Rickard

From below, Rickard could hear the singing, and despite the merry tune, his mood was not improved by the twinkling of the lute and humming of the pipe, not even did the raucous laughter seem to infect him. His temper was a hangover from the day before, seemingly destined to be as dark as the Stag that pranced across the banner of House Baratheon. Nothing seemed likely to improve it in the near future – not the music, not the tear of beer and ale he'd been on the night before, nor the pages of his Seven Pointed Star, and prayers to the Mother and Maiden to sooth the gnawing rage that was making him restless – none of it seemed likely to overturn this mood.

He wanted to hit something, someone, to grab and pound and strangle and rip with his hands. But instead, he kept his hands steady on the desk in his room, and tried to force the words of peace from the book searing onto his brain.

The drink sitting sour in his belly was not helping him, as it churned and bubbled in his guts. Normally, he could keep a hold on his beer, but he'd delved into the new stock of rum, which the sailors that began frequenting the taverns on the dockside preferred to drink – it was sweet, and went down easy, yet the lethality in that was blinding in hindsight. And the mixture only added fuel to the Prince's black spirit.

In the main room of The Black Hart, beneath him someone was singing and for a moment the noise distracted him.

"There she sat, on Butterwood Hill,

Who would blame her, crying her fill,

Every tear would turn a mill,

Her lover had gone for a soldier…"

In that moment, he grinned and imagined what Willem's father might have thought if he heard such a girlish tune from the lad's mouth. But the thought soon faded.

While Her lover had gone for a soldier, his lover had merely gone off him and for the moment they were quarrelling. All because of her twice damned Uncle Oberyn, who without having crossed his path yet was already breaking his balls more than Janos Slynt or Petyr Baelish or any other bugger had ever managed to. With her uncle so close by Arianne had recused herself from his bed, which he might have been able to cope with, only the Dornish Prince had not come alone.

Whether by happens stance, or by means to distract her, or agents to set against him, Oberyn Martell had a string of Arianne's former lovers and suitors in tow. Names he knew, for Arianne had made no secret of them, but something wrangled in him about their presence in the Capital. Black jealousy, he knew, he didn't deny it when Arianne confronted him with it, but he didn't try to check the impulses it brought out in him either.

So, his and Arianne's minor quarrel had exploded, and Rickard brooded over it still – regret and anger, irritation and jealousy, self-awareness and stubbornness all bubbling away beneath his skin, gnawing at his bones.

Rickard slammed his palms on the table, suddenly cursing, "Fucking singing!" and rose fast from his chair, sending it banging into the wall behind him with the force of his rise. He stomped toward the doors of his balcony and kicked the door open with the toe of his boot.

The fresh air rushed out to meet him, and Rickard heavily inhaled the scent of beer from the brewery across the street, blood from the butcher's stall, and coal on the char from the smithy next door. Usually he liked the smells, always present in the air around his tavern – better than usually stink of man and horse shit in most of King's Landing's streets and alleys – but today it only irritated him further. He wanted a drink that wouldn't upset his stomach more; he wanted to hit someone without fearing that he might kill him in his present rage; he wanted to fuck a woman, he wanted to fuck Arianne, on the floor, on all fours, hard and have her screaming and suck on the sweet spot at her neck when she came around his cock, and fill her up with his seed and fuck a babe into her.

And then the Prince bowed his head, ashamed at the thoughts that had come rushing in his head, and ashamed of the memory of having them, ashamed that they were still there, lurking in the back of his mind.

I should have married her by now, he thought, leaning against the door frame with arms crossed, eyes shut, and head bowed to look at his boots. We should have just run off together, left the world behind and gone to Essos. He could have earned their way as a solider in one of the Free Companies in the Disputed Lands, earned a name to rival Bittersteel, and founded his own company of men. They could have married in the Hills of Andalos, those sacred places where the Gods had once walked in the images of mortals. She could have danced and sang in the halls of the great merchant Princes of the Free Cities, carved a place of power for herself free of House Martell and House Lannister and all the bad blood of Westeros. And between it all they could have shagged one another silly and raised a fat brood of children with black hair and blue eyes and olive skin. That was what we should have done.

Behind him, someone was knocking at the door.

"Yeah?" He answered, and as he turned Harrold Hardyng walked in. From below they were singing a different tune now.

