Harrold

Their nights had all grown longer in the four days since it happened, Harrold Hardyng noted in the gloom of the dark room, and none of them seemed to sleep or if they did there was little of it to be had. Grief had swept around Winterfell's cavernous keep like a plague and it left nobody untouched. Of course Lord and Lady Stark had taken it worst of all, it left Robb Stark particularly hollow too. Likewise the servants and household of Winterfell seemed to share in their lord and lady's pain for the broken little body of Bran Stark, as he laid in his bedroom, frail, unconscious and the faint wisp of breath escaping him.

It hit King Robert in his heart too. He was always with Lord Eddard now, and took his friends grief into his core – it was as when Jon Arryn had died, the King's grief swallowed everything around him like a void. Rickard was the same, holding fast by Robb to hold him up as he needed, and when they were parted from each other, Harry went with Rickard to the tiny Sept of Winterfell, where they lit candles and prayed.

Unlike Rickard, he had never been one for the praying, or the Seven, or Septs. But now he supposed he owed a debt to it, to perform his duty by the Gods, and now joined Rick as much as he could and prayed as if they were going to war.

Yet beneath it all, there was the smallest part of Harry that did not understand why. Why they were doing this, he and Rickard? Since they'd first met two years ago when Jon Arryn brought him South to meet the Prince, Harry had not known him be like this. He had never seen him mourn and for someone who was not yet dead. They had not done so for Jon Arryn, but then Rickard had been busy, wrapped up in bandages and victim of his Father's wrath. Would this have been what they would have done? Would they have knelt in prayers for the dead in the Royal Sept, or the grander holiness of the Great Sept of Baelor?

"Rick?" He asked, his eyes suddenly open again and adjusting to the fragile candlelight, "Do you think this will make a difference?"

The Prince continued murmuring his prayers beneath his breath, until he stopped. For a moment, he was nervous for having spoken out loud as the Prince paused and took a long, slow lizard like blink before his reply came, "I don't know, Harry."

Then he sighed, and shifted from his knees to sit on his rump, facing him, "Do you think it will? I never known you to be the praying type."

"I'm not," Harry admitted sheepishly, knowing that despite the life he might lead and the debauchery some thought of him, Rickard had the Seven in his heart, "and I don't know either. But why do you, I mean, you always pray…"

He watched Rickard wipe at his tired eyes then put his hand on his fist as he thought, "Because it brings me comfort. You heard me say I fear nothing – I've heard you say it of me," Rickard smiled, and Harry watch intensely, mesmerised at the Prince as he did when he talked of jousting, or swordplay, or women, or their country. The Prince was good with his words always, that was a reason Harry liked him, but it took another level when he had passion for something, it was as though he were painting the inner most part of himself on a wall for others to see, "the truth is: I do fear, Harry. But I don't let that trouble me. The Gods have a design in play, the Pointed Star tells us so, hidden in chaos and the horror. Everything is calculated and planned for, so why worry? If something is meant to happen it will – not that what you or I do does not matter, it does – how we act determines how we fit into the plan, the Gods may have the design but we are the ones who build it. So if me praying makes them even consider that the Westeros might be better off for Brandon Stark being in it, then I pray. You see?"

Not really, Harry thought, but he was not about to say so. Yet the words were good, and it was good to hear them from Rickard. He latches onto the thing still gnawing at him these passed weeks, "I never prayed for Jon Arryn."

"Would it comfort you to?"

"No," Harry said at last, "like you said, I'm not a prayer."

More tentatively this time, Rickard asked, "Would you want me to? On your behalf?"

He considered it a moment, "Yes – that would comfort me."

Rickard then said his final prayer on his behalf, and they rose. It was close to dawn, but still pitch dark outside and in the castle corridors, with the servants having long ago extinguished the torches, so they went with a candle each to light their way. The Prince bid him goodnight, and went his way to his room but he was not yet tired. His mind was awake, even while his body might have dragged a bit.

A drink was where his mind went to, knowing that would get him to sleep, but there was shy chance of having one at this hour and his room had not been furnished with a flagon of wine as more important members of the royal party had been. So instead he wandered the castle for a bit, by his candlelight. It was a keep like any other, except when it was not. Despite the harsh winds that cut at the walls outside, the castle walls were warm to the touch, and just walking at a pace through its corridors, Harry could feel a sweat building on his forehead.

