Rickard IV
The first two days were easy. Now… it felt like his body was ingulfed in flames. All around, pitch blackness, illuminated only by the few dozen candles around the massive main chamber of the Sept.
It had to have been five days at least since he had announced his intent to fast from drink and food from the early hours of the mourning to the peak of night, from where the moon illuminated all. That much he could recall. Five days since the Gods had willed that his father's life would end. In that moment, his grudge, his bitterness and thoughts of how much he hated his father died. Inside, looking on at the centre of the Sept of Baelor, where his father had been entombed as the first Baratheon monarch to be laid. It dawned on him on just what this meant.
He was King.
He was the rightful Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and yet he could only stay down here. It had taken many men, including himself, his uncles, his friends, other lords, just to drag the King onto a commandeered wagon, which then made the stressed and chaotic journey back to the Red Keep. The antler helm had been totally caved in on the left side. Blood and other matter dripping out like a small dream from the top.
By the time they arrived at the King's Chambers, where the Grand Maester needed only less than an hour to announce that the King had passed.
All the men looked to him now – even though technically he was not the King until his coronation. He was no boy; he was eight and ten. Well past the age of majority. He had commanded as his first order that there must be seven days of mourning across the Kingdoms. The King was to be entombed once the Silent Sisters had done their work, and that for those seven days, he would fast from food and drink all day until the day before the coronation. His spirit needed deep cleansing.
"Father above… I beg you… Allow my reign to be great. Make me the King that will remembered for eternity. Allow me to strike down my enemies and know whom my friends are."
The candles burned their incense, the only source of light in the entombed chamber. Having ordered all the Hall and Lamps and any window blocked out – the rainbow colours of the Seven not present in the almost pitch-black place. Daytime bled into night, and he could no longer tell when and where. The oils and scented candles were the only thing he had really smelt for days. The Seven-Pointed-Star cradled beside him. He asked for no quilt or covers. Only the Gods could give him the warmth he needed now. It was the only sustenance he wanted.
The funeral had already passed a day later – nearly all the realm present – and so many offering their prayers to him and his family. Father looked at peace. The red colour in his face gone, replaced with a white chalkiness with the traditional stones placed on his eyes to see his way through to the Seven Heavens. The entirety of the chamber that day, all black in their morning wear. He recalled holding little Delina's hand, her eyes dried on tears, but her big expressive blues foretold of even more to come. Seven Septons in silver robes stood behind the bier, begging for the Father to judge king Robert justly… then seventy-seven Septas sang to the Mother for mercy for any sins his father had committed throughout his life. After it had been concluded, they all came to him at once; many sinking to their knees for favours. His Father's body not even having left the confines of King's Landing to be sent for burial at Storm' End, as he had requested in the time of his own death.
Lord Mace Tyrell had offered his sympathies, as well as an offer to serve on his soon to be announced new Small Council. Had this been any other time, he might have grabbed onto that fat greasy neck, dug his strong and calloused hands deep into that flesh and chocked that life from him… but instead, he only moved on. Not even acknowledging the oaf, who thought being married to an aunt he barely knew, whom his mother didn't even like, somehow made them allies.
The only thing I want from you. You, ugly, disgusting sack of fat, is to be locked away in a castle, barely enough to eat, living on the brink of death, and then we'll see how long you last. Just like you brought my own Uncle Stannis.
Both branches of House Estermont, Ser Lomas, as well as his son, Ser Andrew, a former squire to Stannis, then soon after that, Ser Eldon and Aemon, the branch currently seated on the island's seat of Greenstone. The house was related to Baratheon through his grandmother, father's mother being an Estermont woman. And the two sons were his first cousins once removed.
He had never been that close to any of them, and yet they seemed to be haggling about some matter out on possession of some lands on Island of Estermont.
Ser Ronnet Connington of Griffin's Roost inquired about Lady Stokeworth's daughter, Lollys, a fat and soft womanchild, no wits about her, thirty-seven years, and yet still as trusting as a newborn babe. But the sole heir to vast lands that are rich and fertile. They also inquired about the status of their current station as landed Knights. Their former position as lords stripped away by his father due to their former lord leading an army against him at the Stony Sept during the rebellion.