'And who are you?' The Proud Lord said,

That I must bow so low…

Without even hearing his friend speak, Rickard could tell that there was something wrong, for he was pale and panting, and must have tripped over himself to run up the stairs from the way that he was rubbing at his arm.

"Down-downstairs," Harry said, clawing for every breath between his words. Rickard merely nodded in reply, wandered to his desk, picked up his knife and folded it behind his back in its usual hiding spot.

In a coat of gold or coat of red,

A lion still has claws

From his balcony that looked down onto the main room of The Black Hart, Rickard could see the trouble that was written on Harry's face. He touched his friend on the shoulder and motioned for him to go downstairs.

And mine are long and sharp, my lord

As long and sharp as yours

My family must be mad, he thought, as mad as any Targaryen. His cousins seemed oblivious as they sang, but whether it was wilful or true ignorance he couldn't tell. Is this what pride does to young men? Is this just arrogance, or are they just bloody fools?

And so he spoke, and so he spoke

That lord of Castamere

But now the rains weep o'er his hall

Rickard watched as his small group of his cousins, and the other layabouts that gathered in The Black Hart so early of an afternoon carried on their singing of the Rains of Castamere. Willem and Jason should have known better to get that carried away – and now they were on verge of paying for not letting their caution and awareness go slipping. The Prince saw the figure at the bar move, turn and look at his Cousins with hungry eyes, as well as the finger on the hilt of his stiletto knife.

With no one there to hear

Yes, now the rains weep o'er his hall

And not a soul to hear

"Willem!" Rickard called, calmer than he might have been, "How's about singing a different tune, eh? Or better yet, be about your fucking day elsewhere."

Perhaps his temper had been more famous than his realised, for when Rickard spoke and threatened to bite, they scattered, which was useful, as his cousins, the afternoon drunks and the hangers-on all fled out the nearest door. And so, the only stranger of note was the Dornishman.

Rickard descended the steps, the rounded the bar, to the Prince of Dorne stood waiting and watching him, a cup of Dornish Red in front of him. Normally, I only let Ari drink from those precious few barrels. She said they were the only reminder of home she needed in King's Landing. But at least Harry used his head and coughed up the goods when the Prince asked. Harrold, he knew, would be out in the kitchen, peaking through a hole in the wall with sword in hand, ready to lunge out at the first sign of trouble.

"Prince Oberyn," Rickard began, inkling his head to the Dornishman, as he took a tankard and half filled it with a dark, yeasty beer that Rickard knew from memory often involved more chewing than eating. "I am Rickard Baratheon."

Humbly, the Dornishman said nothing, merely raised his cup to Rickard, sipped and set it back down.

"My lord," he went on, "I have been locked in my chambers above these past few days, weeping. As I searched my furthest recollection, wondering as to when our paths might have crossed previous to now, perhaps in a former life. Afraid as to how I might have given offense to you, that you stay less than a mile from my humble place yet drink at every other winesink and tavern other than mine own."

The prince sipped again, and when he removed the cup from his lips and grinned and said, "No women."

No whores, he meant. But Rickard wasn't ready to argue the point.

"So simple as that, my lord? Well, I'm sure some of my wenches and you could come to an arrangement, I'd be happy to mediate – ensure all parties kept honour intact."

Prince Oberyn began to laugh, yet still said nothing.

"See I've never been one for whores and the like, but some men are entitled to a certain respect and ought to be accommodated."

"That's reasonable of you, but unnecessary, Prince Rickard. I certainly understand that my niece has been accommodating of you."

Are we as quick to it as that?

Rickard smiled, cautiously, "Darling Arianne."

"My niece Arianne."

"Your niece, Arianne: whom I expect is you real reason for being here, rather than whatever pretence your brother Prince Doran cooked up for you to fool Arianne herself and anyone who asked any questions about why you're in the capital."

"You might be right," conceded the Dornishman, "but if that were the case then my brother and I would be sure not to mention it to anyone else, let alone one of the targets of that deception."

Rickard stared at the Dornish Prince, his dark eyes concealing the dangerous spark in them, giving away nothing. There are no clues to read on his features, nothing was given away, and his words might have implied a bluff, or a double bluff, or a triple bluff. Rickard would get nothing genuine out of him, he realised, and if he did it would not be worth trusting.

