Rickard I

"A toast to you, my Lords, and to the Stormlands!" He held up his cup of wine, high and proud, with Lord Bryce Caron doing the same, as they clinked their glasses together and all the local lords following suite. Cheers and hollers went up like the rising waves.

Upon the high table where he sat as the Crown Prince, an honour that he was entitled to whenever he went anywhere, it occurred to him, these men looked up to him to lead and give them reassurance.

"As if I had to come all they way here to encourage you to do your jobs and keep the sand rats at bay." He thought derogatively of both these Marchers and their Dornish rivels.

For the last year, skirmishes along the Marches had been happening across the border. Nobody could figure out or agree on who started it, the Marchers – Carons, Dondarrions and Tarlys – had all insisted the raiders came from Dorne and took it as their right to defend their lands and had either been individually or together launching attacks on Dornish towns and outposts. As to be expected, Prince Doran, the Manwoodys, Wyls and Fowlers had insisted that it was a strike from the north that had provoked them.

The tension had been built up and now had the capacity to spill into a war. Father had insisted that he go, to make sure the Iron Throne had a voice, and as future heir to the Kingdom, he must start learning. His mother had been adamantly opposed, so his Uncle Baelor had been summoned from Oldtown to aid in the negotiations.

He had found it more boring that he expected it to be. It was an insult that the Crown Prince had to demean himself as a messenger between these squabbling regions, in truth, he had looked forward to and hoped for a war, he could wet his blade and prove himself as a warrior in his first battle. Peace was a dull affair, as was this feast in his honour at Nightsong on this night. Uncle Baelor had conducted most of the negotiating by order of his father through his mother.

Walking amongst the nobles, nearly all from the nearby Reach and Stormland houses in order to honour their Prince, he saw only toadies and fools. Many had brought their daughter along, trying to vie for his favour even before the great tourney that would happen very soon. None of which he felt any need to humour. Even less the Tyrells who had the audacity to do as they had been trying for years, to arrange a betrothal his cousin, Margaery. They had sent Margaery here, along with Mace, his wife Alerie and eldest son, Willas.

An insult, and it was only at the constant urging of his Uncle Garth – his favourite Uncle – that he does not have them punished for such an outrage.

"A son of the proud lineage of Baratheon and Hightower who will one day sit upon the Iron Throne, won over from the equally proud line of Targaryen, with an up jumped steward's daughter? Mace Tyrell truly was the stupidest idiot in the Seven Kingdoms."

He had avoided them as much as possible throughout his time here. By tomorrow, he and his party would ride back to King's Landing.

What he wouldn't have given for another Dornish war, though any war would have done for him. Glory is for the conquerors, and history remembers those who were victorious and famed. Aegon the Conqueror, Maegor the Cruel, Daeron the Young Dragon, Daemon Blackfyre and his own father. These were men, men who led and ruled. As would he. When he was King, he would etch his name with them. A warrior to be feared and respected.

"Daydreaming again, brother?" were the familiar words of one of his trusted companions, Ser Rolland, the bastard of Nightsong, brother of Bryce Caron.

He smiled and raised his cup, "Of future glory that we will all no doubt share, I am quite certain."

Rolland Storm's position as one of his companions had been deeply controversial. His mother had been against it, disparaging of Roland as a bastard and having no place with her son when he arrived at court, young but slightly older than he and his other companions, they had took to him regardless of his status, his skill with a sword proving to match even his.

When his mother had learned of this, she had tried to have him sent back to Nightsong at haste. But he had managed to rectify the issue by having Rolland made his own Sworn Sword. A position that his mother could no longer argue with in any sense of logic, Rolland was one of the finest killers of the Stormlands. The kind of man her son would need.

"Aye, and you promised us a war, Rickard, that we'd all gain glory in a river of Dornish blood?" came another voice, big and booming, one he knew well, Harry of House Fell. Much like his own father, he saw King Robert as the example of what a King should be. His grandfather had fought on the side of House Targaryen during the rebellion and fell to Robert's might war hammer at Summerhall. Instead of bitterness, Silveraxe had embraced his Father as a true warrior King, deserving of victory. Harry, his son, had been sent as to King's Landing as a companion, to ensure the newfound loyalty from his father endured past him for the future.

