Rickard
They had made good progress, Rick thought as he sniffed the best that Northern air had to offer still. He was grateful to have the cold out of his bones now, and relived to note that they had outpaced the falling snows in good time. This in turn meant that they could make quicker and better progress South.
Rickard stepped fully out of his tent, into the dawn light, and looked around at their humble campsite. He, his cousins, Harrold Hardyng, and the small band of retainers, squire and hedge knights that followed them over the King's column had set their campfires and tents up away from the Royal Party, where Stark, Lannister and the King's men set their tents and cookfires up in a ring around the Queen's royal carriage.
They on the other hand were on the crest of a small incline, just up from a stream that varied from where it was shallow and deep wildly for something so thin. The evening prior, when they had stopped for the day and put up their tents, a few of his younger cousins had gone down to it and tried to fish, but an hour later and they had lost all patience with the idea when Tyrek followed after them and pointed out it was a bad time of the year for fishing. With their gusto eroded after their fallen endeavour, he, Rickard, had himself spooned rabbit stew into bowls for them and told them the story of Durran Godsgrief before they set their heads down for the night.
Smiling at his memory of their enraptured faces at his telling of the tale, Rickard walked across their camp, down the crest of hill towards the stream. The grass was pleasantly cool on his bare feet, and it was a relief that the ground had failed to frost overnight, and the air had already begun to warm as the sun peaked out over the branches of trees nearby. Good country, the North, he though as he reached the stream, and rolled up the legs of the breeches he'd slept in to take a wash.
He'd never taken in the vast space of the North before, perhaps because on the way up, he'd been too drunk or distracted to notice it. Rickard felt as though he could take his horse in any direction for a hundred miles and see change in the landscape or a single person. He washed quickly in the stream, hesitant to be too generous with the water that stung his skin with the cold, and didn't bother washing his hair, feeling the extra length that had grown from it since they had left King's Landing.
A thought of King's Landing made him restless, increasingly so now they were on the road back to it. He wanted to be gone soon, and riding ahead of the column as soon as possible, once his part of the camp were awake and mounted. Of course, no matter how early they roused and set off, Rickard wasn't about to charge off head of the Royal Party. But he hoped that through his own setting of pace, moving first and further ahead of the column, he could get the rest of it to mover all the quicker back to King's Landing. If not, it at least felt good to up and moving this early for a change.
On their progress North, his Party had lagged far behind the royal column – they had been lazy and lethargic bastards, for the most part, with easy wine flowing – they rose late and went to bed later than the rest of the camp.
Still now, it felt good to be up this early for a change, especially with plenty of fresh, clean air. He stood in the water a while, up to just below his knees, hands on his hips looking out at the magnificent moor that steamed in the encroaching sun, the water he'd splashed on himself tingling his skin as it dried on him. An ear twitched as he heard someone approaching, and he glanced back to see Tyrek walking towards him, looking dishevelled but more dressed than he, and a spare shirt over his shoulder.
"Morning," his cousin said, rubbing at the corner of his hand with heel of his hand, "Are these early mornings of yours a new habit?"
Rickard merely hummed, as though he hadn't really heard the question, and gestured wide at the countryside that surrounded them, "Fine land," he noted, finally turning to face Tyrek, before his hands returned to rest on his hips, "Starks are lucky to call this their own."
Tyrek smiled, his eyes still bleary, "Well they have enough of it. Maybe if you ask Lord Stark for some, he'll make a gift of it to you."
A snort of laughter caught on Rickard's teeth, before he merely shrugged his shoulders and dismissed the idea, "Nah, couldn't stand to freeze my bollocks off up here. Give me somewhere warmer, with a chance to stay that way."
He stepped his way out of the water, and gave a small shiver that shook off the rest of the water droplets on his skin. Tyrek tossed him the shirt he held in his hand, and they walked back up the incline as he pulled it over his head, as he told Tyrek to start getting people ready to go soon as possible. Others had started rising by now, a few cookfires had got started and they passed two of their group that followed his example to go and wash in cold, biting stream below them.
When Rick made it back to his tent, he found an amusing sight. Harry looking at his worst, clearly someone had just shaken him awake, but Harrold Hardyng was no more a morning hob than he was a ferret, and was looking around at everything that made a noise or disturbed him blinking angrily look a perturbed mole. He was still mostly undressed, but for at least three fur cloaks, one Rickard recognized as his own, wrapped around himself as he sat on a tree stump in front of a cookfire, waiting for the leftovers of last nights stew to start boiling.
"Look at this," he beamed, nudging Tyrek with his elbow, "some kind of bear has wandered into the camp. Quick, fetch a crossbow and shoot the beast."
Harry noticed this, and actually looked around, though more as if he were searching for some annoying fly buzzing around his head, than twelve-foot vicious carnivore. But when nothing materialised, Harrold's still half sleeping brain presumably caught up with the rest of him, he glared at his friend, and muttered grumpily to the steam stew pot.
