Rickard

Not that he'd ever admit it, but there were times when the pomp and ceremony of a royal occasion were warmed to him – not that he'd ever be so arrogant or pompous to admit the fact, yet there was the small, indefatigable part of him that relish in being made a fuss of. A pride bubble from Rickard's belly to his chest as the combined occupant of Winterfell's Great Hall all bowed in deference to their Prince.

Of course it was merely vanity, a vice like any other, and not his favourite. He was not even the only Prince on display for them, but one of three. First came Joffrey, leading their procession of King Robert's sons, with Sansa Stark clinging to his arm, behind their illustrious Father with Lady Catelyn, who in turn was behind Lord Eddard and their Mother. The heads of the respective families were all in their finest jewels, cloth of gold and silver, white trimmed wool, and ermine.

Joffrey was in his element – relishing in the hubris with none of Rickard's humility. He had a new girl on his arm with whom to entreat and bewitched, and room of loyal Northerners to do likewise, a modest hand in the air offering the smallest wave to his grateful future subjects. Sansa Stark was simply spellbound, to which Rickard rolled his eyes and dubbed her a fool.

He himself was left with Arya Stark, whom escorting down the hall to the dais felt more like breaking in a wild horse. She'd tugged and pulled at her hair which had been bound backward in a tight bun, before setting about pulling at the flanks of her dress which she had been squeezed into. Only a penetrating gaze from her mother quieted her, before they had begun their entrance, and as they walked arm on arm, she found occasion to glance at the swell at the corner of his mouth where the bruise was forming, but she obviously didn't dare stare too long without the risk of being caught.

Bring up the rear of the princely advance was Tommen and Rickon, who had to be corralled occasionally by Robb and Myrcella, who were arm in arm behind them. Myrcella starred at her escort, though not with the curiosity of Arya Stark. Rather hers was much shier glances, through a deep blush that seemed to make Robb Stark grin all the wider. He too seemed found of the attention.

They took their positions at the head of the Hall, and then battle commenced.

Batteries of wine flagons materialised before them, as did plates and platters filled with the finest goods and foods that Winterfell had to offer. Rickard banged a flagon of his own before him and assaulted it with gusto, determined not to stop before the rest of the hall was but a blur before him. A swirling maelstrom of conversation blew on around his ears that made no dent nor impact on him as he poured goblet after goblet, until there was a sudden smack on his shoulder and a familiar voice suddenly cut through to him.

"Not eating, eh, Rickard?"

He sighed through his nose, and for the first time since he'd sat leaned back in his chair, slouching with goblet in hand. "I've lost my appetite, uncle."

Jaime Lannister shook his hair out, and smiled but Rickard could tell without looking that it was forced. "Mayhaps you ought to find it again? Or at least try one of our hosts for conversation? Even stretch your legs around the Hall, go find Harry and Tyrek?"

Suddenly, Rick's grip tightened and his goblet shattered into shards of glass and a spray of wine, yet despite his Uncle's reflexes to jump aside from the debris and the heard of glances that searched over after barely hearing the sound of breaking glass, Rickard paid it no mind as he merely growled, "Do not mention Tyrek to me."

His uncle now appeared at his other shoulder, "Ah, is that why you look as though a horse kicked you in the mouth?"

Rickard merely scowled, and taking up his knife, speared a whole honeyed chicken with it, brought a leg to his mouth and tore into it, "Is that why Mother sent you over here? Or," he waved down table at his Father, "has Rob the Fat reached his limit already?"

He received no answer, and they both settled in to watch the King continue to gorge himself on drink and food to their mutual disgust. At the sight, a wither of pain shot through his hand, and he sucked in a sudden breath as he began to rub the stub where a whole ringfinger had once been.

Noticing, his uncle asked, "Does it hurt?"

He shrugged, "Sometimes… not after I've had a drink…" He sighed again, and looked out at the Hall for better company. Harry was across the room, waving down Robb Stark, who appeared to have abandoned the dais and was approaching him in a corner with Theon Greyjoy and some others whose faces were too far for Rickard to recognise, though he noted that Tyrek was not among them.

Jaime backed off a step as he rose from the table himself, an eyebrow raised, but he silenced his uncle before he could ask, "I'm going to find Harry." Before nodding slightly to his Mother, "tell her not to fret." And he slipped passed his uncle before his hand had chance to squeeze his shoulder again.

The room swirled around him as he trudged toward his goal, stopping by the musicians, stringing along their pipes, drums and fiddles, when he made his request of them. He arrived at the table just as the tune began to strangle itself out. No one their noticed him until he banged a hand down on the table and sang, "And on the road to sweet Asshai, haroo, haroo!"

