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Henri Moreau
Known for Many Names, Spy for Napoleon
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The streets of King's Landing stank of piss and smoke, the air thick with the sour weight of too many bodies crammed into too few streets. Henri Moreau moved through the crowd without a sound, a shadow among the filth. He kept his head low, the hood of his fraying cloak drawn over dark curls, eyes flicking from face to face beneath the cowl.
He had been in the city for weeks now — long enough to know which streets the gold cloaks patrolled and which brothels spilled secrets faster than wine. Long enough to feel the undercurrent of fear that lingered beneath the surface.
Whispers of the Reach.
Of Oldtown.
Of him.
They called Napoleon many things in the taverns — sorcerer, butcher, conqueror. Some spat the name with fear. Others with hope. But no one spoke it lightly. The Emperor's shadow had already stretched far across Westeros.
Henri had seen that shadow before.
On the ridge at Waterloo.
It had been raining that morning — the earth churned to black mud beneath the boots of ten thousand men. Henri had stood in the third rank of the 45th Line Infantry, a musket clutched in numb fingers, heart hammering in his throat. He had been twenty years old — too young for the lines but too stubborn to stay behind.
He remembered the sound before the charge.
The rolling crash of English guns. The muttering thunder of hooves across the ridge.
He remembered the order — "Avancez!" — and the sudden lurch of bodies surging forward through the mud. He had stepped over the dead without looking. The cannon smoke had choked the sky, turning the world to white and gray.
Then the crack of volleys.
Then the screaming.
He had fallen somewhere in the chaos — a red-hot punch through the ribs, the taste of blood rising thick in his throat. He remembered the cold weight of the earth closing around him, the sky spinning overhead as the battle raged on without him.
He should have died there.
But the Emperor had found him.
He did not know how. No one did.
Henri woke in the Arbor with the 25,000 men that died that day with the scars of Waterloo still beneath his heart. He had seen Napoleon standing over him in fields of grass.
"You are alive"the Emperor had said softly, blue eyes like ice beneath the flickering torchlight.
Henri had sworn his service without question.
What else could a dead man do?
Just after they conquered Oldtown, Napoleon gave him a personal order. An order even his generals don't know.
"You'll go to King's Landing."
Napoleon's voice still echoed in his ears, sharp and deliberate. The Emperor had stood at the long table in the Highgarden solar, maps of Westeros scattered beneath his hands.
"You know how to become invisible, Henri. I have seen it."
Henri had swallowed hard, his heart quickening. "You'll find me their secrets. Their spies. Their weaknesses."
The Emperor's gaze had fixed him, weighing something unseen. Yes, he did patrolled in the Arbor back when they even didn't took Vinetown yet but to be a spy?
"You speak their tongue well enough — you will learn to speak it better. And when the time comes, you will be ready."
Henri had bowed stiffly.
"And if I am caught, Sire?"
Napoleon's smile had been faint.
"Then you will not be caught."
Henri had been a shadow ever since.
The first week in King's Landing, he had bought his name — Pierre Rivers — from a crooked scribe at the Mud Gate. He had rented a cot in a flea-bitten tavern beneath Rhaenys' Hill and kept his ears open. He never drank, never gambled.
He listened.
In the wine sinks of Flea Bottom, they called him the Silent Bastard — a foreigner with sharp eyes and a Reachman's drawl. He earned coppers carrying messages and sweeping floors, and no one ever thought to look twice at him.
That was the trick of it — not to vanish entirely, but to be so small no one saw you in the first place.
He stood now in the shadow of the Sept of Baelor, watching the procession of gold cloaks making their rounds. The sun was sinking low behind the domes, casting the city in hues of copper and ash.
A voice drifted from the crowd nearby — low, muttered.
"... the Tyrell girl's got the king wrapped around her finger. They say she warms his bed every night now..."
Henri's ears pricked beneath his hood.
Margaery Tyrell.
A name Napoleon would want to know.
He drifted closer, weaving through the press of bodies without a sound.
"... Loras rides for the capital... if he's not here already."
Henri's pulse quickened.
That was useful.
That was something the Emperor would want whispered into his ear.
He slipped away as the bells tolled for evening prayers, winding down the narrow alleys toward the tavern where he made his nest. He climbed the crooked stairs to his small garret room, bolting the door behind him.
The floor creaked underfoot. The walls leaned inward as if the whole city might collapse at any moment.
Henri knelt by the broken table, pulling a scrap of parchment from beneath the loose floorboard. He dipped his quill in the cracked inkwell, scratching out the words in careful cipher.
Loras Tyrell. King's Landing. Margaery's bed.
He folded the paper tight, slipping it into the hollow shaft of a quill pen.
By dawn, it would be in the hands of a merchant bound for the Arbor. From there, it would find its way to Highgarden.
To Napoleon.
Henri leaned back against the wall, the shadows thick around him. His breath slowed.
He thought of the Emperor's cold blue eyes — the weight of that gaze.
"You will do well."
Henri had not known what those words meant at the time.
Now he did.
He was a ghost — a dead man walking.
The Emperor's eyes in the dark.
No one would ever sing songs of Henri Moreau.
No one would remember Pierre Rivers.
But if the Emperor built his kingdom here — in this strange, broken world — Henri would be there, in every secret whispered behind closed doors.
Watching.
Waiting.
The attic room was cold, the air heavy with the stale tang of damp wood and burnt tallow. Henri Moreau sat at the crooked table, the flickering glow of a single candle casting jagged shadows across the sloping ceiling. His quill scratched softly against the parchment — slow, deliberate, the cipher taking shape beneath his careful hand.
Outside, the city murmured in the deep hours — distant dogs barking, drunks stumbling through the alleys. A woman's laughter rang out, sharp and hollow. The sound faded quickly into the night.
Henri's hand did not waver.
He worked with the patience of a man who knew his life hung on the edge of every word.
The letter:
To the Emperor,
From your humble servant, Henri Moreau,
King's Landing — The Seventeenth Day of the Third Moon, 302 AC
The city festers, Sire.
