Tyrek
The cleaver came down with a heavy thunk! onto the chopping board, and the new cut of venison slid away from the rest of the loin.
"It can't go on like this," he said, grimly with folded arms, "you should not have to live like this."
"I don't know," the Prince laughed, the cleaver in his hand swinging it again, "I rather like this living."
Tyrek Lannister then watched Rickard pick up the fresh piece of meat he had chopped and add it to the first, setting down his chopper, wrapped them in the cloth and hand them over to the woman across the table.
"Two venison chops at two copper stars a piece," the Prince told her, and she gladly dropped the coins into the Prince's hand as she took the closed up meat. Rickard then wiped his hands on the apron he wore and turned to him, "It could be worse, Ty."
That it could, Tyrek had to admit. It had been a week since Rickard had been ejected from the Red Keep by the order of Petyr Baelish at Lord Tywin Lannister's request. They had packed his things back onto the wagons fresh from Winterfell and marched them down to the Wolf's Den tavern where they spent a day plotting and stewing in the Prince's humiliation.
Tyrek had watched the bailiffs in Rickard's rooms, taking them apart, stripping them of their rightful occupant. They had bundled up the scrolls, books, tapestries; plaques with his coat of arms had survived, purely that they were also the King's, but besides that not even the inks, quills and blank parchment were allowed to remain. It was obvious that they had been planning this for when the Prince returned, no unfortunate coincidence or failure of a raven to get through. The Master-of-Coins warrant had been ready and promptly delivered to the Prince when the squires had dragged him before the goldcloaks charged to root him out, with no chance of legal technicality to scrape him out of the trouble or buy him time to find his feet.
Apparently, the explanation the court has been told is that the castle steward needed the rooms for Lord Eddard's people – who they are not told, and because they love to kick a Prince when he's down, they don't ask. Tyrek had been willing to argue the point, to challenge Littlefinger on Rickard's behalf: since when did the Hand of the King's household come before a Prince of the blood royal? But Rickard had waived him off doing it, and the next day Lord Renly had claimed them.
The Master-of-Laws was welcome to them, Tyrek thought grimly, remembering how the bailiffs had keenly tipped over boxes and shook out the contents. How letters from all four corners of the realm had created a new carpet: from the Stormlands, from the Reach, from the Dornish Marches, from the West and Riverlands; from Griffon's Roost and Greenstone, Oldtown and Brightwater Keep, from Stonehelm and Nightsong; from the Golden Tooth and Lannisport. The walls stripped bare of the tapestries and books from their shelves, an image of Durran Godsgrief rolled up with one of Maekar the Anvil at Redgrass Field to bind The Conquest of Dorne, an Account of the War of the Ninepenny Kings and Gods, Wars and Liberty: the Stormlands before the Conquest all into a ball that was promptly kicked around for sport.
He had gone to Rickard then, told him of the outrage, but the Prince merely went tight lipped and did nothing. Later, he had said 'everything I have had came from my father, the King, and from my grandfather, who owns the Kingdoms. Now they've taken it all back, everything from now on shall be mine. It shall not be yielded again.' But they had more to endure yet.
It had been worst making the journey out of the Red Keep. They had not even got the wagons moving before Ser Robar Royce had swaggered around the place, watching them. 'Word is you're to go for a black cell,' he shouted at the Prince, and his little brother Tommen, sister Myrcella and cousins Martyn and Tybolt had all four exploded into tears.
'And what have I done to warrant that,' Rickard had shot back with a sneer. 'Just cause you could never bite your tongue on any story your told.' But that had been the last chance for the Prince to hold his head up in the Red Keep. The smallfolk booed and jeered him on the streets, from windows or openly as their train of horses passed them by. Ingrate bastards, Tyrek had thought, watching each knew threat on the Prince cut like a curse. What had this Prince ever done to you? He would have you all raised up from the shit, treated with dignity, given good food and plentiful bread.
