Tyrek
Tyrek sighed through his nose, and the crowd roared. They were stamping the feet, hooting and roaring at the seen before them. Men were calling out bets and wagers and the name of their champion, throwing money into the air as it slipped from their sweaty grasps. He just shook his head, and leaned further into his tree, watching his cousin.
Rickard was sidestepping in a circle, keeping face with his opponent, who mirrored his movement, both with fists raised out in front of them, knuckles some what bruised and bloody. The Prince had called for this brawl as the quickest and most painful means of blowing off steam, and these days he seemed to have a fair amount of steam worked up. Each day, as they progressed a long their slow, debauched trek to Winterfell, across the Riverlands, a new offence rode on Rick's back to work him into a horrible temper, not that his temper had particularly cool since they'd left King's Landing anyway.
Today, it had once more been his mother, who stoked the Prince into a new fury, by lecturing over the day befores pass time, which had been a knife throwing contest, which had turned into a hatchet throwing contests, and had escalated more and more, before luring in the Prince's younger brother, Tommen. Naturally the Queen flew into a fury when she'd heard of the gambling and dangerous things been thrown about on the edge of the camp, particular when she heard at times their targets consisted of the space between some drunk fool's ring finger and his smallest. Especially when she saw the arrows that had been launched into her own carriage.
So, today had decide some bare-knuckle brawling was in order. And he'd already disposed of three camp followers who thought they could take on the Princely Brat, not to mention dusted off Harry Arryn with a bloody nose and lip, and one of his father's guards, who was bound to go and turn them all in once his head stopped spinning.
There was another softer cry from the crowd, as Rick lunged forward with his fist once more, only to pull it back, and his latest match – a knight from Darry, that had decided to join them from there – flinch and almost stumble backwards over his own feet. The on lookers laughed, the knight blushed then stayed red from rage. Ty watched his cousin grin, knowing that things were now over.
He dusted off his cousins feathered hat, which he held for him, and began to circle the on lookers holding it out for the owed bets. Harry, who was sat keeping the book of wages tended to, looked up at him, cloth rammed up one of his nostrils to hem the bleeding. "What, Ty? 'hey've not finish ish yet?"
Tyrek just grinned and pointed. The Darry knight swung for Rick, who cough the hook one his left arm, and swung into his opposites ribs with his right, then again at the should, and began to pound in on the Knight's left side. He grunted from the onslaught, tried to back off, and brought his other hand up try and grab at Rickard's fist laying into him, but with this the Prince then slipped his blocking arm past the other's fist and smashed his open palm against the side of his head, which seemed to knock the offender through a loop and he now began to buckle at the knees. Rickard finally drew back his hand a few inches, balling it into a fist, and stuck out in a firm jab.
For the quick ending, Rik had obviously misjudged his aim on the last strike, catching jaw bone and not cheek, as once his opponent was being pulled off the ground, he held his left knuckles and started to shake them out. Tyrek just rolled his eyes for the moment and then continued his collection of the owed money.
"Ish neber a weal conteshed when he'sh fighting, ish it?" Harry grumbled to Ty, noticing the low earning as he checked the collected money.
"Still, I'd have thought that they'd have learned long before we crossed the Trident. Rickard is invincible."
He's not. Not really. Not in the conventional sense, at least. You may beat at one thing, but never another thing. And even if you do he'll return, again, and again, and again, until he has you trampled underfoot. It's a curious defect in him, that he hardly knows a lost match when you present him with one.
Regardless, nobody else seemed willing to take the Prince on anymore, which meant, owing to his hurting knuckles he could bow out, his rage tempered, and leave anyone else to knock seven bells out of one another.
Ty held out a bandage for Rick as approached, which he promptly wrapped around his offending fist, and spat a large gob of blood on the grass. "Bit my cheek. Fuck sake. During the last, when he clobbered me."