"So?" Rickard asked, "Myself and Arianne?"

"Well, you tell me."

I tell you, and you decide whether I'm worth killing, Rickard decided was what Prince Oberyn really meant. Not that he expected the Dornishman to just reach for his dagger, nothing so simple as that.

So, Rickard told him truly. "Arianne and I… when we met…" it takes him time and he struggles, but he will get there in his good time no matter how the Dornishman sniggers or glowers at him. "At first, for me at least, it was just childish infatuation. You know? She was beautiful and cunning, exotic and a mystery. A creature that just popped up one day in Highgarden."

And what a creature she had been! Who could easily turn every head on a whim if she chose, and she chose to do so, often. But Arianne had in truth only had eyes on Willas Tyrell, who was a small disappointment, and knew better than to fall for her. A wise one, that Willas, Rickard smiled, thinking how different things might have been if he had some of Willas' wisdom.

"She was the kind of girl who could make a man forget his courtesy." Rickard told this girls Uncle, recalling the impertinence she brought out in him back then, because it felt like his only defence. "I remember when she first danced at Highgarden, none of the men knew any of the Dornish dances, so she took to the floor with one of the Marcher ladies – a Tarly, I think. It'll never leave me, the way her curls slid across her neck, over her shoulder."

Suddenly, Rickard realized he had the Dornish prince's curiosity, as he leaned across, his face peaking toward him. "And then?"

"And then, my uncle Renly returned to King's Landing, and I with him, though via Storm's End and when we finally returned to the capital, who should be there before us?" He shook his head; it puzzled him still. "And I thought to myself 'ah, well, Rickard, you could stand her going after Willas and his brothers but now she'll fix her eyes to Joffrey'. That I couldn't stomach, and was prepared to leave for The Rock, except she never looked once and Joffrey, and it startled me to realise I was the one she had started looking at now."

"Why you?" Prince Oberyn demanded, and Rickard shrugged honestly. He'd given up asking that question.

"Wish I knew, or no, maybe I don't. Gods know, there were stronger, richer, better-looking candidates. First, I thought maybe she meant to use me, I suspected her of the worst possible motives, but when I snubbed her, she seemed hurt and she was patient, and here we are. Rickard and Arianne; a Prince and Princess; on paper there should be no issue, yes?"

A finger curled in the Dornishman's chin, "You rejected my niece?"

"Initially."

"Why?"

Does he really need me to answer that? Or does he just want to hear my answer? He could say, he would like to say, 'why, because of you Prince Oberyn!' Because of our families, our fucking families. Because Arianne's family would see me castrated, and my family would see Arianne killed, before they allowed it.

But instead, he bites his tongue. Instead, he bites his tongue, and he smiles and tells him, "Because at the time the equation did not add up for me."

And the Dornishman frowns at last at his answer.

"What changed your decision then?"

Gods but doesn't that make him laugh. His gullet is flushed with mirth, as the ripple of laugher erupts out of him, "Now, I just don't give a damn."

"And how much would it make you to?"

The Dornishman takes him by surprise, "Excuse me?"

"In order to make you give a damn once more; in order to make you change your decision back: how much is it worth?"

Rickard laughs. Lies or no, he might be able to turn this to an advantage one way or the other, because if you need to grab a bull's attention you bring a stick down on its head. "If we're discussing business, we'd best go to my chambers." He shifts his way out from behind the bar, and motions for the Dornishman to follow him upstairs, "If you would, my lord."

He seats the Prince of Dorne across from him, the with careful timing explodes his lid, "You shallow, fickle bastard? Gods' blood you must be scarcely civilized, you Dornish rat, you think I'd sell myself out! Sell her out! You dare lecture me? I ought to be lectu- No. In fact, here it is: us civilised men are gathered to honour the Hand of the King at his tourney, and while we are gathered the great man himself had not have to the smell whatever bullshit you people plan on starting with Gregor Clegane! The only way you'd need indicate your acceptance of these terms is to keep that knife, and your poisons and whatever the fuck else to yourself for the duration of this tourney. Because if I hear anything of your Dornish causing a fucking unholy stir, I'll come and see to it your throats are cut – restitution with your niece or fucking not. Gods be good, I am warning you: there will be no violence between your people and Clegane!"