As Harry waited on breakfast and Tyrek went to rouse the rest of their camp, Rickard dressed. He stripped for a fresh pair of breeches, and slid a plain red tunic on over his shirt, before pulling on his knee length riding boots. His look was completed after a brief wrestle with Harry, in which he freed his cloak, tied it round his neck, and buckled his sword belt and scabbard around his waist. After this, Harry, still annoyed of being deprived a layer, shakily ladled a bowl of bubbling stew that he handed to him, eyeing him suspiciously all the time.
It hadn't aged well overnight, but anything so warm and wet this early of a cold morning like this was welcome, and Rickard could drink straight from the bowl easily. As he drank, he watched the others around him, as their camp came down as easily as tower made by a child's bricks. Horses were being resaddled, tents had the pegs kicked up and themselves rolled up with them, and those who'd tramped down to the stream trudged back up to dress and ready themselves for the Journey.
Sudden noises distracted Rick from his observations, however, and from over the crest of the hill, Rickard heard the unmistakable sound of hooves and voices. He turned, trying to see over the top of the incline for whomever was approaching them, and his eyebrows raised, as the unmistakable figure of his father, astride his horse, was now overlooking his camp. The King was not alone either, the dark and somewhat sad looking Eddard Stark was beside him.
Rickard couldn't help but frown at the sight of his father, but was relived when the King made eye contact with him briefly then broke it, turning back to Ned Stark to continue their conversation.
They continued to trot at a reduced pace down the hill, and gave their camp a wide birth, which was a relief to Rickard, but that did not stop him from nodding to Tyrek, and warning him, "Eyes down." As the King and his Hand passed them by.
Tyrek dipped his head as he approached him, and a few of those around them followed the Prince's order, but many of those further away continued to stare at King Robert and a few even shouted out to bid him Good Morning, but the King did not answer their voices.
"Ty," he said suddenly, turning his back on the King to retrieve some of his things from his tent. When he returned he prodded Harry in the back with the toe of his boot, "take our sleeping maiden here and get him dressed. I want to be gone before His Grace is back." And he left them to go saddle his horse, tied to a bush that jutted out of the moorland around them a few steps outside their camp.
Thunder was his usual, irritable self, and whinnied as he shook out his long black tail imperiously when he saw his master approach with saddle in arm. Rickard shushed him, and patted the old charger on the neck before he slung the saddle on his back.
It wasn't unusual for Rickard to see to his own horse, in fact he rather enjoyed it. He was fond of the animal, old, cranky and unfit for duty as he was; he'd known animals like this be traded in for younger, sleeker breeds for less. These days, he doubted that Thunder would be good to even plough a field, but Rickard had known the horse just after his prime, and it was from his back that he learned how use a lance and turn himself out on the tilt yard, aside from the odd pony when he'd been too small for a real horse.
Tending to Thunder was sharp relief, as Rickard tried to ignore the presence of his Father, and the obvious down turn in his conversation with Ned Stark, as both men's voices rose. A shy look he pretended not to make, and he saw that they were on the other side of the stream, but still ignored them after that.
"Not like him to be up and about this early," Tyrek called, as he approached him
"Give Harry credit," he replied, trying to play the fool, "He managed to get breakfast ready." He could feel his cousin's annoyed stare in the back of his head. Shrugging he waved a dismissive hand, as he tightened the straps of the saddle, "His Grace's business is his own; just as mine is mine own."
Rickard glanced from the corner of his eye, Tyrek pulling a grim face, and hoped he wouldn't badger him on it further. This was something he knew that was hit and miss these days: times had been that Tyrek would be able to know that it was better to bite his tongue than go talking, but nowadays he was liable to go on, or hit him. But both of them seemed to agree that was better not to talk about, though that didn't stop Rickard thinking about it when he looked at Tyrek sometimes. Part of him wanted him to try it again, if only so he could get his own back and bust open his cousin's nose – then there was the other part that made him rather not make eye contact, and finally the part of him that was hurt deeper than the faded bruise and ached in his gut.
The Prince felt Tyrek continue to scrutinize him, as a Maester might examine the progress of an infection. Eventually, he relented, and let whatever was on his mind slide, and carried on his observation of the Hand and King. "Would you say they'd had a falling out?" They both turned their heads, and watched as Eddard Stark trotted his horse away from the King's, coming back from the direction he had come, alone, as His Grace looked fleetingly after the Lord of Winterfell, before turning abruptly to canter off on his own.
"Can he do that?" Tyrek asked, scratching his head, as the King sped off by himself, "I mean… be alone, with no guards or… anyone?"
Frowning, Rickard scratched his own head, "Err, well… yes? He can be, but I don't think he ever has before."
"You think he'll be alright?"
"Tyrek," he couldn't help but titter, "he's the King, for Godssake. If he can't look after himself on a ride in the middle of nowhere, what hope do the rest of the Kingdoms have?"
His coz shrugged, and Rickard watched him chew on his lip as Robert Baratheon disappeared in to the thicket.
"Give it less than an hour, the Kingsgaurd will role in and find him stuck up a tree."