Then the other Prince materialised, who had lagged behind half a day from the rest of them returning from the North, with the rest and the King himself. But now Joffrey had ridden ahead of His Grace, to see Rickard's humiliation with his own eyes. The elder had been laughing, jeering, encouraging the smallfolk. He mentioned that their Father had no hard feelings, but Prince Joffrey had gleefully tossed Rickard a gold dragon before bidding him farewell bastard. Tyrek had looked at Rickard then and swore that one of them was about to cry, but the Prince held his courage or else the sprinkle of rain that lasted the rest of their journey washed them away before anyone had chance to see.
But that was all a week ago, and Rickard Baratheon was not a man to be held down for long. 'I will have King's Landing,' he had told those few of him that had not renounced the Charter, 'I shall take it from the sewers, up, just as the Conqueror built it. In a year this city will be mine to wield like a fist: at the Red Keep, at Casterly Rock, at anyone who gets in my way.'
Now the Prince has launched his campaign for King's Landing.
He started by setting up a butcher's stall near Iron Gate, where he gives fair prices for good meat, cut and carved in front of the smallfolk's eyes with his own knives and choppers. The novelty of the whole thing has struck a cord with the people of the city, who seven days ago were jeering and hooting at the Prince. They queue for an hour or more to be served his venison or beef or pork, just for the show of it. And when he hands over their chops, ribs, loins or cuts the stand back and melt in with the crowd to gawk at him for another hour.
Suddenly, Rickard has a cult who stare at him like he's speaking in foreign tongues, but perhaps that's because he does speak – a lot, by the Gods! – and more than just prices. He'll talk with anyone about anything. Sometimes it's the Seven and he'll recite bits of the Seven Pointed Star, or news from elsewhere in the Kingdoms and Rickard will lay plain his opinions and share with them what he knows. But what they loved best, he pointed out to him, was when they get Rickard to curse and swear. So that by now they all have a little game that every now and again one of the Smallfolk will throw out something to see whether he'll bite and gnaw on it or no.
Right now, Tyrek watched knowing that one was coming, as his Prince set to work with his knife at a fresh carcass.
"What about the Targaryens, your prince?" A portly man asked, biting on his thumb with anticipation.
"What about those inbred fuck-ups." Rickard shrugged, his face slashed with a grin as he plonked a mound of beef flank onto his table, and began trimming the fat.
The crowd rippled with a giggle, and somebody else asked, "Isn't you kin to them Dragonlords, Prince?"
"I'm distantly descended from all those cocksucking cunts, yes," he admitted, and even Tyrek laughed with the sheer nonchalance of his tone of voice, "but no Baratheon ever claimed they could ride a dragon, nor did they fuck their own sister. Or is it the other way around?"
The street rang with laughter.
It went on like that another two hours, till Rickard was down to the chuck and bones, and the sun was listing to the west. Tyrek helped him pack everything into the two barrows they had brought everything to their spot in, gladly wheeled one of them back through the streets, side by side.
"What do you really think of the Targaryens, though, Rick?" Tyrek asked his friend as they bounced along the street cobbles.
He didn't mean what those gathered about the stall had meant. They had meant the Targaryens that were, the ones that had come before King Robert's Rebellion, the Mad King Aerys II, Maegor the Cruel, Good King Daeron and Baelor the Beloved. But now he is asking about the Targaryens that we have now: the Beggar King Viserys in exile across the Narrow Sea.
Rumours have swirled about him for years, but at last genuine news had reached the Seven Kingdoms of his schemes to take back the Crown lost to his family on the Trident.
"Targaryen is foolish and desperate," Rickard scoffed at his question, and shook his head saying, "marrying his – what is she, sister? Niece? Cousin? Fucking inbreds – to a Dothraki Khal, tsk tsk," the tone in the Prince's voice shifted from disappointment to a mellow sympathy, "I feel sorry for the girl. The horselords will ride her far into the East, fuck her raw and leave her for dead. Viserys will be weaponless and alone, his head a readymade gift for one of the Free Cities to my Father."