It surprises him, that despite all, Prince Oberyn keeps his calm and rises to his feet, "I have you in my eye, Rickard Baratheon." He said and raised a hand with finger pointed at his chest. Rickard just stared at the Dornish Prince, waiting. "I see how thin the ice you stand upon is, and rest assured, I will be the one beneath it when it breaks."

"Take your eye, and your message to Arianne, and get the fuck out!"

When the door closed behind the Red Viper, Rickard finally let out the breath he'd been holding. Through the whole encounter he'd would have sworn that he might any moment regurgitate the contents of his beer savaged guts all over the prince in front of him. Perhaps that might have been easier than his threats and lies and insults at the son of Dorne.

At least Ser Gregor Clegane and my grandfather need not worry about the Red Viper for the duration of this tourney. Not when the Prince of Dorne was now wholly fixed on killing him for the slights on his house and niece and insults to his face. Eddard Stark better be grateful when this is over, now that I've stuck my head in the way of a quarrel between Mad Dogs and Dornishmen.


"We're ready, my prince."

Rickard expelled a final blast of smoke from his pipe quietly, considering. Then placed the still smoldering device on his desk and got to his feet.

"How'd I look, my lord?"

Beric Dondarrion looked him over carefully, "Like a Prince again."

It was true, Rickard especially had to admit, he looked respectable, perhaps the most like a prince he had done since the day the bastards had driven him from The Red Keep. Which felt appropriate, as he would for the first time be setting foot back within the walls of Maegor's Holdfast. The pretence for this was that he, and all his people would officially register themselves for the Tourney, but for Rick it was a chance to test the waters, see how stable the ground was after all the little tremors he caused.

Some twenty odd knights and squires had assembled themselves at the Black Hart and were all as different as a dozen shades of as many different colours, but Rickard knew they were all his from the black sash across each man's breast. Looking over his men he felt a ridiculous swell of pride, that came with its own ridiculous feeling of embarrassment. Without a word, the Prince led them from the tavern to their mounts and they as one mass galloped through the streets, up Aegon's High Hill like a shroud descending on The Red Keep.

The Lightening Lord was on Rickard's right, Harry Hardyng on his left, and lucky Tyrek behind him watching his back for any stray stabber as the portcullis drew itself upwards before them. A lack of a challenge at the gate made him wary, but Rickard had to remember that he was known here, despite the attempts to push him out, they could not erase Rickard Baratheon so easily.

When Rickard and his Twenty entered the Hall he was relieved that few noticed him, it gave him the chance to gain a feel for the room. His Grace, King Robert's, Master of Ceremonies had been given the Maidenvault to host the officious business of enrolling the knights and contenders of the tourney, but to no surprise of his there was nothing officious about it.

The Maidenvault struck him as more of a feast in constant rotation as new people entered and old ones came out. Rickard was sure he could hear his father in the din, somewhere, and a white cloak of the Kingsguard might not have been too far behind. It was packed so fully that Rickard could not recognize so many people. A troop of mummers were playing on a platform that had been erected in a corner, fife and drum steady at work, and tables stacked high with food flanked either side of the hall, and servants with flagons clutched in hand, looking like flies buzzing around shit. There were Ladies present too: some were chatting and gossiping amongst packs of their own, some had manager to corner a knight, or entice a few, and others tried to lead a dance to the music, though there were few takers amongst the men – they were more concerned with their place in one of the lines to the steward clerks that would allow them entry to the tourney.

"Let's be about it then." He led his men in, both his hands grasping his belt. A few people noticed him, but no one bothered him or approached. Rickard flitted his way through the crowd and landed before a clerk. It's a tedious matter of less than thirty seconds, but it is a necessary one and his name is entered to the list.

Rickard, Prince of House Baratheon. Vouched for by Beric Dondarrion, Lord of Blackhaven.

He has Beric vouch for him just to be on the safe side. As a Prince he should be able to get away without it. But he didn't fancy his luck being able to oblige him on the matter. Better to follow all the protocols on this occasion.

With that done, Rickard began what he had come to do – to test the reaction of the Red Keep to him. It was a good place to try, with ceremony and formalities of the tourney and such a large crowd, no one is likely to be too discourteous to him.