Ty snorted, and Rickard smiled to watch him laugh, as he put a hand over his mouth to guard against too great an outburst. He then looked away, "I suppose nothing will happen, we're the only people for miles around."
Rickard nodded, and turned back to his horse once more. Ty now finally seemed to dare approach him, the air having warmed between them. He stroked the nose of Thunder, and the ancient warhorse begrudgingly allowed him, as Rickard finished adjusting his saddle.
"What's the plan for when we get back to King's Landing?" Tyrek asked, his fingers running up and down the horse's snout.
This was better, Rickard thought, he had missed talking politics with Tyrek, and they had rarely done to since they had left the Capital. "I'm not sure," he said, finished with his work, and now leaning on the saddle, resting a hand to hold his head up. "I think we'll have to pause, go quiet for a bit and work somethings out."
"Things?"
"Well our new Hand for one. I hardly know the man yet, scarcely said two words to him. And I want Robb in the South if there's going to be any chance of confrontation."
"Rick," Tyrek said, uncertainly, "it could be months, maybe years before Robb comes South. The Charter has already been overshadowed by Jon Arryn's death. Why the sudden urge to go slow?"
"Things have change, Ty," he replied, wearily. He had hoped Tyrek would approve, it had always been him as the cautious one, always urging it further. "My position has changed for one. Its bloody fragile: Grandfather has cut me off, I won't be able to afford my upkeep in the Red Keep for one; on top of that I doubt my Father or Mother will stick up for me, and there's what in Seven Hells Joffrey is up to. The only person that could help me is Eddard Stark, and for his help I need time and Robb. You see?"
Tyrek pursed his lips, and contemplated staring fixedly at his hand as continued to pet. "I don't want to start a fight…"
"Famous last words." He could already half guess what Tyrek was going to suggest.
"But you could 'ease off' your grandfather if you gave up on…" Rickard felt his hands clench as he watched Tyrek struggle with what to call Arianne. "Your Dornish girl… He'd have no quarrel with you then, would he?"
"I won't give up on her, Ty," He wanted Tyrek to understand this now. "And I wouldn't expect her to give up on me. I mean to have her for keeps. I am going to marry Arianne Martell, hang the cost."
"The cost?" Tyrek rushed forward and grabbed him by the arm. "Rickard, it could cost everything? The Charter, your family, your titles, your country." He watched as his cousin paused to think of a way he could extract his Prince with honour, "There are other women, even, Rickard. From Greater Houses, with better lands they can claim: Balon Greyjoy has a daughter; I'm sure you could dig a Redwyne from somewhere, or there's that Tyrell girl, you liked the look of her, remember? Or why not kills two birds with a single stone, ask your Father and hers for Sansa Stark – I think everyone involved would prefer you over Joffrey."
Tyrek only stopped when he saw him start to shake his head, but nevertheless looked on imploringly, "I've already been over this with Robb. I half-way fucked my way up the Neck, and there was nothing like Arianne, Tyrek. Just a hole in my heart, and shame for betraying her." He sighed, and pulled his cousin's arm off of him. "I hope you'll understand, but I have to do this. Either follow me, or get out of my way – Arianne and I are inevitable."
Tyrek looked at his feet, and nodded in defeat. "Fine… fine… I tried."
"Ably too, but I just can't, coz."
"I know you, Rickard. I know how you sound when you're not thinking with your head."
That irked: if Tyrek wanted logic, he would give him it.
"I'm not thinking with my cock either!" he growled, temper flaring, "shall I also tell you what separates Arianne from any other woman in the Kingdoms: Dorne. By Dornish Law, she is the heir to Sunspear."
Tyrek again went straight for the cut. "Of which there are larger, richer and mightier Kingdoms. How many men could the Martells summon to their banner? Twenty, thirty thousand? The Reach and the North could double that and more. They have no ships. And I doubt there's much gold glittering amongst the desert sands."
"Mightier, larger, richer: yes. Yet none so tenacious. Dorne was the only place in Westeros to resist the Conqueror and his Dragons. Aegon failed to bring them underfoot. Likewise, the Young Dragon bathed his reign in blood to win Dorne for less than a fortnight before he lost it. You think so little of Dorne, Tyrek? Good, as do most and mark me it is to their advantage. Not yours."
This he knew of course. Dornish were patient, cunning and could wait and weather anything. Arianne and he were not the product of love at first sight. They circled and spun around one another for more than two years, before she drew him into her coils. It was her indefatigable will that made them inevitable, his own merely made it present.
His cousin shook his head at him again, but gave no further argument. "Very well," he said, brushing a hand that swept his hair from out his face, "I don't approve. But know I am against this, Rickard. I won't stand in your way, but don't expect me to enable either of you. And I shall advise Dondarrion to talk sense into you."
He grinned, turned to his horse, put a foot in the stirrup and pulled himself atop the beast. "Fine, Ty. Meanwhile, I shall endeavour to prove you wrong."