The Lannisters sit the throne, but it is not the boy king who rules. Joffrey is a puppet bound by golden strings — cruel, reckless, feared... but never truly obeyed. The true power moves behind him. Lord Tywin holds the realm in his fist, though he wears the glove lightly. The old lion spends his days at council and his nights at his ledgers. Gold and fear bind the capital tighter than steel.
Tyrion Lannister remains the Hand in all but name — though they call him Master of Coin. He plays the game well, but his position is brittle. The dwarf is married now to the Stark girl — Sansa — a hostage in all but name. No child has quickened in her belly yet, but they whisper that the Imp does not share her bed. It is said he drowns his bitterness in wine. The city mocks him — half-man, half-cuckold — but they do not see how sharp his mind remains. He watches. He listens. A dangerous man, though he hides it behind his cups.
The Spider spins his webs still. Varys moves like smoke through the Red Keep — unseen, unheard — but his eyes are everywhere. He knows the city's heart better than any man alive. His secrets could break the throne if ever he chose to trade them. But he serves the realm, or so he says. I believe he serves only himself.
Littlefinger is gone — to the Vale, they say — but his shadow lingers. The man is poison without a vial. His agents scurry through the streets still, whispering in the ears of merchants and moneylenders. His gold oils every lock in the city. If the Lord of Harrenhal is ever to fall, it will be by gold, not steel.
Henri paused, wiping the nib of his quill on a scrap of cloth. His eyes flicked toward the ceiling beams, where the shadows pooled thick in the corners.
He could feel them there — the ghosts of the men he'd killed.
He kept count.
Five since he had come to King's Landing.
The fishmonger in the Hook who had seen him watching the harbor too closely. The gold cloak outside the brothel who had followed him one night too far. Three others — smallfolk with loose tongues who had seen the wrong face in the wrong alley.
He never took pleasure in it.
But dead men told no secrets.
He dipped the quill again.
The city whispers your name, Sire.
They call you Black Bonaparte. The Butcher of Oldtown. The Sorcerer of the Reach. The merchants fear you. The smallfolk pray for you. The nobles pretend you do not exist — but their eyes flick southward when they think no one sees.
The Reachmen in the city have grown bolder these last weeks. They gather in the wine sinks and speak of your laws — your gold, your bread, your justice. They whisper of the new code, though most do not yet understand it. They call it the law of the smallfolk.
I have seen your hand move in Oldtown and Highgarden. I believe it could move here, if given the right tools.
Henri's hand slowed.
He glanced toward the window where the pale moonlight pooled against the warped glass.
It had come to him two nights ago — the thought taking shape in the dark hours when sleep would not come.
A printing press.
He had seen them in Paris — cramped workshops tucked behind shuttered windows, churning out pamphlets that could set whole streets ablaze.
Westeros did not know the power of the press. Not yet.
But if the Emperor's words could find their way into every tavern, every marketplace...
The fire would spread.
Henri set the quill to the parchment again, his heart quickening.
If it pleases the Emperor, I request leave to establish a press in the city. There are craftsmen in the city who know the working of such machines — half the scribes and copyists would sell their mothers for a pouch of silver. With time and coin, I could build a voice for your cause. A paper that speaks to the smallfolk, printed in the shadows.
The law of the smallfolk. The justice of the Emperor. The truth — whispered from Flea Bottom to the Red Keep.
Say the word, Sire, and the city will read your name by moonlight.
He sealed the parchment with a glob of black wax, pressing the broken signet of a minor Reach lord into the still-warm lump.
By dawn, the message would be in the talons of a raven bound for Highgarden.
Henri sat back, staring into the candle flame.
The room felt smaller than it had an hour ago — the shadows thicker, the walls pressing closer. The ghosts lingered still, watching from the corners.
He reached beneath his cloak and drew the small stiletto from his belt — the blade as thin as a needle, its edge wicked sharp. He turned it slowly between his fingers, the steel catching the candlelight.
A weapon.
A tool.
That was all he was.
A dead man still walking.
He closed his eyes and saw Napoleon standing in the firelight once more — the cold blue gaze fixing him in place.
"You owe me your life."
Henri's fingers tightened around the blade.
He did not know if the Emperor had pulled him from death that night out of mercy or simply because he had needed another knife in the dark.
It did not matter.
He was the Emperor's ghost now — the whisper in the walls, the knife in the shadows.
If Napoleon asked him to spill blood, he would.
If Napoleon asked him to build something greater...
Henri Moreau would light the fire himself.
The candle had long since guttered out, leaving the attic room steeped in cold gray light. Henri fastened the wax-sealed letter into a leather pouch, tying it tight with a thin strip of twine. The raven would be waiting — same as always — in the old bell tower near the Mud Gate. Another day, another whisper carried southward to the Emperor.
But the hunger gnawed at him.
Henri's food stocks had dwindled to scraps — a half-loaf of stale brown bread, a heel of hard cheese, and a few wrinkled apples he'd stolen from a cart days ago. He needed to eat.
He strapped a short dagger beneath his coat, tucked two silver stags into his palm, and slipped out into the alleys.
The market on Fishmonger's Square was thin that morning. Salt-crusted fishermen hauled their catches onto the docks while hollow-eyed women haggled for spoiled cod and half-rotted crabs. The city's hunger was growing — even the smell of the place had turned sour, ripe with desperation.
Henri kept his head down, eyes flicking beneath the brim of his hood. He bought bread and salted pork from a vendor without a word, passing over his coins with gloved fingers.
Then he saw him.
A flash of faded purple velvet beneath a patched cloak.
Ser Dontos Hollard.
The fool.
Henri froze, his hand still halfway into his coin purse.
Dontos walked with the slow, stumbling gait of a man too fond of wine, but Henri knew better. The man was clever beneath the drunken veneer — a pawn tucked neatly into Petyr Baelish's pocket.
He watched as the fool wound his way toward the Red Keep, pausing at the gates before slipping inside.
Henri abandoned the bread stall without a second thought.
He followed.
He shadowed Dontos through the winding corridors of the castle yard, always three steps behind. The fool never glanced back, never even noticed the silent shape moving through the crowd behind him.
When Dontos turned toward the godswood, Henri's breath quickened.
