. "My Lord, I... I wasn't looking at—"

"Of course you were," Tyrion interrupted smoothly, taking a generous sip of wine.

"And wisely so! They are two of the most handsome men in the realm, quite a sight. But you, my newly minted knight, seem more interested in the lovely barmaid who just refilled my goblet." He gestured subtly with his cup towards the young woman, who was indeed quite striking, with a cascade of dark hair and a bright, friendly smile.

Jon quickly looked down at his lap. "I am not interested in any such thing, my Lord. I—I am sworn to service."

"Yes, to Ser Haridon, who is currently sharing a very earnest discussion with Ser Arys about Kingsguard protocols," Tyrion replied, nodding toward his nephew.

Haridon was deep in conversation, but his eyes were constantly scanning the room, a watchful protector even at leisure. "But I assure you, Jon, knighthood does not require a vow of chastity. It merely requires discretion. And perhaps a bit of liquid courage."

Tyrion leaned in further. "You've just won the Melee, defeated the Mountain, and been knighted by the King himself. You're practically a hero. This is precisely the moment in the songs when the tavern wench offers the champion a night of warm relief." He smiled, "Are you going to be the silent hero who turns her away? That's not the Southron way, Ser."

Jon's eyes flicked up to the barmaid again, then back to Tyrion, caught between honor and curiosity. "But... I don't want to father a bastard," Jon said, the word bitter on his tongue. "I won't do that to another child."

"Gods, you're your father's son," Tyrion sighed, rolling his eyes. "Jon, I've slept in every respectable brothel in the Seven Kingdoms and never fathered a single unwanted child. There are ways to avoid it. The barmaids, the whores, the women who deal in flesh—they know how to use moon tea. If not, you can pay her enough coin to be sure she drinks it. Think less of the outcome, and more of the immediate necessity."

"The coin is the easy part," Tyrion said, flicking a silver stag onto the table. "Though you've earned a fair sum today, this is for the lady's discretion. As for what to say, you don't need pretty words, Jon. You just need to be yourself, only slightly cleaner. Now, go."

Just as Jon began to protest again, Haridon looked over, having apparently caught the tail end of the exchange. He assessed the situation instantly: Jon's bashful look, Tyrion's conspiratorial grin, and the beautiful barmaid.

Haridon walked over, his black tunic swaying slightly. He clapped Jon heavily on the shoulder, making the new knight jump. "Ser Jon! You look like a man in need of rest after such a grueling day," Haridon announced loudly.

He then turned to the innkeeper and pulled a heavy pouch of gold. "Innkeeper! I need your quietest, warmest private room. The one away from the singing. My champion here requires immediate rest and the utmost comfort."

He slid a few coins into the barmaid's hand with a meaningful look and winked at Jon, a generous sum that went beyond mere payment. "Go on, Ser Jon. The honor of the North requires you to be well-rested. And tell no one of this service I have provided. Consider it a necessary part of your training."

Jon, utterly bewildered but suddenly smiling, looked from Haridon to the gold, and then to the beaming barmaid.

He looked at Tyrion before allowing the barmaid to lead him away, his new knighthood already proving to be quite rewarding. Tyrion raised his goblet to the departing pair. "A true Stark, indeed," he toasted. "The boy needs to be forced into service."

Haridon watched the door close behind Jon and the barmaid, a small, satisfied smirk touching his lips. He turned back to the table, but the party was rapidly dispersing into private affairs.

Tyrion, having secured his primary objective for Jon, found his own pleasure in the flesh. A whore, by her low-cut clothes and the quick, practiced capture of the gold coins Tyrion flashed her way, was already leading the Imp towards a curtained alcove, her eyes gleaming.

Renly and Loras were beyond distraction, locked in a world of their own, and a room had been secured by Renly in quick, eager succession.

The inn was now quieter, leaving only Haridon and Ser Arys Oakheart at the large, littered table.

Haridon knew he had reached his limit. If he drank even a few more cups of the local vintage, he would be genuinely unable to walk back to the Keep.

And tonight, he absolutely did not want to spend the night in the Keep, surrounded by his mother's silent disapproval and his brother's festering resentment.

He pushed his chair back and stood up. The movement was a bit too fast, and the room tilted for a brief, dizzying moment. Haridon caught himself on the table, a slight stumble betraying his state.

