Title Quote:

"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 Maid I charge you to protect all women."

Lyonel Baratheon, The Hedge Knight

Rickard had to release a long, drawn out sigh as he settled into his chair in his guest quarters at the Red Keep. Rickard had wanted to have left the capital already, gone before the day had reached its end, but it was not to be. Why could people not simply leave him in peace after an event as trying as the trial he had to survive in the morning?

Lord Merryweather, while not the swiftest shadowcat at the sight of a snow bear, was able to write down the contract of reparations quick enough. After a lot of bullying.

Gods, what a waste of space that man was. Doubly true, because the Lord Hand was more obese than a horde of Manderlys. The Horn-of-Plenty Hand? More like the Hand that ate the Horn-of-Plenty.

Rickard had been halfway out the door when the sausage-fingered Hand had told Rickard that the king had invited Rickard and Rickard's men to stay the night. And for Rickard to join King Aerys at the high table as guest of honor. All because of Rickard's exemplary conduct and victory at his trial by combat. What a load of crap.

After agreeing to the invitation – as if declining it would have brought anything but a second trial by wildfire – Rickard first and foremost took steps to ensure his foolish son would not attend the banquet and kill them all in the process. All four of Brandon's companions were ecstatic that they were tasked with keeping watch over Brandon in their chambers. They all wanted to be well away from the king. Also, the permission to slap Brandon in Rickard's place if he spoke any word at all was the cherry on top of the cake for Elbert, Ethan, Jeffory and Kyle.

After Lord Merryweather had left to prepare his feast Rickard had been surprised when Princess Elia Martell had barged into Rickard's guest quarters with nary a warning. The princess had to her a certain regal air that Aerys decidedly lacked. Appearing regal did only denote a certain amount of poise, however, not any insured measure of intelligence.

The princess, luckily, did not seem inclined to the utter stupidity that suffused the entirety of the capital as much as its infernal stench did. By the Others, the Crownlanders lived where one of the biggest rivers of the realm met the Narrow Sea and they could not even manage proper waste management in this steaming pile of a city. Rickard missed the smell of the North, pine trees and frozen air.

The princess did not mince words with Rickard after pulling him out from his rooms onto a nearby balcony that allowed for a pocket of privacy, away from the Spider's web that spanned the whole castle. There was no Kingsguard by her side to protect her. Odd, that. Even with Arthur Dayne and Oswell Whent on the run with Rhaegar the security of the princess should not have been neglected.

More importantly, proper surveillance of the Dornish princess was a matter of paramount importance to the throne. Dorne was too powerful a force to antagonize for matters of pride or foolish disdain. For Rickard it could only be an advantage, though, for it allowed for personal, and more importantly, private negotiations to be held with the princess.

When Elia Martell started speaking to Rickard, she opened with a truth and ended with one, with many a half-lie or empty flattery in between to deter wandering ears.

„My lord Stark, I am glad you bested the fire today for I am sure we both know your survival saved the whole realm a whole lot of blood spilled in the name of revenge. Your honor and skill at arms were at the trial exemplary. I am sure the king could not have named a champion more worthy from the men at his disposal than fire itself and your ingenuity in besting it was unparalleled.

"It was a godsend that you also managed to dispatch the triumvirate of Wisdoms at the trial, they have unduly been trying to get the king to commit unjust murder. Luckily, Varys has managed to always find true traitors to burn so that none that are innocent have fallen to Rossart's schemes."

Rickard was fairly certain Wisdom Rossart had never been cunning enough to scheme, the pyromaniac did not look like a person that could pull of a secret plan. Oh, he had not been stupid, quite brilliant. Brilliant in that way where some people show an incredible dedication and talent for a singular subject and are useless for everything else. Sadly, in Rossart's case his talent had been in alchemy. A pity. In light of that knowledge Rickard knew how to take the rest of the princess' words.

„I would like to ask a favor of you, my lord," continued princess Elia, "you see, our wise king has recognized that my dear daughter has been exposed to too much – how to put this – Dornishness. Some distance to the Dornish influence here in King's Landing might be good for her. I have seen the lengths you go to see your children save. I would be overjoyed if you could take her in as a ward for some when you leave.