"Could be worsh, Wick." Harry said, writing down the new bets as people started passing him notes and whispering in his ear, as two new contenders went at it. "Think I shaw him shpitting teef out."
His Prince scoffed, "I barely tapped him. Think he did more damage to me." He insisted, once more rubbing his knuckles.
"Nothing a drink won't fix," he, Tyrek, says offering a wineskin.
"Gods, you know I hate wine." Complains Rick between swings.
"We ran out of beer and mead. And you never take water after a fight unless its serious."
"How well you know me." Laughs his coz, grasping his shoulder. "Which means?" Holding up the other hand, expectantly. Again, Ty rolls his eyes and hand over the purse. "Not bad. You'd have thought I might be able to earn a living off my wagers. Gods, but that bastard at the Treasury still sees fit to humble my wealth."
You might yet live off it, Rick, he thinks later, watching the Prince lose money which he both can and cannot afford to lose in more and more matches. Not that he should have to worry about his money, yet Rick is always seemingly punished by having his allowances swallowed up by his contribution to the maintenance of his own household, their boarding in the Red Keep, as well pay for his own guards and servants, and their fines, which, whenever they sneak out the Red Keep at night to get blind, steaming drunk, can be quite expensive.
Rik sinks half a wineskin and loses three in a row before he starts becoming restless once more, yet luckily enough a distraction is here for him: cousin Lancel, pressed into his finest squire doublet, is coming for them looking perturbed and annoyed at having to associate once more with his degenerate cousins. Both of their eyes light up, a smile tugging the corner of Rik's mouth, and they both stride forward to the lad, who is immediately thrown off by the enthusiasm that greets them.
The Prince grips Lancel with both arms and lifts him into the air, while the former squeaks and swats at him to leave him be.
"By the Gods, sweet Lancel, you venomous little reptile, how well it is to see you here amongst the arse of our little entourage." The Prince says, placing the squire back on the floor, who hurriedly straightens his attire, re-flattens his hat.
He, smirking at Lancel coyly, tells Rickard, "Come now, Black Eye," recycling the old name the squires of the Rock called Rik, first derogatory, when Lancel himself had come up with it, but then affectionately once he'd made the name his own, "you ought to know that old Shitfingers here is too above us now for this to be social."
"Quite right, Bullseye."
And then to Lancel, "Come on, Shitfingers, what you after?"
"Well," Lancel says, gritting horrendously at the use of the name he thought he'd outgrown and spitting venom with every syllable, "Her Grace, the Queen wishes to see in the royal carriage. The Orphan here," he gestures at he, Tyrek, "is not permitted to go with you. It's supposed to be a private conversation."
A nerve jumps in Rik's cheek. "Private? Really? So no doubt you'll be escorting back to my mother. Well that doesn't sound very private to me, so I'm sure you won't begrudge poor Tyrek here the chance to ensure my safety. But then if you feel you do so much on your, feel free to prove to some of the lads here."
To prove the point, he gestures to where the matches are still being fought and Harry still taking on the bets. Lancel just rolls his eyes and struts away, leaving them to follow in his footsteps, which are far to big for his boots.
When they finally reach the tent, Preston Greenfield and Meryn Trent are there to ensure Rik enters alone. They fall in behind him, one at each soldier, as if he were on his way to the gallows, the Prince himself looking naked without a means to defend himself against the fully armed and armoured white knights. They are left alone, together: Lancel and Tyrek; cousin and cousin; Shitfingers and Orphan. The latter are the names are the ones which irk each of them the most. Lancel, for the humiliation the memory brings him, and for himself, the fact that his father, Tygett Lannister is long dead, and his mother driven into madness for the longest time, shut away in her father's castle and never heard from again.
They eye each other up.
If Lancel can be described as anything it is much like what he is to Rickard, only he is split between three different masters, for whom he must act as dogsbody equal to each: his coz, Cersei; his master, the King; and their son, Joffrey. He has no doubt which prince he would rather serve, not least because he and Rik have been tied at the ankle since they were boys.
