Rickard

Arianne's apartments are small, tiny in fact, compared to the other rooms available in Maegor's Holdfast. It was just a sitting room, with a table laid out for her to dine on or work from, and there is a plush chair by the small hearth, opposite a chaise lounge, which, given the Martell spear emblazoned on the cushions and Dornish sun on the back, Rickard assumed Arianne had bought herself and had moved to her rooms. The only other room was her bedchamber, which Rickard planned to not see inside of.

There were book cases in one corner of the room, opposite the fire, which was filled with the books on her home land, Essos, classics and Valyrian books, and a few story books Rickard had never heard of or couldn't understand, the titles on the spine written in a foreign language. Only a handful of books look to have been read, and they were all either about Dorne or the ones written in a different tongue.

Rickard turned his gaze from Arianne's room, to Arianne herself, sat across from him. She's been doing most of the talking, and he's been doing most of the eating. They've know each other well enough to know their dining habits, though admittedly this their first-time dining alone with one another. Arianne hates silence around a dinner table, and knows to appreciate good company; Rickard loves good food, and appreciates good drink. The story behind how they learned this about one another is how they established first names, and occurred early on in their knowing each other. He had been a squire and companion to his Uncle Renly, as he visited and travelled throughout the Reach for the second that year; she had been a recent arrival at Highgarden, an unofficial exile, who'd just been spurned by Willas Tyrell. He'd been given the job of seeing the Princess from the feast to her chambers, a short distance from his own.

"Is it far to go, my prince?" She asked, still unfamiliar with the layout of Lord Mace's abode.

"A short walk, my lady." He replied gruffly, irked by the tedium forced on him.

"You're a quiet one, aren't you? Never say much, sweet, little prince." He snorted quietly, and then she tartly said, "Or maybe you're just an arse?"

That had stopped the three-and-ten Rickard in his tracked, stole the stunned breath from his body to hear a Princess speak so. His boyish guards of polite courtesy and shyness came flying back up. "No, my lady. Forgive me." His bum-fluff covered cheeks had started going red. "I-I-It's just that: this is an inconvenience." She gave him a sort of offended look, which to his eyes had looked quite serious. "N-n-no! No! I-I-I hadn't m-m-m-meant… O-only I-I-I…" And then she started grinning at him with her serpent's smile, while made him look ashamedly at his feet, bite his tongue, and force away the stammer which he'd thought to have been rid of.

"I had hoped," he started slowly, checking, and concentrating hard on each word on his tongue, willing the stutter to stay away, "to stay at the feast a while more. The ss-sss-ssssquires" he paused and took a deep breath, "are about to head in t-to the cccity to…"

"Ah!" She had said, smiling behind her hand. "Now I understand. But, my prince…" Her tone had changed to one of mocking admonishment and Rickard cut her off to reply angrily, screwing in face up in a half-baked rage of annoyance.

"You're not going start talking like my mother. Just because I drink…"

Her turn to cut him off. "I take a drink as well, my prince."

"Oh." Came his flat answer. "Well…" He coughed awkwardly and started to roll on his heels, "then you can call me 'Rickard', if you like."

Arianne's smile shrank from what it had been before his abruptness, but at least seemed warmer. "And you may call me 'Arianne', Rickard."

He supposes this way of things should mean they should both be feeling forever awkward, but now it's all old water under the bridge. To reflect this Arianne steers the conversation where she pleases, and, as if she's been reading his thoughts, back to that night.

"You know, I had never thought you to be so easily embarrassed. The way you stammered so."

He swallowed his mouthful, and his mouth, smiling, to say, "There's a lot you don't know about me, Princess." And turning smile to grin as he watched her half scowl, half smile went on, "I always had it, when I was small. I refused to speak to just about anyone 'sides my mother, it embarrassed me so. Joff teased me about it, I imagine, and when I did have to speak, the way people would turn and look at me while I tried, though I can't really remember, being only six and younger."

"What about when you went to the Rock? How did the mighty Lord Tywin manage with a defective grandson?"

Rickard put down his knife, clasped his hands together and rested his chin on them. "He was my greatest help."