"I don't know," he said, he had always like to pose these hypotheticals to Rickard to see how far ahead he thinks or how quick he'll react on the spot, "Could be this Khal means to return the gift with a crown?"
"Then the Beggar King is a fool to take those savages for their word," Rickard spoke as though it were blindingly obvious, a poor question for him to propose. "No Dothraki Khalasar has ever crossed an ocean, nor likely too. It's more likely that my father will cross the sea to meet the barbarians in the field, but even he wouldn't provoke Braavos and Pentos by landing an army on Essos when he doesn't have to."
"I suppose that Loren the Last never expected the Conqueror to cross from Dragonstone either," he dropped that one like a pebble in a pond, just to see the ripple.
Rickard laughed to humour him, "Aye, and you can bet the Field of Fire would have gone different if Aegon had no Dragons. Viserys isn't likely to find any in the Dothraki Sea. So, the Dothraki land: so what? They'll take a few castles, the banners will be called, we'll crush the turncoats, then throw the Dothraki back into the Sea and wait for them to throw the young pretender back to us for peace. A quick clean war; a short spring affair."
They turned a corner off the Rosby Road, into the side street that took them straight to there destination, which with barrows they had to go down single file. Rickard kept an eye of his shoulder as they continued.
"You make it sound too like a holiday, for something you expect not to happen," he chortled.
"Ah," the Prince sighed in an apathetic tone, "well what other chance of a war is there? No rebel would dare to challenge the crown these days. There are no Blackfyres anymore, nowhere else on Westeros to bring under the Iron Throne. My father will have another ten years, give or take, and when he passes on there's no doubt about the succession."
What a disappointment to Harry that will be, Rick, he thinks with a small smile. He had not told Rick about Harry coming to him at Winterfell, drunk as a newt, suggesting life might be better if Rickard were next in line for the Throne, and how the realm would profit from Joffrey Baratheon's removal. Nor will he, in part because he's no idea if Harry even remembers what he said, and partly because he suspect that Rickard already knows Harrold Hardyng would rather swear fealty to him than his brother.
"You know," Rickard went on, "I almost wish that I was wrong about the Dothraki and Viserys, just to fight in the war."
"Almost?" he teased.
Rickard stopped, set his barrow down, turned to face and flourish him a wicked grin, "Almost," then picked it back up, the pair of them chuckling, "Tell me you can't imagine it now, Ty? Some ragged patch of earth, South of here, the barbarians howling, the horses on both sides braying, as the enemy come sweeping down the plain, and we meet them there with our lances, pikes, spears and arrows. And the great horde shatters like a hammer through glass."
"Why imagine it, Rick? You should just have that set to music."
The Prince laughed and they turned a final corner to their destination: the Black Hart, formerly the Wolf's Den. On the second day of his residence in the tavern, Rickard had gone to the landlady and bought at a fair price, and a promise that she could stay on and work at her pleasure. Of course for Rickard there had been a problem of hard currency to make the deal, but a trip to cities jewellers and pawn shops had come up with the money. It had worried Tyrek initially, to see Rickard force to sell his possessions on to float a living in a dubious investment; but when the amount of cloth-of-gold and silver, linen doublets, silks, gold chains, and emerald studded cod-pieces the Prince owned was shocking, it turned out: garbs that Tyrek hadn't seen before, and some he had nearly some ten years prior.
More than enough to buy the tavern, with some left over.
A new sign was put up in honour of its new owner: a black hart on a crimson field. And like with the butcher's stall, business was booming, the commonfolk cramming in as much as they can, to see their Prince and drink with him, fortifying the minor nobles that had usually stalked the Wolf's Den, like that vagabond, heathen priest, Thoros of Myr.
