Tyrek

"Sorry about this," Rickard says, glancing at Robb Stark out of the corner of his eye, "you have my word, we Southerners usually act with more grace and decorum when meeting our hosts."

"No apologies needed, my Prince – Ah, I mean – Rickard." Stark replies gingerly, eyes darting away, adding another bow and smile of apology.

Tyrek hears the conversation of struggle and fight going on beneath his arms, pushing down against the thrashing body of Harrold Hardyng, pushing his head further into the water of the horse's trough. Its fairly shallow, and Tyrek thinks he must have Harry's cheeks pressed against the bottom, for he simply cannot press him further into it, though bubbles froth to the surface and the arm that Rickard doesn't have held behind the Lordling splashes water everywhere, dampening the himself and the Prince.

Behind them, the horses that been happily led to quench their thirst at it wicker impatiently to be let back and take a new drink while there is still water left to be had. Over the ruckus, Theon Greyjoy somewhat puzzled, begins to voice a protest – or at least request an explanation, given his face looks more intrigued than repulsed, "Is this… necessary, umm, Rickard?"

Tyrek looks back at their three hosts, left to keep ward of them for their time in Winterfell. None of them seem to know what to make of this situation they are in, this situation of Prince Rickard Baratheon – clearly not what they expected. A Prince with feral hellbeast for a horse, and his band of vagabond cousins under his charge, and a drunkard lordling passed out in the back of a cart whose prone to attack when disturbed. Theon Greyjoy is grinning broadly, as if a travelling band of mummers had cartwheeled through the castle gates: Rickard will like him, Tyrek thinks, but it depends what he's got beneath that smile that he'll take note of. Robb Stark and Rickard will get on famously, he can already tell, the way they defer and curtsy at one another, bow and acknowledge the other, you'd think it were in the blood, which perhaps it is given their Fathers: Stark maybe too meek though, let the title get in the way, which Rickard will hate, and may have to break him of the habit. Then there is the dark, mute bastard, Jon Snow, who scowls at anything and everything to himself: he'd probably resent Rickard, from the way he flinched from him despite offering the hand, if he hadn't been treated worse by others, the blow glances off: its unlikely Bruce will have an opinion of him beyond toleration.

The Prince glances back over his shoulder at Theon, eyes narrowed with a flashing smile, "Quite necessary. Actions have their consequences – as my Grandfather told me." Rickard turns back, shuffles on his feet, loosens his grip on Harry's arm, looks at him, nodding as he says, "Ease off," and Tyrek does as bid, letting go of Harry's head, as he continues to writhe and coil, shift and struggle, and backs away as Rickard too release his hold.

Harry resurfaces, heaving and shuddering great breaths and coughing as he wretches up the water that flooded his lungs as he struggled, but all their eyes are on Rickard walks around himself before striking out with along stride that follows on with a kick that lands on the drowned squire's rump, who lurches forward at the impact.

Rickard's eyebrows turn upward as he stands hands on hip looking to consult his cousin, "You think he felt that one?"

He just grins back at him, biting on his cheek not to laugh, as Harry, spluttering still, and a hand already massaging the spot on his arse, groans, "Yeah… I felt it…"

"Good," but Rickard is yet to be satisfied, as he drops to a knee beside his errant friend, grabbing by the hair at the back of the head tightly, "Now, will you apologies."

A groan of "yeah" crawls its way from the frozen Hardyng.

Rickard goes on, "Apologies to our fine hosts hear, for the account of yourself, coming to their home in such a sorry state, for making an arse of your ownself and my ownself. Apologies for bringing such fucking shame on yourself. We are now within the home of a Great Man, a man for whom as Hand of the King – should accept the offer – will be amongst the nearest thing to a God or King in the Kingdoms. And on what I'm sure will be the most honourable day of his life, the scent of your shit and puke across yourself and his court yard should not offending his nose, nor vision, nor hearing. Now us a favour, and make yourself understood to me by apologising to his son and heir."

To his credit, Rick hoists Harry up easily and all but drops him in front of Robb Stark, who flush with embarrassment at acting proxy for his Father in such a way, does his duty and accepts the struggled words that the sodden figure presents him with. And with the formalities over, Rickard smiles at Harrold for the first time, pinches a cheek fondly, "Good, now go get yourself a fucking bath, and take a rest. We've a fine feast to look forward to tonight."

Harry blinks at first, shocked then a the sight of the genuine grin on Rick's face begins to laugh, and they embrace, as the former suddenly springs forth with new life, all but skipping inside of Winterfell. They all watch him go, the Starks all bemused in their own ways, as Tyrek explains for them.

"Our Harry has drank himself across the country to get here. He's grieving for Jon Arryn, but he's getting to be to far gone so we do what we can to reign him in."

The three each bow, suddenly understanding.

"And I'd appreciate the three of you to help me to keep an eye on him tonight," Rickard says, a tremor of worry for Hardyng going through his voice, "So long as it doesn't impede our own enjoyment of the festivities." Everyone agrees and snickers along with the Prince. "Now: I'm famished – and as my uncle all ways says 'there's nothing like a fine meal to ready oneself for a feast.'"

"Well, Ty," Rickard says suddenly to him, "what do you make of them?"

"Who?" he says, playing the innocent.

He can hear his cousin roll his eyes, "Let's not act the bullshitter until we get to the feast, please." Rickard is buttoning himself into a fresh shirt, while he, already dressed for the feast, scrubs at a new pair of boots for the Prince. "Our august chaperons of today, our allies in keeping Harry's head from going down a fucking privy again."

"My opinions are your opinions, Rick." He sighs.

"If only that were true," the Prince says, and Tyrek drops a boot.