To touch at these walls you could feel at the history pulling at you, like many a keep Harry had been to. But it was not the same here, not like any he had visited. On the Red Keep you could feel the blood that the centuries had absorbed into them, not only those of the workers that died in Maegor the Cruel's desperate construction of his fortress, his temple to his divine, undoubtable right to rule, but also the scores of those that long pursued power in the corridors and failed. Yet those were the days behind them, as Rickard often said. And here in Winterfell the history that called him was different. It was cold, more ancient, as many centuries having passed the stones by as the Red Keep had seen decades.

It was easy to see now by comparison, why when Lord Eddard Stark had been sent to The Eyrie before he inherited Winterfell he had fallen in love with Jon Arryn's holdfast. Still, with Lord Arryn dead now that seemed as far away for him to imagine as Bran the Builder marking out the granite stones of Winterfell.

Gods above, he thought, reflecting on the futility of having been sober and awake for more hours than their were in a single day. He need to be drunk, he demanded to be un-sobered, he needed to vent spleen on a non-grieving sober person, bound to be in possession of quality drink.

The door of Tyrek Lannisters room in Winterfell did not have a sturdy bolt to it, he barely cracked his forehead against the wood and the flimsy piece of iron yielded its inhabitant. To Harry's surprise, the room was not in total darkness. A few candles that were burning very low atop their sticks cast a strange illumination that made the bedchamber look more like a playground for shadows in his wake. In the light, Tyrek Lannister look suddenly startled, and blinking as much as Harry was to the adjustment of light, though a glance at the half full goblet that spilt on the floor and the two treacherous flagons on the table beside Tyrek gave him pause to consider the worst – the selfish fucker was not, as he hoped, sober.

"Fuck are you doing?" Tyrek suddenly, annoyed at being so disturbed at such a late hour.

"Drink."

His friend frowned, as though this were not the perfectly reasonable answer that it obviously was to a sober mind. Reluctantly, Tyrek refilled his glass, and handed it to Harry as he sat down on the narrow bed beside him. Harry downed the glass of wine, which was disgusting as all wines were, nevertheless he held it out gain for more of the filth.

"While you're here, you might as well here the bad news," the Lannister told him as he replenished the glass, voicing none of the protest that Harry might have expected in daylight hours.

"I don't care. I've spent two hours praying with Rickard in the Sept – I'm not drunk enough for anymore trauma."

"Shut up," Tyrek blurted, wine spilling over the side of the flagon he held to top Harry up, showing his own drunkenness more than he would like, before continuing as though neither of them had made any interruption. "Rickard is about to land in the shit. What do we do about it?"

"I don't know. I don't know. I don't care, I told you. I don't care. I feel terrible, I feel fucking sober." He washed the bitter taste of the words back with more drink.

"So do I now," noted Tyrek, watching him knock back yet more of his wine forlornly, before carrying on once more, brandishing a slip of parchment, "I had a letter from my cousin."

He stood up suddenly, groaning, "Oh fuck, not more of them." As he began pacing.

"Daven," Tyrek insisted loudly, "is one of our finer relations. And he's written to me asking what in all Seven Hells that Rickard has done to annoy Lord Tywin so."

"Oh," Harry said flatly, before dipping his mouth back into his glass.

"Yes. I think we can assume he knows about Rickard's dalliance with… her."

Harry rolled his eyes. He was growing tiresome of this whole thing, he couldn't fathom the great issues about it. And perhaps it was the drink now inside of him that made Harry say as much, as he began pacing the small room, occasionally take swigs from his goblet.

"So? So what about it. The fuck is it anybody's business. So, Rickard is fucking Arianne Martell – so fucking what. I fuck women, I fuck lots of women, the King fucks lots of women – and he is married, and I have a bastard – who gives a half penny fuck! I am sick of this. Interfering fuckers, bastards. They'd be better off sticking their noses up that prick Joffrey's arse for a change."

"And that's another thing," he announced, spinning on his heels grandiosely before bearing down on the Tyrek, "That shit, that little fucker. All this playing around one another, him and Rickard."

"Gods," he pleaded, filing his goblet up yet again, before turning back to his paces, "Enough of this, trying to put the shits up the little sod. Rickard should just grab a hold of that twat's hair and smash his head against the floor until he's either knocked some of the Mother's love in to it or what passes for his brains out."

Drolly, Tyrek noted, "I'm sure the Hound wouldn't have anything to say about that." He reclined into his chair now, amused at what he probably considers a performance, the drink talking, not Harrold Hardyng. He'll take been laughed at in this moment, just so long as he has a person to burst his spleen over.