"My beautiful, pale-haired Aegon is still too young to be influenced by wrong forces yet. The king has taken a liking to him and he will not be in danger here, even if my treacherous husband should come to claim him. I fear how we women will be afflicted from his folly. Only my little dragon, I know, will be protected."

Rickard was pondering under the princess' silent gaze, afflicted with both contemplation and admiration. Oh, what a queen this one could have been. Smart and decisive, loving and fierce. If not for that mad man on the throne, if not for that mad man that took his Lyanna. So much said with so much smoke. Prince Aegon was protected, princess Rhaenys a liability and princess Elia herself had not been aware of her husband's endless foolishness. Maybe bargain could be struck with the Martells, then. An interesting offer.

Rickard's Lyarra had loved all their children equally, as did all mothers. As he did, too. A pity the realm cared more for sons. Still, princess Elia had not glossed over the largest problem with taking in the little princess. A Targaryen daughter of but little value to the king. A disposable pawn. Elia Martell did not hide that fostering Rhaenys offered more risk than reward but confronted Rickard with it, hoping for a parent's love to overcome that looming obstacle.

Above all else, taking princess Rhaenys in would be a liability for Rickard. It put the warden of the North on the map in the political labyrinth that was the royal court. That did not outweigh the benefits if Rhaegar won the war on the horizon. And Rickard did not look to ingratiate himself with the foolish prince who took his daughter besides.

„I am, my princess, truly sorry. I love my daughter. You love your daughter. We are both victims of a cruel prince who did not see with sense. But I cannot take up the charge to see your daughter safe while my own remains in danger. The trade for me and mine holds too much potential for disaster. Know this, though, if my wife were alive, her heart would be with you. I have no higher compliment to give."

Elia Martell did not look surprised. She did not look saddened or resigned either. There was steel in her gaze still, unbent, unbowed, unbroken. With her black Dornish eyes on Rickard's own she sat up straighter before addressing him again with a crisp voice that had a hard edge to it.

„Lord Stark. I am sure words of my frailty has reached you, I feel a growing spell of dizziness overwhelming me. I do not want to end our talk just yet, however. Would you be so kind and accompany me to my quarters? For your troubles I'd happily show you the royal wing of the keep, not many guests have had that honor. Trust me, it is not a sight to forget. Or a sound."

Yes, words of the princess' condition had rung through the realm. But Rickard was sure that Elia Martell was not affected by any ailments that could impede her in that moment. Smart women were a force of nature and not to be cowed by flights of dizziness. There was something in the royal wing that could not be spoken of even in veiled words. Something that had to be seen. Something that had to be heard.

Princess Elia stepped from the balcony with Rickard by her side and made for the quarters of the royal family. Her own guards, decked into the livery of the Martells, fell in line behind them along with two Dornish handmaidens that walked right behind Elia and Rickard. A Qorgyle and a Lemonwood, loyal retainers of the rulers of Dorne. They walked together in silence, the princess leading their small procession with a steady step. Definitely not frail.

Finally they reached the part of the castle solely reserved for the Targaryen family. The guards had to stay behind at the entrance as this area was under the supervision of the Kingsguard, no regular men-at-arms were to proceed further. The Ladies Qorgyle and Lemonwood were the only ones to remain with them as they neared a corridor that was guarded by the Princess' uncle, Ser Lewyn Martell of the Kingsguard. He tensed slightly as Elia approached with Rickard.

„Niece. What are you doing here? The king is visiting his queen right now, you know it is unwise to approach."

Elia's answer was had a sugary tone to it, false courtesy dropping like syrup.

„Oh, uncle dearest, whatever do you mean? You know, my frail body troubles me so. I had been having a most delightful conversation with Lord Stark and I would not want to end it on behalf of my poor health. Lord Stark has graciously agreed to continue our discussion in my chambers, where I can take rest at the same time.

"We shan't disturb the royal couple, don't you worry. We merely want to pass through here on the fastest way to my rooms. Besides, I trust your brothers Ser Jaime and Ser Gerold are keeping watch on the royal suite right now, seeing to both the king's and queen's privacy. And safety."