He slipped through the iron gate beneath the heavy shade of the weirwood's branches, keeping to the edge of the wall. The air was thick with the scent of damp leaves and old stone.
He heard voices before he saw them — low, hurried.
Peering through the foliage, he caught the glimpse of red hair beneath a simple gray cloak.
Lady Sansa Stark.
Dontos bowed clumsily before her, his voice trembling with gratitude.
"You... you saved me, my lady. I'll never forget... never... without you, they'd have made me a head shorter."
Sansa's eyes flicked nervously toward the heart tree.
"You've thanked me enough, Ser Dontos."
Henri's sharp eyes narrowed.
It was true then — the whispers he'd heard in the wine sinks. The fool was playing some deeper game, and Littlefinger's shadow stretched long across the girl.
He watched them speak in hushed tones — the fool's fingers brushing the hilt of a small dagger hidden beneath his cloak.
Then they parted.
Dontos stumbled away toward the castle, leaving Sansa alone beneath the branches.
Henri stepped from the shadows like a ghost.
"You should not trust him."
Sansa startled, spinning on her heel. Her breath caught in her throat.
Henri stood a few paces away, half-hidden beneath his hood. His blue eyes fixed on her — cold, unreadable.
"I—" Her hand went to her cloak, gripping it tight. "Who are you?"
Henri stepped closer, slow and careful — not a threat, not quite a friend.
"Just a traveler," he murmured, his Westerosi accent crisp with the faintest hint of something foreign beneath it. "Passing through the city."
Sansa's gray eyes flicked toward the gate.
"You were watching us."
Henri's smile was faint — a flicker in the shadows.
"Only because I know what men like Dontos Hollard are."
Her brows knit, lips parting as if to speak — but she caught herself.
Clever girl.
Henri's gaze flicked toward the heart tree, then back to her.
"You wear the wolf well, Lady Stark... but wolves should not run with snakes."
He saw the spark in her eyes — suspicion, fear — but beneath it... curiosity.
"You know who I am."
"I know much, my lady. More than most."
Sansa glanced again toward the gate, the flush rising in her cheeks.
"If... if you're some spy for the Lannisters—"
"I serve no lions."
Henri's voice was soft but certain.
"And who do you serve?"
For a moment, he considered telling her. He wondered what the Emperor would think — if Napoleon would see the same flicker in this girl that he had seen in talented men.
But not yet.
Not here.
"A different master," Henri said simply.
Sansa's fingers twisted in the folds of her cloak.
"You haven't told me your name."
Henri's mouth curved faintly.
"Alain Bellamy," he lied without missing a beat. "A humble scribe, come to see the wonders of the capital."
A scribe. A common name. A shadow lost among a thousand others.
"Why did you follow us?"
Henri's eyes held hers.
"To warn you."
"Of what?"
His voice dropped lower.
"That even fools wear masks."
Sansa's breath caught in her throat.
He watched the doubt flicker behind her eyes — the girl warring with the woman she would have to become.
For a long moment, neither spoke.
Then Henri stepped back into the shadows.
"Be careful who you thank, Lady Stark."
He turned on his heel, vanishing into the undergrowth.
By the time Sansa gathered the courage to look back, he was gone.
Henri walked the long way back through the city, the bread and pork forgotten beneath his coat.
He would not write this meeting in his letter.
Not yet.
Some secrets were better whispered to no one.
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The Next Day.
The sun dipped low over King's Landing, casting a warm glow upon the lush gardens of the Red Keep. Sansa Stark often sought solace here, amidst the fragrant blossoms and whispering leaves. It was a place where she could momentarily forget the weight of her circumstances.
Henri had observed her pattern, noting her frequent visits to the gardens. Today, he positioned himself near a marble bench, feigning interest in a nearby statue, his keen eyes subtly tracking her movements.
Sansa appeared, her auburn hair catching the fading light, her steps graceful yet burdened. She paused by a rosebush, fingers lightly brushing the petals, her gaze distant.
"Lady Stark," Henri's voice was soft, respectful, as he stepped forward. "A pleasure to see you again."
Sansa started slightly, turning to face him. Recognition flickered in her eyes, mingled with caution.
"Master Bellamy," she replied, recalling the alias he had given her previously. "You seem to frequent the gardens as well."
Henri offered a gentle smile. "They remind me of home, my lady. A place of peace amidst the chaos."
Sansa nodded, though her posture remained tense. "Indeed. In times like these, we all seek refuge where we can."
Sensing her unease, Henri gestured to the bench. "May I sit?"
She hesitated before inclining her head. "Of course."
They sat in silence for a moment, the ambient sounds of the garden filling the space between them.
"I must apologize if my presence has caused you discomfort, my lady," Henri began, his tone earnest. "It was not my intention."
Sansa glanced at him, her expression guarded. "You are... enigmatic, Master Bellamy. One cannot be too careful in King's Landing."
"A wise approach," Henri acknowledged. "This city is a web of secrets and lies. But sometimes, speaking with a stranger can be a balm to the soul."
Sansa's gaze softened slightly, the weight of his words resonating with her. "Perhaps."
"I find that sharing one's burdens, even with someone unknown, can lighten the heart," Henri continued, his voice gentle. "No judgments, no expectations."
A tremor passed through Sansa's composure, her eyes glistening. "You speak as if you understand," she murmured.
"We all have our sorrows, my lady," Henri replied softly. "Some more than others."
The dam broke. Sansa's shoulders shook as she released a shuddering breath, her voice trembling. "I am trapped, Master Bellamy. A pawn in a game I do not wish to play. Everywhere I turn, there are eyes watching, waiting for me to falter."
Henri listened intently, his expression one of genuine empathy. "The weight you bear is heavy, my lady. But even in the darkest of times, there is hope."
"Hope?" Sansa echoed bitterly. "Hope is a luxury I cannot afford."
"Hope is not a luxury," Henri countered gently. "It is a necessity. It is what keeps us moving forward, even when the path is shrouded in shadow."
Sansa's eyes met his, searching for deceit but finding none. "Why do you care?"
"Because, my lady," Henri said softly, "sometimes a stranger's kindness can be the light that guides us through the dark."
A tear escaped down Sansa's cheek, and she hastily wiped it away. "I do not even know your true name."
