Arianne

It was a warm day by King's Landing standards. The sky was cloudless, and the heat beating would have ordinarily been quite pleasing to feel on her skin. But this was not an ordinary day.

Ordinarily, no Princess of Dorne would have herself dressed in the bulky velvets and heavy, smothering wools that those Ladies north of the Marches wore. Like these other Princesses of Dorne before her, Arianne would have preferred the usual silks, studded with jewels, all of vivid colours. But these days she was short of jewels, and the silks were her pleasure she knew would not mix well with this days business.

The King and the court had been sighted, and were expected upon them any moment now, so Arianne had dressed for it as appropriately as she could. Her hair was pulled back and braided in place, as opposed to her usual flowing curls that she let tumble behind her back freely. Had it not been for her darker complexion, she would have been unremarkable as merely juts another one of the ladies of the court, wholly un-Dornish and jewel-less, except for a small, gold signet ring on her right hand, the faded image of a crowned stag on its front and a small diamond, so dark it would have faded into the black stag but for its tiny glint.

"We can expect the Hand first," Beric Dondarrion informed her, gruffly, "The watch on the gatehouse spotted him and his banners pass by the Dragonpit. They were not so far ahead of the rest of the Party."

The handsome Lord of Blackhaven was her escort today, and kept her company as they greeted in turn those who were returning from the long journey North. He paced consistently up and down the courtyard, impatient to have this over with, and seemed irritated that it was Eddard Stark that at the head of the column stretched out across the King's Road from the city to the horizon.

For herself, she was keen to see the new Power behind the Usurper's throne. Jon Arryn had been old, for better or worse; his leadership dependable, but stale. In his final months, the former Hand had also become increasingly absent from the Court and Small Council, he grew distant and the functions of government, already slow, stagnated forward. Yet now, even before the new Hand had taken up his office, Arianne could sense the wheels turning once more, the court had gone from being frozen to slowly thawing out as the King returned with his new Hand before him – as if the Stark's words heralded the arrival of Summer over Winter.

Yet there was nothing else to sound the arrival of Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North and Hand of King Robert Baratheon. There were no blast of trumpets, or the shouts of heralds, just the clopping of hooves on stone and a worn out rider, with a long face beyond its years. It was plain to see on his face that Lord Eddard had not had the easy ride South that he had hoped for, and the lines on his face only deepened as he dismounted his steed and saw herself and Lord Dondarrion awaiting him.

"My Lord Stark," she said, bowing slightly as he approached her warily, "Welcome to King's Landing."

Lord Beric ceased pacing and followed her lead, bowing to the new Hand, as he said, "Indeed, My Lord Hand. It is good to meet you, at last. I hope your journey was not so arduous."

Eddard Stark watched them both warily as he approached, herself it had to be said, more than the Lightening Lord. He offered his own bow in reply before he spoke to them, "The road South was difficult," he said, irritated, "but we made good time in spite of it." Only as an afterthought almost did he suddenly say," Thank you, my lord, lady…"

Quick to fill the pause in the Hand's words, Dondarrion rapidly introduced himself, "Beric Dondarrion, Lord of Blackhaven, my lord." Then gestured to her with his arm, "And my lady, the Princess Arianne Nymeros Martell of Dorne."

Arianne dutifully offered her hand to the Hand, and he took it but seemed unsure of what to do with it once it was in his grasp. He deliberated over it a moment, and she tried not to smile watching the cogs in his head turn over whether or not she was regal enough to warrant a kissed hand. Gracefully, she relieved him of the awkwardness and retrieved her hand.

"It is an honour to meet the Lord of Winterfell, and our new Hand, my lord," she said, and clasped her hands together in front of her.

He continued to gaze at her, sizing her up, and, Arianne was sure she was not mistaken, trying to angle his head as to catch a small glimpse of the ring decorating her finger now. "Thank you, my lady," he finally said again, his sombre, grey eyes turning back to meet her own, "Tis a pleasure, but I cannot help but wonder why you are here and so far from Sunspear."

She smiled at him, brightly as she answered, "Dorne is a part of the Seven Kingdoms, as much as any other. My father's health prevents him to travel such a long distance these days, so I am here as his proxy." She told the old truth, that only she and Rickard outside of Dorne knew to be a lie, that she was her father's emissary and had not in fact chosen exile over suffering the mistreatment by Prince Doran of her, his rightful heir. "As such, I think it prudent to introduce myself for our mutual good."

He seemed satisfied with her explanation, and then turned to Lord Beric with more curtness, "And you, my lord?"

Dondarrion seemed taken aback by the sudden turn in tone from Stark as he turned to him, but he rallied to stoutly state, "I await Prince Rickard, my lord. We have business. And," he withdrew a piece of parchment from his pocket, "Grand Maester Pycelle has called a meeting of the Small Council. It is urgent he said, and knowing was coming to meet the Prince, vowed to deliver it to you."

Lord Eddard took the parchment, examined for himself, and sighed, "Very well, I shall see them after I change."

He then called out to his Steward, "It seems the council has urgent need of me. See that my daughters find their bedchambers, and tell Jory to keep them there. Arya is not to go exploring." And then disappeared into the Red Keep.

Arianne watched him go, muttering to Dondarrion, "Let us hope that our Prince has had better luck befriending the Hand than you, ser." Lord Beric glowered at her, then resumed his pacing .

The Stark men were still clearing the yard when Rickard finally galloped through the portcullis. She saw immediately that he was grinning wide, and had to scold herself internally for the way her stomach leapt and her heart fluttered at the sight of him, long dark hair and golden cloak sweeping into the wind behind him and his angel eyes finding hers that was followed by a widening of smile. Rickard circled the yard a few times before he, and his comrades flanking him, came to rest in front of her and Dondarrion. The horses were panting hard, and Arianne smiled at the idea of Rickard riding his charger hard through the streets and up Aegon's High Hill to her.

"Smell that," he said, pretending now not to notice her and taken a few fervent sniffs of the air, "Shit, sweat and steel."