Here, on this street, Rickard is known. The local smile, and he waves back happily, setting his barrow full of bones and offal down in front of the porch entrance to his new abode, beneath its fresh, new sign. The tavern's cook comes out and takes the Prince's barrow around the back where he will do what he can with the remains: bones for soup and stock, and the rest to Flea Bottom where it can fortify the bowls of brown with more than cast of vegetables. Nothing is wasted down here in the city, Rickard can't afford it if he's to be in residence for a long while.
Tyrek looked around and took in the street, much the same as ever, except for the Goldcloaks, he noticed. Three pairs of them, scattered across the street, all hands on their maces on their flanks, or holding tight the staves they used to keep order, yet they were not patrolling the street. In fact, Tyrek knew the Goldcloaks made a point of avoiding the area as there was rarely trouble for them to watch out for otherwise, or if it did the trouble resolved itself without the Goldcloaks. It was strange, he thought, for them to be here and all indiscriminately watching the Black Hart. Were they spying? Tyrek wondered. Were they catspaws of Queen Cersei or Littlefinger, some of the eunuch Varys little birds, or perhaps the eyes of the Old Lion of the Rock stretched down even into the gutters of King's Landing?
Whatever their purpose was, Rickard seemed not to notice, and strode inside his new residence and business for the foreseeable future, a smile on his face and no care that he could see.
"Ah, there you are," called a welcoming voice, as the doors shut behind him and his Prince, "I was wondering how much longer you'd be."
Harrold Hardyng stood behind the tavern's bar, a towel slung over his left shoulder. Like Rickard, Harry had taken to wear simpler garb and how willingly gone with him from the Red Keep in exile, and had a room of his own here next door to the Prince. Safe to say, when Rickard was not around, Harrold held fort at the Black Hart, and enjoyed it. Propping up the bar, serving ale and pouring wine, keeping an eye on the serving wenches: all he took to like a duck to water, but he surprised Tyrek in his moderation, he had only seen him drink when in front, and only took one of the wenches to his bed, who he made a point of keeping a civil tongue to set example for their patrons.
He wants back in Rick's good graces, he thought. It had hurt Harrold to see the Prince booted out on royal snout by a man like Petyr Baelish, who he hated in no secret way. But even more it had hurt to think he had lost faith in Rickard when he spoken out of turn, and openly said to his friend he was questioning his loyalty, so Rickard had snapped him back into line, almost adding his neck into the bargain.
"Would you have sent a search party out for us?" Rickard asked, smirking. "Not your good self, of course."
"Certainly not," Harry answered back, smacking the surface of the bar with his towel in mock indignation, "I've better things to do than go looking for a rogue Prince of an evening."
They both laughed, and Rickard swaggered to the bar, where Harry drops two tankards of ale, which each of them sipped in turn. It was thick with foam, and yeastier than bread, enough that Tyrek thought he might cut through it with a knife to form a trencher. From his hip, Rickard took a fat purse and began to count the coins out on the scarred, stained wood.
"We only have a few more barrels of wine left in the cellar," Harry told the Prince, leaning with both palms flat on the table.
It was a quiet time of the day for the tavern, the markets were still open and everyone still at their work, but they would be winding down now, those having a bad day would be closing up and counting their losses. As such, it was quiet, and Harry had chance to sit down and catch an easy conversation before the sunset and mad rush descended.
Coins clinked and chinked between Rickard's fingers, but he did not move his eyes from them as he spoke, "Ty, tomorrow you'll go find a decent merchant for us to stock up barrels on."
"Right you are," he said, but then Rick stopped looked up and considered.
"Maybe I'll write to Willas. He could send us some good stock from the Reach."
"I doubt Tyrell would do as much for free," he pointed out, "much as he does love you, even the heir to Highgarden does not have a full vineyard at his disposal. Not to mention the cost to ship it."
Rickard hummed, "It couldn't hurt to write," but then another thought occurred to him, "how will I send the letter?"
In turn they each looked to one another, all at a loss to what the answer might be.