They left the North behind, and Rickard was glad of it for they made good time. However, now they were back in the South, and crossing the charming forests and hunt rich woods of the Riverlands, the King had slowed their pace to a grinding halt once more. As they followed the Trident south, King Robert was hunting daily. On occasion he would take some of his lords and retainers along with him, or hosts from nearby keeps and castles that had come to pay homage to His Grace. More often than not it was Eddard Stark that his father brought along, but once a week either Rickard or Joffrey had been roused before dawn to accompany their Royal Father on the Hunt.
It made Rickard furious, that their progress had bled unto a snail's crawl so that the King could ride out and drink and mostly fail to kill anything, but it irritated him all the more that upon the King's will he would be forced to endure him any longer than he wanted.
"Bugger," he swore, as the bolt from his crossbow flew wide again, and growled as their quarry took flight, first one and then dozens more pheasants, flapping their wings and flying away through bushes and tree branches that surrounded them.
"Bloody hate these things," he complained, fumbling with the bow string and struggling to load in the fresh quarrel.
Yards off his left, Harry was laughing at him only to then change tact as he let loose his own shot and successfully impaled one of the bird with his own crossbow, "I dunno," he said, with a mocking grin at him when they caught a glance of one another, "about time we found something you were bad at." And he took a second, less successful shot.
Rickard followed with his own and nothing better to show for it, "Sod off, Harry." He grunted in irritation.
"I've told you before, Rick," Tyrek called from his right, "if you put the practise back in, you might make half the archer you are a swordsman." Tyrek was moving with smooth, effortless act of repeatedly drawing his longbow and releasing the arrow, each of which glided into the path of a fleeing bird, before striking the creature dead, and sending it plummeting towards the ground.
The Prince loaded a third shot, but long before he brought the crossbow back to his chest, the flock had completely scattered, leaving behind their fallen fellows. He shot off his quarrel out of impatience at a nearby tree anyway, and rest empty bow on his shoulder, shaking his head.
"I've had enough of this. Is it too early to tell my father to go boil his head yet?" Around them, the servants and hounds all swept passed to retrieve the kills and spent arrows, as Tyrek and Harry each approached him.
"Midday? Maybe," Tyrek said, shrugging as he slung his longbow across his left shoulder and counted off the arrows in the quiver that hung from his hip.
"Most probably the King will take his meal and spend the rest of the day out," Harry offered, handing his crossbow off to the nearest servant, and the three of them left for their horses as the dogs went forward to sniff out the dead birds. "I expect we could sneak off if we had to."
"Or maybe we'll get lucky, His Grace will be too pissed to mount his horse by now." They laughed, and made the short ride to their hunting camp were the Kingsguard left behind by the King had oversaw the preparation of table, and the choice selection of the mornings kills were being prepared for them to eat.
A fine table had been set, but it was only set for three: the Prince; the King; the Hand. The others would eat and mill about at their own pleasure while standing to otherwise serve them who were seated. As the first to arrive back, Rickard duly plonked himself down in the first empty chair, and looked around. All the Kingsguard had followed them on the hunt, but only Ser Preston Greenfield was left behind to supervise the arrangements for their basecamp, his squat figure in white armour disgruntled by his lacklustre duties.
Harry leaned on the back of his Prince's chair, and followed his gaze around the camp with its lack of further royalty. A servant appeared with a flagon, which he used to pour the Prince a cup before vanishing. Rickard took it by the stem and looked into it to confirm his disappointment. He did not like red wine as a rule, and avoided it unless he was already drunk and lost all sense of taste. Swirling, sniffing and admiring it from a far, Rickard did not drink, deciding to put it off until the King and Ned Stark joined him. Tyrek and Harry stood behind him, talking their usual, while Rickard closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair, one hand on the arm as his other propped his chin.
"Jason and the lads are off hunting rubies," Tyrek remarked, moving round the table to fix plates and cutlery that had gone askew.
"Rubies?" asked Harrold, adjusting the hawk and moon broach the held his cloak in place.
"Rhaegar's rubies," his cousin explained. "We're not far from the Ruby Ford. Where King Robert fought the Trident and slew the Last Dragon."
Hardyng had made a hum of interest, but Rickard interrupted him with a morose groan. He should have known, the Prince thought, it would be just as when they came up from the South and His Grace spent a day wandering the fields and woods the had constituted his great battlefield, like a wight in its barrow. "Blood of Baelor," he cursed, slouching forward in his chair, glancing back at Harry over his shoulder, "that'll be where he's got to. We'll be waiting six hours before he gets bored of pissing into that river with dear, old Ned."
They all exchanged glances, before Harry suggested what they were all by then thinking, "Runner?"
Rickard was out of his chair before the words had finished in Harrold's mouth, tearing after the Prince towards their tied up mounts, Tyrek bringing up the rear.
"Quick, quick, quick, run, move," Tyrek urged as he stifled a laugh, snapping at their heels, as the cooks, servants and Kingsguard all turned to look at them.
Rickard was suddenly giggling, and Harrold openly barking with laughter, as they fumbled to release their horses, urging speed in each other only to break into more fits of mirth. When he was on his horse and kicking his heels into it, he called out to Ser Preston, stood flabbergasted at this disturbance, "Beg pardon to My Lord Father, Ser Preston. I was fucking bored of waiting."