"That's King's Landing for you, Rick," Harrold Hardyng said, beside the Prince, swinging his leg down from his horse to plant both firmly on solid ground.

"Just so, Harry." Rickard replied, adjusting himself before pulling a surprised face and approaching. He bowed low, and she returned the courtesy, but it was Beric Dondarrion that he spoke first, "Looking well, ser."

"I am, my prince," he said, and suddenly seemed to relax at the appearance of the Prince, "Yet all the better now you've returned."

"Good, good. You'll have to tell me all."

But Rickard's eyes had already turned from the Lightening Lord, and rested easily upon her. He bowed a second time, much lower than before, adding the formality, "Your excellence."

Allowing herself a small smile, Arianne outstretched her hand to the Prince. There was no hesitation as there had been with Eddard Stark. Rickard gladly took her hand in his own, drawing it to his mouth where upon he placed a delicate kiss across her knuckles, he then withdrew but only slightly. She watched down on him as he starred at the ring on her finger, then pinched it with two of his own, caressing the gold fondly. His eyes then turned upwards to meet her, a smaller smile but no less fond now on his face.

"My lady," he whispered, and took her hand to place it on his arm, joining them at the elbow, "And how well is the Princess of Dorne?"

Arianne squeezed the Prince's arm, and for the first time smiled at him, fluttering her lashes, and drawing herself as close to him as she dared. Boldly, despite the sudden stares of Tyrek Lannister and Beric Dondarrion and of Harrold Hardyng's face turning red as he tried to look anywhere else, Rickard did not resist or seem to mind her actions, and arm in arm, they led the other three in a walk of the Red Keep.

"I am as well as I can be in this city, my prince," she told Rickard, "truthfully, without the King, court has been dreadfully dull."

He chuckled. "Unfortunate for you, but to be expected. Nothing else interesting happened, Beric?" He called over his shoulder.

"Little, my lord. For better or worse, it seems the world awaits to see what to make of our new Hand."

"What have you managed to make of him, Rickard?" She asked the Prince.

His face frowned a moment, then he shrugged. "Not much." He grunted.

"Oh come off it, Rick," Harrold bounded forward suddenly, like a dog, and Arianne could almost imagine a tail wagging behind him. He cut out in front of them, and began to match their pace walking backwards. "You did fine service to Lord Eddard on the Trident. And let's not forget Robb, magnificent, frozen, marvel of a man that he is."

The Princess of Dorne frowned at the words as Harrold Hardyng began to laugh at the memories of Winterfell and the North, and she glanced the fond smile stretch out on the Prince's face. "Robb?" she asked, "Robb who?"

"Robb Stark," Rickard answered, "Lord Eddard's son and heir, a fine fellow. Good with a sword and lance to hand. Sharp as a spearpoint, with no love of Joffrey, disillusioned with the King, and his Father's ear."

"And a friend to you, Rickard?"

It was Dondarrion who asked the question, but it was to her, his Princess, that Rickard looked at, an odd look in his eye when he answered, "Oh, yes. A friend certainly. He has my confidence, and I think that I have his."

There was something buried in his look, something that Rickard was not going to say in front of the others – and it worried her to be sure, but Arianne was sure that give time alone, the Prince would reveal his meaning to her. Delicately, and looking around for the redoubtable Robb Stark, Arianne inquired, "Has this Stark come South with his Father?"

A crease lined Rickard's face, and there was a foreboding silence from Harry Hardyng, who finally turned around to walk forward. "No, he wanted to. But he couldn't." He sighed, before a hopeful look sprouted in place of his lined face, "Though Robb had promised to come South as soon as he is able."

"We shall look forward to meeting the young Lord then," Beric Dondarrion said, a note in his voice that was trying to firm up the Prince's cheerfulness. "What of this service you rendered to Lord Eddard, Rick?"

Immediately, Arianne could see that this was the wrong topic to try and brighten the Prince's mood.

He gave a short, bitter bark of a laugh. "Ha!" And as his face twisted to an equally apathetic smile, he gave a short, damning "Joffrey" As his only answer.

From there it fell to a subdued Harrold Hardyng and a reluctant Tyrek Lannister to draw out the tale of Prince Joffrey's deception on the Trident. It came as a surprise to her truly. She had known Joffrey Baratheon to be brash, untrustworthy and arrogant, but she could never have thought him fool enough to try and attack the daughter of the Hand of the King whatever the provocation. When she said as much Harold began to chortle.

"I'd say Arya Stark is provocation enough. She was playing at swords with a butcher's boy, so she said. Can you imagine her, all in her dress, and combed hair, with a stick to hand? What a fierce opponent, that girl?!"

Arianne raised an accusing brow. "And why shouldn't a girl be allowed to play at swords?"

Hardyng scoffed, and was about to deliver some boyish, bit of bravado, but Rickard stepped in, no doubt knowing what was on her mind. "This is Dorne, Ari." There was fondness in his voice, and she rather liked the peeling back of formality to call her 'Ari', but still the sentiment in his words annoyed her. "Up here the closest a lady will get to her sword is her needle."

The Princess of Dorne scoffed this time. "I fail to see what a matter of geography has to do with this. Especially, you, Rickard, who says there is no difference between a man born in one part of Westeros to one another."

She saw the crease in his brow, and smiled as he tried to think of a flaw in the logic.

"Did you," Tyrek Lannister asked, distracting her attention from Rickard, "ever imagine yourself playing with swords as a girl, Princess?"

"No," she answered true. Unlike most her cousin's, Arianne had not had an interest in arms and armaments in the slightest. "Weapons were always more to the Sand Snake's taste than mine. I remember, my uncle Oberyn took me and my cousin's to the ruin of Shandystone when I was three-and-ten. He showed Tyene how to milk a viper's venom, Sarella went exploring, and Obara fought sticks with Nym. But I had no desire to join them."

"So what did you do instead? Needlework? Watercolours?"