Lollys was already promised to Waymar or Rolland, depending on who earns it. He thought to himself.
He politely declined to settle the matter so soon. Claiming he must mourn first and then take that and many other matters that lay on his shoulders in hand.
The aged and saddened Lord Jon Arryn had come to him also. Not to gain, but to humbly request to soon be relieved of his position of Hand. He would like to go home to the Vale, in peace, where he could teach and continue to bring up Robert as his future heir. He swore that he would permit it after his coronation. He left out that when the old lord died. It would not be that sickly little weakling who would gain his royal approval as lord of the Vale, but his friend, Harry the Heir, a much better fit as Lord of the Eyrie that the people of the Vale deserved.
The Spider even crawled out to offer his supposed "sympathies." His egg of a head stood out almost anywhere.
The Sept was already awash in the odour of lavender oil, yet the Eunuch seemed almost drowned in his own unique smell of rosewater.
"My prince." The effeminate and girlish voice announced. "I wish only for the best for you. King Robert was as fine a warrior as one could ever ask for. I know you will do him greatly proud. A great man indeed."
A better man than you could ever hope to be, you vile creature. He had thought. But kept silent of it. In time he would be rid of the foreign freak, as well as the up jumped little bastard from the Fingers, who had been allowed to rise way too far above his station, as most agreed. He would give the position to someone more deserving. His friend, Denys, or his father… better yet, give it to Cersea's father. It will be a good reason to have keep her here. Yes, he thought to himself, I will give it to Lord Tybolt.
He would need more good men around him. They were rare in the city. Few seemed to be working without agendas. His uncle Stannis and the Grand Maester Pyclle were the only expectations. Not counting Lord Jon, who would soon be leaving.
Lord Eddard had been the one man to not ask for anything from him. Lord Stark, father of the ugly girl he would be forced to marry. It seemed that he had either forgiven or chosen to keep quiet about the incident at yesterday's tourney. He patiently made his way through before he could speak to the new young King.
"My lord Stark…" he politely acknowledged.
The Lord bowed respectfully.
"Your grace… your father was a good and true friend to me. I hope that no matter what… I can serve his son as faithfully as I have him."
Odd he thought, not a favour to ask, no Small Council position for him or any member of his family or any ally, even when he, above the rest, was in a prime position to do so. He had simply nodded and given his sincere thanks.
He couldn't remember how many more he endured. They all bled into each other. He had then stepped to the centre of the Sept, just in front of the statues of the Seven. He announced his intention to hold vigil for his father within.
The Kingsguard bowed. Three were to remain here and wait outside, the rest would go back to the Red Keep and guard his now Dowager Queen mother and sisters. He wanted no word from the outside until he had finished his fast of faith.
He had made sure to have a word with the Lady Cersea.
In full view of Gods and men, he wanted nothing more than to engulf her in his arms and taste those lips before marrying her right here and now. She was a madness inside of him that would not be sated. He could not fight it and did not wish to. There was so much… the betrothal to the Stark, and now the death of his own father.
Her black dress of mourning, a veil over her had beautiful face. Against her fine skin, it was night and day.
"My lady…" he only spoke. Taking comfort in the feeling of her soft, ringed hands in his.
"My dear prince… I… I'm sorry for the loss of the king. No doubt he was a good man who made you the kind and generous one I see now- "
"Shhhh…" he said, placing a gentle finger on her lips, the velvet grazing against his digit. "I want to see you at a better time. I can't… I can't leave here until I know the Gods favour me. When I return after my coronation. I want to see you; you have a place with me at court. Nobody can stop us now, I'm king and nobody can say otherwise." He had seen her off with a gentle kiss then. Returning to the side of her father and mother, whom had both offered their own condolences.
Ser Barristan, grey of hair, but still a powerful and deadly warrior, had nodded sullenly to his orders to not be disturbed inside the Sept. Upon news of the King's death, he had fallen to his knees and begged Rickard for forgiveness, he failed as a Kingsguard commander, stating the King's death was on him alone. Demanding that if it please the new king, he relief himself via death against an enemy.