All three of them were away, back the way they had first come, following the tracks left by the wagon that had followed them. They rode at top speed, Tyrek leading the way, himself at the rear as his aged horse struggled to keep chase with his fellow's younger models. Hooves kicked up dirt and grass beneath them, snapping outstretched branches, trampling down bracken, before suddenly they were out of the trees and all skidding to a halt on the Kingsroad.
Still laughing through haggard breaths, they soon moved off at a trot South to the inn from where the royal party had still their camp. Yet they did not get far down the road, before a pack of riders was storming towards them, and Rickard felt a powerful sense of dread drop into his stomach like a lead weight. Just my luck, he thought, to run off from a hunt like this only to be immediately run into Father. Except it wasn't.
He drew alongside Harry and Tyrek, who had stopped dead as they saw the urgent riders galloping toward them. As they came close, Rickard recognised them as among the grey and white clad men of House Stark, but none of them had joined the hunt. He also knew their leader, Lord Stark's steward Vayon Poole, who was red faced yet seemed truly in terror.
"My Prince," he gasped when they came closer, "My Prince, thank the Gods. Is Lord Stark behind you?" All of them tried to look around the trio with expressions of anxious relief, as if expecting Lord Eddard to rise up from the ground, yielded by the Earth.
"I… uh," Rickard spluttered, the thought dawning on him that obviously something more serious was warranted by the increasingly powerful sense of dread in his gut, "No, he and the King are still out hunting. What's wrong?"
A flood of disappointment went across the Stark men's faces, Poole most of all seeming exacerbated and once more fretful. "He… there," he seemed unsure how to proceed and explain, "at the Ruby Ford. There has been some kind of accident, my lord's daughters were involved… Uh, Prince Joffrey has been wounded…"
"Gods," Harry interrupted with a roll of his eyes.
"Queen Cersei had moved the camp from the inn to Castle Darry for a maester, and while we search for Lady Arya. We need My Lord, to inform him, and of course the King."
"Yes," Rickard said, cutting off the man before he could blather on anymore, "yes of course. Ty," he nudge his coz, "take them back to the camp and go find my Father and Lord Stark. Go now."
"Aye, Rick," he nodded, turning about his horse to lead Poole and his men off to Preston Greenfield.
When they were all passed, he turned to Harrold with a simple, "Darry." And they both thundered down the Kingsroad, fast as they could.
Darry, by the time they arrived, was like a castle under siege. Many wagons, carts were piled and backed up along the road outside of it, resembling engines of war, but they had been pushed to the side and many abandoned in order to make way for the free riders and parties of men on horse back sent out to find the King or Arya Stark. The jam was so thick, and amidst the traffic Rickard and Harry tried to wade the tide to try and get in the castle, but it was a losing battle.
Frustrated, and his horse growing all the more irritable beneath him, Rickard finally growled impatiently, "Godsdammit! Draw your sword and announce me, Harry!"
Himself growling and red with anger at the obstacles, Harrold Hardyng drew his longsword and moved forward into the path of a group of riders, brandishing it bellowing, "Make way Rickard! Make way for the Prince!"
They parted like water on a rock, and they both went forward as the traffic shifted around them, with Harrold repeatedly having to call out, "Make way for Prince Rickard!" or otherwise have the crowd and horses close back in around them.
Even inside the Castle was crowded, and it was only with the prompting of Harry's shouting that when they entered through the gates to a yard, pages that had come with the royal party came forward to take their horses. Rickard stepped down from his mount and swept passed them, and could feel his cloak billowing out behind him as he strode forward, Harry in his wake.
A single guard held the sentry for the keep of Ser Raymun Darry. He watched them approach the door, and Rickard gave a curt, "The Queen?" and the man told them where to find his mother.
"Ser Barristan?" Rickard suddenly gasped, as the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard stepped out from the Queen's rooms. He escorted a mousy looking maester, who scuttled away from the three of them. Tall, clad in white armour and cloak, Ser Barristan Selmy's face was as wrinkled and grave with pale eyes as sad as Rickard had ever seen them. It was a shock to see him here, when they had before left him behind in the Capital.
"Prince Rickard," the old knight said, as they stood before each other, the elder standing above the Prince and staring down at him as if he had been expecting him to show his face at that moment. Reading his curious expression, the knight explained, "I arrived with your uncle Renly and Ser Ilyn Payne this morning before all this business started. They have both ridden out to join the search parties," there was a tone of disgust in his voice at the special mention of any search party, "I myself intend to go find His Grace."
"Very good," Rickard said, and made to move passed with Harry, but the white knight stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.
His head inclined to Hardyng as if a warning, before murmuring an advisement, "Perhaps, family only, my prince."
He starred up at the Old Lord Commander, before he shifted his head to the side and spoke over his shoulder, "Stay here, Harrold. No one to come in, only family." And Ser Barristan relinquished his hand, as Rickard strode into the room alone.