Arianne shrugged at Lannister's question, but looked at Rickard as she said, "I dreamt that a rogue Prince with dark hair and a widow's peak had stolen me away there for himself."

Rickard grinned and shook his head at her shamelessness, and it was fun to watch the red flush creep up his neck as he rolled his eyes, Beric Dondarrion and Tyrek Lannister making disapproving glances at her, no doubt.

They crossed into a new courtyard. There was ivy growing down the walls, and the flat stone of deepest red yielded for grass and a smooth marble path that turned into a statue that had once been Baelor the Blessed, but in the Usurper's reign it had changed. His face had been smashed in and recut as someone else, with the holy sceptre taken from him to be replaced with a sword, though the copy of the Seven Pointed Star remained in his hand. Rickard stopped them, to observe the statue, his eyes glowering at the stone figure.

"I remember this statue as a boy." He shook his head at them defilement of the sainted Baelor.

Arianne then pulled on his arm, trying to lead him away from the statue of No One, but from behind the four of them someone is calling, shouting for Rickard. They all turnabout, and see a boy running at them, his face a portrait of panic, with the sweat peaked on his face. He made a beeline for Rickard, who unhooked his arm from her, held out his palm in front of the lad before he came sliding to a halt in front of the Prince.

"Easy, Jason," Rickard told him, his hand on his shoulder, propping him as he panted and panted to get his breath back. "What's wrong? Take your time, coz."

"N-no… t-time… R-rick," he said between breaths, trying to stand up right and failing, shaking his head, blonde hair freely falling down his face, "The-the guards… they won't let… and they say you can't…"

The hitherto pleasant and indulging face of Rickard Baratheon turn sour at his cousin. He placed both hands on Jason Lannister's shoulders, and shook him, trying to coax sense out. The three men around all exchange glances, all refusing to meet her gaze, until she catches the slight upturn of Tyrek Lannister's face away from her and his bitter murmur, too low for her to hear.

"Talk sense now, Jas," the Prince's voice deepened, he commanded, and was no longer in the mood for indulgences.

"The guards," the boy pleaded, with a whine and stamp of his foot, "you have to come. They say you're barred from living in the Red Keep. Won't let us or the servants take your things up to your chambers."

"What?" Harrold Hardyng asked, while the Prince merely looked down and swore. Hardyng now meets her eyes, and then Dondarrion's demanding of them both, "Neither of you knew anything about this."

"Nothing," she told him, while Lord Beric blankly shrugged, "whatever this is, you brought it North with you."

Softly, his hands falling from his cousin's shoulders, he whispered, "No, no. He couldn't… wouldn't… not like this…"

Righteously, almost, certainly sounding vindicated, Tyrek Lannister moved to prod Rickard at the shoulder telling him, "I warned you, Rickard. You knew something would happen because of…" His eyes drifted once more towards her, and at once she understood, or partly at least.

But Tyrek Lannister had no chance to finish, as Rickard sharply raised a hand and spat with venom, "I don't want to hear it. I will fucking fix this." And he was off, his younger cousin leading the way, his only other word to them was, "Come on!"

Harrold Hardyng and Beric Dondarrion were away after the Prince immediately, not stopping to look back or say another word. She moved to follow them, but Tyrek Lannister shifted and blocked her path. He stretched a finger out at her, his accusation full of words he had longed to say, she could tell.

"All this, My Lady? Your fault. You'll have brought Rickard it the dirt down with you, destroyed his future. Any chance…"

But she did not have time to bandy words with the lesser son of a lesser brother of Tywin Lannister. "Fascinating," She spat out, the abrupt and suddenness of her voice cowing his own, "truly. But if you really think I'm worth the time, I have better things to do. Like making sure my lover might have a future worth salvaging."

There was little sense hiding it now. If the worst she feared really was upon them, then what point was there hiding any longer? Tyrek Lannister certainly had more than suspicions, he and Rickard had obviously talked about the possibility that she and the Prince had shared a bed at least once, and that there may be consequences from the fact. And it felt good to throw it in this one's face, who presumed to know Rickard's mind better than him. Picking up her skirts as best she could, Arianne left Tyrek Lannister stood before the statue of No One, scowling after her, no doubt contemplating whether he could swallow his pride for Rickard's love and follow after her.

She heard Rickard before she found him, but when she burst on the scene, all turned to quiet. They were in the entrance hall to Maegor's Holdfast, about a dozen of them, Rickard the Prince, his friend Harry and loyal Lord Beric, as well as the younger cousins that stuck around him like a bricks to mortar, and littering the ground were the chests and boxes and possessions of the Prince stamped with the Baratheon stag, or Lannister lion, and one she saw with the rose of Highgarden. Some of the chests were on their sides, another broken open, the lock smashed and the contents of fine wool, cloth-of-gold, and satin garbs spewed out onto the floor. A few gold cloaks were walking away, back into Maegor's Holdfast, between them a small clerk, who looked like he'd been ruffled more than a little. All of them wore the sigil of the Master-of-Coin, she noticed and one of the men at their flank made a point of kicking a chest that blocked his path.

"Oi!" Barked Hardyng at the man, but the Prince barked at Harry in turn.

"Leave off, Harrold, damn you!"

Rickard stood at the centre, the others in orbit around him. In his hand he held a piece of paper, that had crumpled as he clenched his fist to shout at Harry. He did not seem as angry at the scene around him as she expected him to be, in fact in that moment, Hardyng's outburst seemed most to infuriate him. Hardyng snorted at the guard angrily, like a bull preparing to rush, but made no other move, while Rickard uncrumpled the note, scanned over it once more and called after the clerk.

"You may tell Lord Baelish, I shall do my best to comply."

Pained, Hardyng once more burst out, "Rick!" But was silenced by the Prince's raised hand. When no one said anything further, the clerk bowed once more and moved out of the chamber. Rickard then ordered his cousins to pick up the chests and return them to the carts they had brought them from outside. Servants were shouted for as well, who helped them, and in the easy work of five minutes, the floors were bare but for the blood red stones of Maegor's Holdfast.

