Rickard II
In the Red Keep of King's Landing, there were many types of men:
There were Prince's men, people who gravitated to him: squires, young lords, heirs. The ones who would be the future powers of his Kingdom when it was his time. Even with his six companions, there were still many who made efforts to wiggle their way into his company. He used to fall for it all the time, it had taken failure to see the truth. They grovel and beg for his favour day and night when he enjoys it and when he does not.
There were Queen's men: his mother's people, those she approved of, preferably her own family, Sers Timind Costayne and Emmon Cuy, as well as many of the singers, jesters and Ladies who tried to earn her favour – mostly as informers and occasionally, killers.
As well as them, there were Renly's people. Some even held for Stannis. Littlefinger and Varys had their people everywhere. One day he looked forward to having both arrested and hanged. There was plenty he suspected he could accuse them of, and if he lacked evidence, he'd make it up himself. For obvious reasons, he kept those ambitions to himself. Not knowing who would be watching and listening.
The Tourney was weeks away, and already the competitors and spectators had begun to arrive from across the Kingdoms.
It was the early morning, the sun beating down onto another hot summer day. Rickard and his companions trained and pushed their bodies to the limits.
In his heavy suit of armour that he had received from Tobho Mott, it was time to break it in. Ser Barristan never let up as he forced all seven to climb up and down the ladder. He and Wyamar were the only ones obligated to obey the Lord Commander, as both were his squires.
"Come on. Faster and quicker, an enemy will not let up because you get tired out. Hurry up, you have twenty more ups and downs to do, we have not even got to the lifting!" shouted the usually polite and modest knight, but Ser Barristan was a believer pushing both himself and those under him to perfection, and as the Crown Prince, It seemed the Knight was more dedicated than ever.
Sweat and rash marked his entire body, rushing up and down the huge wooden ladder hung on the courtyard roof would be no issue if he were not in his entire suit of heavy armour. But this was a normal exercise, and with the tourney coming up, Houses from the Stormlands, Crownlands and some Riverlands and Reach houses already here, he pushed himself harder than usual.
Harry, the largest out of them, struggled the most.
"Ser Richard… can we please just move onto sparring? This is well tiring." He leaned up and held onto the ladder rains to steady himself.
The knight of the death's head moths only sent a glare that quickly sent the heir to Felwood back up top.
"Pain is weakness leaving the body, Lord Fell. Ser Richard and I know this very well. You will be thankful for these exercises. Trust me." Spoke Ser Barristan, slightly more understanding, but not offering any excuses.
The big Stormlander nodded, albeit with much pain.
"As you say… Ser Barristan."
Through some miracle, they all managed to finish, they were allowed only a moment's rest as the servants brought them cups of ice-cold water. Ser Rolland who was watching and occasionally assisting the two king's guard knights took a light sip, Denys too took a calm sip upon receiving his, Waymar, Harry and Alyn snatched theirs and drank like men abandoned in the middle of Dorne.
By the time they finished lifting the massive bags of sand and dirt around five hundred times each they finally got to sparring, it felt like they could all collapse. Rickard sluggishly hacked and slashed at Alyn, who himself barely held his shield to block. On the other side, Harry and Waymar spent less time hacking than they did trying to minimise contact that would take up any more energy.
Ser Richard was not impressed. Arms folded and still like a stone statue,
"And you call yourselves future knights. Pathetic"
That only drove Rickard to fight harder, to dig in and picture the scared face of the King's Guard knight as he hammered at the yellow shield with the red ants. He hacked and he hacked until Alyn collapsed and yielded.
Ser Barristan looked impressed. A smile gracing his worn features.
"You did well my prince."
True and honest praise from one of the greatest knights in the Seven Kingdoms was its own reward he thought as he helped the bruised Alyn up to his feet. His moment only lasted momentarily of course.
"We will see how well you hold up in the jousting next."
"Seven Hells."
He had never seen the streets to the city so packed. Lines and lines of all sorts; minor knights, merchants and mummers were arriving to profit off this massive event. To his recollection, only a few marriages and Harvest Feasts had compared, but only by very little.
The usual calls to him, either to offer blessings or beg for coin were all around.
The cool daytime breeze sept through and it was a privilege to get away from the city and breath clean and fresh air, not since his days as a Page for Lord Yohn Royce at Runestone had he had been able to enjoy air which did not stink to the Seven Heavens.
He travelled at a relaxed speed atop his dark steed. A huge beast that was a great gift he had taken with him from the Vale at the age of two and one, as a leaving gift from Lord Nestor Royce, Yohn Royce's cousin who held the Gates of the Moon.
"You think Tywin will enter the lists? Seeing the old man get thrown on his golden arse into the dirt would make the rest of my days." Laughed Alyn, with Waymar and Denys joining in, even Rolland gave a chuckle.
Rickard smiled and turned only slightly over his shoulder, "And I'm sure you'll say so to his face?"
Alyn gave an awkward chuckle.
"It's still nice to be polite, my prince."
They hall had a laugh at that.
With all the guests arriving, Rickard could not keep track and be expected to greet them all – not that he would, but a Lord Paramount was different. Lord Tywin would be the first one to arrive, from what he gathered from Ravens, behind a sizable Westerlands party were closely followed by the main Reach party led by the Tyrells and the Dornish host coming from the Boneway. The Valesmen were making the harder trip through their mountains and the Northerners would arrive last.
From what he heard, Lord Tywin and his host had road hard day and night to be the first ones. As well as the old Lion, his many bannermen, Grand Maester Pycelle had made specific mention more than once of the Warden's granddaughter, the Lady Ceresa Crakehall, daughter of Lord Tybolt and Lady Cersei.