Rickard and stood over him, muddy and stale in the armour he had never taken off, and simply brought the knight to his feet. Demanding he speak no more of it, and that he could not have done anything to prevent his father's fate.
"The fault lies with no man, Ser Barristan… you have done as fine a job as anyone could ever ask of you. A tragic accident is what it was."
He drifted in and out of sleep. The pounding in his head had not left him for a day and a night now, even as he had endured to light at least one candle a day for each of the Gods for their favour.
Moments in his life came to him, some small instances; his first duelling lesson. Watching Lord Royce dispense justice at Runestone against a party of poachers on his lands, all sent to the Wall. He remembered when he had could Layla; she and Allyria embraced in a kiss like two lovers. After the shock and the desperation, he saw in his sister's cloudy blue eyes. She confessed her feelings for other girls and women, that she felt that way inside. Lady Dayne had simply requested that if he did reveal their secret, that it be made clear the Lady of Starfall take any blame.
He should have told father or mother, or even the High Septon. It was a vile sin against the Gods to lay with another of your own gender. The lightest punishment one could often expect for such a crime would be to be locked away in a Sept, to pray and learn the evils of going against the word of the Gods. At worst, it was punishable by death.
He loved the Gods, and always obeyed… but on that occasion, he did not. He had kept their secret since, and as far as he was aware, he was the only one who knew.
On an even worse note, he recalled the last talk he ever had with his father, that fateful day, just some hours earlier.
He had stormed through every door to where he knew his father would be. Rolland, Waymar and Harry had come with him. He spotted Ser Barristan and Ser Jaime outside the door.
"Move out of the way, Sers, I must see my father!" He ordered.
Jaime spoke up. A weariness in his voice. Green eyes glowing through his white helm. It reminded him of Cersea. Which
"My prince, the King wishes not to be disturbed."
That did not satisfy the furious young man in the slightest.
"Sers… I'm getting through that door. Ser Jaime, if you'd seek not be labelled a Princeslayer as well as a Kingslayer, or, assuming I get lucky, dead. I suggest you get out of my way. Ser Barristan, you as well."
Barristan looked to his sworn brother, Jaime looked on, contemplating.
"Do as your prince commands" Waymar spoke up in support of his prince and friend.
Ser Barristan let out a sigh, before nodding, opening one of the heavy doors,
"Father!" he furiously yelled. Demanding that his father answer for this outrage. He spotted his father at a large chair; one with etchings and carvings of stags and battle. A large desk with papers, ink and books in front of him. Of course, nothing was open or being read, father never was one for reading unless he had to, a large chalice of wine in his hand. His squires, Monterys Velaryon and Alyn Estermont.
The pale-haired heir to Driftmark poured the King's wine while the other stood behind, awaiting orders. He saw one empty bottle at the table. The other at least half-way gone already. But he could care less how drunk his father was.
"I don't like her!" he yelled. Jolting the Storm King from his Stuber. An irritated and confused look on his large, bearded face, already red from the Arbor red.
"I don't remember asking you that, boy" his father responded. Not betting up as he slouched on his chair. Taking one large sip and demanding more. "You'll marry who I tell you to marry."
"I don't remember agreeing to it, you, filthy drunk." Rickard sneered back.
The desk went almost flying across the room. Alyn practically jumped back as the desk nearly landed on top of him. books, ink and papers flying everywhere. The bottles crashing as they hit the floor.
He barely ducked as his father's fist almost collided with his own face.
Just as he went back, his father's hands grabbed the collar of his surcoat as he was hosted up. Surprising him with just how strong his father still was and was thrown into a nearby wall. The wind almost knocked out. But at this point, any reason had been lost as Rickard charged into the king knocking him into a portrait of the king and queen, and then threw a hard punch straight into his father's jaw. The two grabbled on the floor, Father was a big man, and so was his son, but he was nearly all muscle and father now less used to such a physical and equal opponent, leaving his son to get the upper hand. The squires having no idea what to do. Knowing full well it would be pointless to try and separate the two angry Baratheon men. Let alone a King and a prince.