Arianne frowned at him, but Rickard could not see, for he was looking passed her, and into his memories, for when he was first presented to Lord Tywin. "I was taken to the Throne Room as soon as I arrived, where half the Lords of the Westerlands had been summoned to celebrate my arrival. No one had said this to me. I knew I'd have to see my grandfather, and I even had to revise what I was to say to him, thank him for his taking me on as squire, thank him for his hospitality, etcetera. But when they made me waddle into the centre of the room alone, all those eyes on me, sniggering as I tried to speak, whisper the words through my stammer, and the tears I could feel…" He flinches, and cracks his knuckles.

Arianne, her mouth gaping open: "What did he do?"

"When he realised that his entire fiefdom was about to laugh me out the room, and into the arms of my nurse maid, he stood up walked forward saying… things I can't remember, welcomes, I think and escorted me out, patting my back, all the way to his study so my nuncle and some servants could clean me up."

"Did he stay?"

"No, but he made sure I'd be fine before he went."

"Decent of him," she says, sparingly.

He sighs. As a younger man, he would have furrowed his brow, argued with her and left in fury. But he is used to people treating the name of Tywin Lannister with such contempt, so knows to keep with temper, as much as it is against his nature and high esteem for his grandfather to do so. "You ought to know," he says, casually, as if dropping it into conversation as little more than an afterthought, "I am nothing, if not my grandfather's man."

And she has trapped him. "Even more so than the King's man? More so than your brother? The Crown?" She sips from her goblet almost leisurely, taking time to admire the Dornish wine swirl its contents around her goblet. "Your mother?"

He pauses, and considers. To anyone listening, for the Red Keep has ears in the walls, a wrong answer may be proof of his treason, his outrageous ambition on the Iron Throne would only be confirmed in light of recent events. Yet, he owes Lord Tywin so much; must be honest in his intents, at least that is what the Book of the Father tells him; and Arianne shall cut threw him if he is lying, which, for Gods' sake, she can always tell.

In the end he answers, "I don't know."

But instead of tearing into him over his indecisiveness, Arianne holds her tongue, watching intently the conflict on his face. "It hurts you so, to imagine that choice."

He nods.

"But they are choices you may have to make."

He lays down his cutlery and goblet. "Did you just ask me here to argue with me? Because I thought that you and I were above this kind of thing."

She snorts in that way of hers, that makes him feel like he is just puppet dancing on her strings. "Don't become high and mighty with me, Rickard. I can see straight through you. Don't pretend you didn't have ulterior motives for coming here. I imagine that as soon as your new friends heard about tonight they were onto you. I can hear them now: 'Oh, my prince, surely you can see what it would mean, if Dorne was in our pocket. Surely then! Your father would notice us.'"

"Then you'd be wrong then, wouldn't you?!" He barks, rising from the table pacing the room. Then sucks in a breath, sits on her chaise longue, and tries to return their conversation to more civilised tones. "Actually, they already know we have an accord. And gods know they were quite against this - us - meeting. They feel I acted rashly, and want the deal hammered out in full, and properly. Our friendship unnerves them. Most of them don't trust-" He looks up at her face and stops. She's beaming at him, teeth shining with conspiracy, almost as if she might wink at him at any moment. "What?"

"You admitted there is an 'us'"

He stiffens, and can feel a heat rising in his cheeks. "P-please. Can we not?"

But her grin only widens. "Was that a stutter I heard?"

"Goddammit."

His frustration makes her withdraw into herself a little. She stands from the table and walks towards him on the lounge, bringing two goblets and the wine jug. "Sorry. Forgive me. We are talking politics and conspiracy now, aren't we?" She gives him a goblet, fills it, and arranges herself anew on the chair opposite him, to look more as you imagine a Princess of Dorne should look on the throne at Sunspear. "I'll give them any reassurances they want. Tell them I am your right arm, ready to draw your sword." True enough this is the kind of talk that his people understand. He goes to speak but she interrupts, "Please, no more about it. I want to talk about something different. Tell me, if your friends don't trust me and my countrymen, why do you? Or why do you think you can?"