Henri's smile was sad, a flicker of his own hidden burdens surfacing. "Names are but labels. It is our actions that define us."
Sansa nodded slowly, the tension in her posture easing. "Perhaps you are right."
They sat in companionable silence, the bond of shared pain and understanding weaving an unspoken connection between them.
The fading sunlight stretched long golden fingers across the garden paths, casting warm glows on blooming roses and the carved stone benches of the Red Keep. The air smelled of summer — sweet blossoms touched faintly with the salt breeze from Blackwater Bay.
Henri sat with one leg crossed over the other, gloved hands resting on his knee, as though the hour was no more than a pleasant respite from the city's ceaseless scheming. Yet beneath his composed stillness, his mind worked like clockwork — every glance, every breath, every word a careful calculation.
Sansa sat beside him, straight-backed and poised as a lady ought to be, but the strain behind her eyes was plain to see. The girl was breaking — piece by piece — crushed between silks and courtesies. Henri could see the weight she carried, the invisible yoke of captivity draped over her slender shoulders.
"You speak of hope," she murmured, brushing a strand of auburn hair behind her ear. "But there is none here... not in this place."
Henri tilted his head, letting the silence linger before answering.
"And why is that, my lady?"
Sansa's lips pressed into a thin line, as if the question itself had unlocked something long buried. Her hands clenched on her lap, white-knuckled against the pale blue silk of her gown.
"Because the ones who hold power here... they only know cruelty."
Henri leaned forward slightly, his blue eyes sharpening.
"Tell me."
Sansa's breath caught in her throat, but the dam was already cracking.
"Joffrey..." she spat the name like venom. "He is not a king. He is a monster in a crown." Her voice trembled, but there was steel beneath the fear. "He delights in suffering. He hurts people — for sport, for pleasure."
Henri's fingers tapped once against his glove. That much, he already knew — but it was always better to hear it from the lips of the broken.
"And his mother?"
Sansa's mouth twisted.
"Cersei... she smiles and pretends she does not see, but she knows. She knows what he is — she made him that way."
There was a bitterness in her voice that startled Henri. The girl was learning.
"And Lord Tywin?"
At that, Sansa's expression hardened — a cold mask slipping into place.
"It is him who rules, not Joffrey. He hides behind councils and papers, but he is the true king." Her voice was quieter now, like a confession. "He is the one everyone fears."
Henri's eyes flicked toward her.
"And you? Do you fear him?"
Sansa's breath quickened. She glanced away — toward the high towers of the Red Keep looming above them.
"I fear them all," she whispered.
Henri let the silence stretch between them. There was no need to press. He could feel her trust blooming in the spaces between her words.
She wanted to speak — needed to speak. All he had to do was listen.
"And your husband?" he asked, voice soft.
Sansa flinched, her hands clenching tighter in her lap.
"Tyrion..." Her lips pursed, as if tasting the name. "He is not like them... but he is still a Lannister."
Henri's brow lifted slightly. There was something there — a crack in her hatred.
"He is kind to me... in his way." Sansa's voice grew small, uncertain. "But kindness is not enough. He will never protect me... not if it means defying his family."
Henri watched her closely, filing every word away in the vault of his mind. The girl saw more than she realized — more than most.
But there was still one question left to ask.
"You speak of those who hold power here... but what of the man who holds power beyond these walls?"
Sansa's brow knit in confusion.
"Who?"
Henri's smile was faint.
"Napoleon."
The name lingered between them — heavy, foreign, carrying the weight of distant thunder.
Sansa's blue eyes flicked toward him, uncertain.
"I... I have heard the name," she admitted. "They whisper of him in the halls. The usurper... the conqueror."
Henri's smile grew faintly. "And what do they whisper?"
"That he is... dangerous." Sansa said.
Henri's blue eyes glinted. "All men who change the world are dangerous, my lady."
Sansa shifted in her seat, her gaze flicking away. "They say he burns the old ways... that he tears down the laws of the Reach."
Henri's voice was smooth, coaxing.
"And what do you think of that?"
Sansa's lips parted, as if caught off guard. No one had ever asked her what she thought.
"I don't know..." she murmured. "I know what the old ways have brought me." Her voice grew softer, bitterness creeping beneath the surface. "Suffering. Chains."
Henri leaned back slightly, letting the seed take root.
"I have heard the Reach flourishes under him," he mused. "The smallfolk given rights... the lords stripped of their power." He glanced sideways at her. "Would that not be a kinder world, my lady?"
Sansa's brow furrowed, doubt flickering across her face.
"It would," she whispered. "But men like that... they never last."
Henri smiled faintly.
"You would be surprised, Lady Stark... how long men like that can last."
The sun dipped lower behind the towers, casting shadows across the garden paths. Sansa sat in silence, her gaze distant — turning his words over in her mind.
Henri watched her carefully. The girl was clever... but she was still only a girl.
And girls could be led.
After a long moment, Sansa exhaled shakily, her voice barely above a whisper. "You are right... it is easier to speak to strangers."
Henri's smile was warm, disarming. "Strangers do not ask for anything in return."
He rose smoothly from the bench, offering her a polite bow.
"But should you ever wish to speak again... I am always listening."
Sansa looked up at him, her blue eyes glassy and uncertain — but not afraid.
Not anymore.
Henri turned, leaving her amidst the roses and the dying light.
He did not need her secrets today.
Only the promise that they would come.
The morning sun cast a golden hue over the bustling streets of King's Landing, where merchants hawked their wares and children darted between stalls. Amidst the cacophony, Henri Moreau navigated the labyrinthine alleys with practiced ease, his mind preoccupied with the weighty missive concealed within his doublet.
Reaching his modest abode tucked away in Flea Bottom, Henri secured the door behind him and retrieved the letter. The wax seal bore the unmistakable insignia of the Emperor—a symbol that quickened his pulse with anticipation.
Breaking the seal, Henri unfolded the parchment and absorbed the meticulously penned words:
To Agent Henri Moreau,
Your reports have proven invaluable. I am en route to the Twins to negotiate an alliance with House Frey. Your proposal to establish a printing press in King's Landing has been approved. I am dispatching engineers from the Corps Impériale du Génie to assist you. Utilize this resource to disseminate information that furthers our cause.