The commutation attracted his friends and the Kingsguard who rushed in and promptly went to separating the two. Jaime and Barristan doing their best to get the King away, both grabbing an arm each, while Harry, Rolland and Waymar forced him to the opposite side. He was the strongest out of any of his companions, and it took all their strength to hold him in place.
"Damn you boy! You're marrying that girl whether you want it or not or I'll have you disinherited from the throne and give it to Stannis if I must.!" his father roared at him. Face engulfed in absolute rage. "I'll have you sent to the Wall!"
"Why her? She's a dog" he pushed and pulled to get free "I can just take the other one!"
Father stood still, fury coming off him as the two white cloaks tightly maintained their grip at any sign of the giant king erupting again.
"I don't need to give you a reason. Arya is who you'll wed, and I won't hear anything else on the matter."
"You're a bastard is what you are, and the wolf bitch can get fucked by one as far as I care." He sneered.
He shook off his friends and made his way out, they followed in tow.
"Get out! Out damn you, I'm through with you. Ungrateful stupid brat!" his father roared.
He had left on the story of Henrick, the fourth Andal lord and the three hounds before he had drifted to sleep again, when light at the end of the chamber shone through, one of the heavy doors open.
He recognized the familiar robes and the crystal crown which would have sparkled had this been the night sky. The High Septon was now eighty. His white hair combed back beneath his crown or red cap. His eyes were as alive and thoughtful as a man half his age. He had known this Septon since he turned thirteen years: with the death of the old one and the Most Devout making the decision to elect the man formerly known as Pol, his former mortal name meant nothing as the Seven's avatar and representative on this earth.
He felt his face. His facial hair had grown out when he had normally shaved it every day. He immediately rose to his feet, only to sink back onto his bruised knees in front of the elderly man, head down to the marble floor. Acknowledging his own mortal worthlessness in comparison to the Avatar of the Gods.
"Holy Father…" he silently acknowledged. Kissing the offered hand of the man who acted as the emissary of the seven on this earth. He could not blame the man for the situation of his betrothal. The humble Septon merely followed the Gods' words inside the Seven-Pointed-Star.
"My son… you do yourself a great service, as well as to the Gods with such a show of humility." He praised. His grandfatherly voice and tone comforting the young and famished man.
"For the seven, I would do this as long as it pleased them, your holiness."
The old man stroked his head. His stomach and insides burned, his bleeding knees stung, and he felt blisters on the bottoms of his bare feet on the hard marble. He felt light-headed and ready to throw up whatever he had left in his stomach for the sixth time… but to have the reassurance that he did all of this with the approval of the Gods made him realize how little it all mattered in the grand scheme of the world.
"Tomorrow… you must return to the Red Keep and take your rightful place at upon the Iron Throne. The faithful recognize you as their rightful king across the kingdoms and you must fulfil your mandate from the Heavens. "
The old man always had a grandfatherly tone.
"I… should I not do it for some more days; I still feel I may be unworthy."
"Oh, my son, you do so much that the Gods approve of, but do not let pride be mistaken for humility. The Gods demand you must do your duty, and act as their hand in the mortal world to guide the flock as they ordained."
Rickard cleared his throat and nodded. His lips chapped and desperate for nourishment of fresh, ice-cold water. The High Septon gently pulled the younger man up.
"You are right, your holiness. Tomorrow. I will do as ordained by the Gods. The throne awaits me."
The ride with his Kingsguard, Ser Barristan, Ser Richard, Ser Jaime and a retinue some hundred odd Baratheon household knights. It felt as if it was the longest ride he had taken. On the way down from Visenya's Hill, he was mobbed by eager crowds of smallfolk. All eager and excited to lay eyes on their popular prince, soon to be King. Gold Cloaks, led by his Uncle Gunthor, ensured that they were all kept to a safe distance in order to protect the new king.
"Seven blessings prince Rickard!" a stocky looking grey man yelled above the rest.
"You fool! He's the king now! Not the prince!" a lady shouted back, three children around her, one a babe in her arms. "Seven Blessings your grace!" she once again yelled.
"Long live the King." A butcher proclaimed.