Rickard downs his whole goblet. He hates red wine, it makes him tired and gives him headaches the morning after. Still, he rearranges himself, to more be more Prince like, speaking with the tones a diplomat would, but he's brisk nevertheless. "We want a new order in the Seven Kingdoms. I know you do to.

"So, you said earlier, but do you mean: 'I' as in Dorne? Or 'I' as in me?"

"Both."

"And how exactly did you arrive at that conclusion? You seem to rather overconfident where I am concerned." She's playing with him, like a cat and a ball of string. Of course, this is really not about politics, he should have known better, should have foreseen she'd twist the conversation around and in on him. She is better at this than he: conspiracy and intrigue and manipulation. These are the forte of the Dornish and House Martell. And looking at her now you can see that Arianne is no exception. Being the only one of her people in King's Landing, she is exemplary, operating on a level greater than he, and it worries him. That is why she is so dangerous, why Dondarrion and the other fear her.

But then again, this is exactly why he needs her in their cause. Because their opponents are tricksters and liars, and make mincemeat of honest men and their words. That is why they needs their own liars. It's the compromise that must be made for them to succeed, for a few of their enemies to switch sides and continue spinning mistrust, but all of his followers hate it, and every one of them knows it may break them all to pieces. She, Arianne, sees the distrust and knowing in his eyes and on his face. And when he shares the doubts he has kept secret, knows that he should still be keeping secret, slides onto the chaise lounge beside him, her face the picture of serenity and care.

"I've never lied to you, Rickard. There has never been any dishonesty between you and I." She speaks as sincerely as he's ever heard her speak, grabs his hand, as if to show him that she is speaking the truth. "You must believe that. It'd hurt me to think that you and I cannot rise above this. You are my most valued friend. My only friend in King's Landing. Sometime, I think, in the world."

"I…" He thinks hard. Wants to believe her, he truly does, but: "I'm not sure I can believe you."

So, she lunges at him. He sees it coming, and sucks in a breath, the way he's been taught ready himself for a hit. But when the blow lands, it catches off guard completely. Arianne throws her whole body at him, he lips falling on his own and by the Seven he thinks that tonight couldn't have gone any further than what he planned. Everything has gone awry. But Gods' forgive him, the way Arianne kisses him, he doesn't care.

For the first time in his life, he truly doesn't.

She lays on top of him for a while after they stopped. It gives them each room to ponder what bridges have been crossed, which ones have they just gone and burned. They've gone no further than kissing, Rickard was insistent on that much, but still they're both quiet. Arianne plays with the medals and holy relics around his neck: thumbing each one, scrutinizing each in turn. He pretends to be asleep, it's late and he should be going soon, but he can't bring himself to leave. Not now. He can smell the soap Arianne uses to wash with. Its an earthy scent and has hints of orchids in it.

"Do you believe me now?"

"If I say 'no', what will you do?"

"Scream for the guards of course"

"Of course," then the uncomfortable reality starts creeping in on him. A heat rising in his neck and ears. Needless to say, this is both what he has wanted for a long time and expressly what he wanted not to happen when he came here. For that, something gnaws at him in his stomach, either his guilt or the relief of it.

Arianne asks, "You've never known a woman, have you?" She drops it on him like a stone in a lake, to see the ripples it'll cause.

"No, I do know women. I know you for one."

She giggles quietly, softly pulling on a medal: it's the Maid, or at least an interpretation of her. "I thought I was teasing you." He shrugs. "Come on, Rickard. You know what I'm asking."

"And it wouldn't be very princely of me to tell you."

"Aww! How noble of you? Protecting some woman's honour so humbly. It's a wonder only I have eyes for you." Arianne slithers her body up his own, wrapping her arms around his neck, rubbing her breast up his chest, and ensnaring her legs about his hips and legs.

"Well one of us should be humble, given you have pride enough for us both." She pecks his lips with her own. In the space between that and the next kiss she calls him something that sounds like brute. It's too distracting to listen properly anymore.