Vive l'Empereur,
Napoleon
A slow smile spread across Henri's lips. The Emperor's trust was both an honor and a formidable responsibility. His thoughts immediately turned to the logistics of establishing a printing press within the city's walls—a venture that would require both discretion and ingenuity.
Days later, a contingent of engineers arrived under the cloak of night. These men, veterans of Napoleon's campaigns, brought with them the expertise honed on battlefields and in sieges. Together, they scouted a derelict warehouse near the Mud Gate, its unassuming exterior providing the perfect facade for their operations.
Under Henri's direction, the team worked tirelessly to transform the space. They installed iron presses, their mechanisms reminiscent of the Stanhope press, renowned for its efficiency and durability.
The engineers' precision ensured that each component meshed seamlessly, resulting in a machine capable of producing broadsheets at an unprecedented pace.
As the press roared to life, churning out pamphlets and proclamations, Henri felt a surge of accomplishment. The printed word would become their weapon, influencing the minds of King's Landing's denizens and sowing the seeds of change.
Amidst this clandestine endeavor, Henri's interactions with Lady Sansa Stark grew increasingly frequent. Their encounters, initially serendipitous, evolved into regular rendezvous within the secluded corners of the Red Keep's gardens. Henri's demeanor—courteous yet enigmatic—piqued Sansa's curiosity, drawing her into conversations that traversed topics both trivial and profound.
One afternoon, beneath the dappled shade of a weirwood tree, Sansa confided her anxieties about the court's machinations. Henri listened intently, his gaze unwavering, offering solace through his attentive presence rather than hollow reassurances.
"Sometimes," Henri mused, his voice a gentle murmur, "sharing one's burdens with a trusted confidant can lighten the heaviest of hearts."
Sansa's eyes glistened with unshed tears as she nodded, the barriers she had meticulously constructed beginning to crumble. In Henri, she found a confidant unburdened by the treacherous loyalties that plagued her existence—a sanctuary amidst the storm.
As weeks passed, their bond deepened, each conversation weaving an intricate tapestry of trust and mutual respect. Henri remained ever vigilant, aware that this burgeoning relationship was a double-edged sword—one that could either fortify his mission or lead to unforeseen peril.
Yet, in those stolen moments with Sansa, Henri allowed himself a rare indulgence: the semblance of genuine connection in a world rife with deceit.
The days in King's Landing stretched long beneath the heavy heat, but Sansa Stark found herself lingering in the gardens more often.
She walked the paths in the late mornings, half-hoping and half-dreading to see him again.
When she saw him—always leaning lazily against the moss-covered wall or pacing with his hands behind his back—her heart would give a little flutter. She hated herself for it. Hated that part of her was always looking for him now, searching for his pale green eyes in the shadows.
"You look like a lady about to be married off to a boar," Henri teased one afternoon, falling into step beside her.
Sansa turned her face away to hide the smile threatening at her lips.
"I am a lady about to be married off to a lion," she said, her voice cool.
"A little lion with very sharp claws," Henri quipped.
Sansa tried not to laugh, but the sound escaped—a small, bright thing. He grinned when he heard it, like he had won something.
He always tried to make her laugh.
Most men who spoke to her did so with flowery words or false courtesies. But Henri... he poked at her, needled her, pulled her out from behind the mask she wore. He teased her in that strange accent of his, with that half-smile always playing at the corners of his mouth—like he found the whole world amusing and her most of all.
The first time he brought her flowers, he plucked them straight from the garden—a fistful of half-crushed roses.
"A poor offering from a poor man, my lady," he had said with an exaggerated bow.
She had taken them despite herself, hiding them beneath her cloak so no one would see.
The next time, the flowers were wrapped in parchment, tied with a blue ribbon.
Now she had three bundles hidden beneath her bed, pressed between the pages of her book of songs.
It was a game they played—one she never acknowledged aloud. He would give her little gifts, and she would pretend not to care. But she always kept them.
He called her lady in that lilting voice of his, half-mocking and half-sincere.
When they spoke, he would tell her little stories—funny stories, strange stories—about faraway places she had never dreamed of. He spoke of men with wooden legs who outdrank whole taverns, of an Emperor who rose from nothing to rule nations, of cities that printed ideas on paper instead of whispering them in shadows.
Sometimes she would forget where they were—that they stood in a garden full of spies, that the Red Keep's walls had ears sharper than any wolf.
One afternoon, as the sun began to dip low, Henri reached into his cloak and produced a small bundle wrapped in cloth.
"For you," he said, offering it with that same playful smile.
Sansa unwrapped it slowly.
Her breath caught.
It was a pistol—small and elegant, made of dark wood and polished steel. She had never seen one up close before, only heard whispers of the weapons from soldiers and servants.
"What is this?" she asked, wide-eyed.
"A gentleman's gift," Henri said lightly. "Or perhaps... a lady's gift."
He stepped close—too close—and guided her fingers along the barrel.
"For the next time someone tries to lay a hand on you, mademoiselle."
His voice had lost its teasing edge—low now, serious. His fingers brushed hers, and Sansa's heart thudded painfully in her chest.
"I couldn't..." she began, but the words caught in her throat.
"You could," Henri said softly. "If you had to."
Their eyes met—his pale green, hers blue as the sky over Winterfell.
In that moment, she hated how much she wanted to trust him.
But trust was a luxury for fools.
The pistol felt heavier in Sansa's hands than she had imagined.
They stood beneath the shade of the weirwood tree, deep in the godswood where the shadows stretched long and the castle walls muffled the noise of King's Landing. The thick scent of damp earth and summer blossoms hung in the air. No one ever came here at this hour — no one but them.
Henri leaned against the moss-covered trunk, his arms crossed lazily over his chest, watching her struggle with the weapon. His pale green eyes flicked over her fingers as they fumbled with the flintlock.
"You look like you're trying to feed a cat," he said, the corner of his mouth curling.
Sansa shot him a sharp glare. "I've never fed a cat in my life."
Henri's smile widened. "Ah, of course. A highborn lady wouldn't dirty her hands, would she?"