"A true beauty, my Prince. All over the West, men speak of this girl who outshines all others. Golden hair with eyes like wildfire. A maiden of five and one. She would bless any man in the Seven Kingdoms as a wife."
The Lady was a Lannister in all but name too if the rumours were true, more lion than boar, but all the same, would Tywin Lannister's granddaughter make for the Queen consort he would need one day, the Lannisters had few friends and very little love in King's Landing and Westeros, even less in Dorne.
It was rumoured that the Dornish Princess Elia and her babes were butchered directly on Tywin's orders that day. Instead of the reward he likely expected – to wed his daughter to the new King – he had instead earned only the scorn of his father's closest advisors and infamy throughout Westeros.
The Lord had rarely left his lands since, dwelling in bitterness. Now another chance had come, to see his granddaughter as Queen. The wish of Lord Tywin was not lost on him.
They had ridden not a few miles out before they spotted whom they came for: a few hundred, Lords and Ladies, knights, retainers, servants and men -at-arms. A sea of different banners came into view, the golden lion of Lannister at the head of the party.
They waited until the Westerners arrived, in front was Lord Tywin, even now at the age of sixty, he still maintained and radiated the power and wealth of his house. His formally golden side whiskers had turned to grey. His armour looked to be made entirely out of gold, or at least appeared to. His red cape held on by two shoulder pads which resembled two lionesses biting down on the lord's shoulders. There was no smile to be seen, like his own Uncle Stannis, Lord Tywin was never a man who was known for his easy curtesy or to smile. Even here as he rode further, there was only a frowned, yet determined look in his blazing green eyes.
At his right was whom he presumed to be Ser Kevan, he looked an able man still, with his own red garb and gold armour just as impressive, behind him he presumed to be his sons as well as his own wife.
A carriage was directly behind the Lord, guards on all sides.
Signalling to the back of his column to begin halting, the huge party stopped to a grind as Lord Tywin approached forward, which Rickard did himself.
The old Lion bowed his head.
"My prince."
"Lord Tywin, you honour me with your presence. We will be your escort from here."
Twyin looked at the retinue that was prepared in his honour and nodded.
"As you will, Prince Rickard."
The ride back was a quiet one despite the noise of the horses and the looks of awe of the crowd, and visible looks of hatred as they got further to the city. The people of King's Landing still had not forgotten the sack, many no doubt still remembered the butchery and rape that engulfed that day.
The Westerlands party would first come to the Red Keep, in order to pay their respect to the King. He took in the many banners: the flaming bush of Marbrand, the pale boar of Crakehall, the blue rooster of house Swyft and the purple unicorn of house Brax.
All these names, these family crests and houses went out the window when the wheelhouse doors opened.
The girl who exited once they reached the courtyard was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen.
And suddenly, the words of Maester Pycelle began to ring in his head again. She wore a red dress which looked to be of Myrish silk, her hair was done in an intricate braid that went down her left shoulder. Her skin was pale with no blemishes, and those green eyes stood out most of all. Her smile, he almost lost the ability to talk straight, but her wonderful curtesy as she stood in front of him made him wake up.
"My prince."
He had never heard such a voice, like the maiden herself.
"My lady. You must be the Lady Ceresa Crakehall. My sword is yours." He kissed the perfumed ring on her delicate finger. He would kiss those red lips by any means necessary. He had to.
He heard more mutters of "my prince." As he turned. A woman who looked an older vision of the one in front of him stood. Age had not hampered this one either, stood next to her was whom he assumed was her husband, he reminded him of his own Father, a thick black beard, and a brown shirt with the boar of Crakehall. It surprised him to see the Lady Crakhall wearing Lannister colours still.
"my prince, this is my daughter, Ceresa, yes. This is my wife, Lady Cersei."
He bowed and kissed her ringed finger too. "My Lady."
She gave a smile, but it seemed much more forced and fake. Not that it concerned him. What used did he have for a ragged used Blonde beauty when the much lovelier one was here in front of him.
Lord Tywin had gotten off his horse by now, telling the prince and all present that they must go to King Robert immediately, and the rest of the party made their way to the Red Keep. He sensed a wave of satisfaction in the Lion's step.
He kept the Lady Ceresa only a moment longer.
"My Lady, I would much like to meet you soon. Please do not be a stranger. I will seek you out tonight."
She bit her lip and a smile, her green flaming eyes danced.
"It will be a pleasure my prince. I hope we talk soon."
As the lords continued to follow their Lord to the Red Keep while stopping to offer their respect to him, he paid them no heed, his eyes only following the green-eyed Maiden as she followed her family. He was absorbed in the beauty that was Lady Ceresa…
Authors note:
Hey guys! Hope you enjoy the new story.
I'm really feeling this one at the moment. Please feel free to review, and message me on suggestions and ideas.
As many will have picked up, Rickard isn't like most OC Baratheon princes (I sound so douchy when I say that, don't I)
What I mean is I see plenty where the OC is a nice guy, looks out and see's the best in all the good characters while somehow instinctively being able to tell the bad ones apart.
He's a product of the great Robert who did what nobody – the Faith, the Blackfyres or even themselves - were able to do: destroy House Targaryen.
The legacy of his father, the influence of his mother who in canon was a superficial goldigger (obviously there's probably more than that to Lynesse, since its entirely through Jorah's stupid eyes) and the culture of Westeros in general that praises martial prowess and someone's station in life and the fact he'll be the first of a new great dynasty.
How could Rickard not become a bit of an ass? That's why he's a fun character to me so far, obviously character development will shine through, but he is a product of his time and upbringing for the moment.
Thanks again guys 😊