"You know," she goes on, working conversation in between her distractions, "If like, if you told me who it was, I could fight her for you. Bare-breasted, knife to knife." She whispers the last in his ear, like a hiss, as she toys with his neck.

Regardless of his answer, it stirs something in his cock, which suits her curiosity, makes her grin and her eyes glitter as she rubs herself against him. Even through all his clothes, and hers, he can still feel the heat of her, in her secret parts.

"Goddamit. Arianne, stop," It's a weak and feeble protest, and Arianne ignores as she starts undoing his clothes. "No, I said. Dammit." He grabs her swift and nimble hands and makes sure she knows he means it this time, and she is hurt, or pretends to be. "At least not tonight. The risk is too great right now. Give it time."

He pushes her off him, rises and starts straightening his clothes and flattening his hair. But she grabs his hand, digging in her nails hard enough to make him shout.

Arianne doesn't seem forgiving, she is shouting herself. "Others take you, Rickard! I thought we were beyond this shit you keep peddling me! I've had enough! I've been patient with you, gods know. But you cannot expect things to go on as they have done, not after tonight!"

"Things will be different!" He promises.

"Will they?! Will they?! Truly?! Oh well! Excuse my impertinence then. Forgive me dearly, your grace! I shall continue to countenance on your good faith, shall I?"

"You're acting childish."

"Bugger if I am. I like being childish." She sighs. "I cannot keep waiting on you like this, Rickard. It feels like every time we take a step forward, I must take another two backward. It's very tiring on a woman."

"I swear to you, things will be different now." Now that he knows what he's been missing. "In time, we won't have to hold back. In time, I… I'll marry you."

His vow catches them both off guard, her more than him at last. She looks like she's just seen a man thrown by his horse for the first time. But then she regains herself. "And what guarantee of that do I have?"

On his left hand, Prince Rickard Baratheon wore a ring. His ancestor Lyonel Baratheon, the Laughing Storm, had forged it for his son, Ormund, when he roses in rebellion against Aegon the Unworthy. It had been based off a similar ring wore by the Baratheon's before the Conquest, when they called themselves Durrandon. Its purpose had been to denote the successor to Storm's End, the future Storm King and ruler of the Stormlands. In King Robert's day, the ring has lost all official meaning, but nevertheless there is still power behind it. All of his hopes rest upon that ring, that he might be more than a spare to Joffrey, that there is more in his future than King's Landing. It's why the Storm Lords have bound themselves to him.

"This is your guarantee, Arianne. Nothing less than mine own future, entwined with yours."

Some days later, Tyrek enters his study, without knocking – he's the only man in King's Landing allowed – and throws himself into a chair. It's late morning, yet Rickard still hasn't dressed. His routine is typically to wake up, shit and then write whatever letters need doing, and bathe. Today he has yet to shit. Perhaps last night knocked most of his dinner out of him.

His cousin says, "We have a problem."

"My bathwater won't heat."

"No. They're just having trouble with lighting the coals. But that's not what the problem is. It's your new friends."

He stamps his seal on the letter. And puts it aside to go and find the privy. "Oh? Jumping ship already, are they?"

"No, quite the opposite. They've been sending you gifts. Meat, to be frank. They all seem to be great hunters it seems. The cooks have been complaining that you have enough meat to feed an army."

He speaks to Ty through the privy door. "Send it to our prospective friends."

"Old Estermont sends us a buck every day."

"The Estermonts are my relatives. And love… love me well." He wipe's his hands on the cloth Tyrek offer him as he leaves, and walks on toward his bath.

The Royal bath chamber is an ingenious room. In the centre, a great stone furnace lays burning coal beneath a huge cauldron full of simmering water from which bucket are drawn and poured into the long stone bath, large enough for a man to swim in. Along the side of the bath, Rickard's breakfast is laid. Sausage, and black pudding with eggs and bacon and brown bread. Tyrek helps himself to the food, as he sits in a chair beside the bath, waiting for Rickard.

"Love you well, maybe. But they're still sending you the meat. And the Bucklers–"

"Hand it out to the poor. Ask the High Septon where the poorest in the city live, we'll go and deliver it ourselves. Take after how they do it in Highgarden."