He catches the sudden bitterness of the words in Rick's voice, and it is totally foreign to him: annoyed and resentful. His head looks up from the fallen shoe and catches, or thinks he does, the barest glimpse of Rickard frowning at him in the full length look glass, except all he can see in Rickard examining himself and the fit of his shirt in it. He narrows his eyes at him, a sudden burning of irritation lit in his belly, which itself only irritates him further thinking the gall with which Rickard has to loose patience with him so.

But then the moment is gone. He looks down at the boot he dropped, and picks it up giving an experimental wipe with the cuff of his sleeve before administering the brush in his hand once more, the irritation in his belly carrying the suddenly rougher movements of his hand.

As the moment oozes into the background, Rickard strikes back up the conversation again. "So, come on then? Your opinions, Ty. That Robb Stark seems a good fucking head on his shoulders."

"That much seems so," he replies amiable enough, "I expect he and his father are much the same."

"Well stands to reason that has to be the case with some families," Rickard shrugs, adjusting his cuffs and examining which belt best matches his feel for tonight. "Not like me and mine. Or you and yours."

His face rises from the boot again. Where did that come from, where is the pretence that they ever talk about each other's Fathers, Rickards yes, him being King but never Tyrek's. "No," he muses, head back to the boot, "But then my Father's dead."

He can feel the sudden pause in the movement of Rickard, feel his eyes on him through the looking glass, the feels something creep up his spine as it lingers on him. Then Rickard just rolls right on, "How about that Theon Greyjoy? Not exactly how I figured to find a hostage kept."

"Mmm."

It's his lack of a response this time that earns the irked glare through the wind this time, and an impatient sigh follows through flared nostrils, before Rickard continues. "Still, the way they talk about him as some archer. I'd like to see you and him square off at two hundred paces, see who manages the bullseye first."

Rickard adds a small, throaty chuckle on the end, but he doesn't feel like returning one in kind. Finished with the boots, he stands and throws them, one after another to Rickard, who catches them, as he murmurs, "You could sell tickets, and take bets. It'd make a pretty penny."

Lacing up his boots, Rickard can't even raise his head to look at him when he says, "Thought you disapprove of my gambling?"

He shrugs, "Not always."

Then suddenly he's face to face with Rickard, staring right at him nose to nose and furious, "Then, for Godssake, please do say what the fuck you do disapprove of." The voice cracks at him like a whip, and the surprise of Rickard suddenly menacing down at him, makes him shy away suddenly like a spooked pony, but it only lasts a moment before he regains his fallen ground. "Cause I am fucking sick of you and whatever this bullshit is."

He snorts, and squares fully up to Rickard, for what he knows to be the first time in his life: and that terrifies him more than anything else. "Like you don't know."

"Know what?"

"That you're fucking that Dornish whore!"

The way he says it, the reaction Rickard has to it, and the agony at the way he wrenches his voice to get the words out: he has to take of them in separate before he calculates that he's actually gone and said the words, and the fact that they both know but refused to talk about, and on Rickards part even acknowledge to anyone but himself, now lies on the floor before them as if it's the bloodied corpse of their friendship. He watches as the cogs turn in Rickard's head, sees the lie literally on the tip of his tongue, as it teases the edge of his bottom lip, but woe and behold he retracts it and out comes the truth as well.

"Yes, I have." He sighs, and looks at his feet for a moment, and for a fleeting glance Tyrek can see the Rickard of when they were children, but then his impervious blue eyes return to his fragile green ones. "But that has nothing to do with whatever is going with you."

His voice his suddenly like a gasp from the way he must have torn it up shouting. "It has every-fucking-thing to do with it, Rick." It's his plea to him to understand his plight, to hear his breaking heart.

But Rickard doesn't apricate the fact. It seems to anger him further if anything. "Oh! So, this is about what, Ty? Protecting me?"

He nods, and leans in close to whisper to him with urgency that he knows Rickard can and will understand, "Rickard… this whore will-" Only he doesn't get far before the Prince looses a warning quarrel at him.

"Don't call her that." And then resolute with his own plea now, Rickard stands back from him and says with defiance what Tyrek realises will be the words that Rickard Baratheon would gladly take to his grave and final breath. "I love Arianne, Tyrek."

It might light a fire in Rickard's eyes and heart to say as much, he can see. But they light a crucible stronger than Wildfire in his belly – for him they are the worst words to hear, the ones that he would go to his grave only not to hear. And his instincts take revenge on Rickard for doing so by propelling his fist right into his cousin's jaw and the crack of his knuckles on the jaw manages to ignite an equality of satisfaction and disgust at his action.

But the satisfaction dies suddenly, when the force of his punch is spent, and he's just stood there with arm outstretched and hearing the crack of Rickard's knuckles in one hand, as the other wipes the blood at the corner of his mouth. His eyes go wide and both hands go to his mouth and shock, and from between his fingers his pants, with blood in his ears and fear beating in his veins, "R-r-Rick… I… I'm…"

When he feels the onslaught about the come, the sound of the door opening, and Harry Hardyng's voice happily swinging into the room comes as blessed relief to him, "All ready? Ty?" But then it faulters when Harry claps his eyes on Rickards jagged posture and the brief contact that he manages to salvage, of fear petrified into his face, before turning back to the Prince, "Rickard?"

Jerked forward by a powerful force, Tyrek finds himself nose to nose with Rickard again, with murder in his eye and himself by the collar. "Fucking get him away from me."

And then he's launched in the direction of Harry, who catches him before either one can loose balance, and drags him back out the way he came in, finally slamming the door behind him as he shoos Tyrek back down the corridor where he can interrogate him. "What happened?!"

"We argued. About the Princess Arianne. He admitted it, he's been fucking her."

"Oh… shit."

"Shit," he agrees.