A/N: Big thank you to everyone who left a review, they keep me inspired!

RICHARD

A heavy wind blew through his hair, as soft as a lover's caress. He could hear birds calling, and smell the flowers in bloom, their scent overpowering everything else. After so long in the stench of King's Landing, the world and its open air was so sweet that Richard Lonmouth felt as though he had been touched by the divine. I'll need all the help I can get, he thought soberly.

Despite his pleasant surroundings, Richard could not bring himself to feel entirely at ease. The King has put his trust in me; he told himself whenever he felt his resolve weaken, like a prayer. It had been hard riding for the last few days and Richard had not thought to bring any skins of wine for the journey, something that he was greatly regretting. It was for the best, he reminded himself. My head needs to be clear for this, elsewise it could very nearly be my life.

"Do you think he's made it back to Stokeworth, Ser?" asked his squire, and sole companion, Bryce Caron.

Richard took a moment, considering the woods around them, the stoniness of the ground below them, and then turned to his squire. "I think not," he gestured to the particularly rough path that lay ahead of them, all tree roots and sharp rocks. "He'd have to dismount like we have to get through this drudgery. I'd say he's less than a day ahead of us, and perhaps three days from reaching the castle."

Manly Stokeworth had been a loyal and efficient commander of the City Watch throughout the reign of King Aerys, and until recently had served Rhaegar just as leally. That was before the man killed three people and fled the city in a mad rush. Richard had been shocked as the rest of the court when he heard of the man's actions, and from his own experience with Stokeworth the commander had come across as dutiful and unassuming. And then he opened up the bellies of three hapless knights and left another a cripple...

Not an hour later Richard was called before the King and given the task of bringing Stokeworth to justice, a task he readily accepted. Lord Connington offered to lend him thirty Gold Cloaks, but in the end Richard had refused and took only Bryce, in part because he would move faster with fewer men, and also because he misliked the idea of riding with warriors who had once served under the madman.

"Mayhaps his horse broke a leg," suggested the boy as they slogged on through the thick forest.

"Mayhaps," he replied. "But not likely, he'll have left it behind before attempting to progress."

The boy hummed in acknowledgement and continued on, heavy gear hung over his back and nary a word of complaint. He's a good lad, Richard thought. He'll make a fine knight someday. It still felt like only yesterday when he was the squire and Rhaegar the one to give him the gift of knighthood. Have I known a happier day? He thought not.

They continued on in contented silence for hours more, until finally the sun had lowered to the horizon and the air began to cool as the sun dipped below the tops of the trees. Richard felt gooseflesh prickling his arms and decided that they'd gone as far as they could that day. He found an elm that hung down just enough to provide a barrier against the chill and with Bryce sat down to make camp.

" Fire?" the boy asked, looking hopeful.

"Not tonight lad," he sighed. "Such light might give us away, and who knows what Stokeworth would do if he knew we were following him."

The boy looked at him dubiously for a moment. "Is he really such a warrior? They said he'd gone mad."

"Madness doesn't always dull a man's skill at battle," he thought of the things he had seen on the Trident, the way men would carve into each other's flesh whilst themselves bleeding to death. It took a considerable force of will to not shudder. "Sometimes madmen are the deadliest foes you'll face."

"What will you do when you find him?"

The one question I'd hoped not to be asked tonight. He wanted to be absent of thought when it came to delivering Rhaegar's justice, and knew that if he allowed himself to be consumed by the morality of his actions then his life would be forfeit. Hesitation, he told himself, is an invitation to disaster…

Richard sat with his back against the elm and took out some salted beef, took a small bite and considered his answer as he chewed. "It all depends on the man. If he does not give me any cause and comes with us peacefully, then he'll not be harmed. King Rhaegar is a merciful man; he will likely give the man the choice to take the black."

"But what if you can't reason with him?" the boy asked, looking worried. "Will you kill him?"

"I'll do what I have to."

Silence fell over their tiny camp after that, both of them chewing on their strips of salted beef in contemplation. The trees were bright with moonlight, and the sky was cloudless and speckled with stars. Richard did not want to want to spend such a good night brooding over dark possibilities. "How has your father been keeping Bryce? Does he write often?"

The squire gave a small chuckle. "Once every turn of the moon, though he writes enough to fill a library."

"Misses you does he?" the thought made Richard smile.

Bryce unsheathed his sword, a small but well-made length of steel with an intricate pommel inlaid with nightingales. "He had this gave this to me the day I left Nightsong, perhaps to vain a weapon for a simple squire, but it always reminds me of him."

Richard's own father had been just as proud when it was announced that he would squire for the crown prince, almost as excited as Richard himself. The old man had wept the day Rhaegar laid his sword on his son's shoulder and proclaimed him a knight. Richard had wept too, though only later when out of sight from all others. He was certain that it had all been a dream, in a way it still felt like a dream. So much has changed…

He looked at the boy sitting with him. Bryce was younger than Richard was when he took up the duties of squire, a young lordling from the Stormlands with so much ambition and hopes. He could see it all reflected in his squire, like looking into a mirror through time. I will teach him the arts of battle, the same as you taught me, Rhaegar. He is a good lad, and might be one day he'll make a better knight than either of us.