"You could send it up to the castle," Harry suggested, but Rickard only scoffed at the idea.
"I think I forfeited Maesters privileges when I was thrown out." He sighed, "I think on it." His hand scooped up the counted out coins, and returned them to the purse, "I'm going to have a wash and a nap. Wake me when it starts to get busy."
They bowed their heads after him, watching as the bag in his hand jingled with weight of its silvers and coppers. All will go into the chest that Rickard kept all his money in, a pile grown in bigger than it had ever been in the Red Keep, Tyrek had to admit, and the Prince kept it locked within a chest, which was bolted close with a padlock, and behind the locked door of his room. Keys to all three of which only Rickard held, on a loop around his neck, which never strayed from its spot.
Money is the problem of the moment, or at least gold is. If Rickard were to be Lord of King's Landing in all but name, the way to do it is with plenty of gold. All he has is coppers for the moment, and since when did mere coppers do to buy goldcloaks, magistrates, spies, merchants and the good folk of the city off. But how to mass the gold? Well, The Black Hart is a good start, but by no means enough on its own, so Rickard falls back on the only other way he ever had to make coin: gambling, and so he set up tables for dice and cards by the fire on the tavern floor for the smallfolk to crowd in at, and for those with gold who fancy to try there luck, there are rooms for the same, which a toll is required to pay before you try your chances. It boggled his brain that so many do actually cough up the coin, but that must be the price to ogle at a Prince and play chance under his roof. Rickard had also begun to make plans to organize fights, and run the betting, as he did on the journey North on the King's Road, but he as yet hadn't decided what he will run: cockfighting; dogs; maybe baiting of some kind; or maybe he'll let men go at it, bareknuckle or Mensur-style? What a thing it would be, tyring to stop Rick and Harry partaking then, he thought.
"Did he have much to say for himself?" The young falcon asked him.
He shrugged, "Plenty," he said shortly, "I got the impression he wished for a war."
Harry laughed, "Godsdammit. Who doesn't?" He listened as Harry spoke, much as Rickard had, and had a thought to wonder whether they had discussed the events across the Narrow Sea before now. "Would that Viserys sail and try take back his own, sorry, what he thinks his own. Mind you, wouldn't be fair."
"Wouldn't it?" He is interested now, fairness isn't something that Harrold Hardyng cares to mention or consider.
"He can't win, but Gods know he must fight like he can anyway. Where would his money come from? For the ships, men, and the horses. An army won't stand on a promissory note, not least the kind you'll find in the Free Cities. How could Targaryen understand these things? Was he ever a soldier, Viserys, do you know?"
He considered telling Harry: he was no more a soldier than you ever have been, Harry. But instead he bit on his tongue, and let Hardyng go on.
"Not in any army worth a damn. Certainly saw no battle, nothing like the Trident. Be assured, King Rob will swat this new dragon like a fly on the battlefield."
An hour passed, and the sky began to turn a deep, burning orange, and though it was entering a terminal decline toward the West, a sun of a different kind rose and entered through the doors of the Black Hart.
Tyrek shook his head upon instinct, as the Princess Arianne of Dorne strode into the tavern, her head held high, wrapped in flowing silks of silk and samite, a jade spectre flowing through the as the evenings crowd begin to enter for the revelry.
He called out to her, watching her black eyes swimming in the crowd, "Rickard's upstairs." Her head darted around to see him, but he dipped his own to avoid meeting her gazes with his own. "He's asleep, won't want to be waken."
Despite bowing his head, and the harshness with which he put into scrubbing the counter top, Tyrek could still feel her eyes on him as she approached. The eyes, he thought, it always the eyes, they are the only way to know a person. Hers are of a predator, sharp and cutting, the kind that on a cold, dark night in the wilderness will stare back at you from the blackness.
She sprawled out in front of him, like a cat lounging sunlight, arms on the counter top, "When will he want to be waken then?"