He reached into his belt pouch, tossing a heavy handful of silver stags and a few gold dragons onto the sticky table for the innkeeper.

Ser Arys, ever vigilant, was instantly at his side, his hand steadying the Prince's arm. "You're a bit wobbly, Your Grace," the Kingsguard noted, his voice quiet.

Haridon straightened his tunic and adjusted the lie of his black silk clothing. He cleared his throat. "Nonsense, Ser. I must have not drunk that much," he insisted, though his voice was a shade too loud.

Ser Arys allowed a brief smirk to cross his handsome features. "You must be following your father's footsteps, then. They say the King can consume an entire cask and still manage to ride, though he usually ends up sleeping in a hedge. It is a family talent, this capacity for strong drink."

Harry straightened himself entirely, pulling his arm free from the knight's grasp with a deliberate, firm movement. The slight intoxication could not mask the seriousness in his green eyes.

"I must not," Haridon stated, his voice now crisp. "My father is not a role model whom I want to follow when it comes to drinking, or to women. I intend to walk straight and sleep alone tonight."

Ser Arys shrugged the comment off easily. "Perhaps you should try, Your Grace. It's an easy life, that path. And you will try, and you would try. But a child sometimes cannot avoid inheriting his parent's vices, just as he cannot avoid inheriting some virtues." He looked pointedly at Haridon's strong build and the easy command he held over the room.

Haridon looked at Ser Arys for a long moment, a flicker of irritation, or perhaps acknowledgment, in his gaze.

He simply turned and started walking toward the door. After three steps, however, he stumbled again, his foot catching on the leg of an empty stool.

Ser Arys was there immediately, supporting him with a firm, professional grip on his elbow and shoulder, his white cloak swirling briefly.

The knight didn't offer any more commentary, merely began leading the slightly swaying Prince toward the street, and in the direction of the imposing, distant silhouette of the Red Keep.

Haridon entered the Keep through the main doors, the massive iron-bound wood closing with a deep thud behind him. He was stumbling less and less as he walked on, a testament to what he wryly supposed was the strong Baratheon constitution. It seemed this body could hold alcohol together far better than his previous one.

Ser Arys Oakheart was a few paces behind him, walking slowly. Haridon hadn't needed the Kingsguard's physical support for the last fifty feet, but the white knight maintained a watchful presence.

The walk through the echoing corridors and the climb up the broad stone stairs was slow and deliberate. As they reached the first floor, he paused near a massive, tapestried window.

"Ser Arys," he ordered, his voice still steady enough. "You have served me well tonight. Take your rest. I can easily walk the remaining distance to my chamber now."

Ser Arys merely nodded, his own fatigue visible in the slight slump of his shoulders. The potent Arbor Gold and Dornish Red had done their work on the Kingsguard as well. "As you command, Your Grace." He gave a slight bow and walked away, his pace slow and heavy.

Harry continued on toward his chamber, passing the imposing structure of the Tower of the Hand. He was nearing his own corridor when he turned the final corner, only to find his path blocked.

Seated on the stone floor, with her knees drawn up to her chest, was a flash of red-headed beauty: Sansa Stark.

As she looked up at the sound of his heavy footsteps, Haridon noticed the clear signs of distress: faint tear tracks streaked her cheeks, and her blue eyes were noticeably reddened and puffy.

"My Lady," he greeted, his princely manners automatically asserting themselves over the fading haze of wine. "You shouldn't be out here at this time. The Red Keep is secure, but unfriendly faces aren't uncommon, even within these walls."

Sansa stood up hastily, clearly flustered, shaking the dust from her simple light blue gown.

"I know it, Your Grace," she murmured, avoiding his direct gaze. "I was just out here wandering when I sat down to rest, and I... I suppose I fell asleep."

Even in his inebriated form, Harry knew that was a blatant lie. No young lady of high birth, especially one as fearful of her mother's discipline as Sansa, "falls asleep" on a cold stone floor in the middle of the night.

He saw the genuine, miserable sorrow clinging to her like a shroud.

"Is something wrong, Lady Sansa?" he asked, softening his tone.

But she shook her head fiercely in the negative, looking pointedly away from him. It was a clear lie, the kind that spoke volumes of suppressed unhappiness.