"Gods bless you and your father, your grace!" another yelled.
His own eyes had yet to cease stinging. When he had remerged from the great Sept, it had felt almost blinding having been surrounded in darkness for days. He had insisted on wearing nothing too rich or formal. Merely, he had only worn a rough grey shirt that went all the way down to his knees. He had been barefoot since then too. He now wore them still. His appearance no doubt different to what they were used to seeing.
He stopped his horse, turning around to face the cheering crowd. His impromptu halt brought the entire entourage to a holt.
"My people!" he cried out. That brought a silence over them, eager to hear their new king's word. His first words a sign of what would come for reign.
He held up a hand.
"Loyal people! I come to you, a humble servant of our Gods. I intend to be a great ruler! That earned a massive cheer of joy from the crowd. Soo many blessings and praises he could not keep count.
"I will be a ruler for you. For the good people of King's Landing and for all my subjects, from Dorne to the Wall!" he waited for the next round of cheers to abate before he finished.
"Alas… this burden has come to be in circumstances I never wanted or wished…" he took a moment. The loss of his father still burned. He brought his head high. Despite the rags, his loss of weight and beard. The smallfolk still looked on at him as if he were descended from the skies, made from pure gold.
"But the Gods have seen fit for my father's soul to join them in the Seven Heavens. My duty is to you as my people now!" over the outpour of yet even louder cheers, he ended it. "May the Gods bless you all!"
He turned back around and continued his journey. It seemed the whole of the city was still cheering as he arrived at the Red Keep.
He had been washed and groomed repeatedly since he had got back, and now that he had awoken for his day. His stubble gone, replaced with his usual clean face as he looked in the mirror as the servants did their work. His hair trimmed, not that it truly needed it. But it felt freshening regardless.
His councillors, especially Stannis and the Grand Maester, had insisted that the throne cannot remain vacant any longer. The High Septon's words also echoed in his head.
"Your time searching for the Gods would have been better spent getting to ruling, your grace." His Uncle Stannis had blatantly told him.
Had that been anyone else, they would have faced an instant chastisement and maybe more. But Rickard had learned to appreciate and recognise his uncle's honesty and ability, as well as being too drained to respond, only to stay quiet.
It was the mourning of his coronation. He had slept very little that night. The excitement and the urge to fully sate his lingering hunger having kept him awake almost the entire night. Within half an hour of his return to the Red Keep, he had been served a rich feast of stuffed chicken, a loin of veal, salmon, boiled eggs, partridge, potatoes and a mug of ale, with a bottle of wine, served into a chalice by an awaiting servant.
Afterwards, he had enjoyed a rich bath, he was shaved and groomed meticulously. His clothes had been prepared. A golden and black doublet, as well as black breeches, fitted with dark boots that shone brightly in the light.
He wore a golden chain, encrusted with red sparkling rubies from Lys. Over it all, he donned a brown fur coat, soft to the touch, but warm and imposing.
All of court and its guests were awaiting in the throne room. He heard the growing voices as he was escorted. Hundreds, maybe a thousand were in there.
His coronation would not be his only anointment, for Ser Barristan had informed him that his knighthood would also await.
"Your Grace…" he had softly spoke after his apology for his supposed inaction at saving the king.
"I… I had intended to finally award your knighthood after the tourney had completed. You have fully earned it."
He kept his eyes downcast, awaiting an answer from his new King.
"Ser Barristan, though this has unfortunately come after such a terrible circumstance… It would be an honor to be dubbed a knight by such a man of integrity and valor, such as yourself. It will be done at my coronation."
The knight gave a bow.
"As your grace commands."
The massive doors opened. The mass of men, women and children greeted him like a wave of the sea. All eyes were on him. Rickard though, simply kept his eyes towards the Iron Throne at a distance, below near the podium. All seven of the Kingsguard stood like white marble statues below. The High Septon also awaited, a well-groomed page stood next to him, the crown resting on a red pillow.
He noted all the faces as he continued, all bowing their heads in respect. Many familiar: His mother, decorated in her finery, but black to signify her morning. His sisters also stood, similarly dressed in black. Uncle Baelor, his wife, Lady Rhonda, recently arrived from Oldtown having given birth to a boy.