He shrugged, put aside his scrubbrush, and took a chancing glance down the bar top as he bent down to retrieve a wine flagon. Harrold was further down at the other end, conducting business: filing tankards, refreshing horns. Pouring the Princess a cup, he took a breath to look her in the face.
But she was no longer interested in him, her eyes instead on the wine he poured. Cup in hand, she swirled the contents took a reproachful sniff, then returned to contemplating the idea of drinking it. What more does she want, he thought, bad enough Rickard said let her drink for free. Anything better than the catpiss wine, I'll make her pay for.
"Am I sentenced to wait on him?" the Princess asked, taking a small swig of the cup, which to his chagrin did not make her face sour.
"Any chance you have messages I can pass on," he replied amiably enough, a courtesy almost in his voice, "I'd hate for you to waste your time here, Princess."
When her head tilted, he almost flinched, convinced her eyes had slashed him and drawn blood. "Any chance you would realize the sun does not turn on you and I? Would you consider, Lannister, that other factors spin on my being here more than your contempt and Rickard's cock?"
He felt his teeth grit, and his mouth turn into a snarl, but then a shout comes from the other end of the bar.
"Princess!" Harry Hardyng called, coming down from his end all comely smiles for the both of them, "Rickard said nothing about you coming down tonight."
"Nor had I planned to," she said, and moved to go on, but Harry looked down and cried out.
"Bah!" His hand swept away the cup before her, upturning the contents in its original flagon, "You deserve better than this swill, my lady." The Valeman moved a step down to reach for a barrel, and refilled the cup, before laying it back before her. "Dornish." He told her smiling, "From your homeland. We are running out, but can spare some for the Princess."
Graciously, she smiled and thanked him, taking a much heavier and immediate drink of this wine, "Very good, fine vintage for something outside the Red Keep in this city," She swirled it once more, then set it back down, "As I said, I had not planned to be down here tonight, but I have information for Rickard. He'll want to here now, it'd be a disservice not to."
"He's sleeping," Harry happily said, while he, Tyrek, turned up the bar a spell, to serve those that his friend was now neglecting, "But he'd want to wake about now," his hand went wide, gesturing up at the Prince's room, as if the Princess of Dorne had not been in it enough times these past seven days to count as its second resident, "By all means, go up, not that I could stop you, my lady."
Both laughed, and Tyrek kept his focus entirely on the drinks and coins that passed through his hands, until Harry came at him from the side, towel at his shoulder slapping angrily down on the counter, as he whispered equally furious in his ear.
"I thought you had put your quarrel with her away."
He snorted, a cold sneer at the idea of it, "I put away my quarrel with Rickard about her," he shook his head and stepped away from the bar so they could talk with some kind of privacy, "Don't expect me and her to ever be comely to one another. Nor should Rickard. He'll be glad I didn't, when she shows her true face."
Hardyng merely rolled his eyes, "I get not trusting her, what she'll do. But even you must look passed it to see whatever is going on with her, harm to Rickard is not part of her intent."
"No harm to Rickard?!" It was a struggle to keep his voice down, but he just managed it for the moment, "It's because of her he's here, she has brought down a Prince – that Dornish whore!"
"Would she still be here, keep coming to him, if that were her intent? You know as well as I do, this is Rickard's lowest point, yet she is still here. Surely that counts something in her favour. Put the quarrel aside, Tyrek, it does you and Rickard no good."
He had known this much, had half promised Rickard to ease off his animosity to the Princess, but it's a thing easier said than done. It doesn't help that his thoughts on the matter between Rick and Arianne Martell is blinkered so much, that his cold reasoning is contaminated by his nature, his deepest love of Rickard that goes beyond them being mere cousins or even blood brothers, the love which he cannot say out loud. But Rickard had gone beyond reasoning at this stage anyway.
You cannot always reason with a Prince, even one like Rickard Baratheon, for they are not like ordinary men. Tyrek imagined what Ser Arthur Dayne, and the others of Aerys the Scab's Kingsguard must have thought when their King declared Rickard Stark would be burned alive, or what entered their heads when Rhaegar Targaryen kidnapped Lyanna Stark and fled punishment to the Dornish Marches.