Its from Lancel that Joffrey learns all there is to know about Rik, much the same can be said for the Queen too. The King's squire will learn what he can from the other squire, the gossipers at court, the places where neither prince nor queen cannot go, even from Rickard himself, when he fancies the need to annoy or mislead either one of them, or lacking that, it is himself who will spin the lie on Rik's behalf.
Finally, Lancel says, "It must be a disappointment to you. This business."
Bemused, he rolls his eyes and turns toward his fellow squire. "What business would this be then?" He sees the trepidation mould itself onto Lancel's face, before adding. "Unless you feel you can't part with the information, coz."
Shitfinger smiles. "I may as well, seeing as though there are no secrets but one between the two of you."
"Do tell."
Smiles turns to an unsettling grin. "I shall tell only this: that you'll be rather pleased once he comes out of that tent."
"What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?"
"Her Grace know about his meetings with the Dornish woman. His plans to ally them with his own people over this treaty of yours, which if I might add was reckless on your part, allowing him to do it."
"How so? Should a Prince not help his people, even to his own cost? Don't answer I know what you think. The way you serve that other creature is good enough for me. And as for the Princess, what of it? A meeting of two of their rank, has to be among the worst kept secrets in King's Landing. Not to mention all the times they've been acquaintances before this Charter business. Well done, old boy, your spy craft is by far excellent, I'm surprised this passes as news to anyone, really."
"Oh, that much is obvious. I was more talking about their courting."
"Courting," he scoffs, "don't talk rubbish. The only talk of courting between them is how best to squeeze Highgarden into their ranks."
"'Their's', Ty. Not 'ours'. Anyway of course that is what the Queen thinks, given what her other spies tell her. About meeting within the Sept with her every night, their late-night dinners with one another, sneaking away into dark corners to meet."
He has excuses for them all, they come natural with such a life he must lead. "He's always been one for the Gods, has Rick, and should she not be a good woman of Faith, as all women should be? Dinner is a good place to talk stratagem as any. And where would you and these other spies find work if we all shouted our conspiracy from the walls of Maegor's?"
"Still, I don't believe it myself. I think something else entirely, yet Her Grace refuses to acknowledge the possibility. Suddenly she sees only the best in him regardless of what I say."
"Sensible woman." He states.
But then, nonchalantly, Lancel says to him, "You don't happen to know how many times he's ploughed her?"
The words slap him in the head. He splutters out rebuts, yet they're a jumble mess between the disparaging remarks of Lancel against his Prince and the Princess.
"This Dornish Princess, you know how she dresses, I bet her father had her trained up as a whore you know, and that's why she came here. To fuck herself into King's Landing and snatch the kingdom away with her cunt. Not that Rik could resist, mind you. Sneak out into the city with you, Harry and the rest of those dogs at court. I'd be surprised if he hasn't already knocked the bitch up. He can put her in that house by the River Gate with the rest of his rotten brood."
Finally, he snaps, bursts out. "That's Harry's bastard."
"Sure," sneers Lancel, "Still, the Queen will have them broken apart whatever the case. Which as I said is good for you, no more competition. For I can see how the jealousy bites at you. Mayhap now Rickard will be ploughing you before long, as you'd prefer."
"I've no idea… what… you…"
"I know, Ty. I do know."
Tyrek's mind clears in an instant. A citric, blinding fury, bubbling from his gut. It shakes his fists, turns his serene face brick red. A kind of rage that could cow Rickard and Robert Baratheon, both.
"Rik… I… How… Never…"
"Then there'll be no more need for you to tug away at yourself all night thinking of him. No need to be dragging dark haired boys back to your tent at night, h-hrrrkkk!"
It's the suddenness of his rage bursting out of him that makes his body act of his own accord, makes him see black as he grabs Lancel by the throat, slam him against one of the giant wheels of the Royal Wheelhouse. Only the vibrations shaking them both and the entire carriage reawaken his conscious mind, and he falls back away from him, retreats, hangs his in shame.