Finally, with the hall empty but for the four of them once more, the dam of Harrold Hardyng finally broke. "Comply!? Comply, Rick? To that thing… that creature, Petyr Baelish… him and his tricks worked Jon Arryn to the bone, and now you bend low for him over this. You should cave that fuckers skull in for this, dictating to you where and how you live." With every word, the lads temper was raising higher and higher, and Rickard looked merely more and more exacerbated, until finally Hardyng pushed himself too far. "If this goes unanswered, I'm gonna have to question your leadership!"

It was like a shadow crossed the Prince's face, and his eyes moved darkly over Harrold. In less time than it took for Arianne to blink, Rickard had his friend with both hands by the collar and had lifted him off his feet and smashed him into a wall, head banging off the wall with a sickening crack! that had a sudden rush from her stomach rise in Arianne's throat as she and Lord Beric watched stunned at the dangerous growl came from Rickard Baratheon.

"You ungrateful bastard, Harry. What fucking bollocks you have? Where do you get the nerve to question me about anything? I should smash you teeth," he then released Hardyng, stunned but unharmed as he whirled about to collect the paper he'd dropped in the struggle, "You think that smug, sodden shite would have the nuts to do a stunt like this if there wasn't some bigger bastard with a stick behind him. There: read that, clever dick." He flung the crushed note of parchment at Harrold who struggle with it. "Its on my fucking grandfather's orders, not Littlefinger's. Wants me to come to heel, to bow and no my place."

Understanding seemed to dawn over the Valeman now, as it did her. The Prince then looked at the Lord of Blackhaven, "Lord Tywin has commanded me to return to Casterly Rock. Expects his dutiful grandson to obey, as if I weren't my own man. Fuck that." He glanced back at Harrold Hardyng, before turning back, "Rickard Baratheon fears no man. So my grandfather cows other men to do his dirty work. My allowances cut off, my guards and men all to remove themselves from my service, my cousins to swear themselves to those they were sent to serve in the first place, and my rooms in the Red Keep closed to me. All under the auspice of repaying the Crown's debts to him, of course."

He turned from Dondarrion in turn now and starred into space, his chest rising and falling, "Fuck if I will fall in line. Maybe I should go find Baelish. Go to the Council meeting and cut his fucking throat, send Grandfather a message that if he should come and deliver to my face."

For a moment they did nothing not even Rickard, until he finally made another growl to marshal his strength and began to move, she had no doubt, to find the Master of Coin and the Small Council. But as he did so, Arianne's voice came to her.

"No!" She called out, and she watched the startled Rickard turn about and look at her as though it was for the first time.

"No?"

"No." She said again, she stepped forward a few steps. "You shouldn't go and threaten Lord Baelish, or harm him in whatever way."

Rickard stepped forward toward her now, his face was still determined, but a softer edge cooled the lines of it now. "Why? What would you have me do instead?" Because I won't give you up, were the unspoken words to follow, she knew, and it shocked her how the fact of it written on his pained face made her heart quiver and beat faster.

"Nothing would change, all you'd do is make an enemy of Baelish. Unless you kill him, in which case the Small Council – including the new Hand – will hold you account for it. You'd risk exile, or imprisonment, or a punishment that will make you wish you had gone cap in hand back to Casterly Rock."

"And what should I do instead? Nothing!"

She merely shrugged, "I don't know. But you can't do nothing." This did not please Rickard as an answer, so she challenged him. Nodding at Harrold Hardyng, she reminded him, "You are the leader here, Rickard, and you claim to be your own man. So be a man, and think for yourself."

At first he recoiled, and his eyes narrowed at her, as though she had insulted him, and she reflected, she had. Nevertheless, she saw her words sink, his face change to contemplate them and finally his role as he turned away from her to think, conceding her point with a placative, "Fine."

Rickard thought, with his back to her and made to look at no one just a blank spot on the floor. His thumbs tapped together with his forefingers, almost to the beat of a tune, and he was murmuring under his breath. None of them said a words, as Rickard thought of his next move, like a Cyvasse player contemplating what pieces were left to him, whether his king was in danger, his dragon vulnerable, his spearmen in good enough formation, or his rabble shot to pieces. His head bobbed once to the left and then to the right, before finally he sighed, and muttered just enough for her to distinguish his words, "Gods have mercy on me."

"Fine," he said, loudly and pointed at Harry, his fingers ceasing their drumming, "Harry, go out and take my things to the Wolf's Den, take my cousin's with you," he unhooked his purse from his belt, and tossed it to Hardyng, who seemed surprised in how quickly Rickard had come back to life, "I want a room for as long as that will buy. Put my things in it, and stay there till I come. Go."

The Prince's friend paused startled, and thumbed the purse of gold coins, before he finally parted without a word. Arianne recognised the Wolf's Den, she knew it as the tavern Rickard would frequent from time to time. Gossip at court was that was where the rogue Prince Rickard did his best drinking and debauchery, but she knew from Lord Beric that Rickard merely liked the place to meet the lords and knights that surrounded his cause out of sight and mind from the King and Council – Rickard merely occasionally, not consistently, got drunk.

Before Harry was out the Keep, Rickard had turned to the Lightning Lord. "My lord, gather up whatever signatories of the Charter we have in the Capital. I want to speak to them at the Wolf's Den before Evenfall."

"I expect we can count the Westerlands lost, my Prince."

Rickard nodded grimly, "And a good many others beside." He said, before waving the Marcher Lord off, and placing his hands on his hips.

Arianne now stepped forward and touched Rickard on his arm, "What of me, Rickard?"

But Rickard paid her no mind when he turned to look at her, instead his eyes went passed her. "Tyrek," he said softly, and her eyes followed his.