From behind as he moves among the throng, a voice calls out, "My, my! The Black Hart himself walks among us."

He turns, able to grin at the friendly voice, "Uncle," he says, turning about on his heels to meet the grinning board figure of Renly Baratheon, "Good to see you."

"I've been meaning to come visit you," he tells his nephew in earnest.

Politely, he dismisses the notion with a wave, "You wouldn't like my new lodgings, Uncle."

"But you are comfortable?"

"Yes."

"And you would tell me if there were aught I could do to help?"

"I can find my own way, uncle. I'm my own man now."

"So you are, Rick. But you would let me know if I could help."

This is how his uncle shows his love. As an uncle should. Renly is not invasive, he does not offer outright, he merely provides the opportunity to ask and if you do, he will do all he can. And if you don't, he will respect your decision, not judging if you change your mind.

"Of course, uncle."

They embrace, and Renly is bold enough to ruffle his hair as though his nephew were ten years younger again. Behind his uncle from his new vantage point, Rickard recognizes immediately the green and gold clad figure lurking behind.

"Loras Tyrell," he admits the surprise in his tone, "I had no idea you were among us yet."

Renly laughs, turning to pull the Knight of Flower toward them both. "A chance for gold and glory? Where else would he be?"

"Indeed, Rickard," Loras declares, "you should know better."

"I'll not make that mistake again, Loras." From there they are straight to business. "You are registered in the list already?"

"I am, and I saw yourself noted down. How do you like your chances?"

"For the joust: my usual shall content me. I've no illusions of my shortcomings with a lance. It's the melee I have my eyes on. You?"

"I've neither illusions, nor shortcomings, Rickard," Loras says, but his meaning couldn't be clearer. I, the Knight of Flowers, have bigger fish to fry, and have left you behind.

If I were lucky, Rickard thinks, that would be your downfall, Loras. But he is not so lucky and knows that Loras has skill to match his talk, and it won't be for him to unseat and humble the Highgardener this time.

Renly laughs, and amiably detaches himself and Loras from the conversation. Which Rickard is glad for – he too has outgrown the old rivalry with Loras. He circles the hall picking out the competition. Most of them are familiar to him, the usual houses that turn for whatever tourney wherever it is held. Brax, Braken, Buckler, Crakehall, Crane, Corbray, Darry, Egen, Frey, Hunt, Penrose, Merryweather, Piper, Royce, Tarly, Swann, Vance and Waynewood. They conducted themselves in the same old style, and Rickard greeted them in the same old style. This seemed to disappoint many of them, but it was not his purpose to please them. The Dornish addition were a pleasant change and did not seem to know how to deal with him.

After he made his round of the hall, he moved to a corner and propped himself against a buttress beside a table. He intended to wait for one or more of his companions to come and find him, but the occasional glimpse he caught of them through the crowds seemed to indicate they were still occupied. In elder days he might have joined them. But in truth his heart wasn't in it. He wanted to go back to his tavern and brood over Arianne, or else wish she were here that he might concoct a reason to sweep her off her feet.

At the very least they ought to clear the air. Alas, Ari is not here, no doubt deliberately avoiding him. And who would blame her? Not with the stranger he picked out staring at him so.

Rickard suddenly picked out the Dornishman with his gaze fixed upon him. He stepped away from the buttress, frowning at the Stranger, who now seemed to glide through the crowd towards him. He'd like to think, considering recent events, that he has it in him to detect when someone is coming at you with murderous intent, but this one's face is a blank screen to him. Whatever is in this Dornishman's head, Rickard Baratheon cannot find in his own. Dark eyes, intense, but blank without a trace of intent toward him. Pale blonde hair, white the way the light catches it, but a coal-coloured stripe crosses it the snowy locks, streaking left to right.

"Prince Rickard, I presume." He says, a pale hand extending toward him. When King Daeron the Young Dragon wrote his History of his campaigns in Dorn, he divided the Dornish into three peoples. This is man is one of the Stone Dornish, the most Andal of the Dornish, from the heights of the Red Mountains, but this one had more the look of Valyria about him.

Warily, Rickard took the hand and said, "You have the advantage of me, ser."

"Not surprising, surely, my Prince?"