"That fucker," he remarked, imagining the hulking figure of Sandor Clegane now, "how I want to get into a fight with that fucker. If we'd have had our hands on steel in that yard, Gods Above, Rick, Robb and I, we'd have had him. See how Joffrey smirks then – it's all his fault. If Rickard had been born first then he'd next in line to be King, then we'd stand a fighting chance."

Suddenly, Tyrek looked forlornly away from him, like he were an old man consoling himself with the fact of his younger days. "Yes, true. If Rick were the elder, things would be better sadly. Joffrey isn't going anywhere."

Then he stopped, and once more turned on his heels, both this time slowly, and catching Tyrek's eye out of the corner of his, "But what if he did?"

It took Tyrek a while to come back, before his head snapped sharply back for their eyes to meet properly. "What if who did what?"

"What if," he drank the last dregs of his wine as Harry pondered how to phrase it, "what if Rickard were moved up the succession? Or rather… Joffrey out of it. Preferably from a tall window."

Like lightening, Tyrek was out of his chair and in front of him, slapping the goblet out of his hand and sending in it to a shattering finale against the door from which he had entered. His comrade meanwhile ignored the splinters of glass, and spoke in hushed voice but no less menacing, "Drunken fool, don't you dare suggest that kind of thing again. It's treason. You really think Rickard would thank you for offing his own brother – even if it is Joffrey? He'd swing the executioner's axe himself. That is if that small obstacle of his Father decides that Rickard might have been behind it and his head's on a pike besides yours." He drew a finger up to point right in his, Harry's, face. "I don't want to hear about this shit again."

He pushed Tyrek. Not hard, not enough to provoke any kind of reaction – not that Tyrek would ever be fool enough to try go bareknuckle with him, he might not be Rickard or the Mountain, but he has a foot and twice as much muscle on Tyrek.

"Get a grip, man," He said, dropping his voice to match, "I'm not saying we do any of this, or that we even tell Rick. We could ask what's-his-name."

"Ask him what?"

"You could write him a letter?"

"What for?"

"If he'll do in Joffrey?"

Quite unreasonably, Tyrek now folded him arms and frowned at him, "You want me to write a letter to what's-his-name, and ask if he'll just do us a favour and off the Crown Prince?"

"Yep."

"Oh, certainly, Harry," said Tyrek, now even more unreasonably annoyed, "Where should I address the Raven to?"

He shrugged, "No idea. South?"

"Sou-" Tyrek began, but then grabbed him by both arms and raised his voice to just below a shout, "Harry, what the fuck are you talking about?!"

"Him," he explained, shrugging off the grabbing hands, "the bald cunt. The eunuch."

"Varys?" Pleaded Tyrek.

"Yeah, him."

"Fuck off, Harry." Tyrek said, this time grabbing him more forcefully by the shoulder and frogging marching to the door, glass crunching under their feet. He threw it open, then himself out after it, adding a final goodbye: "Fuck off to bed, Harry." Before slamming the door in his face, after which he heard the broken haphazardly pushed back into its knackered holding.

The world came back to him slowly, in a haze. His vison was blurred, when he finally risked to open his eyes, and he was laying on a bed of straw: putting two and two together he realised that he managed to fall asleep in the stables. Harry couldn't remember how he'd gotten there, and the night before was a fog of incense and wine, memories that flashed of prayers and breaking glass. At least it was morning, he thought, pulling himself to his feet.

Behind him, a horse whickered and a dog was barking, but Harrold Hardyng gave them no mind or thought as he looked out over the stable door into the yard, only to feel a leaden weight drop into his stomach.

Prince Joffrey, and his faithful pet, Sandor Clegane conducting their mummer's farce, as a regiment's worth of squires buzzed around them like flies around shit. He remembered something of last night, a rant he had given about the Crown Prince to… Rickard? Tyrek? That much he didn't recall, and it might have been the drink still inside of him, but the urge to run across the yard and clonk the Prince right on the jaw suddenly cut straight through his hangover. He stood their a while, amidst the horse shit and old straw, contemplating Joffrey Baratheon: the least of three brothers; until an impish tone of voice drew him away from watching the Crown Prince.

"Harrold Hardyng, good morning," Tyrion Lannister bid him, waddling on his stubby legs out of Winterfell's library tower toward him, "You look as though you had a fine night with a skinful of wine. Yet I don't recall any feasting being arrange?"