Sansa's lips twitched despite herself. She hated how easily he could pull her into these little games. Hated how he made her forget — just for a moment — the cage she lived in.
He pushed off the tree and stepped close, the smell of leather and gunpowder clinging to him. Without asking, he reached out and gently adjusted her grip, his fingers brushing hers.
"You hold it like this," he murmured. "Firm, but not too tight. The pistol isn't your enemy, mademoiselle. It wants to help you. Treat it kindly."
"It's not a dog either," Sansa muttered, trying to suppress the heat rising in her cheeks.
Henri's laugh was low and warm. "No, it's much better than a dog. A dog will bark and wag its tail before it bites. This..." His fingers traced the smooth curve of the barrel. "This bites first."
Sansa swallowed hard, eyes fixed on the pistol.
Henri's voice softened. "You're afraid."
"I'm not afraid," she snapped — too quickly.
Henri's green eyes glinted. "Of course you're not. Lady Sansa Stark, the little lion's wife. What could you possibly fear?"
His teasing smile faded slightly, leaving something quieter in its place.
"You don't have to lie to me, you know."
Sansa's throat tightened.
How could he see through her so easily? No one ever saw her. Not truly. They saw the little bird — the pretty doll with pretty manners who smiled and curtsied and never raised her voice.
But Henri... Henri saw the cracks beneath the mask.
"I don't want to kill anyone," she whispered.
Henri's gaze lingered on her, sharp and thoughtful. For a moment, he said nothing.
Then — softly — he replied, "Neither did I."
Sansa glanced at him, surprised.
Henri's eyes flicked away, distant. The lazy smile he'd worn like armor slipped — just for a heartbeat.
Then it was back again, quick as a card trick.
"But there are wolves in this city, mademoiselle," he said lightly. "And wolves don't care what little birds want."
Sansa looked down at the pistol in her hands.
Her fingers curled tighter around the grip.
"Here," Henri said, stepping behind her. "Let me show you."
His hands ghosted over hers, guiding her fingers to the hammer and priming pan.
"This is the flint... you pull it back, like so. The powder goes here." He reached into his pocket, producing a small leather pouch. His breath was warm against her ear. "A little pinch — not too much, or you'll blow your pretty fingers off."
Sansa's heart thudded against her ribs.
She could feel the steady beat of his pulse through his fingertips. He was close — too close. But he never pressed. Never touched her more than necessary.
Henri always danced at the edge of propriety — close enough to make her heart race, but never close enough to give her reason to pull away.
"You fire by squeezing the trigger," he murmured. "Gently. Not like a knife. Like a secret."
Sansa's finger brushed the trigger.
The pistol clicked — empty.
Henri smiled faintly.
"A perfect shot," he said. "You killed the air."
Sansa snorted — an undignified little sound that she immediately tried to smother.
Henri's grin widened. "I never knew the Lady of Winterfell could laugh."
"I don't laugh," Sansa said, her voice still tight with the ghost of it.
"Clearly," Henri agreed. "You're very solemn. Like a statue."
Sansa glanced sideways at him, trying to suppress another smile.
Henri's grin faded into something softer.
"You should laugh more," he murmured. "It suits you."
Sansa's heart gave a little ache at that — sharp and unexpected.
No one had ever told her that before.
Not Joffrey. Not Tyrion. Not even her father.
Henri stepped back, giving her space. His hands returned to his pockets, casual as ever.
"Practice with it," he said. "I'll bring powder tomorrow."
Sansa stared down at the pistol.
A strange sort of warmth lingered in her chest — dangerous and unfamiliar.
"This is treason, you know," she said quietly.
Henri's smile flickered.
"So is surviving."
Their eyes locked.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Henri gave a small, mocking bow — as if they'd been playing some courtly little game all along.
"Until tomorrow, mademoiselle."
He turned on his heel, disappearing into the shadows of the godswood.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Sansa Stark
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Sansa stood there for a long while after he had gone — the pistol still warm in her hands.
She should have been afraid of him.
She should have reported him to the guards the first time they spoke.
But she never did.
She couldn't.
Because Henri wasn't like the others.
He saw her — not the little bird, not the lady — but the frightened girl beneath.
And for the first time in King's Landing, Sansa Stark wasn't entirely sure if that made him her savior...
Or her wolf.
The small chamber was dim, lit only by the thin fingers of moonlight seeping through the narrow window. The crackling of the hearth barely warmed the cold stone walls. Sansa sat on the edge of her bed, the pistol resting in her lap — heavy, cold, and yet strangely... comforting.
Her fingers traced the smooth wood of the grip, worn soft from Henri's hands. Her pistol.
She hadn't named it yet. Weapons were always named, weren't they? Needle. Ice.
Sansa Stark had never wielded a sword or drawn a bow — but this? This was something else. This was something she could hold close, hidden beneath her skirts or wrapped beneath her cloak.
With shaking fingers, she began the steps Henri had shown her. Her movements were clumsy at first — fumbling with the flintlock, spilling powder from the little pouch onto her sheets.
"Firm, but not too tight..." she whispered, mimicking his voice.
The way he spoke — gentle, teasing, like she was something breakable... but not broken.
It had been so long since anyone had looked at her like that. Not with pity. Not with lust. But... curiosity.
Sansa closed the pan, pulled back the hammer, and aimed at the wall.
Her finger hovered on the trigger.
"Like a secret."
She squeezed.
Click.
Her heart leapt at the sound, even though it was empty. She exhaled slowly, lowering the weapon.
I can protect myself now.
Her eyes flicked toward the door, as if someone might come bursting through at any moment — Joffrey with his cruel smile, Cersei with her honeyed lies, or the King's Guard with their cold, empty eyes.
No one ever knocked when they came for her.
But he had.
Henri.
If that was even his real name.
Sansa knew he was lying.
She wasn't a fool — not anymore. The way he danced around questions, the flicker of something sharper in his eyes when he thought she wasn't looking. He wasn't just some common tradesman.
He was dangerous.
Yet...
Sansa's fingers curled tighter around the pistol.
He made her laugh. He made her feel... alive, in a way she hadn't since Winterfell. Since before her father's head fell from the block.