Surely enough, there he was, blonde and green eyed, Tyrek Lannister. She had not heard him come up from behind her, and she wondered how long it had taken him to forego his pride and join them all. Whether he had seen Rickard toss Harrold Hardyng like a rag doll, or how the latter had bellowed at Lord Baelish's men and demanded Littlefinger held account on the edge of a knife. Nevertheless here he was now, creeping out of the shadows, cautious and starring face to face with Rickard, with not even the fleeting sign that he acknowledge her to even be there.

"Tyrek, go to my rooms. Check everything. If Baelish's men have left anything then get it all down to the Wolf's Den with Harry. Take it all, anything that's not nailed down. Bed sheets, bed hangings, cups, plates, everything."

"That's a petty act of thievery, Rick," Tyrek told him, shaking his head.

"If Baelish wants it he can buy it off me, or send the goldcloaks after me. Get it done." Lannister bowed, and went to move back in the direction he'd come from, but Rickard called him back, "When you get to the Wolf's Den, try and explain it all to the lads, won't you?" Tyrek finally nodded and they were at last alone.

Rickard let a sigh escape his nose, and looked at her. She still had a hand on his arm, which he took in one of his own and smiled down at.

"Gods I missed you."

She grinned, "I should hope so." The Prince's face watched their fingers curl around one another, him adding the slightest squeeze. "What's your plan then, Rickard? How do you plan to turn this situation to your advantage?"

"I won't tell you here," he said, adding a frown to his features as his eyes drew up to meet her own, but his ears were fixed to the sound of anyone that might approach them. "Do you think you can come to the Wolf's Den tonight? After dusk."

"Yes."

He smiled, a small tug at the corner of his mouth. "I've longed to be alone with you these passed months. Can… can I…"

His shyness was endearing. The sudden timidness, the stroking of his fingers over her knuckles, and the second hand was reluctant to cup her cheek. Softly, Arianne pressed a short kiss the point of his hand closest to her.

"I wish you would, Rick."

Chaste, is how he starts.

The slightest and sweetest brush of his lips over hers, before he withdraws slightly. At first she is disappointed in the saintliness of it, she had expected Rickard's blood to be up, for him to be needy, pawing at her skirts, passionate, but then again they are in the entrance hall of Maegor's Holdfast and modesty must be observed. A thumb brushes her cheek still, for the first time she feels her size when next to him, the power beneath the vastness of the palm, a pound of strong muscle, coarse from his sword work. She's not known a warrior with hands like these, her uncle, former lovers, friends in Dorne, they always seemed cleaner – not that the Prince's are dirty, but the flesh of his hand on her cheek is as different to her own as hard coal to marble. The tremor of his heartbeat is just present on his touch, like a voice from great distance, and she can feel his breath tickle her skin, while her own breath ruffles the slight beard growth around his mouth.

How she has longed to be this close to him, and how he has obviously wanted the same, because she reads in the hesitancy in his touch that now he has her face to face and hand in hand, he doesn't know what to do. She bridges the divide between them this time catching his lips, and when she does not retreat, all the inaction in Rickard melts away. His hand drops from her cheek and releases her fingers, and she feels the arms go round her, grab her and puller as full and close against him as he can. Her heart leaps into her mouth as Arianne feels her feet just leave the floor, before she comes to rest easily standing on the Prince's feet, and losing her own hands against the velvet and cloth of his cloak, his doublet, his anything that she can use to hold herself against him, like leverage as though she were about to climb the face of a mountain.

There's no gnashing of teeth, or roaming hands across each other's secret places. Its more intimate than that, at once they are treading over new ground and familiarizing themselves with old terrain. On the edge of her mouth, she feels the tip of Rickard's tongue just nudge at her, so she manoeuvres her own to lick a gentle stripe across the front of his mouth and the Prince moans, moans – he moans for her, by the Gods – and yields his mouth to part for her tongue. It's like the crack of stones over dry kindling, and old fire slowly stirs, as does Rickard's smallclothes, underneath all the fine wool and rich velvet.

Despite the mewing in the pit of her stomach to keep going, to see how far Rickard would go, to try and challenge and see what would happen if they were discovered: by a servant, or a lord; one of the Small Council; Ser Robar Royce; or most delicious of all, their Graces King Robert or Queen Cersei. Instead she slows her pace, withdraws her tongue from Rickard, who eases his arms from their grasp to settle entwined at the small of her back, he even helps slide her feet from on top of his own, so she can settle back on solid stone.

Rickard's breath comes heavy through his nose, and her hands flat on his chest feel the pounding of his blood hammering through his heart. He grins down at her lopsidedly, and she can't help but laugh, the way it makes him seem like such a boy.

"Gods give me strength," He said, his grin easing, "I thought that my heart would crack before long without you."

"I think your toes certainly would have."

He laughs again, but when he finishes he looks at her with regret in his face. "I… I have to go."

It's like suddenly he's remembered something, a sin that weighs on him comes bubbling back up to the front of his mind. She can guess what it might be, that the absence of her most like became too much for him, being that little bit younger than her. She remembers how the boys were at Sunspear and the Water Gardens when she was his age, the only thing on their minds and always on their minds, the desperate need for any relief to sate the Beast – as her Uncle Oberyn always warned her. The Red Viper used to laugh, and say since the Gods gave him a cock that gave him to rest that he would give it no respite either. But then she remembers Rickard, his Andal blood, and how they always take the worst parts of the Seven Pointed Star too serious and too far to heart.

She gives him an indulgent smile, and makes a point that she will have to relive him of the sin when she can. Rickard takes a step back, unfolding his arms from her.

"I need to talk to Tommen and Myrcella," he now tells her, his voice curt, formal and face serious. "Need to explain to them I won't be around much as I was."

"I know. Better they hear it from you. And your Mother."

"Yes… mother." He seems hesitant over that, but then Rickard had always been hesitant over his mother. "I'll see you tonight."

"Count on it."