It was a sparsely decorated chamber, brown drapes, brown curtain and a brown tapestry across the wall. However it was finely equipped for furniture, with plenty of chairs plush with cushions, and two tables, one round with its own roster of chairs, and it was there that Rickard found his mother, the Queen, and his brother, Joffrey. Their mother was attending to her eldest with her back to the door, wrapping Joffrey's arm in bandages that already had blood seeping through from an obvious wound, besides them was a steaming basin with a cloth. The Queen did not look to see who had entered at first, but Joffrey had no choice as he was turned to face anyone who entered.
"What are you doing here?" he crowed, pulling his hand away from his mother and the bandages. His face was bloodied slightly, but there was more mud brown than red, even around the gash above his eye.
Rickard filled the room as best he could before he spoke, scanning his brother for any other injuries, "I heard you were injured. Came to see what happened. Father is still hunting, he doesn't know yet."
"I'm fine," Joffrey barked, as much at his mother as his brother, and abruptly stood to get away from her, but Rickard could tell he wasn't. He was sweating, and shook like a tremor in the earth. A wild look of panic was branded in his eyes, "I'm not dead, I'm still the heir, I'll still be King, I'll still have the throne."
He couldn't help it, but Rickard sighed, "Bugger your throne, bugger your heirdom. Bloody uncomfortable piece of furniture, you're welcome to numb your arse on the thing." As Joffrey continued to stare at him, considering whether or not he believed his little brother, Rickard turned to their mother, "What happened?"
She stood, took Joffrey by the hand and led him back to the chair, where she began readjusting the bandages and took up the clot from the basin to wash his face, "Your brother was attacked."
"I can see that."
His mother threw a furious look over his shoulder, and he pretended to look out a window than face it.
"Joff was walking with his betrothed by the Ruby Ford. Weren't you, Joff?"
"…Yes."
"Then he was attacked. Arya, Stark's little animal, and her wolf," venom oozed from her mouth with every word, "that beast almost tore your brother's arm off. Then she and the butcher's boy beat him senseless…"
Rickard turned from the window in time to watch Joffrey begin screeching, "And then they took Lion's Tooth! Threatened to geld me with it, to gut me. Then they threw it in the river and left me to die."
He frowned at his brother, and approached him. Joffrey tried to shy away from him, but the Queen kept a hand on him to stop him from moving away again, even when Rickard grabbed his head to examine the gash.
His frown deepened. "I have had deeper cuts from tourney blades," he released Joff's head, and besides the bound arm, the Crown Prince seemed otherwise uninjured, "What was your beloved doing while this happened? Too good to hope she was cheering them on?"
It was the Queen that answered him, and she seemed irritated by the enquiry. "Sansa ran for help after they fled, once she was sure Joff would not expire. She was quite traumatized, poor dove. I had the maester here give her Essence of Nightshade for the nerves."
"Good, good," he didn't dare risk trying to meet either of their eyes, and turned to leave, "Well I had best go get things organised below. Father will shit lead if sees that cluster of shite I had to fight through to get in."
He left in a hurry and could have sworn he was about to hear either Joff or Mother begin to call after him, but he shut the door behind to quick for them. Harry rushed forward, still quite alone, but Rickard raised a hand to silence his friend as he opened his mouth and whispered, "Find Jason, find Lucion, find Tybolt. Find all the lads who were at Ruby Ford. Don't ask, find them, and bring them straight here to me. Don't let anyone stop you."
"Rick!" Shouted Tyrek, as he burst into the room. He rose quickly from his chair to stand, and the three boys in front of him all jumped at the sound of their cousins' voice, "They've found the girl. I saw them bringing her in through the gate."
"Who found her?"
"Stark's men but," he looked at his fellow Lannisters, Lucion, Tybolt and Jason, who were at best five years Rickard's junior. Tyrek starred at them dubiously, and their anxious faces all looked up as they exchanged conversation, "your Mother's men were on the gate. They've taken her in front of the King."
He nodded, retrieved his cloak from the back of his chair and tied it at his throat as he gave Tyrek his orders, "Take charge of these. Make them presentable and bring them down. Don't let any of them out your sight," he then turned to the three boys, "Say nothing to no one."
The King had commandeered Ser Raymun's audience chamber, and that was where Rickard found them, and nearly two dozen others. Even outside of the room was crowded when he approached it. The sight of it all enraged him, as they parted to let him through he stopped and shook his head, balking at the looks on their faces before he exploded.
"Seven Hells! What in the name of the Gods is wrong with you all?! No theatre here, my lords! Out all of you! You'll have no mummer's farce to see today." They all started to scowl at him, some less impressed than others, until a voice from the back sounded out 'you 'eard 'im, move!' and they slowly began file out: King's men, Darry men, Lannister men, and Stark men. He occasionally hurled abuse out after them, as some straggled behind, until the last was out, and he kicked the doors shut behind them.
With the last gone, he turned and glared at his Father, striding before him. The King was slumped in Darry's high seat at the far end of the room, his face closed and sullen. Mother and his Brother stood beside him. The queen had her hand on Joffrey's shoulder and thick silken bandages still covered bound his arm.