They all stopped to see before they all erupted. Harry was the first, shouting suddenly before he roared and jumped from the bench, onto the table, sending full plates, bowls and cutlery scattering everywhere to the scourge of those still seated, before he leapt down, binding Rickard up in his arms.

Count on Harry to join in when the singing starts, Rickard thought, as the Valeman squeezed him tightly before releasing him to begin belting out the rest of the song. Rickard took the chance to slip in on the bench, righting a nearby tankard amidst the debris left in Harry's wake and pouring himself some beer that had survived in a miraculous flagon.

He was surround by a motley crew. Some were his cousins, some other young retainers that had come with the Royal Party to Winterfell, others were guests and Northern natives. Harry seemed to enjoy them, and they didn't seem to mind his arrival or Harry, nevertheless Rickard was most relived by Tyrek's absence.

This fact let him relax a little, more so than the relief of a fine, brown ale, and he grinned and winked and toasted those around him as had not likewise followed Harry and began pounding around them singing and dancing.

"How now, my coz, sers, lords and squire?" he said between sips, "Jason, you keeping well, bruising gone down yet, lad?" He ruffled the younger ones hair, and shook hands with older, refused all bows and courtesies. His stomach for formality and titles had left, replaced by a surging appetite to drink and enjoy himself with good company. When Harry returned from the singing, he offered his friend a pipe, which Rickard took and smoked heavily from to match his drinking amidst laughter and telling stories.

Panting heavily, Harry squeezed a spot on the bench next to the Prince, but kept only one leg under the table, half in half out the spot, so he could be apart of conversation but detach himself to the dancing if he was required. "So, Stark," he grandly slurred, suddenly, banging a hand on the table authoritatively, to try and command attention, "how squares you and Jeygroy on a tourney ground?"

The two in question, who had shuffled themselves further down the table to be in and amongst the Prince and his cohort, looked at one another and gave a collective shrug.

"Pretty well," Robb said.

"Not so bad at all," Theon echoed.

He, Rickard, laughed, and expelled a mouthful of smoke, "Come now. Robb. Theon. Surely the noble House of Stark has more to offer than 'Pretty well'. I spent the whole afternoon hearing you both extol the virtues of Theon's archery," he indicated Greyjoy and fired an imaginary bow into the air, "but nothing about how you turn yourselves out with a sword and lance to hand. All the way up hear all my Father did was reminisce on former days and marvel at the way Stark men were always best have by your side when backs are to the wall." He then turns on Theon on with a heavy wink and wagging finger, "Not to mention how much of pain in the balls you fucking Ironmen were. Burning my grandfather's fleet in Port, clever bastards."

Theon blushes at this, and broadens his shoulders with a little pride, toasting with Rickard his people as clever bastards to a man. Robb meanwhile shrugs, and tells them, "My Father doesn't speak of the War, or the Rebellion. And less keen to talk about men in combat, let alone tourneys and the like… always says he doesn't want the other man to know what he'll do in a real fight."

Rickard nods, inclines his head with deference, and said, "Some good fucking sense behind that way of thinking," before lowering his voice and inching in closer, "but don't it seem like some great advantage in a real fight to know exactly what and when the other man is going to do next?"

While Theon rocked his head from side to side, as if about ready to say 'yes, Rickard, that does sound like a fine thing to know' Robb broke into a fierce grin. "Is that what you want to know, Rickard? What we'd do?" Each raised the tankard to the other, and toasted 'Huzzah' before downing their drinks and agree to test their metal on the morrow. It was then, when Rickard was amidst his own cloud of goodwill, ale and pipe smoke, that a voice that was eternally bound to pour sand on all his good moods spoke from behind him.

"Dear, dear, little brother, you turn yourself out like a peasant," Joffrey said.

Idly, Rickard cast a glance over his shoulder at the Crown Prince, who was looking down at him imperiously from his greater height. "And a good evening to you to, Joff." Rickard then said, pulling a cut off beef from a nearby plate. He dangled it in the air above him before setting the fine, dripping cut into his mouth. As he swallowed the last of it, he licked his fingers clean of the remaining juices and complimented Robb on Winterfell's cooks.

Despite this rather laisser-faire attitude, or more likely because of it, Joffrey continued to stand there, looking down upon his brother in every sense of the word. It was the mocking looking and irritating posturing that infuriated Rickard the most, before Joff could say anything else. As he opened his mouth once more to fire another irritating barb at his brother that Rickard sighed, set his cup down loudly, shuffled awkwardly to stand and face his brother, whom he grabbed by the arm and took aside. The rest of the table went without noticing the event, and anyone that might have certainly pretended not to.