The Wolf's Den had a kind of charm. Not so much what she'd expected of a place, once it had been a barn, part of a stable, but the former owner – the Landlady's now dead husband – had been tired of selling horseflesh. and shovelling shit. His wife's father had been a brewer, and needed a place to sell off his produce, that match had been made, the stalls converted to rooms, a fireplace and stoves dragged in, a bar and walls hammered up with more wood that allowed for a second floor. All had been well, until the Lannister's soldiers smashed through in the Sacking, shattered most everything and killed the men, leaving the widow/orphan a charred but sturdy inheritance.

She imagines Rickard here, propping up his feet on the table with an ale horn in hand, or commanding the chorus of singing on top of the table a barrel of wine trussed over his shoulder, or on a sombre night, with the rain falling, stood against the fireplace amidst a cloud of his own pipesmoke, gazing into the flames and regaling the room with tales, stories and words of wisdom the Prince has collected in his six-and-ten years.

But when she enters the tavern, such a scene couldn't be further away from the place. It's almost empty, but for two figures by the fire, and a huddle around a table. Immediately, she recognizes the two at the fire and before she said a word Harrold Hardyng has pointed to a room at the top of the prominent staircase. They are all without a word, and no one speaks a word to her as she climbs the stairs, Harry turns back to the Lightening Lord without nothing else to offer and the table seemed not to have notice in any way.

"Come," came Rickard's voice, as she knocked hesitantly on the door Hardyng pointed her to. She entered, her eyes adjusting to the low light, barely three candles in room which was obviously the biggest on the upper floor. The poor light seemed to cloak the Prince in blackness and shadows from the flickering wicks, and was obscured further by the stinking pipe smoke that was thick enough in the room it made her eyes water.

"Rickard," she coughed, and he turned from the window and gazed at her half startled, half relived.

"I was worried about you," he said, dropping the pipe on the sill, expelling his last puff through his nose.

"I could have come quicker," she told him, pulling off her cloak and draping it over a chest she had seen earlier that day. Rickard's things were all here, she saw, but still packed, the chests unemptied and the room only tidy by the fact they squeezed so well into every nook, or stacked well, or beneath the writing desk opposite the flimsy looking pile of moth eaten blankets the Prince must have been expected to sleep on. She took it all in with a raised eye brow, "But you said when you wanted me, and I came."

"I'm glad you did." He looked troubled, more so than he had, but she had not expected Rickard to have solved all his troubles in half a day. He glanced at her, "My Charter is dead. My grandfather has killed it."

"Oh, Rickard." Her heart went out to him, he had such faith he was doing the right thing, such faith that by binding the Lords of Westeros to him with the stroke of their quills, he could force change in the realm for the better, form Seven unruly, feuding, fractious Kingdoms into one realm, an Empire called Westeros.

"He called all the Westerlords to renounce their signatures, most in the Capital left today. Others sent their proxies, some at least came hear to tell me to my face. Most of the River lords did so – not that many of them signed it in the first place – as did the Reachmen, even the Storm Lords. Lord Beric reckons he can keep the Marcher Lords on side but…" He shrugged.

Arianne did not need him to explain further, being as the Marcher Lords had always been the ones most reticent about Her above all else.

"I'm sorry," she approached him, cautiously, because she didn't know what else to say, but he shrugged again and looked at his feet.

"Not your fault," but she couldn't tell if he meant that or not. "Grandfather thinks he's doing what's best for me." That Arianne could not believe, that the ruthless and unforgiving Tywin Lannister did anything in anyone else's interest – whether murdering children, or turning the best of his grandchildren in to a pauper in the space of a few ravens. "And I suppose he's right," the breath caught in her throat then, and for a single moment Arianne swore her heart stopped as if the touch of cold steel had enveloped it. But then Rickard raised his head at last, shrugging a third time, and was beaming at her, "But Tywin Lannister underestimates how selfish I am when it comes to my lady."

He opened his arms, and she felt her heart beating again. It felt good, the way he held her, arms around one another, her head on his chest pressed to hear the hum and drum of his heartbeats as his chest rose and fell at every breath, with his chin resting on her head.

"So…" she felt she had to say the words, to know for her own sake whether the dear at the crux of her heart and throat were true, "Lord Tywin… he knows…" the words were a struggle, because truly she did fear the answer, no matter how much she might already know the fact in her heart, "knows about us… you and I?"

"Yes." Rickard hummed, and on instinct both of them tightened their grip on the other.

She sighed despite herself, "What will you do then, Rick?"

"I'll protect you. No matter- Oww!"

Arianne stomped hard on the Prince's foot. "I don't need your protection!" She whispered sharply at him, moving her head off his chest to stare hard up at him.

"Fine," Rickard grunted, shaking his bruised foot out, "You watch out for yourself. I'll do what I do best: stand and fight." The determination in his voice gave her a flutter of hope in her belly, but for what she didn't recognize, and how she couldn't tell. When she said as much Rickard pointed over his shoulder with a thumb, "Here. King's Landing. If the Lords of the realm won't move for change in King's Landing, they I will make myself master of the city, and have it move them."

"How?"

He looked sheepish, "I haven't got that far yet."

She couldn't help but snort, but Rickard waved her off when she opened her mouth to raise the subject further, "I don't want to talk about that anymore tonight."

"Then what do you want to talk about?"

When Rickard from her to the bed, and the bed to her again, a smile on his face, Arianne swore she would slap him. But when her eyes glowered at him, and her damning word of 'Pig.' Rickard relented and came to her, pleading his innocence, bowing to her, coming in low at her like a dog seeking to be petted and forgive.

"Forgive me, my lady."

"Varys knows," she said it to snap him back to earth, but he just laughed and stood back to his full height.

"I don't doubt he does."

She whirled about, tartness spiking her tone, "Are you going to take this seriously? Varys told me, came face to face with me, at my rooms. That he knew about us, and that you and I could be ground to dust. He was acting on behalf of someone else as well."