"What is wrong with you?" he raged at the King, who looked down at him as if he could have done without anything else more to antagonize him, "If you intend for everyone to know and see, by all means, let us take this outside. I'll have Lord Darry sound a bugle call for you to announce it!"
The King gazed at him, unimpressed.
"What are you doing here?"
Rickard crossed his arms, "I love a good hanging." He drily mused, and trudged to the side of the room. It was family only in the room, but for a few others: himself, Joff, their Mother and Father. His Uncle Renly had come up to meet them that morning and was here too, as were two silent figures of the Kingsguard that flanked the King. Arya Stark stood in the centre of the room, alone but for Jory Cassel, every eye upon her once the Prince put his back to the wall and leaned against it.
"Impressive," a coy voice noted quietly to his left.
He didn't bother to turn and observe who spoke, merely bidding, "Hello, uncle." As Renly Baratheon sidled up next to him, and likewise leaned against the wall beside him, arms crossed, and smiling brightly. There was no time for anything else, as the doors open and Lord Eddard marched in through them, alone, but Rickard could still see there were people gathered outside, no doubt with ears pressed to the door once it closed behind the Lord of Winterfell.
Rickard watched as Stark's eyes fixed immediately upon his unruly daughter. "Arya," he called. He went to her, his boots ringing on the stone floor. When she saw him, she cried out and began to sob.
Eddard went to one knee and took her in his arms. She was shaking. "I'm sorry," she sobbed, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry." She was smaller and thinner than Rickard remembered her, scruffier too, but what else would she look like after hours running alone in the wilds.
Lord Stark consoled his daughter, before rising to address the King. "What is the meaning of this?" His eyes swept the room, searching for friendly faces and found them wanting. Rickard did not meet the new Hands eyes, and looked over to Joffrey who starred back at him, furious and calculating, "Why was I not told that my daughter had been found?" Stark demanded, his voice ringing, and bringing both Prince's eyes back to him, "Why was she not brought to me at once?"
He spoke to the King, but the Queen answered, "How dare you speak to your king in that manner!"
That forced the King to stir. "Quiet, woman," he snapped, straightening in his seat. "I am sorry, Ned. I never meant to frighten the girl. It seemed best to bring her here and get the business done with quickly."
"And what business is that?" Stark spoke with a sudden biting cold that Rickard wouldn't have though him capable.
The Queen stepped forward. "You know full well, Stark. This girl of yours attacked my son. Her and her butcher's boy. That animal of hers tried to tear his arm off."
It was the old story, that Rickard had heard before that morning.
"That's not true," Arya protested loudly. "She just bit him a little. He was hurting Mycah."
"Joff told us what happened," Mother said, with an airy sniff. "You and the butcher boy beat him with clubs while you set your wolf on him."
"That's not how it was," the girl protested all the more fervent, tears again moistening her eyes, Stark put a hand on her shoulder to steady her.
"Yes it is!" Joffrey now insisted, bulling forward. "They all attacked me, and she threw Lion's Tooth in the river!"
"Liar!" Arya shouted.
"Shut up!" Joff yelled back.
"Dear Gods," Rickard murmured loudly, rolling his eyes as his brother went red in the face, "It's like the nursery again." Renly laughed, and Rickard smirked at the black look Joffrey was now giving him.
Finally, the King rose from his seat, and all turned silent. He glowered down at Arya Stark through his thick beard. "Now, child, you will tell me what happened. Tell it all, and tell it true. It is a great crime to lie to a king." Then he looked over at his son. "When she is done, you will have your turn. Until then, hold your tongue."
As Lord Eddard's youngest daughter began her story, Rick heard the door open. He glanced expecting to see Tyrek and his three cousins, but instead saw Vayon Poole enter with Sansa, the elder daughter. They stood quietly at the back of the hall as Arya spoke. When she got to the part where she threw Joffrey's sword into the middle of the Trident, Uncle Renly began to laugh once more and his brother bristled.
"Ser Barristan, escort my brother from the hall before he chokes."
Renly stifled his laughter. "My brother is too kind. I can find the door myself." He bowed to Joffrey. "Perchance later you'll tell me how a nine-year-old girl the size of a wet rat managed to disarm you with a broom handle and throw your sword in the river." Rickard grinned after him, but stay put against the wall as he heard him say, "Lion's Tooth," and howl as the door closed behind him and the faces all pressing in.
Joffrey was white as his bandages as he began his very different version of events. It was Rickard had first heard it hours ago. When his son was done talking, the king rose heavily from his seat, looking like a man who wanted to be anywhere else, "What in all the seven hells am I supposed to make of this? He says one thing, she says another."
"They were not the only ones present," Lord Stark said, before he turned to beckon. "Sansa, come here."
The eldest daughter stepped forward hesitantly. Rickard raised a brow curious. She was dressed in blue velvets trimmed with white, a silver chain around her neck. Her thick auburn hair had been brushed, but despite it all she looked tired, he supposed from the Nightshade. She blinked at her sister, then at the young prince. "I don't know," she said tearfully, looking as though she wanted to bolt. "I don't remember. Everything happened so fast, I didn't see…"
Arya shrieked. She flew at her sister like an arrow, knocking Sansa down to the ground, pummelling her. "Liar, liar, liar, liar."