Harry did his best not to look at the Imp as he spoke, "I had some wine, yes. Not that it's your business."

"Mmm," Lannister said, following his line of sight, "we all worry for Brandon Stark in our way, I understand. Yours would appear to be drink and… a sudden loathing for my other nephew?"

It was difficult for him not to cast the glance at the dwarf from the corner of his eye, but besides a shrug that was his only acknowledgement of the fact. Instead, he merely nodded towards Prince Joffrey, noting, "He has not even paid his respects to Lord Stark."

"Yes," Tyrion admitted, sucking in the morning air as he did so, "I must admit I thought he had brains, if not manners enough to do the courteous thing." Lannister exhaled, and Harry watched him shuffle with his fur cloak, "Still, shouldn't take much to amend." Before he then waddled towards his regal nephew, seemingly no other care in the world, least of all for him.

For Harry watching, it was a brief exchange between the Imp, the Prince and the Hound, with the former seemingly begin to lecture his nephew. Only when the youngest of the trio seemed to pompously brush off his uncle did course change, and Harry stood agog as he saw Tyrion Lannister slap Joffrey clean across the face. Not merely once, but twice! Only for him to then run off clutching both cheeks, tears breaching the corners of his eyes. Crying, not merely a boy but a Prince of seven-and-ten years, sent weeping like feeble girl less than half his age by a dwarf, whose only consequence for the action was a surly look from Sandor Clegane.

When Hound and Prince were out of the yard, Harry ran across it to where Tyrion Lannister seemed to be waiting for him, "Will you come break bread with me, Hardyng?"

Harry nodded dumbly, and as he followed the dwarf to Winterfell's Guest Hall. "How did you do that?" He spluttered, as they entered the castle, "Rickard… he always wants… but he would never."

"Of course Rickard would never," he stopped and thought a moment, "not unless Joff was being apocalyptically unbearable… but still, he's too good a lad. And loves his Mother too much to fight with his older brother." And then he set off again, adding to Harry, "better not mention this to anyone, eh, Harrold, be a good fellow yourself."

It was a cold and cavernous hall they entered, where an appropriately cold and cheerless meal was laid down for the Royal Family. Sheepishly, Harry continued to follow the Imp, as he sat down with his sister, the Queen; his brother, the Kingslayer; and their youngest children, Tommen and Myrcella.

"The King abed?" Tyrion asked his siblings, motioning for him to take up the seat beside him.

Harry felt the Queen's eyes on him as he sat, but dared not look at her. Perhaps she was contemplating whether or not he was among the infinite rank and file of her Lannister cousins, or some stranger that had merely slithered in between her deformed brother's cloven hooves. "The King did not rest the night. He stayed awake with Lord Eddard." Her eyes shifted, and Harry felt like he could breathe once more.

From across the table, Harry heard a small laugh and looked to see the Kingslayer, smiling lazily. "A big heart, our Robert," he said, almost fondly. Of all his uncles, it was Ser Jaime Lannister that remind Harry the most of Rickard, both of them surprisingly easy going, given their reputations, more fond of laughing than shouting, though chances are they were the deadliest person in any given room. However the difference they in the fact that Jaime Lannister was a murderer, not only that but a Kingslayer! Whereas Rickard… if Rickard had staved off murdering his brother for his mother's sake then, it may not have been the most solid of foundations, but a killer, in fact or by nature, he was not.

A servant approached, and Tyrion order a vast amount, yet when they turned to him, his mind suddenly went off food, and he merely said, "Same." And nodded at the Imp.

It was then that Rickard appeared, he shuffled in, undressed, besides a night shirt, breeches that he had tied poorly, and his fur dressing gown that he had rolled the sleeves up on. Harry glimpsed the frown that broke on the Queen's face as he entered the room, but Rickard couldn't see it, as he still rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Truly, he looked worse than Harry did, and obviously had little more sleep than King Robert and was only awake now out of courteousness for the time of morning. Slumped into a chair at the head of the table, next to his mother and Tommen, before glancing bleakly around at them all.

"Trouble sleeping," he explained, hoarsely, adding a long yawn after it, "and Tyrek didn't come and wake me." Rickard continued to blink, but gradually everyone lost interest as they could tell he was still too tired to provide much more of an account for himself.

Prince Tommen cut through the quickening silence. "Do you have news of Bran, Uncle?" he asked Tyrion Lannister.

"I stopped by the sickroom last night," The dwarf announced. "There was no change. The maester thought that a hopeful sign."