"What do you want?" Rick asked his elder brother, irritating painted clear on his face. "Come for a fight."

The Gold Prince snorted, "You would think that."

"Then what," Rickard barked, before realising, "Of course, the Hound isn't here. And Gods forbid you grow some balls and appear alone to bait me."

Joffrey once smug and satisfied face soured like bad milk, and snapped back as though his fangs were dripping with blood, "As if you'd ever pick a fight in front of Mother."

Face turning to flint, Rick warned, "It'd be worth the bollocking to crack you in the nose. Try calling for your dog's help while spitting out your teeth. I always finish a fight I start."

Suddenly, Joffrey was pinching at the sore point of his mouth, and speaking in his mock sing-song voice, "Aww and I'm sure ickle Dick finished this one too."

Unable to control himself, Rickard yelped at the pain and spat out his pipe, catching right in the wrong part of his throat a gust of smoke that then had him spitting and coughing a cross his brother's front, "You fuck." He spluttered and bent double to hack out his lungs, and collect the pipe that had fallen from his lips.

Satisfied of his superiority once more, Joffrey snidely said, "Don't start what you can't finish, Dick."

Rising once more with fists trembling by his side, Rickard was about to speak once more, but was interrupted from across the hall by a load bellowing roar and both Princes groaned as their eyes were inexorably drawn toward the sound of their Father. It surprised neither of them in truth, but they nevertheless shared a common revulsion of disgust. To see their Father, a King, but not just any but the King in fragrant view of courtiers, subjects and the Highest Lord of the North with his hands up the dress of a woman other than his wife, the Queen. Rickard swore, and Joffrey gave the man a withering look, not that he noticed either.

"You see what you will grow into," Joffrey suddenly said, "that is your future."

But he wasn't listening, his eyes had left the King and found the Queen. It made his heart break. She made no acknowledgement of the scene, but she could not have failed to see it. No one in the Hall could. Yet she maintained the picture of being totally unaware. It was a look cultivated from long practise, Rickard knew and he hated the fact that he knew, he hated the fact in of itself, but most of all in that moment he hated his Father and this spat with Joffrey seemed so small.

When the anger in his face subsided, he turned to the Crown Prince and said, "If you want to finish this, come to the training yard tomorrow. I might not be able to knock that fat bastard down, but you're the closest thing."

Then he left him standing.

The heat of the Hall was growing oppressive. Despite being so famed for the cold, Winterfell, with hearths lit and some many drunk and sweltering bodies in a single space, to Rickard, Dorne itself couldn't have been any hotter. The noise had only increased too, and Rickard would have sworn that his ears might begin bleeding the way that they pounded and pounded against his skull. Perhaps the influx of wine and ale he'd consistently consumed did not help, and now he was merely continuing to do it as to see if it had any medicinal effect on his ears, or cooled him down at all.

To Rickard's eyes, the night had peaked. Stragglers had drifted away from the Hall, to their beds, or darker corners with serving wenches, and those of weakened stamina had collapsed or drifted to sleep amidst what remained an assault of music, laughter and shouting across the tables. Across from the table from the Prince, Theon Greyjoy and his cousin Jason Lannister were soundly asleep, snoring softly, one into a tankard that he dribbled spit into with every other breath. Harrold Hardyng was not quite asleep next to them, the pipe hanging loosely from his mouth full of embers, leaned back against a wall with a dreamy set of eyes that followed a pretty, brown-haired girl that collected empty and smashed bits of crockery from the dais. And Robb Stark? Rickard looked around. Robb Stark was nowhere to be seen.

Tired suddenly from the assault of the heavy haze looming over the Hall, Rickard stood.

"I think I'll go outside. Cool off." He told no-one especially, placed his hand on his belt and strode from the Great Hall.

He was out the Hall and about to find the courtyard when a Maester in grey robes, with grey eyes and greyer hair, suddenly called after him, "My Prince?"

Rickard spun on his heels uneasily, the speed not mixing with his drink. Yet he held steady, and managed not to slur too much as he addressed the Maester.

"Yes, Maester…"

"Luwin." He prompted with a bow, to which Rickard courteously replied on instinct.

"Maester Luwin," he corrected himself, trying not to grin too drunkenly.

"A raven arrived for you, My Prince. This evening."

He offered Rickard the parchment with no more words, but they each bowed to one another once more before the old man turned and went back the way he came. Rickard's brow furrowed as he turned over the parchment and saw the red wax and the proud, roaring lion of Casterly Rock pressed onto it. He knew immediately his grandfather's signs, but could not understand why he'd received one at Winterfell. He'd not sent any letter to his Grandfather in a long while, and Tywin Lannister rarely wrote simply for a catch up with any man – even his grandson.