"Arya, stop it!" Lord Stark's face was a rage as he grabbed his daughter. Cassell pulled the younger off her sister with a struggle. "Are you hurt?" the father asked of Sansa, but she was staring at Arya, and she did not seem to hear.
"The girl is as wild as that wolf of hers," the Queen said. "Robert, I want her punished."
But the King just swore aloud. "Cersei, look at her. She's a child. What would you have me do, whip her through the streets? Damn it, children fight. It's over. No lasting harm was done."
"If it helps," Rickard now said, looking his hands and pretending see whether his nails were dirty, as all eyes turned to him, "there are other witnesses."
He took in everyone's gaze in turn: Joffrey and Sansa Stark looking terrified of being caught out in their own lie; Eddard Stark wary of his sudden intervention; Arya Stark still glaring at her sister; the King and the Queen both furious he had spoken up, his father that he taken so long, and his mother, no doubt, that he had done so at all.
When no body spoke again, he shifted at last and moved toward the door. As he opened it, he bellowed into the face of the crowd gathered outside, "TYREK!" and waited. It took a little time, and plenty of jostling the crowd but eventually Tyrek appeared, steering his three young cousins in front of him, and Rickard ushered them all in before him, finally closing the door once more.
He lined Jason, Lucion and Tybolt up apart from the Stark's, with Tyrek behind them to make sure they held fast and wouldn't run. The room starred at them all, and they starred back with blank faces, only interrupted by the occasional cough or blink.
"Tybolt, Lucion and Jason here, were all down at the Ruby Ford when 'whatever happened' happened," Rickard then offered them up, gesturing with his hand as he spoke to Joffrey, "Well, brother mine? Would you like to admit the truth now, admit your lies?" He approached Joff, "Will you admit that you dishonoured yourself, by attacking an unarmed boy? That you proved yourself a Prince unworthy of his title, by then turning your sword on a girl half your size?" He was face to face with Joff by now, watching shake, red-faced with rage, "Or must we hear our cousin's word of it before I beat it out of you?"
"You'll do no such thing!" His mother's voice cracked sharp like a whip.
He turned, but did not look at her, instead met his father's eye. "Satisfied of the truth?" Robert Baratheon said nothing, merely motioned his head, dismissing his son. Rickard finally looked at his mother, who surveyed him coolly, bowing and moving to stand in front of his cousins, offering a nod to Lord Eddard as he passed him and his daughters by.
The King frowned as he said, "I'm sorry, Ned. For all this, I'll be sure my boy is punished justly. You and your girls can go."
It was over, and the few of them in the room began to leave the room, until his mother called after him. He waved his cousins onward before he went to her, and every else passed him by. In truth he had expected this, and was relieved not to have to do it with an audience to watch as the door finally closed on Joffrey. His mother looked down at him, her mouth a thin line.
"Why, Rickard? Why must you be so difficult?"
Part of him wanted to laugh, be dare not to her face. He had been difficult since his birth, that much he knew. For her and plenty of others on occasion, but it wasn't his fault, he couldn't help it. That was just how he had been born, to cause trouble and be at the centre of it. The thought suddenly came to him whether his mother might now regret discouraging him from the Faith: he could have been a Septon by now, and no trouble at all.
"I just have a fondness for the truth is all," he said, shrugging.
"Truth is a danger and a luxury," She warned him, and he nodded, bowing his head as if to apologise for his devotion to honesty. "I know you don't get on with Joff, but there are times you need to put family before yourself. After what that wolf did to him," he watched her shake her head, repressing her anger, "he will bare those scars for life I shouldn't think…"
A shiver of anger rippled up his spine at that. His hand shot up and he waved it in front of her to remind her of his lack of a finger on his left side. "We shall have something in common at last then!" He shouted.
At first she was surprised, but a look of understanding finally dawned on her. She reached out and took his hand in hers, "Oh, my boy," she brought it to her face and kissed the finger that was gone above the knuckle, "I haven't forgotten. You shall have recompense given time, I promise." With her other hand she touched his face and bent to kiss his cheek, "For now, you must promise me: make peace with Joffrey."
He frowned. Ever since Joffrey declared war on him at the tender age of three, he had tried to make peace and had no joy of it, yet now that he was fighting back Mother expected a truce? He did his best to keep a straight face, as he vowed, "I shall not antagonise him." She smiled sadly, and he knew she has disappointed in him still, but she at least now allowed him to go.
Tyrek was waiting for him outside the audience chamber, an expression of relief flooding his face when he saw the Prince. Harry was with him, looking eager to here exactly what had happened. "A fine thing," he told, "I put the shits up Joffrey to be sure."
"And a good service to Eddard Stark, I believe," Tyrek added.
Harry let out an impressed whistle after they explained it all to him. "Well after that I suppose you could do with a drink." He nodded, and they walked down the corridor away from the chamber at last.