The last word had an edge of venom to it. Elia raised a single eyebrow at her uncle in mockery and disdain. Something wrong was afoot in the royal chambers. The indignation was gone from Elia's face as soon as it had appeared, replaced by a small wry smile as if she was japing a little with her uncle.

„And you need not worry for propriety's sake, uncle, my handmaidens will act as chaperones."

Lewyn Martell answered with a stifled chuckle before stepping aside to let his princess through.

„You tread dangerously, niece. I hope Lord Stark will show himself worthy of your trust."

Princess Elia did not reply, only showing a strained, thin-lipped grimace that tried to masquerade itself as yet another smile.

„I hope so, too, uncle. I hope so, too."

Then she walked past the Dornishman, silent again. Decidedly tense now, as well, and her two handmaidens were markedly subdued. It was not quiet in the hallway long, however. After turning a corner, Aerys signature cackling could be heard growing louder each step. The sound was soon joined by others. The rough clashing of flesh on flesh common during particularly violent sex. Screams of a mad man insulting a woman with the most debasing terms. And more booming than all, it seemed to Rickard, the quiet sobs of anguish of a mistreated woman. The king was raping his wife like a sellsword would do to a pretty woman during the sacking of a town. It was disgraceful. Rickard had to close his eyes and take a deep breath to keep himself from reaching for his dagger.

The hallway took another turn and Elia and Rickard stood in front of the door to the king's chamber. Ser Gerold, the White Bull, had a steely look in his eyes and always kept them trained on the Warden of the North and the princess from the moment they stepped into his sight. His face was a blank mask, not disclosing a hint of discomfort. He was obviously used to this task.

The young boy beside him was not so schooled in keeping his feelings from his face. Jaime Lannister looked far away into nothingness, his eyes like those of a veteran of many a battle who had lost his soul to war and could not pick up the fallen pieces. The glory of the Kingsguard, in all its splendor. The lion cub must have had his world shattered when he truly had gotten to know his heroes.

Rickard could not help himself. He walked up to the commander of the Kingsguard, the foremost knight of his generation. Almost he spat in Hightower's face. Almost.

„Are you not knights?", Rickard hissed instead.

The White Bull looked at him, his gaze betraying nothing. Beside them young Jaime cried soundless tears as life returned to his eyes, only for them to swim in heart rending sadness. Rickard felt the princess pulling him away from the door, no one speaking another word.

Rickard let himself be led by the Dornish women, not breaking eye contact with the Gelded Ox that stood guard for his mad master. Silently they walked on, passing Ser Barristan, whose moniker ‚the Bold' now sounded like mockery to Rickard's ears, keeping watch on the entrance to the corridor on the other end of Ser Lewyn.

Even after reaching the princess' chamber did neither of them speak a single word. The princess passed Rickard a goblet of Dornish Red which he drained immediately without putting it down. He would have appreciated a strong northern grain brandy right now. Something to make him forget the ashes he could taste on his tongue.

After another two cups of wine Rickard Stark fixed Elia Martell with a gaze that burnt colder than all the winds of winter and asked a single question:

„How often?"

„Every time someone burns. Our beloved king can usually hold himself back until the end of the day. The wait tempers some of his more violent tendencies in bed. Not so, however, when more than the smell of a single burned man tickles his nostrils. Then he visits her straight after court and does not finish until he is spent and exhausted. After those days she will not appear in court for one to three days, depending on the severity of the bruises and scratches. Not all can be hidden with long sleeves, high collars and face paint."

Had Rickard not seen hell in the Ninepenny Wars and fighting wildling raiders he might have lost his mask once more.

„My princess."

Rickard had said it before. He had not meant it, not truly. Now the title held weight as he spoke it. Elia Martell was a princess worth more than the ruling dragon and his absent spawn could ever hope to be.

„It would be to my pleasure to take in your daughter as my ward in Winterfell and keep her safe from too much Dornish influence here in the south."

Because damn them all, Rickard would not condemn an innocent girl to die in fire and blood as her father and grandfather tore apart the realm in their folly. Lyarra would not let him. Elia took his hand in gratitude, a lone tear running down her cheek. All Rickard could see in her features was Lyanna.