With eagerness, Rickard immediately snapped open the seal and unfolded the letter and just as quickly wished he hadn't bothered. The words of his grandfather cut him straight to the quick. The eyes of the Rock are not blind. You have a responsibility to behave… Brought disrespect on yourself and your family. The consequences of these actions could be incalculable and grievous in the extreme.

He stopped reading. The words stopped sinking in anymore, and the gist was already clear. He crumpled it in his hands. His grandfather never mentioned her name, which was the strangest thing, how could he not have? But then that was exactly his Grandfather. He would have been incapable to write Princess Arianne Martell in his own hand, without resorting to words like Dornish harlot or the like.

Rickard's blood was suddenly ice.

He had never foresaw this. He never expected to keep any secret from Tywin Lannister so for long, and had given up trying long ago. But with this he had expected to have the truth out on his own terms, to tell the Old Lion when the time was right, when he could put the truth down in words without fear – that he loved the Princess of Dorne. Yet those that knew – Tyrek, his grandfather, perhaps even his Mother and Cousin Lancel – seemed unable to even contemplate the fact: decried Arianne as a whore, himself as young and naïve. Could they not understand, that despite even his own will, Rickard Baratheon had fallen in love with Arianne Nymeros Martell? This fact was in his blood now, a godsend and irrefutable, he had no choice anymore.

The parchment unfurled itself as Rickard's finger suddenly grew slack. He skimmed down the rest of the letter, and his suspicions were confirmed by the remainder of his Grandfather's words. His income was cut off, his men-at-arms would leave his service upon return to King's Landing, what little money he had from the Royal Treasury was withheld at Lord Tywin's request until further notice and because his grandfather's money kept him living in the Red Keep he was effectively being forced out of King's Landing to return to the Rock and make account for his actions. No mention of Arianne in the rest, which at least meant for now she was shielded from any rebuke – she was after all an Ambassador, her Father's envoy to the court. That was some small comfort to him, she was for now protected.

Yet now he was all but destitute once he returned to King's Landing, out on the streets, like the Beggar King in Essos. He crumpled the letter a final time and threw it a nearby torch, it expired in a flurry of ash almost immediately as Rickard watched it.

He wanted fall to his knees.

He wanted to drop before an alter and pray.

He wanted Arianne – this witch who had ensnared him, whom he loved, whose ghost had pursued him every waking moment since he left King's Landing. What he wouldn't have given to have her here, to see the curve of her smile, the feel of the warmth of her skin, the sound of the the tease in her voice, and scent the of her hair.

"Rickard?"

Startled, he turned, for a moment wanting to see Tyrek – but it wasn't.

"Robb?"

They stood starring at one another, Stark almost wary as though he had caught him in some private moment, disturbed accidentally.

"I'd come for some air," Rickard explained suddenly, though it felt as if he were trying to just convince himself more than Robb. "The Hall was… the heat…" He stopped rather than fumble on. "What are you?"

He started but Robb cut across before he could finish. "The same, but I was going to see Grey Wind – my wolf – would you like to see him?"

Relived to be anywhere and doing anything else, Rickard swung wide with his arm in a gesture, "Lead on." And followed his host down the corridor.

When they entered the courtyard, the icy air was immediately thick in Rickard's throat and it was like breathing in soup when compare with the formerly thin air within the castle. It was a quiet yard, which pleased him to see, with only one, wind battered guard high on the battlements above them yet within that second, Rickard long to be a common man as him, free to do as he chose with his heart and person.

Robb led him silently toward a paddock that had been nailed together hastily to house the Stark's already famous direwolf pups while their masters and mistresses were in the feats. Only Grey Wind remained, padding up and down, whining and eager for release. Though a pup, when the wolf raised on its hind legs to lean on the fence at the sight of Robb it easily peered over the top with shoulder height at the fence. Rickard supposed Grey Wind was already well trained by Robb, as with the feeblest of pushes it could have escaped the enclosure.

"Fine animal," Rickard said, stroking the wolf's furry cheek after Robb gave him permission. It really was more like an overlarge dog, tail wagging, tongue lolling out its mouth. Yet this was just a pup, less than a year and Rickard could easily imagine the most keen and vicious of hunting hounds. "I've a friend in the South that breeds hounds. Imagine the pedigree we'd get from this beast."

"Aroo?" Grey Wind coked his head to one side, his tail stopped wagging a moment, then dropped to his back and began rolling in the mud like the most common mut. Rickard laughed and Robb chuckled.