"Ari," he had his hands on her shoulders now, and bent once more to speak to her, "Varys serves everyone and no one. He has loyalty to everyone and no one. That cockless wonder would sell me out to my grandfather, and my grandfather to Lord Stark, and Lord Stark to Littlefinger. His job is to know secrets, but he's still a cancer on those nearest to him. Better that we keep him at arm's length, until he has someone worth offering to us. As for this city, killing people is what it does. It got your aunt killed, it got the Targaryen's killed, it got my grandfather Steffon killed, that much isn't a secret. The trick is staying alive, and being a person that can live with yourself when you leave it."

He holds her again, her head back against his heart, listening to the steady beat. "Such a charmer," she said, as an afterthought, and felt him shrug.

"No surprise surely? Having won the heart of my lady?"

'My lady' that much she liked. Loathe as she was to been anyone's possession, there was something to that, a certain respectability that was almost foreign to her, and she liked the ease that it rolled off Rickard's tongue, the soft rumble in the back of his throat whenever he said it.

"'My Lady'," she said, trying the words out for herself. Rickard was humming, a tune she recognised but couldn't put a name to, and led her in swaying gently to the sound of his own song. "Your Lady." She decided, and slipped a hand into his, that they held between them, as they swayed in time with one another. "But what does that make you?" She wondered out loud. "My Prince? My Pauper? My Paramour?"

Rickard snorted, and stopped humming, "I'd rather be your husband."

"To be sure," she agreed, and kissed the line of his jaw. "And soon… but what to call you in the meantime?" They were nose to nose, and Rickard leaned and kissed her mouth as they carried onto to sway between themselves.

"My Lady can call me watch she wishes," Rickard murmured against her mouth, the bristles of his hair tickling her face into a smile, "I'll be her Prince, or pauper, as she wishes."

"What about Paramour?"

It pleased her to watch him roll his eyes, only to say, "If I must."

"Good," she said, and watched as Rickard squeezed and stroke his fingers in hers, the smile that broke out as he recognized the familiar piece of metal on one of her fingers.

"My ring," he said, fondly watching the gold band on her finger that he brought close to his face, "How often do you wear it?"

She watched his face, the joy on it, the knowing of what it meant, something deeper than a simple 'my lady'. "Since you gave it to me: once, today in public." Then his face turned forlorn.

"Such a waste. Will you wear it more, please?"

"I shall wear it always." She promised, half joking but a sudden serious caught in Rickard's eye.

"Do, please. Let people look at it and know: you and I are one. There will be no Arianne without Rickard." That much was a surprise to her. Rickard was cautious in these things by nature, always demanded secrecy, and she kept it for both their goodwill, but now he was here wishing to throw all that away. He shrugged, "Everyone knows, or thinks they know, or guess they know, or think they know something. Keeping wearing my ring, and blow away their small bitter comforts that they know a secret that isn't worth keeping."

"And what do I get in return for such new openness, oh honest one?" Her voice was teasing, and he smiled to match, but each of them had the deathly glimmer of seriousness in their eyes.

"Why, My Lady, then you can call me your Paramour."

"Fairly feeble terms. Don't you think?"

Rickard shrugged, and Arianne wondered whether or not his indifference is symptom of something, or maybe that he thinks vagueness is a mysterious form of flirtation. He leaned down and kissed her, a hand going to her back and Arianne felt like she's been drawn like a bow, the way Rickard moves like he's going in to battle, his other sword roughened hand back to clutch at her cheek. At last, she gives up the ghost wraps herself around the Prince, hands and arms around him, nail digging into his back, a knee that goes through the gap in his legs and has him bending further over her at the stripe of contact she traces over the hardening line in his garments.

Going into battle Rickard might be, but she leads him in this dance. She manoeuvres him, outflanks him, forces him to shift until his legs bump the singular desk of the room and she has him pinned against it and suddenly the urgency in them both reverses. Glad that she had changed out of her ridiculous balloon of a dress, Arianne watches the way Rickard's hands try to delicately unfurl the lines of her silks and satin, stretching at a ribbon till it gives way, unbinding the bows and jewel studded sashes like he's trying to open a gift. Whereas she just tugs and yanks at everything of his, forcing it to give way to her with brute force, tearing the wool of his shirt, splitting the strings of his breeches, sending a button from his doublet spilling on to the floor.

They share one another's nakedness, Rickard drinking her in with a hand on her breast, while she draws a cheek against the hairs on his chest, hand wrapped around the full-bloodedness of his manhood. His skin is pale like ice to look at, but he radiates nothing but burning heat all over his body, and she loves the hotness of him, not just in her hand, but the mouth he places on her neck, the hand that pulls her leg up to him, and her face on the flesh of his chest, everywhere their skin touches – she drinks it in, feeds on it like she would the sun in Dorne.

She never realised when Rickard had moved her, so that she was propped on the desk till the Prince stole a gasp from her mouth as his own kissed a trail to her breast, nipping at a nipple with his teeth. Grinning, she stole a gasp back digging deep with her nails in his back and tightening her grip at his member, that twitched and responded with a throb of its own at her actions. Rickard's mouth comes rushing back to hers, hungry and she meets him with an appetite of her own to be sated.

They fit together well like this, she thought later. What picture they would make, what a fierce painting, like colours and paints, meshing and melding into one another whether they compliment best: mouth against mouth, nose touching nose, her with one hand on his back to hold him close, and legs either side of hips to keep him in place at her altar, while Rickard looms larger one hand on the table, his nails carving into the wood, with his cock hot and heavy against her thigh, the head of him oozing and throbbing at the smouldering heat it feels steaming from her wetness beneath a thicket of black hair.

Somewhere they've started holding hands again, and Arianne drags Rickard's low, and lower still. For a moment she can feel him hesitate, his hand stopping, but when she pulls him onward he lets her take him there gladly and relishes the excited tremble of his fingers when it brushes against her hair, smiling as his body betrays his hitherto calm movements. She sighs into his mouth, Rickard licking at stripe on the top her mouth, adding pause to their jousting tongues, when she parts herself with her fingers and Rickard pushes his into her.