The next day he woke to the sound of crow squawking from above. The sun had only just risen, bathing the sky in hues of gold and purple and slowing reviving the world. Bryce was lying curled up beneath his cloak, snoring slightly. Richard leant over and gently shook him awake. "Up you get. We need to get moving."

The boy rose quickly enough, rubbing his eyes. "What about breakfast?"

"We'll eat as we go."

They moved quickly in the early light, the morning just cold enough to keep them sharp. The further they travelled the stonier the ground beneath them seemed to get and it was all they could do to not hurt themselves. Richard had chosen to wear his armour this day, despite the long trek on foot and the added weight. Manly Stokeworth was near; he could feel it with every inch of his being.

As they pushed on Richard began to think all the unsavoury thoughts that he had tried to deny for the last few days and by the gods did he need a drink. Ah yes, that solves everything doesn't it? Back before the Rebellion Richard had lived a clean life, allowing himself few vices. He rarely whored, rarely drank, and always made sure to practice with his blade every day. He even prayed every morning to the Seven so that he might better fulfil his vows. That was the effect Rhaegar had on most men, he knew. Rhaegar made men feel the need to be better than they were, and for a long time Richard had been a great knight.

Everything changed at the Tourney of Harrenhall. Rhaegar had begun to share his thoughts less and less with Richard and his other former squire, Myles Mooten. Even Lord Connington noted the change in the prince's nature, and the man was one of his closest confidants. Richard, in the absence of his prince, had spent much of the tourney conversing with his fellow Stormlanders, especially his liege lord Robert Baratheon. What a fool I was, he silently chided himself. The heir of Storm's End had proven to be a toxic influence, charismatic and jovial, always pushing Richard into more and more. Over those ten days Richard found himself drinking more and paying less attention to his vows. In truth, he was happy during that time and felt unburdened by all. It didn't take long for that shallow façade to fall away.

Towards the end of the tourney, when the Knight of the Laughing Tree had somehow incited King Aerys' wroth, things had gotten even worse. Rhaegar hardly spoke to anyone but for Arthur Dayne, whilst the King raged, so in the end Richard had taken it upon himself to try and cool Aerys temper. He failed, of course, and Rhaegar had finally stirred himself to resolve the matter. Richard desperately wanted to prove himself to both father and son, but in the end it was not to be and whilst in his cups had taken Robert Baratheon's advice and danced with one of the pretty maidens, and at the time Barbara Bracken was agreeable to his company. When the dance was done he led her up to his chambers and took her maidenhead. By the time the tourney was over she was but a distant memory.

I was a craven, he thought with as much disgust and self-loathing as he could muster. I should have married her and not left her to face her father's anger and her mother's shame…

The war against Robert had given him some reprieve from his own dilemmas, but even after all the years since Richard hadn't been able to shake his love for the drink. I am never drunk when on duty, he reminded himself. I may be a poor man, but I will not be a poor knight.

He was shaken from his musings by Bryce cursing to himself. When he looked into the clearing just on the horizon he spotted a dozen mounds of crumbled battlements and structures, the last remains of some small outpost or keep rendered to rubble by battles long gone or corroded by time.

"What are they?" Bryce asked with boyish curiosity.

"Remains of an old keep," Richard said, slowing down. "They're probably leftovers from Harren the Black's time, the mad bastard had control of the Iron Isles, the Riverlands and had his eyes set on the Crownlands."

As they made their way towards the edge of the woods, Richard stopped his squire up and pushed him over to an ancient oak. He gave one long look at the hill and the ruins that littered it, seeing how the stones were larger than a man. They provided plenty of cover from onlookers, and the hill itself was high enough that anyone who approached could be spotted before they made it even half way. He might be watching for trouble even now…

"Right," he told the boy. "We're going to stay in this spot until it gets darker, and then I'm going to make my way up there."

Bryce's eyes shot wide open. "He's there? You saw him?"

"I didn't see him, but he's there." His face pressed into a frown. "You remember what I told you? If I'm gone longer than an hour….then I've been killed. You turn around and go back the way we came, exactly the way we came. Our mounts will still be at the Inn, I'm known to the keeper-"

"-I could come with you!" the boy cut in. "I could help you, two men are better than one and you've seen me fight."

Richard couldn't help but smile at the boy's bravery. "Aye, you're a good fighter, but Stokeworth has felled three men, and I need someone to tell the king what happened here should I fall." He squeezed the boy's shoulder. "I trust you to do this for me lad."

Disappointment was plain on the boy's face, but he gave a reluctant nod in the end. They sat down by a felled tree and peered over its rotted bark at the hill. There was little movement, and less sound. The place looked as bereft of life as the king who had built on it, even as hours passed and the light grew dim. Was I wrong? The doubts began to fester in his mind like an undressed wound, until he caught sight something among the rocks, a shine of sunlight on steel. Got you…

The sun had finally hit the horizon, and as dusk fell upon the world Richard made his move. With the thousand shadows that sprung from every tree and rock, coupled with the lengthy grass he managed to slowly make his way towards the hill crawling on his belly. It was hard work, with all the chainmail wearing him down, and slow going, but he felt a level of security. Surprise would be his biggest ally.