"But it's still the butchering of the thing, Dick. All the skinning and quartering to be done."

"So? We'll go down and give the kitchens a hand. You and I, together, shall we?"

"You can't!"

"Why not? It'll be like the Rock again. You remember those days, when we'd all go to the cliffs. Hunt our own food, swim, drink, build a fire, cook. That was a way to spend a day."

"Unless the Old Lion had want of you. Then we had to kick out the fire and walk back. Some of us, if we were unlucky, naked!" There is bitterness in the last bit, over that one-time Tyrek had been forced to walk back to the Rock stripped.

"Are you still sore over that? I told you at the time not to leave your things with Lancel and Jason." Smirking, and working soap into his hair, he says, "You didn't have an answer."

Tyrek looks him and shakes his head. "Mother have mercy! You really are of seven minds. At one turn you're a noble prince, full of chivalry and gusto, the next you're spitting blood in a dog hole tavern, like some cast off drunkard. Or prim as a Septon with your holier than thou preaching's from which ever book comes to mind, before throwing yourself into bed with whores and serving girls…"

The Prince cuts him off. "I have not been in bed with a whore!"

"Your thirteenth name day." His cousin says flatly.

He shrugs, "Wasn't in a bed. Besides, I didn't pay."

"Still, you can't deny the principle of the thing. Your contrarianism."

"I'm a prince of the blood: contrarianism is might God given right." He leans across the bath, grabs the holy charms, and medals laid to one side and shakes them at Tyrek. "These as my witness!" He offers a silent prayer and lays them to aside again. "Look at Prince Rhaegar. Men thought he was Blessed Baelor, the Young Dragon and Daeron the Good all in one. Then he turns around and kidnaps Lyanna Stark."

His cousin puts his head in his hands. "And it didn't exactly turn out well for him, did it?"

"No granted, but then again, who do you imagine I would imprison and rape?"

Tyrek snorts at it. "You're a heartless swine."

Grinning, he quips, "Just my contrarianism at work." They take conversation back to proper areas. "These well-wishers, I suppose I'd better write my thanks."

"I suppose you'd better." Tyrek offers him a hand out of the bath, and then a towel, before wrapping another one round the prince's head and start drying his hair.

"Ty. Dammit. Ty!" He throws his cousin off. "For godsake, you're my cousin, there's no need to try playing at my valet."

Tyrek shakes his head and comes forward with a towel again. "More than that, my prince, I am your humble servant, as instruct by your grandfather, mine own nuncle, be it on the tourney ground or in the bath. Besides, at least by sticking this close to you, your mother can never accuse me of not being her spy."

"Still, some people resent it, Ty."

"Oh?"

"Some of the court resent you. They feel you are the arch-Lannister, the puppeteer behind the Prince."

Tyrek laughs as well. He's no more a puppet master than a prawn shell. "You should tell these people where to find me on a good night, that should prove them wrong." They start fitting the Prince in to his clothes.

"You see where they come from though? Remember the effort I put into making you my Father's squire?"

"Vaguely, you turned to your Father on a hunt one day, pointed to me and said: 'Father, you should make this man your squire.' Your Uncle Stannis went brick red, Jon Arryn got very anxious and your mother couldn't stop grinning. And I've never done a day's work since."

"Course not. Why d'you think I got Lancel made his squire too?"

The Prince and his company, Harry Hardyng, Tyrek and a few others, were just riding out the Red Keep when they started to be shouted down. Rickard turned in the saddle to see Ronnet Connington, a friend to the King and few others besides, calling for him. He rides toward him, flashing a grin, pulling off his feathered hat, and bowing. "My good knight, how are you?" He says, "Not in Griffin's Roost?"

"No, my prince."

"Well, I know the game in the Kingswood isn't as good as that in the Stormlands, but you're more than welcome to saddle a horse with us."

"I'm afraid not today. Your father has requested you urgently. You and Squire Harrold are to follow me immediately."

Harry is by his prince's side in an instant. "What's this, Connington? Why's the King sent for us?"