But what useful advice could they give? In the end all but Ser Barristan and Ser Jaime died as their Princes dragged them down to their graves.
Tyrek decided to take the lesson from that, not to be dragged down, he'd push Rickard up if he has to, do whatever necessary. Rickard was his Prince, he chose him, the gentlest soul, the easiest smile, the fearless heart, most curious mind among the stock of Princes that Westeros has today.
Harry had wandered away, gone to collect empty cups, or change a barrel, he had not saw him go besides the irritated shake of the head. Tyrek did his work, carrying on to serve drink, while he kept his eye on the crowd beyond the bar. For a moment, it looked no different than any other time for that kind of evening, but it was almost as if something had caught his gaze from the corner of his eye. He looked harder for a moment, and realized that suddenly, few people were drink, more talking going om, and not the usual raucous kind – but mostly low, in hushed tones, between heads that he had never seen close together, everyone occasionally glancing at the door, around which there was no one.
A prickling went up the back of his neck, a Tyrek realised the off nature of everything under the roof of The Black Hart now. They knew something that he did not, that some reckoning was on his way. I am a fool, Tyrek though, setting down the empty tankard he had been about to pour down, and moving down the bar. He should have sensed the problem with the crowd sooner, but had been too lost in his own trifles.
Moving down the bar, he meant to catch a glance of Harry as he went upstairs, to give warning to both or either him and Rickard. But as his hand touched the staircase, whatever the patrons of The Black Hart had been waiting for happened.
The door burst open violently with crash, splinters of wood scattering from the doorframe. Those drinkers who had been as ignorant of the mood in the room as Tyrek, all went hushed, the only sound filling their ears was the sound of heavy footsteps. Tyrek watched with panic gripping his heart and lead in his gut as seven goldcloaks of the City Watch clambered through the remains of the entrance.
It's a reckoning, was the only terrified thought that went through his head. But for what he could not say.
Smallfolk now emptied the centre of the room, and filled the outskirts, some clambered over each other and some onto the bar and tabletops. As they began to block Tyrek's view, he moved through the people toward the goldcloaks putting himself fully in their view in front of the patrons.
At the head of the seven was a their officer, with his black ornamented breastplate gleaming, and two ordinary watchmen on either side of him holding halberds aloft.
"This establishment is closed till further notice," the officer said, in a mirthless voice like steel dragged over burning wood, "by the order of Janos Slynt, Lord Commander of the City Watch."
He felt himself move forward suddenly, a protest on his lips.
"For what purpose? You've no right to disrupt our trade."
From the Smallfolk there was an intake of breath, and perhaps too late he caught their feared faces at the Officer. Tyrek had seen this kind of fear before, it was the same way that they looked in the Westerlands when Ser Gregor Clegane went riding by, or some of the squires at the Casterly Rock used to glance at one another when the fear of Lord Tywin's wroth was threatened to be upon them.
"For no purpose of yours to know, boy." He spat at him, the glob landing splat on his chest, "now consider yourself lucky, and sit down and fuck off before you feel the back of my hand."
They did not recognise him for a Lannister, he realised, or mayhaps they didn't care. Why would they if they were sent here by Rickard's enemies? Despite himself, and wishing that Harry were beside him, or Rickard out of his bed, he held his ground.
"You can't do this, and you'll only regret if you try any harder…"
Smack!
The world spun around, and his cheek burned like a brand, as he flew like a ragdoll aside. When he opened his eyes again, the Officer was over him, flexing his fist, and the goldcloak on his left had him by the scruff of the neck, then the shaft of the halberd was constricting his throat so tight it was a struggle to breathe and anymore talking was impossible. He watched the Officer stride around the room, already looking like a rooster marking out his territory.