What would he say if he knew how often she thought of him?
I should be afraid of him.
But she wasn't.
A soft knock at the door broke her thoughts.
Sansa's breath caught. Her hand darted to hide the pistol beneath her pillow, heart pounding.
"Come in," she called, schooling her voice.
The door creaked open, and Tyrion Lannister stepped inside — small, solemn, and wrapped in a heavy black doublet lined with crimson silk. His mismatched eyes flicked around the room, taking in everything with that sharp little mind of his.
"Lady Stark," he said, his voice wry. "I hope I'm not interrupting any late-night prayers."
Sansa sat up straighter, smoothing her skirts.
"No, my lord."
Tyrion's brow twitched — just slightly.
He glanced toward the bed, where the pistol lay hidden beneath the pillow.
If he noticed anything, he said nothing.
Instead, he stepped forward with slow, deliberate steps — always careful not to move too suddenly around her.
"I wanted to see how you were... faring." He poured himself a cup of wine from the pitcher by the window without asking.
Sansa folded her hands in her lap, the weight of the pistol pressing against her thigh.
"I'm well, my lord."
Tyrion snorted into his cup.
"You lie almost as prettily as you sing."
Sansa's lips pressed tight.
They sat in silence for a long moment — the only sound the crackling fire and the faint creak of the castle settling around them.
"You don't have to be afraid of me," Tyrion said quietly.
Sansa's throat tightened.
She wanted to believe him.
But she had trusted before — trusted knights and kings, trusted pretty words from pretty mouths — and it had left her battered and broken.
Henri would have laughed at her for thinking such things.
"Better to trust a knife in your own hand than promises in another man's."
Her fingers brushed the hidden pistol beneath the pillow.
"I'm not afraid," she said softly.
Tyrion studied her for a long moment, his strange eyes flicking over her face.
"No," he murmured. "I don't believe you are."
He drained his cup and set it down with a heavy clink.
"You deserve better than this place," he said suddenly — almost too soft to hear.
Sansa's heart ached.
She didn't know why.
Tyrion was kind in his own way. But kindness meant nothing when you were still a prisoner.
He left without another word, closing the door behind him.
Sansa sat alone in the silence — fingers curling slowly around the pistol.
She pulled it from beneath the pillow, turning it over in her hands.
It was hers now.
A little bird with iron claws.
If they ever come for me again... I won't sing for them.
Her eyes flicked toward the window, where the moon hung pale and distant over the Red Keep.
Henri had lied about his name.
He was hiding something.
But he had given her this — a weapon. A secret.
He had made her laugh.
He had made her feel... safe.
And gods help her — she wanted to know who he really was.
Her fingers traced along the barrel, thinking of the name she might give it.
A lady's weapon. A secret. A promise.
Justice.
Tomorrow, she would ask him.
Tomorrow, she would make him tell her the truth.
But not tonight.
Tonight, she whispered the name beneath her breath.
"La Justicière."
The Avenger.
The little bird tucked the pistol beneath her pillow, closed her eyes, and dreamed of wolves.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The sun hung low in the sky, spilling gold across the rooftops of King's Landing. The air smelled of dust and warm olives, the heat lingering even as evening crept closer. Sansa walked along the shaded path of the castle gardens, her heart tapping fast beneath her ribs.
He was waiting — like always — leaning against the weathered stone wall near the old fig tree.
Henri.
Or whatever his true name was.
A rose sat tucked into his belt, half-bloomed and blushing pink. His tricorn hat cast a shadow over his green eyes, sharp and watchful beneath dark lashes. He looked like something out of a story — one of the old songs she'd once dreamed of. A foreign knight wrapped in secrets and half-smiles.
"You came, mademoiselle," he murmured, pushing off the wall.
Sansa's fingers curled in her skirts.
"I always come."
Henri's mouth curved — that small, crooked smile that always left her feeling unsteady. He stepped closer, slow and careful, like she might bolt if he moved too quickly.
"You sound almost disappointed, Lady Stark."
"I'm not."
The words slipped out before she could stop them.
Henri's smile faltered — just a flicker — but his eyes lingered on her face. Sansa's cheeks warmed. She hated how easily he could see through her.
"You never tell me anything," she whispered, half hoping he'd brush it off like he always did.
"I tell you stories."
"Lies."
Henri's smile twitched — but there was something softer beneath it.
"Better stories than the ones the Lannisters tell."
Sansa's heart thudded.
It was a game between them — this dance of half-truths. He always gave her just enough to keep her coming back, but never more.
Not his name.
Not why he watched the Red Keep so closely.
Not what shadows he walked in when they were apart.
"I want to know your real name," she said, bolder than she meant to.
The garden seemed to hold its breath.
Henri's green eyes flicked toward her — sharp, searching — weighing something behind those long lashes.
For a moment, she thought he'd laugh it off like always — another joke, another secret tucked behind that smile.
Instead, he stepped closer.
"Henri Moreau."
Sansa blinked. The name tasted strange on her tongue, heavier than the others he'd given her.
"You lied to me."
"I lie to everyone."
"But not to me."
Henri's mouth twitched, like he wanted to smile but couldn't quite manage it.
"No," he said softly. "Not to you."
Sansa's heart twisted.
He reached into his coat and drew out the pistol — her pistol — wrapped in cloth.
"Come," he murmured. "I will show you something better than lies."
They slipped out through the servants' gate beneath the wall, weaving through narrow alleys until the city fell behind them. The dry grass crunched beneath Sansa's slippers as they climbed a small hill just outside the walls — far enough that no guards would hear.
Henri unwrapped the gunpowder and pressed it into her hands.
"You remember?"
Sansa nodded, fingers curling around the black powder.
Henri stepped behind her — close, but not too close — his breath warm against her neck.
"Steady hands... like a lady holding a cup of tea."
"I don't drink tea anymore."
"Good." His smile brushed her ear. "It's vile."
A laugh bubbled up — quick and breathless. She clapped a hand over her mouth, but Henri was already grinning behind her.
"There she is."
Sansa flushed.
How long had it been since anyone had made her laugh?
Henri stepped close behind her.