"It wouldn't be my place to say."

Rickard and Harry look at one another, each as clueless as the other. Nevertheless, both they and Tyrek dismount, but when the Lannister goes to follow them Ser Ronnet says, "Not him. No others. Just you two."

Now they no they've been dropped in shit. The look goes between the three of them, and Rickard says to Tyrek, "Go find Dondarrion, and come after us."

"Should I bring anyone else?"

"A dagger." Offers Hardyng, and any other time it'd be a joke.

"No!" He barks at Harry, "Mother's mercy, no. I'll have none of that." Then to Tyrek, "Just get Beric and keep the horses saddled." They say nothing further. No point, he warns them, until they know more.

Harry and the Prince follow Red Ronnet through the Red Keep, whispering to one another conspiratorially. "Well?" Harry asks, "What is it we've done?"

It could be a thousand different things, a hundred good, a hundred bad. But the feeling in his bones makes him think the latter. Mayhap the King will answer their Armoured Ultimatum, maybe the Council, in their wisdom have conceded their defeat and surrendered themselves and their offices. Or perhaps the King is backing his Council and has come to slap down his misfit son. Come to take him in hand as he should have done when the Prince was a child and caused trouble enough back then.

"Gods know." He says to Harry. "We'll have done nothing wrong, whatever it is. So long as we holdfast, it can be proven. Not… No, h-he couldn't have!"

Or maybe – and Baelor's bastard the thought of it makes his legs shake – what if someone, somehow, betrayed himself and Arianne to the King or someone else?

Harry stops, and shakes him by the arm, "What is it, Rick? Seven Above, what's happened?"

What was it he prophesied to Arianne? That his manhood would be sliced off and he'd be sent to the Wall in chins, as Arianne is carted off to a whorehouse. He wonders who would do the cutting. His Father; his headsman, Ilyn Payne; maybe Joffrey would offer his knife; or as a crude irony, that bastard Eunuch, Varys.

He shouldn't have gone there last night, he should have gone to the Sept and prayed for strength, prayed for guidance, prayed for anything that would have protected Arianne from his own selfishness. There any number of things he should have done. Should have sent Tyrek to Arianne, had her put-on horse and ship. Sent away across the Narrow Sea, to Norvos, her mother's home land, where his father's fist and the Spider's web cannot reach.

Hardyng shakes him again harder by the arm. "Rickard, Father Above, what's going on?"

The Prince swallows, shuts his eyes, and closes his mind. He'll not face this afraid. He'll go down fighting, clawing, shouting. Because what is a man but the some of his creations, his children, the Book of the Smith says, and he has no children, and will not allow them to take that from him. He'll force them to open his throat than submit to the knife. He's finished fearing Robert Baratheon, this shadow of the Demon of the Trident, he'll tear the crown from his head and Joffrey's too, if he really is there. He'll redeem the cowardice he felt as a child, he'll force his Father to repent the crimes done to his Mother, Myrcella and Tommen, and even Joff.

His face arranged, his blood set to boil, he says to Harry, nothing. And they walk on.

Red Ronnet leads them up the Tower of the Hand, up and up the spiralling stairs. And he plans the fight in his head, where and when to strike his Father, where the blows will rain down on, how to leap back from the counter, when to dive back in and wrap his hands around that fat neck. But a noise slows his thoughts, puts pour oil over his burning blood.

In an antechamber, they stop. It's not full for its size, but there are people in it nonetheless. Not guards, not a knife, not even the King himself. In a corner, Lysa Arryn sits on a chair, clutching in her arms her sickly child, Robyn, whimpering. In the other corner, Ser Vardis Egen, the Captain of the Hand's Guard, looks forlorn as he consults with his Uncle's, Stannis and Renly Baratheon. Ser Barristan Selmy, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, guards a door off to the side, through which voices can be heard. His Mother, the Queen, stands off to the side patting the head of a whimpering Tommen, and holding Myrcella's hand as she sniffs and wipes her noes on the sleeve of her dress. His Uncle Jaime is beside them, looking consoling in his white cloak and plate armour.