At first he's cautious, not timid, but exploring her learning if he can get her to do anything: moan different, or gasp. He pushes to the left and the right, wiggling his fingers either way, and she tries to concentrate on her breathing, knowing that his ears are clinging to the life line. She tries to guide him with her inhale and exhale, but not giving away too much at the same time. But then Rickard suddenly curls both fingers upward into her, and his thumb comes out of nowhere to flick against her nub.

She cries out, she can't control it, as her whole body convulses. Her mouth breaks off from his, gasping, her thighs tighten around him, and she can't help drag her fingers sharply down Rickard's back – swearing blind she'll have just peeled the skin with her nails better than any knife – briefly she opens her eyes, but her vision is hazy and she squeezes them shut tighter when Rickard's finger start to curl and probe again. His thumb comes to rest easy, teasing her numb. The Prince extracts noises from her, alien to her that she doesn't recognize from herself or couldn't describe or name: somewhere between a mewl, a moan and a roar. Arianne feels herself vibrating, and she suddenly pushes forward, needing a mouth to kiss, to try and share her sounds with Rickard, but she misses lands at the crook of his shoulder and neck.

Instead, she bites down on the flesh, and sucks deep as Rickard carries on panting and working at her. She coils around him as much as she can, and bites hard. A python and a viper all at once. Her tongue finds a vein of Rickard's she can feel through his skin, the searing heat of his life's blood humming hard through him, while she claws and howls and whimpers and caresses as much of him as she can.

"Ye-sssss…" she hisses through her teeth against her lover's skin, "Yes-ssssss… n-need… Rickard… you…"

Her Prince's fingers withdraw, and for a moment Arianne feels hollow, before Rickard pulls her against him slightly, and fills her up with the powerful, intimate heat of himself, pushing deep, deep, deeper, as far as he can. She moans at the feel of her stretching out over him, her mewl settling to a hiss the further inside he goes, while Rickard growls from the very core of his throat and she feels it on her tongue.

Rickard settles when he can moves to further, his breath coming in short, sharp pants, while she drags her nails across the skin of his back again, the beads of sweat that have bubbled up from his work. When at last he begins to move again, he is slow and measured, but when her nails biting back into the skin again, leaving halfmoons across his back, Rickard abandons all measure.

All thoughts and reason fly from her too, all she knows is that so long as Rickard Baratheon is inside of her, worshipping her like this, there is no other place she would be, not in Dorne nor across the Sunset Sea. She arches her back against him, feels her breasts slide up against him. Rickard dips his head low coming down beside hers, and she releases her mouth from the spot on his shoulder, leans back her head to his ear. She wants him to hear, wants him know what he's doing to her, the pleasure burning at the pit of her stomach, winding tight like a spring, that has struck her speechless.

Rickard spurs himself onward at the extra sound of her, thrusting harder, more urgent, trying to get deeper.

When she arrives at her fall, the force of it shocks her. Suddenly, the tension in her stomach snaps, and she comes in a rush, her body goes rigid, utterly stiffening beyond her control. Her eyes spark open, and she feels like they'll burst, with starlight blinding her, and a flash like lightening erupts on every part of her at every moment, warm and sweet like honey Strangest of all, her voice still has strength enough for her to moan, low and loud in Rickard's ear. It all happens at once for a second that is too fleeting, and the she's going slack.

Part of her worries that she's going to fall, that there is nothing she can do to stop herself gliding backwards. But then Rickard – Rickard – is there. He stops her, has an arm against her back, his breath ragged as he carries on working to his own pleasure. Studying him as he still works is a pleasure for her as much as the act is for him. His eyes are dark and misted over, but the blueness in them is almost illuminating the room against failing candle light, and his brow is knitted in focus, sweat dampening his forehead and mouth just creeping open, the wider the closer he approaches his own fall. She touches his face with a hand that is still shivering, and urges him onward, to hurry to find his peak within her.

Suddenly his hips start to urgently snap forward awkwardly against his already erratic strokes, and she watches as his mouth goes wide as he chokes and the shouts out her name. The warmth of his seed floods inside her, spreading and spurting deep and hot, like an ocean catching fire, igniting inside her womb. Her eyes blow wide and she feels a sudden completeness at the rush of Rickard inside of her, twitching.

Time is lost to them both for a while, the Prince relaxes his arm to ease her down onto the flatness of the desk, her hair spilling out over the edges. Rickard softens inside her and slips out, and her body misses the feeling of him already. Their breathing coming back is the only sound, she starring up at the ceiling her mind blank.

Eventually, she feel Rickard's eyes travelling the length of her, from feet over the mountain of her breasts to her face, where her eyes await to meet him.

She flies up sharply, and her Prince catches her in his arms, draws their lips together. Hands tangle in hair, hungry and greedy still.

"Did you mean it?" She asked him later, with the candles burnt out completely, and the two of them are alone a bed in total blackout, her head on his shoulder, curled against one another: lovers that are sated and happy.

He stirred, "What?"

Whether its sleep that had pulled him down or her wearing him out further, with her hand, on her back and on his, she can't tell. They are both stained with sweat, and marked from each other's mouth, damp all over their skin, Rickard's tired cock sticky from her, and the seeping of his seed across her thighs "About the ring. The no more hiding, form anyone."

"Aye. There seems little point anymore, and if everyone knows, then we can tell who is against us."

Everyone will be, she thinks. She knows how well these frigid Andal are always desperate to stick their noses in other's business just to screech their disapproval. But she does not tell that to Rickard. Instead she hums, and traces the feel of the stag on her finger, listening to the breathing of the stag of Baratheon beneath her.

"Fine, I shall wear your ring, always."

His arms come round her, and she can sense the grin on his face as he rumbles, "My Lady." And her eyes slide close to her dreams.

When they wake on the morrow, Arianne will stare at Rickard for a single moment as they break their fast, and wonder where the image of a child came from, with her dark skin and his oceangoing eyes came from. Then she will blink the image and her dreams of the child she had born for them gone and forgotten.