Rocks littered the hill top, like jagged teeth in a smashed face. A man in dull armour, and a faded golden cloak was sitting pressed up against the remnants of some fallen wall; his sword was across his lap. His appearance was haggard, his eyes brown bruises within the hollows of his sunken face, the grey beard at his jaw messy and dishevelled. When he saw Richard he jumped to his feet and raised his sword.

"S-stay back!" his voice was a hoarse rumble, his eyes dancing about madly.

Richard raised his hands peacefully. "There doesn't need to be any trouble Manly, I've not intention or desire to hurt you unless you give me cause."

"You'd best be on your way then," he muttered, eyes wild. "I'm not going back, not ever."

"Be reasonable Manly, you've done terrible things." Richard's gaze was steely. "You murdered three men. You broke the King's peace; one way or another you're coming back with me."

"The King's peace?" Stokeworth's mouth twisted in anger. "The King himself broke that peace when he led us all to war, and I have heard what he plans, on duty I heard. You serve a madman who would doom us all to chaos and bloodshed."

"Put away your steel," Richard told him. "And Rhaegar will give you a fair trial when we return, he is a merciful lord. You may be granted your life."

Stokeworth laughed. "Take the Black like the traitor Ned Stark? Freezing my arse off at the end of the world whilst my children live as hostages? I think not. I will return to my lands and see that the truth is revealed about your mad king."

"Rhaegar is many things but he is not mad." Ser Richard moved closer to the man. "Is that your final choice?" This time he put his hand on the hilt of his longsword. "If that is how you desire then so be it."

The two men were of a height, but Stokeworth was three stone heavier and made of less chivalrous stuff. Stokeworth was a trained killer not a tourney knight; he would not do things with propriety. With a sword in his hand and his foe before him, Richard breathed in and out slowly as he circled.

Stokeworth was fast, blazing fast, as quick as any man Ser Richard had ever fought on and off the tourney field. In his big hands, the sword became a whistling blur, a storm of steel that came at Richard from everywhere at once. The knight jumped back, parrying, but Stokeworth followed, pressing the attack. No sooner did Richard turn one cut than the next was upon him.

The swords kissed and sprang apart and kissed again. Richard found himself smiling. This gives me purpose, he thought. Here, there is no room for demons or haunted memories. There is only my blade and his. He blocked the blows calmly, his longsword meeting each slash and turning it aside.

High, low, overhand, he rained down steel upon Stokeworth. Left, right, backslash, swinging so hard that sparks flew when the swords came together. Stokeworth cursed and turned a high cut into a low one, slipping past the knight's blade for once, only to have his blow scrape uselessly off a steel greave. Richard's answering slash found the former commander's left should, slipping through a joint of his armour and biting the flesh beneath.

The dance went on. He pinned Stokeworth against a boulder, cursed as he slipped away, and followed him through the maze of rubble. Steel rang, sang, screamed, sparked and scraped, and they were both grunting with effort. Stokeworth was wearing down. Richard could see it in his eyes; the doubt, anger, and the beginnings of fear.

"It is not too late to throw down your sword. Yield."

Stokeworth came on again, screaming as an answer. His blade slashed low, high, low again. Richard blocked the cuts to and neck, and let his armour stop the rest whilst his own blade took the man's ear from his head. The former commander howled in pain and blood welled from his wound.

Richard kept his guard up. "I'll ask you again, yield and this need not be your end."

The other man spat a wad of blood, and backed off slightly huffing up a lung. "Your king plans to bring war to the Seven Kingdoms, I would rather die now trying to put an end to it than live through another rebellion."

"Yield."

"Die," spat Stokeworth as he struggled to lift his blade up for another attack. His form was slow and forced and that was all the chance Ser Richard needed. He slashed across the man's unprotected throat, spurting out a crimson mist. Stokeworth brought a mailed glove to his throat, eyes wide with shock. Blood bubbled out and by that point the battle was done and the man toppled over into the dirt.

Richard took a few shaking steps back, and almost collapsed against a nearby block of stone. His breaths were heavy and fast, sheen of sweat covered his head, his eyes squeezed shut. He felt lightheaded, drunk. I'm alive, he told himself. I'm alive…

After several long moments he opened his eyes and forced himself to look upon the corpse he had just made. Lying face first in the dirt surrounded by a crimson stain, Manly Stokeworth looked no longer human. Richard couldn't help but cry at the sight of it. He was a man, but I made him into a thing.

The dead man's words still echoed through his head, over and over. Words of Rhaegar starting a war, words of chaos and rebellion, they gave him a chill. Ravings of a madman, he told himself. He wanted nothing more than to climb down, return to his squire and ride back to King's Landing where he could lose himself in his cups, but he still had work to do. He eyed the corpse again. I must have proof.

With the taste of bile in his throat, Richard brought his sword down.