He's about to go to them before, as if appearing out of a puff of smoke, the worm Lord Varys slithers toward them. Not to greet his Prince, but to Harry, who he takes by the arm and says, "My lord, you have my sincerest condolences. You carry your grief well."

"Grief?"

Again, the Prince and he exchanged glances, before they walk forward to the Hand's chamber, where laid upon the bed, still and cold was Jon Arryn. Hardyng leans to rest his weight upon the doorway, Rickard half catching him.

"Oh, Harry, my friend, I am sorry."

Hardyng grips his friend's arm and squeezes, says, "Damn, I'd never…" He pauses and sucks in a breath, "I didn't know… I…" The lordling sways on his feet.

"Do you want some time alone?" He nods and Rickard closes the door.

Outside, he turns to his family, but Ser Barristan tells him, "His Grace wished to see you." And motions to the door he stood vigil behind.

He enters cautiously, slow, picking out the surrounding with each step. The King has his back to him, hands bracing himself against the fireplace, beside him the Grand Maester, Pycelle, speaks, "As I said, Your Grace, his fever spread like wildfire, through Lord Arryn it was doubtful he could have been saved. At his age, the body is weak to such…"

As his councillor went on speaking, the King rose a hand off the mantelpiece, and thrust his fist into a crude contact with Grand Maester's chest. Had the blow been any heavier, the old man would've been knocked from his feet, instead he stumbles backward, wounded, and bows out the room. They are left alone: Father and son.

"You… Your Grace, you wished to see me?"

King Robert slumps, then raises himself to his full height turns, and erupts like the Doom of Valyria. "You! You bastard! You idle, murdering, shitfaced whoreson!" He storms forward, mighty and imperial, stopping before the Prince, breathing like a torrent. "You've murdered the best man in the Seven Kingdoms, the man who raised me. The man who you weren't worthy to lick the boot of! And why? WHY IT THAT?!"

He goes to speak, but at the sight of his open mouth, his Father raises his fist again. The contact is anything but crude this time, the blow strikes him masterfully in the centre of his chest, knocks all the air out of him. The King's face is contorting with rage.

"Because you wanted a chance to try and play at being King! Because you wanted to see everyone bow to you! Well bow now! BOW YOURSELF, YOU SHIT!" Another blow hits him in the ribs, but as he moves to rise the fist grabs his throat, begins to squeeze. "Who do you think you are, boy?! You dare to think that you can be more than the murdering whore you are?! You are no more a Prince than the boil on my arse!" He tries to fight off his father, to claw away, back off from him, but his fists might as well be made from jelly given the impact they have. "You think you have men in your pocket? NO! Not while I live! I! ME! THE DEMON OF THE TRIDENT! They fear me as well they should. I clawed my way to the throne on the bodies of dragons. And you mean to climb the same one with a piece of paper." Robert spits on him, but he can't feel it. His vision starts going black, and there are spots of colour across what remains of it. But then the King releases him, throws him back, as if he were disposing of dirt that had clung to his hand.

It seems to be over, but he forces himself to his feet. He'll not be afraid. He'll not stay down. "You've betrayed everything it meant to be King. You betrayed the Gods!"

The King slaps him down again, smashes his fist into his mouth, slashing blood from his lip everywhere, then kicks him in the rib, grabs him by the head and drives him to the floor. "I betray God? My throne was given to me by the Warrior himself!" Then his father seized upon the medals around his neck, and pulled until they were taught, digging into the flesh. "You worship the Gods, but shit on their work. You dare question my crown! That work that delivered the realm from the tyranny of dragons! You cry out for the smallfolk, yet would destroy the men you delivered them from three hundred years of blood and fire. You! A virgin fucking child! I AM THE KING! I AM THE WARRIORS FIST ON EARTH! And you will never be this country's king!"

There's a sudden thud and a throbbing pain in his left hand, before the King releases him and he can hear his father's pounding footsteps leave the room, banging the door open. His vision glazes over, but he can clutch his hand and see between his blurred vision the blood covering it and the finger lying on the floor before he passes out.