He chose not to press. "You should return to the Tower of the Hand," he said gently, knowing Lord Stark would be frantic if he knew she was wandering.

She looked away again, toward the dark, vast sweep of the corridor leading to her father's apartments. "I would," she said softly, but she didn't make a move to walk away, remaining rooted in front of his chamber.

Harry didn't know what impulse called him to do it—perhaps the wine, perhaps a moment of genuine, unsolicited kindness—but he offered the only shelter he could.

"We can go to my room," he suggested. "I should have something to eat still—some fruit, perhaps some cake from the feast. I will then escort you to your own room."

A delicate, rosy blush instantly rose to her cheeks, staining her neck and ears a furious pink. She lifted her eyes, now wide and full of nervous shock.

"But... Your Grace," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "Would that not be... indecent? A maiden and a prince in a chamber alone?"

Harry looked at her, then threw his head back and laughed, the sound booming slightly in the quiet corridor. It wasn't a cruel laugh, but a genuine, slightly wine-fueled burst of amusement.

"It wouldn't be indecent, Lady Sansa," he assured her, leaning slightly into the wall for balance. "If nobody knew."

Later, he would reckon it was the alcohol and the unexpected sight of a beautiful girl in tears which did the talking, but for now, the impulse felt right. He took her arm gently and led her toward his room.

On the way, he paused and knocked three distinct times on the door of his servant's quarter, which was nestled in the wall nearby. Sansa looked at him strangely, still flushing, but followed him, tightening the white shawl above her blue gown slowly as she went.

As they entered the room, the contrast between the cold stone corridor and the warm, richly furnished chamber was immediate.

Haridon directed Sansa to sit on the plush armchair nestled beside his window, which offered a sliver of the moonlit city.

Almost instantly, a sleek, tortoiseshell cat, sauntered out from beneath the massive four-poster bed. She walked up to the Prince with a confident stride.

Haridon, still a bit unsteady, bent down slightly and rubbed the back of her head, eliciting a loud purr before he scooped her up and dropped her gently onto the velvet bedspread, where she immediately settled into a curled position.

Sansa's eyes lit up. "How many cats do you have, Your Grace?" she asked softly.

Haridon took a seat on the edge of the bed near the cat. "Just Ginny, really," he replied. "But she's had a few litters here in the Keep. Most of her kittens have been given away or have simply wandered off, but Alfie, the big tomcat, remains. He's usually wandering, but he comes in and out of the chambers as he pleases."

Sansa hesitated, glancing toward the door. "Does the Queen not have a problem with that? I... she doesn't seem to like animals."

Haridon nodded, his expression tightening slightly. "She doesn't," he confirmed. "But my mother would expect me to do the same, so she largely ignores it. I have my cats, which mainly remain in my chambers."

Just then, before Sansa could respond, the chamber door opened swiftly and silently. A brown-haired woman dressed in the simple, neat clothes of a senior servant entered, her eyes scanning the room quickly. She looked only at Haridon.

"Your Grace? Did you need something?" she asked.

"Ah, good, Elara," Haridon said, recognizing his chambermaid. "Kael and you, have you had your dinners?"

The woman, Elara, nodded once. "Yes, Your Grace. We ate shortly before you returned."

"Good," he replied. "Bring me some boar meat, then, if any managed to escape the my father's plate. He was out early, so there should be enough left in the kitchens. And a tankard of cold watered wine." He turned to Sansa. "My Lady, do you desire something to eat this night?"

"Oh," Sansa said, surprised. "Just a few slices of lemon cake, if it's available."

"Four slices of the lemon cake for the lady, Elara," Haridon instructed. The woman dipped her head and walked away, closing the door softly behind her.

Sansa watched her go. "Who was that, Your Grace? You asked about Kael, too. What is his position?"

"That was Elara," he explained, walking over to a small side table. "She is my chambermaid. She has served me since I was two years old. Kael is my mute servant; he handles my armor and waits on me here."

He turned to her and continued, "They are the two servants I keep close. They are well paid and fiercely loyal. Nobody would dare try to order them around, except me, my mother, and my father. They have their own quarters and eat well." He was pouring water into two silver goblets.

He watched Sansa examine the details of the room, her eyes lingering on Ginny before sweeping out the window. The silence stretched until the door opened again and Elara returned, balancing a wooden tray.