He dropped his stoic manner just for a moment to give them a smile, which they returned.
He noticed Uncle Stannis, he and his household, all stood tall and proud. Renly stood closer to the Tyrells. A smile adorned his condescending and foolish face.
Keep that smile once I strip you of Storm's End and your place at court. We will see how well you last off the charity of Stannis then. He thought.
The idea of "Renly the begging Stag" made him want to laugh.
His friends stood with their respective families; The Royces with their father, Denys with his mother, who was also his own aunt, and father with their higher branch cousins of Lord Paxter, his wife, two twin sons, Horas and Hobber, as well as their daughter, Lady Desmera.
Rolland stood too, even as a bastard, his friendship with the King ensured he had a place of honour near the front with his brother, his wife and their new-born child. Harwood and his father.
His other cousin, Alyn Ambrose also stood with his family; Lord Arthur, his wife, Lady Alysanne, as well as his other brother and sisters.
The Starks were also there to pay their respects. The ugly girl looked on, miserable and with no decorum as to be expected. Not even that silk blue dress could make her any less revolting. He noted at least one glare from Robb, from which he could not understand.
Lord Tywin stood proud as the patriarch of his house, cousins, grandsons and brothers and others behind him, red, gold and green eyes all around. He stopped for only a moment to look into the eyes of Cersea, who stood right at the front with her parents alongside the Old Lion. She looked breath-taking as always in her dress of red silk, golden hair free and her eyes… they could engulf him like they wildfire.
It seemed that the entirety of the Seven Kingdoms was here. To witness his time.
He took his steps up the podium. He made a turn to Ser Barristan, who walked from the formation of the other guards. Two swords on both sides of his belt.
Rickard dropped to one knee. Ser Barristan unsheathing his sword with a gentle hiss as it left the scabbard.
He laid the sword gently on his right shoulder.
"In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave. In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just. In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the young and innocent. In the name of the Maiden, I charge you to protect all women. In the name of the Crone, I charge you to seek out and value knowledge and wisdom. In the name of the Smith, I charge you to dedicate yourself, and to live by these ideals."
Ser Barristan switched shoulder each time he finished a sentence.
"Rickard Baratheon, do you swear before the eyes of gods and men to defend those who cannot defend themselves, to protect all women and children and innocents, to fight bravely when needed, and do such other tasks when laid upon you, however hard or humble or dangerous they may be?"
Rickard answered, steadfast and hard.
"I do so swear all by the gods."
"Arise, Ser Rickard." Barristan announced.
The crowd cheered and clapped. Though not the official anointment as a king, the knighthood of the new King was still an accolade worth much.
He allowed himself to take it in, before the noise gradually went back down. He nodded to the lord commander of the White Cloaks.
"You honour me, Ser Barristan,"
"The honour was all mine, your grace."
Rickard turned once again to the High Septon. A smile on his old features. He took the steps and knelt once more.
It was as if the whole of the chamber held its breath.
The High Septon spoke. He began to pour the seven oils onto his head, the substance feeling like a warm caress on his head.
"We come here today, to crown our true and rightful King, in the name of the Seven and all that is just! May the Warrior grant him courage and protect him in both civilized and perilous times. May the Smith grant him strength so that he might bear this heavy burden. And may the Crone, she that knows the fates of all men, show him the path he must walk and guide him through all dark places that may lie ahead!"
He took a moment before continuing.
"In the name of the Gods… I proclaim Rickard of the house Baratheon, first of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm!"
The High Septon gently laid the crown atop his head. The same stag crown that his father had forged and laid upon his own head.
He arose, crowned as the one true king. Ser Barristan then stood near and took out the second sword from his belt.
Rickard's sword: encrusted jewels, gold of hilt, with a stag shaped hilt.
He took the sword and climbed the steps of the Iron Throne; large, ugly, dangerous, but glorious – just as Aegon's conquest had been.
He took his seat. Sword rested by his side.
"Long may he reign!" the High Septon cried out.
"Long may he reign!" the crowd cheered like ravenous beasts.