Rickard half smiled, taking him for jesting. "You Dornishmen rarely grace our tournaments that much is true."

"And those of us that do always remain in the Martell's shadow."

Rickard felt his smile broaden a little, "Surely even the Red Viper doesn't cast a shadow so large."

"Neither does your brother, yet you stand in his shadow. No?"

It's the abruptness of the remark that catches the Prince off guard, rather than the impertinence of the words. He drops his smile immediately. "No, ser, I don't. Joffrey is a creature to himself, and I'm a man of my own."

The stranger raises an eyebrow, a pale rise in the top corner of his face. "Interesting. The rumours are true then. There is no lost love between the Black and Gold Prince."

Only now did Rickard realise he was still hand in hand with the Dornishman. He wrenched his arm back. "If there is or not is no business of yours, ser." And again, he realised the stranger had yet to give his name.

"You'd be surprised how much of your business is known to me, my Prince."

Frowning, Rickard felt he understood, and growled, "If the Red Viper sent you here to threaten me, go tell him he ought to have the balls to do it in person if he wants me to take him serious."

To his irritation, the Dornishman merely rolled his eyes, "No, my Prince, I, like you, am a man of my own. I could care less for Prince Oberyn and whatever quarrel you have with him. My interest is in you."

"Me? I don't even know you." Rickard felt the ich of knife behind his back, his fingers twitching to release it.

Without mirth, the knight named himself, "I am Gerold Dayne. Men call me Darkstar."

Rickard straightened, "Dayne?"

"Yes, Prince Rickard. The Princess told you about me?"

Rickard considered a moment, "She told me of you."

"Did she tell you that we were fucking before you?"

His fist clenching, Rickard stepped forward with menace with a threaten on his lips, "Careful, ser. I'll drop you in your own blood." And he drew the knife from behind his back to place it on the Dornishman's chest.

"Will you, ser? Can you kill a man just like that?"

"You wouldn't be the first."

"No," Dayne seemed to be mocking him, he almost laughed, half a smile across his face. "You haven't killed like that, my Prince. You've got into scuffles with thugs to protect yourself. But to square up to a man, one and one, to look him in the eyes as you drive a blade through him in cold blood is another thing. For that, you haven't the stomach."

Rickard felt his knees tremble, every instinct was urging to push onward with his knife, to drive it straight into the Knights chest. To stab and puncture, to press the sum of his rage as harsh as he could. But the look in Ser Gerold's eyes kept him fixed to the spot. Quietly, Rickard whispered, "What do you want?"

"I want much as you did, before you allowed yourself to be distracted by cunt." Rickard's hand tremored. "See, my prince, the world knew you wanted to make a name for yourself, a position in the world and some power. Then they respected you for it. But now? You chase Arianne Martell and they hate you for it, for demeaning yourself so. Though, you at least give me an opportunity to make my name."

"How?"

Ser Gerold dropped his face to look down his long aquiline nose at him with his vicious eyes, "I'm going to kill you, my Prince. It's nothing personal. But you have so many enemies now, and people have turned away from you would now reward me for it. It'd make my name – Ser Gerold Dayne, the Darkstar, who slew The Black Hart."

The blood draining in his face, Rickard felt his grip go slack, the knife relaxing in his hand at what the Dornishman had said, "You're going to kill me?"

His heart drumming against his ribs now and without realising Ser Gerold had a hand on his wrist, and he leaned in close to him. "One day soon, my Prince, I'll see you dead on the floor."

A flood of panic rushed up Rickard's spine at the clutching on his arm, as his knife dropped away to the floor, his left arm seemed to react without his say so. It struck out, a wide flailing arc spinning in the direction the Dornishman, but suddenly the floor seemed to give out from under him. Rickard's knees seemed to bend themselves under some unseen pressure and the world was spinning for a moment, the Dornishman gone from his vision, before something cracked hard against the whole of his left side, from foot to face. A wave of noise came over him and the clatter of wood before the rush of the floor suddenly caught him.

The Prince grunted, the world stilled and he found himself feeling the sour smell of wine all over him and his skin growing wetter and wetter. From his new position on the floor, Rickard looked all around for the Darkstar but it was no good. All there was were a crowd of people laughing at him, a stinking wreck covered in wine.