Then Lancel is laughing, blood seeping from his nose. "You see, Orphan. I know things that you don't even know about yourself."
Of course, now he sees the ruse. All along, Lancel hadn't given a fig about Rik and the Martell girl. His suspicions, if they exist, are not so profound or provable. This had been for him, to draw him out, cut out the heart and soul of him, to lay it bare across the floor for them both to stare at.
He says nothing. Not to Lancel. Not to Rick, when he finally emerges. Not as Rik plays back in full the words exchanged between mother and son. Not when he repeats the whole story to Harry later. Not when Harry stumbles to offer assurance that the Dornish are no great loss. Not a word.
Only when Harry and Rik's pleading eyes both move him to speak, he says, "We cannot surrender this. We cannot give in. For the sake of the Charter we must go on whatever."
Rickard rises and grasps Tyrek. "Thank you, of course. We shall neither flag nor fail, not when the cause is just." And finally, he turns himself around, releases him and says, "Lancle shook you up too then, obviously. What was it?"
"Lancel?" He questions. "Lancel… Lancel…" Lancel has ruined me, has the power to destroy me, or to have you destroy me. He has laid my only secret bare. The one and only secret that must always be kept no matter the cost. No matter what it may do to me. "Lancel is dangerous. More than we ever knew him to be. If we could, I'd have him dead." This horrifies all of them. It means that now Lancel is the most dangerous person in all Seven Kingdoms to them, to the cause. Their motto has always been: Without violence. Now they may have to compromise this, and whatever animosity Rickard and Lancel have had since they were boys at the Rock, it has hardly been murderous. He's never know murder to solve anything, but for Tyrek of all people to say this, while it may not sway him, it may mean his hand is forced.
"What could he possibly know?"
He thinks, says, "He knows… or has suspicions about, yourself… and well, the Princess… that you, well… you're not, are you?"
But, of course, he no longer needs an answer. He can see in the subtle change of his face, the ease of his grip, the slight recoil of his body, written all over his body. And then comes the greatest insult Rickard has ever given him. "No, of course not. Arianne and I are friends, and close I admit, but… not…"
What is she, Rickard? He wants to ask. What does she do for you, what solace does she grant you, to betray me so. I, who have always been with you, your own first man and friend, the one who consoled you as a lonely boy at the Rock, who wept into my shoulder whimpering for his mother. The one with whom you conquered every obstacle, who always said the no cliff was too high to jump from, who has always sworn his bow and sword to you. What is this Dornish whore? Why not I, Rickard? Why not?
In the end, Rick asks to be left alone. To consider the next call of action. They leave whatever pipe weed they have for him to smike alone beneath a tree and ponder, this suits him fine. He goes alone, through the camp, searching. And needs to get away from Rickard now, maybe forever. No, not forever. That would be too painful.
He finds the tent he's looking for. No need to be dragging dark haired boys back to your tent, Lancel had said. And sure enough, the boy himself can be found in his own small cramped tent, bought with the coins Ty had given him. He's surprised to see him, true, but not unhappy to.
"My Lord?" He says, brushing back his dark hair behind his ear. "What would you want of me?"
"Take off your clothes," he commands, "and lie on your front."
The lad is perhaps two, three years his junior. His eyes a mix of green and brown, the wrong colour, which he couldn't bare either. He acquiesces eager enough, wiggling his hips in the air. Tyrek pulls a lace of his tunic loose, all the way, taking it in both hands, loosens his belt for free moving.
Straddled, the boy coos like a dove. Raises his head, bares his neck, so its easy to wrap the lace round it. He jerks sudden, thrashes and panics, but the tightness cutting his flesh so that it weeps blood cuts off his voice and shouting.
When they finished last time, Tyrek had whispered Rickard's name, but now the only thing he says is sorry, but this is secret that must be kept no matter the cost. It must be secret