Rickard decided to humour him

It was clear that he had been drinking far too much tonight, "I wanted to bury my axe in some Dornishman, now I'll just have to bury my cock in one of these," he gave a huge laugh that reminded him of a younger image of his father, he motioned to the many women in the hall; servant girls, as well as the ladies who had arrived.

"Assuming he can get it up to begin with." Laughed another voice along with a few others, this one more refined and condescending, Waymar of House Royce from the Vale, following were his brother, Robar, Alyn Ambrose and his own cousin, Denys Redwyne.

The big Stormlander gave a deep laugh himself, "Your Mother knows I do, Royce!"

Each of them aside from Waymar and Robar gave a hearty laugh at that.

"Fuck off Fell." Waymar spat.

It was Alyn who spoke first.

"He has a point, my Prince, you did say that this was another Dornish war in the making, that we'd all gain glory.

Harry chuckled at that. "A prince who cant keep his promise-"

He erupted at that, "Don't proceed to tell me what a Prince can or cannot do. You dare speak to your future King in that manner again, I'll have you flogged!" The humour in the group ceased, Harry looked down, realising he had overstepped.

"Good, as he should."

Harry got to his knee.

"My apologies, my Prince, I only meant it as a jest. I never intended a true insult to you. By your kindness, you have seen me as worthy to be your companion. I was foolish to take that as an invite question your worthiness as our Prince."

Rickard took a moment, some in the room turning to see. He waited just a few moments later before he offered his hand.

"Its alright, my friend. We all do so sometimes. You have my forgiveness." The young heir of Felwood took his hand, and with a smile, the two embraced.

It always helped his friends to know their place, as much as he cared for them. All seven men laughed about the incident hours later as they drank away into the night. It would be a hard journey tomorrow.

Mid-day came, the familiar smell hit the two-hundred-man party like a shield wall formation.

"Mark my words, once I become King, I will place every effort into cleaning up the smell of this city." He said to nobody as he took his rag and held it to his nose, but each of his men took notice anyway.

"I will second that, my Prince." Came the words of his cousin, Denys. Each men gave a laugh as they carried on through, the City Watch manning the King's Gate immediately recognising the banners of Royce, Ambrose, Redwyne and Fell, though mostly to his own personal banner, the Hightower on the left side, with the crowned Stag of Baratheon on the right.

"Open the gates for the Prince immediately" came the cry of one of the Goldcloaks who also gave a bow as they passed by.

As they entered into the square, various smallfolk gave attention as they road by.

"Seven Blessings to you, Prince Rickard!" came a deep voice from a man in the crowd.

"Gods save the King!" came a chorus chant.

"Long live the Prince and his family." Came the voice of a woman with a broad of youngsters.

Rickard waved and acknowledged them, occasionally throwing coin with his companions doing the same.

"Remind me, when was this new tourney again?" came the voice of Alyn, ever the eager to prove himself even as he had – like most of his friends – not been knighted. It would be to celebrate the King's Daughter, his sister's, fourteenth name-day. Many knights and lords would attend from all over the Kingdoms. Not only for the glory of the tourney itself, but also the chance to win the affection of the Princess Layla. An idea that both angered and amused the Crown Prince.

"Two months' time." Came the voice of Ser Rolland, "It will probably be the biggest gathering since the tourney of Harranhall. I've heard even the Northerners and Dornish will come out of isolation for the occasion."

Waymar spoke up, "Hah, let them come, I'll win glory for Runestone and the Vale."

The younger member of the main branch of the ancient First Men house was proud. There were few times when he did not talk of some glory he would win, or how he would etch his name into history. Sometimes it was entertaining, some days it became extremely overbearing.

The Prince spoke up. Turning his head back to talk to Waymar, "You're having your new armour made at Tobho Mott's too, right?" Waymar looked at him, "That I am. I thought he was overpriced Qohori scum, turns out he does the best work I've seen. I need him to work in the Rune stones especially for the Tourney."

The Prince paused before smiling, "Aye, that he does. I'm having an entire new suit made. Loras Tyrell will be there, and they say his armour as the best looking in the realm. I intend to show the people that their Prince will never be one-upped in anything. That new apprentice of Tobho's is truly impressive, quite the lad I must say."