"I don't want Brandon to die," Tommen fretted. He was the most innocent of his brothers, but that was to be expected as the youngest of the four royal children.

"Lord Eddard had a brother named Brandon as well," Jaime mused. "One of the hostages murdered by Targaryen. It seems to be an unlucky name."

Rickard suddenly grunted, "Thanks, uncle."

Both his uncles then laughed, while the Queen drew tight lipped. Of course, the other hostage had been Rickard Stark, cooked alive by wildfire within his armour. "Oh, not so unlucky, surely, Rick. Brother." Tyrion said, smiling as the servant brought their plates. The ripped off a chunk of black bread, and threw it his eldest sitting nephew, who still blinded with sleep watched it bounce off him and roll to the floor.

"What do you mean?" Queen Cersei suddenly demanded of her brother.

Harry watched as Tyrion gave her a crooked smile. "Why, only that Tommen may get his wish. Maester Luwin thinks the boy may yet live."

Princess Myrcella, who was urging her picked from plate down the table to Rickard, broke out a happy gasp, and Tommen smiled nervously. Rickard's ears suddenly pricked up, as he murmured, "Gods be good." He seemed awake now, picked a sausage off Myrcella's plate and finally noticed him, Harry, sitting with them. They shared a smile, before the Prince bit into his food, and Harry started on his own.

The bacon was far too crunchy for his like, not that he need worry. As the conversation of the Queen and her brothers went on, Rickard shifted and plonked down next to Harry, picking the pieces he didn't want, as they both quietly observed the conversation. Tyrion Lannister announced his intention to go North and see the famous Wall, yet denied his intentions to take the Black in fairly concrete terms, only for his sister to stand abruptly and shoo herself and her youngest out of the room in a huff. The four men of them remaining behind to watch them go.

"Stark could end his sons torment," the Kingslayer remarked suddenly. "I would, if it were my son. It would be a mercy."

Harry looked at Rickard, feeling shocked, but the Prince merely frowned as though he had expected something like that.

"I advise against putting that suggestion to Lord Eddard, sweet brother," The Imp said. "He would not take it kindly."

"Even if the boy does live, he will be a cripple. Worse than a cripple. A grotesque. Give me a good clean death."

Tyrion Lannister replied with a shrug and seemed to speak with form of amused determination in his face. "Speaking for the grotesques, I beg to differ. Death is so terribly final, while life is full of possibilities."

"I agree," Rickard suddenly said, carving his initials idly into the table with Myrcella's discarded knife. "Death is the great enemy. To be fought as every turn." He then smiled and looked straight at his Kingslayer uncle. "Never thought you'd run away from any fight so keenly."

Ser Jaime's face tightened at the remark at first, then slackened, and he folded his arms smugly "I do believe it was you that backed down from your fracas with Joff and the Hound the other day."

"Bah!" Rick waved a dismissive hand, "Hardly worth the effort."

"We'd have had them," Harry declared, suddenly. He hadn't meant to say it, but the spirit of his conversation with Tyrek rose without his knowledge from the back of his throat. When he looked at Rick, he was staring back at him surprise at the abrupt surge of resolution from him.

"Really…" the Kingslayer said, now looking at Harry for what both of them realised was the first time. "Now there is a fight I'd like to see."

"Well," Rickard spoke suddenly, nudging Harry with his knee beneath the table to silence him, "You can right to Grandfather and explain why one of his favourite dogs died." The relatives of Lord Tywin all laughed, while Harry dipped his head back to his breakfast, though he kept an ear on the conversation as Rick went on. "Speaking of which," his voice now turned much more nonchalant, "have either of you had any letters from the Old Lion, lately."

Both Lannister brothers looked at one another.

"No."

"Have you?"

"Should we have?"

"Why?"

Rickard shrugged and shook his head. "No reason," he said, standing suddenly, "I sent him a letter before we left King's Landing. Hadn't gotten a reply. Was wondering if either of you were…" he paused, rolled his sleeves back down, "Never mind. I'm going to get dressed. You," Harry felt a sudden flick on his ear, he flinched and looked at Rickard as he went back the way he came into his room, "go find Tyrek. I want to visit Bran with Robb this morning, then go train, see if we can get his mind off things for a while. Till next time uncles."

They all watched him go, before Tyrion Lannister slapped his hands on the table, looking ecstatic, "Well, I wonder whom he'll be writing to." While his brother shook his head, lazy smile returning to his face. "Best go do as he asked Hardyng. We should do this another time.