No longer distracted, Rickard took a long breath of cool air, and dropped onto his back into the mud himself breathing heavily. Robb to his credit barely seemed to notice, and kept watching Grey Wind over the fence

"You are troubled, My Prince."

"Yes. My Lord, I am."

None of them spoke for a while after that. Rickard closed his eyes, and concentrated on his breathing, and prayed under his breath. Father Above, grant me strength for the times ahead. Mother Above, protect those whom I love, and do not let the harm one another. Warrior, keep my courage strong, and my steel sturdy to defend my love. Smith, do not allow the bonds of my life to break or fail. Maiden, protect my love should I fail. Crone, grant me wisdom to know what must be done. Once finished, he opens his eyes and sees the stars, feels Robb patting Grey Winds on the side.

"Have you known love, my Lord? Is there a woman in the life of Robb Stark?"

"No," Robb replied, and then Rickard can hear the blush behind Robb's face, "but I have laid with a woman."

"Did you love her?"

"I was… young. Younger," Stark corrected, "she was a whore… and…" He tails off, and Rickard waves an arm.

"No shame in such, Robb," he consoled him, "you're not the first nor the last, plenty of man and boy gone to bed with a whore, even found it wanting in one way or another."

"Yes," Robb said, "wanting…"

Who is meant to be comforting whom, Rickard thinks, and then slaps his forehead as punishment for the cruelty of the thought. "Harry does, often." He announced to fill the air, "even had a bastard in King's Landing… I've met her, smiling little thing. Hair black as the devil, so people naturally think it's mine… bastards."

"That must be hard."

"Not really," he shrugged, draping his arm over his eyes, elbow on the bridge of his nose, "My life his half written by my father. We have the unfortunate habit of looking alike, you may have noticed."

"I thought I glimpsed a resemblance."

He shifted his arm a moment to peak and share a grin with Robb. "Yeah, my father the whoremonger King, lover of every woman he clapped eyes on. While I…" His voice cracked, "while I love only one woman…" His throat dried, seemed to close before he can admit the fact. "Gods," he throws his arm to the fence and pulls himself to his feet, "it shall break me."

He sighs.

It's a relief that Robb does not seem to judge him, nor pity him. He only seeks to listen. To hold up some of the weight of the Prince's burden if he can. It's strange from someone whom he has known for less than twelve hours. "You're a good fellow, Robb."

He nodded, and they shared the silence a little longer.

"Who is she?"

Rickard sighed, bows his head and rests it on the fence. "Princess Arianne Nymeros Martell, of Dorne." At last he seems to have taken Robb by surprise. "yes, a Dornish Princess and a Royal Prince – don't such matches always end well? This one shall end as well as the last did I expect."

"Rickard?"

He turned and put his back to the fence, and rested against it. "Despite my wishes, it seems everyone knows, or thinks they do. My mother will disapprove, my cousins, no doubt Harry will and my Father – fat bastard. My Grandfather certainly knows now, Seven knows how, and sent me a letter tonight. If I don't snap back into line right now, he will ruin me, turn me penniless. Yet despite all, I can't give her up." Robb looked puzzled, and well he should have done, for neither could Rickard fathom it, "Gods, I've tried it with others, tried to keep away, from thinking of her, but every time, whenever I catch myself drifting into listlessness of thought she's there. The last thing I think of at night, and the first thing I think of in the morning. I am a sinner, and I don't care anymore." As an afterthought he added, "Maybe I should have been a Septon."

Robb suddenly laughed at this admission, "My Prince… Rickard… you are a warrior born."

"Yes," he agreed, laughing suddenly too, "but as a boy I always wanted to be a Septon." When they subside laughing, the question is still sat in front of them as large as Grey Wind, "Well, Robb, what is a Prince to do?"

"I wouldn't presume to instruct a Prince."

"But?"

"But," he paused to collect himself, "but I think love and wisdom are irreconcilable, but you must follow your heart to where it leads you and hope you are man enough to the challenge."

"Hmm," Rickard considered, "with such wise words, my father should make you Hand and save your father the trouble." They laughed again. Grey Wind approached them once more, and they scratched his ears, nose and belly, before Robb finally released the direwolf to free roam alongside them. "You should come to the Capital, Robb, you'd do well there and I expect your father could use the help."

"If he accepts the offer."

"Yes, if he does." It became Robbs turn to ponder and consider. "I don't know, maybe…"

"Come see the world," Rickard encouraged, "Impressive as the North is, there is a wider world beyond it. We could all do well to see more of it."

"I don't know, Rickard," he could see the temptation across his friend's face, "I am still a servant of Winterfell. I must do what is best."

"As must we all." He held out a hand for Stark. "Goodnight, Robb."

"Goodnight, Rick."