Waymar raised a brow, "That big one? Aye, my Prince, a bit of a moody prick if you ask me though. When I went there a day before we left for the Marches, I went to check on the progress of my armour, it was all good, then I saw that boy polishing this Bull helm of his, It looked like a prime piece. I offered five dragons for it, yet he turned it down. I would have just taken it from him by force if I truly wanted but thought against it."

The Prince gave a chuckle, "I like a boy who stands up for himself. I agree, a rather prickly one. Reminds me of Father for some reason."

As they passed through the always busy streets, the clear view of the Sept of Baelor came ever more into prominence, as would the Street of Steel. Once he was rested and fed, he would travel back down to the Sept to pray and give his respect to the Gods, Ser Roland being his most prominent companion.

Waymar pulled his horse into the side road, a known short-cut to Tobho's street.

"With your permission, my Prince, I would like to go get my armour. It should be ready by now." He had that cocky smirk on his face as he said it. Rickard returned it in kind.

"Go ahead, we'll see how that new fancy armour holds up in sparring later."

The group said their goodbyes to Waymar as they parted ways. The party's Royce men-at-arms going with him.

The rest of the journey was uneventful, more and more crowds came to pay respect to their Prince, while he eventually ran out of money and simply ignored the eager hands that waited for something.

Eventually they came to the Red Keep, the courtyard full and lively, Lords, ladies, servants, guards and the rest of the King's Guard; his uncle, Ser Garth Greysteel, Ser Balon Swann, Ser Timind Costayne, Ser Emmon Cuy, Ser Richard Horpe and the infamous Kingslayer, Ser Jaime Lannister. The Lord Commander, Ser Barristen was likely with his Father, wherever he was. He noticed one person missing, and he immediately where they were. His Queen Mother and two sisters stood at the centre. Behind his eldest sister, Layla stood her favourite lady and best friend, the Lady Allyria Dayne. Her purple dress, brown skin and star jewellery standing out even amongst the gaggle of fine Ladies, matching even the finery of his Mother.

Also here was the Grand Maester Pyclle, now six and eight, but still amicable, his huge bushy beard hid his face, but he still made out the respectful smile underneath, which Rickard returned in kind. Lord Renly, his uncle and Master of Laws was here too. That smug and condescending mug, as if he were the one being all were paying attention to. It was him who had the gall to suggest that stupid insult of a marriage to Margaery Tyrell in his presence. He had no respect, not for his family nor his bloodline. He ignored Renly, having not spoken since then in disgust. Cousins or not, stewards were not fit consorts for a Prince. Maester Pyclle and Uncle Stannis were in complete agreement with on the issue.

Unsurprisingly far away from the arrogant wretch, his Uncle and Master of Ships. His Father and Uncle rarely got along, and Stannis got along less so with his Mother and her side of the family. Quarrels between his Uncle and the Hightowers was common, ranging from what he saw as them having too much influence and say, to gaining even more power despite their poor performance at the Greyjoy rebellion and Stannis having been a key architect in Balon Greyjoy's fleet being destroyed and having gained little for it. There was always tension over something. The worst of his Uncle's sour personality had passed however since the news of his wife finally conceiving a long desired new-born son on Dragonstone, it was one of the first times anyone had seen a genuine smile upon his face, but it had since left Lady Selyse bedridden for the last year, but his Uncle had mentioned she was recovering.

Strangely, the Spider and Littlefinger were not here. Not that he cared for either of those two fools.

Regardless he had always held his Uncle and accomplishment in high esteem. Once he was King, he planned on making Stannis both his Hand and the Lord of Storm's End, it was both lawful and right, a reward for his service, as well as a good way to humble Renly.