"Here," he murmured, voice low and soft.
His hands ghosted over hers — warm, rough at the edges, steady in a way that made her feel steadier too. His fingers curled around her wrists, guiding them as if they were made of glass. He smelled of leather and faint smoke, of something sharp beneath it — foreign but not unpleasant.
"Watch." His breath brushed her ear.
He loosened one hand, reaching into his coat to pull out the powder flask. The silver cap clicked open. The grains spilled between his fingers like black sand.
Sansa swallowed hard, forcing herself to keep still.
He poured the powder into the barrel, his fingers brushing against hers as he pressed the ramrod into her palm. His voice was close, the rhythm of it lulling — gentle, patient.
"Now... pack it tight."
Sansa's breath caught.
Her fingers moved beneath his, slow and careful as she drove the ramrod down. She could feel the strength hidden beneath his touch — not forcing, just guiding. His thumb brushed along her knuckles when she finished, the smallest flicker of praise.
"Good." His lips curved close to her ear. "You learn quickly, mademoiselle."
The heat stirred in her chest, climbing to her throat. She glanced over her shoulder — only a little — but enough to catch the faint smile playing at the corner of his mouth.
"You sound surprised."
Henri's eyes glinted beneath the brim of his hat.
"Not surprised." He leaned in, voice dropping lower. "Pleased."
Sansa looked away quickly, cheeks flushing. She focused on the pistol, heart thudding against her ribs.
Henri stepped back just enough to give her space — but not far.
"Now aim."
Her hands trembled.
Henri's palms hovered close, steadying without touching.
"Breathe."
Sansa exhaled slowly, her heart knocking hard against her ribs.
Henri's voice wove through the hush.
"Hold it like you're holding something precious."
Sansa's lips twitched — the faintest ghost of a smile.
"You said it was a weapon."
His grin flickered.
"Some things can be both."
Her heart gave a little flutter — traitorous, wild.
The dry wood of the fence post wavered in her sights.
"Breathe," Henri murmured again, softer this time.
Sansa squeezed the trigger.
The pistol kicked in her hands, smoke curling through the air.
The crack split the stillness — sharp and sudden. Wood splintered, shards scattering across the dry earth.
Sansa's breath caught.
A laugh broke from her lips — bright, breathless, half-disbelieving. It startled her as much as the shot.
Henri's smile bloomed slow behind her.
"There she is."
Sansa flushed, biting her lip to hide the grin threatening to break free — but she couldn't quite stop it.
Henri leaned close again, his breath warm against her temple.
"Do you feel it?"
Sansa's heart was still racing.
"What?"
He smiled like he knew a secret.
"Power."
Her fingers curled tighter around the pistol.
"I feel..." She faltered, searching for the word.
Alive.
Free.
Dangerous.
Henri's eyes flicked toward her, reading what she couldn't say.
"I know."
His voice was softer now, a thread of something warmer beneath it.
For a moment, neither of them moved — just the hush of the wind and the distant cry of gulls.
Then Henri reached out — slow, careful — brushing a loose strand of red hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered at the curve of her jaw, calloused but impossibly gentle.
Sansa's breath caught.
He was so close — close enough that if she leaned in just a little...
No.
It was madness.
He was a liar, a spy. She knew that much.
But he was the only one who ever made her feel like more than a little bird trapped in a cage.
Henri's green eyes flicked down to her mouth — only for a second.
Then he stepped back.
"We should reload." His voice was rougher now, like he'd forgotten how to smooth the edges of it.
Sansa's heart was still fluttering high in her throat.
She nodded, fingers clumsy as she reached for the powder again — but she could feel the heat of him still lingering behind her, the ghost of his touch wrapped around her hands.
No one had ever touched her like that before.
Not Joffrey.
Not Tyrion.
No one.
Henri's voice broke the silence — low and teasing.
"Steady hands, Lady Stark... like holding something precious."
Sansa's cheeks flamed.
"You already said that."
Henri grinned.
"I like the way you blush."
Her heart skipped.
She loaded the pistol without another word — but her hands were shaking for entirely different reasons now.
Henri's grin flashed, bright and sudden.
"You have the heart of a wolf, mademoiselle."
Sansa's smile faltered.
"No," she whispered. "I'm just a little bird."
Henri's eyes darkened.
"You can be both."
The words wrapped around her heart and squeezed.
No one had ever said that to her before.
Not Joffrey. Not Tyrion. Not even her father.
The little bird and the wolf — both at once.
Her throat tightened.
"What are you really doing in King's Landing?" she asked suddenly.
Henri's smile thinned, flicking away like a candle snuffed too soon.
"Looking for ghosts."
It was another lie.
Sansa knew it.
But this time, she didn't press.
Instead, she reached out — fingers brushing lightly against his stubbled cheek. His breath caught, eyes flicking to her hand.
"Henri... if you're lying to me... I want to know why."
His green eyes flicked toward her — careful, guarded.
"For your own good, mademoiselle."
Sansa's heart twisted.
Everyone always thought they were protecting her.
But this was different.
This was him protecting himself... from her.
Her fingers slipped from his cheek.
"I could be dangerous too, you know."
Henri's smile flickered — small, crooked, with a flicker of something softer behind it.
"I know."
He leaned in, so close she could feel his breath on her lips — but he didn't kiss her.
He was waiting.
Letting her choose.
Sansa's heart hammered.
Without thinking, she rose on her toes — just enough to brush her lips against his cheek.
Henri went very still.
When she pulled away, his eyes were half-lidded, his breath uneven.
For one perfect, fragile moment, Sansa felt weightless — like she was no one's prisoner, no one's daughter or wife.
Just a girl and a boy beneath the dying sun.
Henri stepped back slowly, clearing his throat.
"We should go."
Sansa swallowed hard, her pulse still fluttering against her throat.
"Tomorrow?" she asked softly.
Henri's green eyes flicked toward her.
"Tomorrow."
They walked back to the Red Keep in silence — the little bird with a pistol tucked beneath her cloak and the wolf hiding beneath a liar's smile.
Neither of them noticed the dark shape watching from the shadows beyond the gate.
Neither of them knew that tomorrow would come far too soon.