"The best I could find, Your Grace," she murmured, setting the tray on the low table between them.

The tray held exactly what was requested: four delicate slices of lemon cake on a silver plate, alongside a generous portion of roasted boar meat—a trophy Haridon suspected she had smuggled from the kitchens.

Sansa gasped softly at the sight of the cake. "It looks heavenly."

"It is, My Lady," Haridon assured her. "And it is not a feast until one manages to procure the best things after the feast is done. My father had to retire early, so the event was rather dull this evening." He picked up a fork and offered the cake plate to Sansa first, before cutting a piece of the boar for himself.

Elara finished her task and looked at Haridon. He nodded at her, dismissing her for the night. She gave a slight curtsey to Sansa—an unusual respect shown to a visitor by a chambermaid—and left the room, closing the door softly.

"Your Grace mentioned a Kael?" Sansa asked, taking a tiny, appreciative bite of the cake.

Haridon chewed thoughtfully. "Kael is my mute servant," he explained. "He handles my armor, my horses, and waits on me in the chambers. Elara handles the rest, and ensures Kael and I have everything we need, even at this hour of the night."

"He is mute?" Sansa asked, her eyes wide with sympathy.

"He lost his tongue years ago. He was a small criminal in Flea Bottom before I took him in," Haridon said dismissively, placing his boar meat. "He is loyal, capable, and has no interest in repeating anything he sees or hears. A perfect servant for King's Landing."

Sansa looked thoughtful. The silence that fell between them was no longer awkward, but anticipatory, broken only by the gentle purring of Ginny.

"Now, Lady Sansa, you have satisfied your curiosity about my domestic arrangements. You've seen Ginny. Will you tell me why the Lady of Winterfell was weeping on the cold stone floor tonight?" He asked between his bites.

Sansa's smile vanished. She looked back out the window, the glow of the city reflecting faintly in her tear-stained eyes. "It was nothing, Your Grace," she insisted, swallowing hard. "Just a silly girl's tears."

"Silly tears seldom leave those kind of marks," Haridon observed, leaning forward. "And they don't happen to a girl who's promised to the Crown Prince."

She visibly stiffened at the mention of his brother. It was all the confirmation Haridon needed: it was Joffrey who had done or said something cruel.

"It is nothing, Your Grace," Sansa mumbled, picking at the crust of her cake.

"Lady Sansa, you were weeping on the floor of the Red Keep in the middle of the night," Haridon countered gently.

He leaned back slightly to give her space, placing the boar meat on his plate. "You must share, or it will remain in your head for long, and that is never good. And it's not like I would gossip with someone."

Sansa finished her second slice, taking a dainty sip of the watered-down wine to help swallow it, before letting out a profound sigh. "The Crown Prince... he was rude with me," she confessed, the phrase feeling too small for the sorrow in her eyes.

Haridon's hands froze, inches from the piece of meat he was about to eat. He looked up instantly, the amusement gone from his face. "Rude, Lady Sansa, or cruel? Did Joffrey... did he hit you?"

Sansa went wide-eyed, her chair scraping against the floor as she pushed back, her hands flying to her mouth. "No!" she insisted vehemently. "He didn't hit me. Why would you think so, Your Grace?"

"Because you have already seen how he behaves around animals and servants," Haridon stated, his voice flat and cold. "It would not be above him to hit someone who merely irritated him, especially if he thought he could get away with it."

Sansa looked genuinely troubled. "Why do you always think so bad of Prince Joffrey?" she asked, the question laced with genuine confusion.

Haridon placed his fork and knife down, their clatter echoing faintly in the room. His patience thinned. "Stop defending him, Sansa. You cannot hide what Joffrey is from me. He is my brother. I have been with him since the day we shared a crib."

"I am not defending him," Sansa protested, but Haridon heard the feeble protest in her voice; she was defending the idea of her prince, not the boy himself.

"Yes, you are," he insisted, though his tone was not harsh, merely factual. "Joffrey was cruel even as a child, and unsympathetic to everyone's pain except his own. He cruelly picked on me until I had grown enough to challenge him. He tried the same with Tommen and Myrcella, but he fears me to try and pick on them that often, so he mostly keeps his hands away."