He looked to Lord Jon Arryn, another man he held in high regard. His iron will had saved both the lives of his Father and Lord Eddard Stark. Old but viral as ever, he gave a kindly smile. His household gathered to greet him. As well as his wife, "the Mad Trout" as he and his friends had sniggered, Waymar being the one to come up with the name. She looked as miserable and – in Rickard's opinion – revolting as she always did. He smelled that odour of sour milk that always clung to her, despite whatever she tried to cover it with. Fat and smelly, she held onto the hand of her son, that sickly little freak that she had dared named after his Father. He looked as good as she did, pale and grey eyes. His rich blue fabrics could not hide that he looked more akin to a street rat in Flea Bottom than a proud lord's son. At the age of one and one, he should have been training, a royal page or squire for a Noble House. Instead, he kept to his mother like a daughter, crying like a babe when faced with any adversity. It made him despair for the future of House Arryn, just as he imagined Lord Jon Arryn did.

He quickly got off his horse and went over to where his Queen Mother and two sisters were. His mother with a loving and content smile on her face as her son was finally back. She was a true beauty despite her three births, still just three and two, she was young enough to rival any young maiden. Her golden blond hair tied in a southern style, and she wore a silver dress, finally tailored and made of the finest Myrish silk any money could buy, one dress of many, along with all sorts of jewellery: rings, necklaces, hairnets. His mother was never a content woman for material wealth.

Rickard kissed his mother on the cheek. "A pleasure to finally be home, mother." A formal and polite smile.

He moved to his favourite person in the world, Layla inherited their Mother's beauty, golden, creamy hair, with a more yellow dress. She gave a polite smile, as did he.

"Brother." She said quietly.

"Sister." He replied.

A moment later they burst out laughing and she flung herself into his arms. Much to the amusement and smiles of the crowd – minus a few people. She was one of the few people who he would let his guard down for.

"I missed you." She moved to quickly and quietly whisper in his ear, "Please don't leave. When you do, the idiots pay attention to me, and try to flatter me to no end. Its unbearable." He laughed again at that.

"It is good to be back," he winked at her, resulting in another giggle.

Moving on, he acted oblivious to the little one in front.

"Has anyone seen my sister? Mother?"

He looked to his mother, a warm smile atop her face, she played along.

"Mayhaps she's run off?"

"Rickard! Here!" Came the desperate voice of three-year-old little Delina. The latest child of Queen Lynesse and King Robert. Like himself, she had taken after Father, her dark hair tied up southern style as best as possible though usually the little one would fight and hassle, with her hair becoming undone very easily from fiddling with it. Father had laughed, saying she'd inherited both the Baratheon looks and temperament.

Those bright blue pools looked up.

"Rickard, Rickard over here!" She slightly jumped, all the people laughed and giggled at the adorable display.

Deciding to put the game to rest, he looked down, her height being no taller than his knee.

"There she is!" he picked her up, and laid kisses all over her face, she giggled happily at the attention from her big brother.

As he put her down, and the big crowd started to move to away. He asked to nobody in particular but targeted to the King's Guard and his Mother as where his Father was. The men of the King's Guard looked away, Ser Jaime with a handsome smirk across his face, while Ser Richard maintained the same steely and unnerving glare he always did, the various scares making it more intimidating.

"Take a guess." His mother rolled her eyes.

Whoring it would seem. He hated that his Father did this to his mother, though she seemed less angered than one would expect. Annoyed but not angry. His Mother and Father had never and probably never would love each other, it was a simple arrangement that benefited them both, Father whored and drank while his Mother spent as much coin as she could on all she desired. It seemed to work, though it was not easy on Rickard and his sisters. He once overheard two squires refer to his Mother as a whore, that she took multiple men to her bed, just as Father did with women. The two boys were flogged fifty times after. Not many spoke of his Mother in such a way since.

He sighed, "I'll go look for him."

"Leaving us so soon, my prince" came the teasing voice of Harry.

"I will see you boys soon. Courtyard, don't be late." He pointed a finger at them "Or there will be trouble." He went serious for a moment before they all laughed. All left aside from Ser Rolland, as his sworn sword, he was practically joined to the hip of the Prince.

Leaving the courtyard, he took both Ser Jaime and Richard with him too. Ser Jaime was a man of contradictions, he still lived as if he had nothing to lose, that he was not the son of one of the most powerful and wealthiest men in Westeros. His Mother and House Hightower had demanded that Ser Jaime be either executed, sent to the Wall or simply relieved of his vows. "An oath breaker and Kingslayer was not fit to guard her or my son" were allegedly the words of his Lady Mother at the time, but somehow discussions with Lord Arryn had convinced them to keep him on, Rickard could not figure out why that was.