Sansa quickly shifted the topic. "My mother says a lady must support her husband in public," she offered, looking desperately for the appropriate social script.

Haridon cut her off. "He is not your husband yet, Sansa. Not for a few years more. Until that day comes, you are free to tell me the truth in private."

He looked at Ginny, who was still purring softly on the bed, entirely unaware she was being used as an object lesson. Haridon's voice dropped, becoming heavy with remembered fury.

"When Ginny was pregnant with her first litter, Joffrey was younger," he began, his expression grim. "He decided he wanted to see what was inside a cat's stomach before the kittens were born. He grabbed her and ran behind the cat with a knife in my chamber, intending to cut open her pregnant belly.

Haridon paused, taking a ragged breath. "If it wasn't for my pro-activeness and fury-induced beating—a beating that saw me punished—he would have killed my cat and all her unformed kittens."

Sansa gasped, her chair scraping against the floor as she pushed back, her hands flying to her mouth. The horror in her eyes was real and immediate. "He... he tried to cut open her pregnant belly?"

"He did," Haridon confirmed, his expression grim.

Sansa managed to ask, her voice trembling, "Has he ever tried again?"

"He wouldn't dare," Haridon said, picking up his water glass and drinking deeply to wash away the bitter memory. "Joffrey may be ruthless and smart, even manipulative when he needs to be, but one thing he isn't is the King's favorite. Mother might pamper him, but she loves both of us equally, and I can match her fury when necessary. Joffrey knows that beside cruel jokes and small bullying, he couldn't do much against me, or against anyone I truly care about."

Haridon pushed off his chair and stood up, the plate of forgotten boar meat suddenly unappetizing.

He walked to his window, gazing out at the dark city, stumbling slightly as the effects of the heavy wine he had drunk earlier reasserted themselves.

He turned his back to Sansa, giving her the distance she seemed to need to finally speak the truth. "What exactly did Joffrey do?" he asked again, his voice flat with forced control.

Sansa's voice was small, almost lost in the room. She explained that Lady Falyse Stokeworth had been talking to her during the dull feast, and had foolishly praised her half-brother, Jon Snow, for his shocking victory in the melee.

"Prince Joffrey was standing nearby," Sansa continued, her voice trembling. "He... he mocked Jon. He said things about his status, and his lack of proper lineage."

Sansa, unable to stomach the cruelty, had replied simply: "I told him that if Jon was able to defeat someone as capable and strong as you, then he must be some good fighter himself."

The compliment, meant for him, had clearly wounded Joffrey's massive ego. "He was unable to digest the argument," Sansa whispered.

He had grabbed her arm, dragged her to a corner away from the others, and yelled at her. "He told me to keep my mouth shut where I had no knowledge, or he would see me punished."

Sansa looked up, her expression a mixture of fear and pleading. "Your Grace, would the Crown Prince truly... would he see me punished?"

Haridon shook his head, still facing the window, his posture rigid. "He wouldn't dare. I won't allow him." He turned slowly, the moonlight catching the severity of his expression. "You are the Hand's daughter, Sansa. You have very few things to be afraid of, and very few people. My brother is not one of them, not while I breathe."

As he fully turned around, he found her closer to him than she had been when she began her confession, her hands clasped tightly above her chest. He found her beautiful, as always, with the deep rose of a blush contrasting with the fairness of her skin.

But the wine, the long day, and the strange, sudden intimacy of the moment caused his mind to fail in controlling the primal urge that swelled within him, his occlumency shields didn't rise to hold them back.

He took a final, deliberate step closer to her, closing the remaining distance. "And besides," he murmured, his voice low and thick, "I wouldn't allow someone I cared about to be harmed by that wretch."

A furious, rosy blush instantly rose to Sansa's face, spreading to the tips of her ears, but she did not look away. She stared directly into his green eyes, her own wide with question and sudden desire.

He could smell the faint lemon flavor from the cake on her breath as she asked, her voice a fragile wisp, "Do you truly care for me, Your Grace?"

Haridon didn't answer her with words. Instead, he reached out, grasped her waist, and gently drew her close, closing his eyes as he joined their lips. Sansa gasped softly against his mouth, a startled sound, but she did not pull back. She tentatively met his kiss, a silent, fragile seal on their secret pact in the heart of the Red Keep.