Ser Jaime usually kept to himself, he had few allies amongst the new King's Guard. Costayne and Cuy were his Mother's creatures, and Uncle Garth was also loyal to his family's interests. Horpe and Swann were men of loyalty and held no respect for a man who broke his oath, though were never openly hostile like his Mother's men were. Ser Barristan was the only one he had seen be semi-friendly with, but the man's principles meant he still thought little of Ser Jaime, skilled knight or not.

Walking to his Father's room, the sounds of women's laughter, as well as his Father's cackle echoed across the hall. Unfortunate to have to stand and listen was the man he was currently squiring for, Ser Barristan the Bold. Even well past his prime, he had never seen such a swordsman. Helm under his arm, rubbing his long grey hair, he looked as if he wished to be anywhere but here, not that Rickard could blame him. Coming into view, the Knight bowed his, "my Prince, it is good to see you again."

"And you, Ser Barristan… I'm here to see my Father."

Barristan signed and awkwardly indicated to the door to his Father's bed chamber.

Without asking, Rickard ripped the door open. The five whores quickly leapt to cover up. There lay his Father, the great Demon of the Trident, the man who destroyed the Targaryens, struggling to lift the covers to hide his manhood.

It was not a pretty sight overall. Barristan sighed, Jaime smirked in amusement, Rolland raised an eyebrow, and Richard grimaced.

"No war with the Dornish, Father… how fortunate. I'll see you later I trust."

He didn't give his Father time to respond and left.

Afterwards, having arrived to his room, he thanked the two King's Guard, sending the message he was to be left alone, they bowed their heads and a muttering of "my Prince".

Rolland dropped his tone, "Am I to expect what I suspect?" he gave a roguish smile and chuckle, his pox marks tightening with the act.

"Trust me, months and months wasting away down south. It damn well better be."

Shutting the door, he went to his bed, there was naked beauty of Lady Renessa Mallary. Her violet dress with its white stars discarded on the nearby chair.

"Wait long" he asked with a smirk.

"Not at all, my Prince, I figured you'd want to skip the chatter."

Stripping away his shirt. She crawled her way to the edge of the huge bed, looking to undo the buckle of his belt.

"And that is why I enjoy you, Renessa." She smiled a fake innocence before she pulled out his manhood and began sucking.

He let out a dry groan and steadied himself by planting both hands on her head. She sucked his cock, her head bobbing back and forth each time for five minutes. It became too much for the Prince, he shoved her off, with her taking in a deep breath and a laugh, as he jumped onto her, he bit and kissed at her neck, while his hand slipped to between her legs, the wet warmness of her womanhood, the sweet and succulent smell driving him on, he drove one finger in at first, then after a minute, another, she panted and moaned all the way, eyes closed, taking it in.

"Beg for me. Beg for my mouth and my manhood." He increased the rhythm

"My wonderful… perfect Prince. Please, fuck me like the whore I am."

He wasn't happy with that.

"Beg. Me. Louder"

"Eat me, fuck me. Please just do it to me."

He decided to hold off on fulfilling his own desires for now, he pulled her legs behind his head and licked her womanhood. The aroma driving him like a man so desperate as to turn to sea water.

He placed his hands on her ripe and sizable breasts, playing and kneading them. She moaned and moved like a woman possessed, as he heard happened to some, by spirits and other such vile creatures of the soul. But to look up from his task and to see this girl feeling the epidemy of human enjoyment, it made him happy, happy and aware of his own skill.

He had first taken her as his new mistress a few weeks before his trip to the Marshes. A daughter of one of the Crownland lords. The first night he had bedded her, it was glorious. The wench was wet before he had even touched her that night, and the many nights after, she kept him entertained, which was all that mattered.

Deciding that he had enough, he pulled his face from her warm womanhood, and held his cock in his hand.

He shoved it into her, eliciting an even louder scream of pleasure. He fucked her in desperation and the need for release. He fucked her like his life depended on it, then and the rest of the night afterwards.