"I am Allar Deem, and by order of the City Watch, this riotous grouping will disperse. This tavern is closed till further ordered by Lord Commander. Its landlord has failed to pay its dues to the Watch Tariff, and he should make himself accountable now, or to Commander Slynt on the morrow."
Watch Tariff? There was no such thing that Tyrek had heard of before. Petyr Baelish had never levied any such thing that prevented taverns and inns from operating beyond the taxes on imports, at least so far as he knew. And why was there no clerk from the Master-of-Coin, or the Royal Mint? Tyrek felt the shaft of the polearm dig further into his flesh, and the fear on the faces of the smallfolk, many simply too terrified to disperse as ordered.
"Well, here I am," a cheery voice called out from above.
Tyrek could not see the caller, but he did not need to be able to do so in order to recognise Rickard. He would have swore, wishing that Rickard had not revealed himself, but the wood strangling him made all but a faint squeak impossible.
He heard Rickard's steps on the stairs, and when he reached the bottom, the smallfolk parted for him, till he stood where he had stood not a minute before in front of the Watchman. Rickard did not look like a Prince much of the time, but this was a far from a Prince as Tyrek could remember seeing him, all in rough spun wool and with a jolt in his heart, it dawned on him that if they had not taken him for a Lannister then Rick hadn't a prayer of the respect owed him as a Prince of the Realm.
"What's this?" Allar Deem sounded tired, "Like I told the other one, boy: fuck off out the Watch business."
"I heard you," there was an edge to Rickard's voice sharper than any of his butcher's knives, "And you also said that the new Landlord should present himself: well here I fucking am, you cocksucker. What the fuck do you want in my place?"
Allar Deem seemed stumped at first, as if this were the first time he'd been cursed by someone to his face. In his silence, the Watchman on his right reacted.
"Careful boy," he drew a knife on his belt, matching the halberd in his other hand, "We've cut tongues out for less. You should know to watch your mouth around the Goldcloaks."
Rickard did not seem fazed, and failed to acknowledge the other goldcloak, merely repeating his question of Deem.
"You haven't paid your Watch Tariff. All taverns, inns and brothels pay their dues to the Watch: no exceptions." Allar Deem declared. "If they don't, they don't trade much longer after they stop paying." He laughed with a degenerate's cough.
Tyrek watched as Rickard stroked his beard, thoughtfully as he spoke, "So, you are telling me: if I don't pay this fucking bribe, cow to this fucking shake down – don't try and hide behind the law, you bastard, there is no such fucking tariff – you and your men will make it impossible to ensure I cannot operate my business anymore."
Allar Deem's eyes were narrowed to angry slits, and Tyrek could tell he was losing patience, hard grip on his sword. "That would be our position, to make sure you found your throat cut and thrown into the river as your position, you motherless whoreson."
Rickard laughed mockingly, "Well as to that, and whatever bullshit the Lord Commander is running, the gist of my position is: go fuck yourself."
Deem took his turn to laugh, "Foolish, boy. You have a good piece of action here, it'd be a shame not to understand ruin the good days ahead, over parting with few pieces of gold."
"No," Rickard put a hand on his hip, "I just understand the days to my left," and pointed behind Deem with the appropriate hand, "Have you met my friend Harry?"
Harrold came storming out of the crowd as if from nowhere, an explosion in the form of the Young Falcon.
One of the goldcloaks fell back in shock at the suddenness of Harry Hardyng coming at them, while the goldcloak closest to the one himself put a hand to the mace on his hip, but his chance to draw it was long gone. Harry kicked the hand and mace away, as his fist came round in a swing that between all the motion put the goldcloak to his hands and knees. As the others began to draw their own clubs, raise polearms, and unhook maces from their hips in reaction to Harry, Rickard then sprang to his relief.
His foot raised and kicked low, taking Allar Deem at the side of his knee, which had him buckle and fall on to it, shouting in pain. An arm went flailing out, trying to swat at Rickard, but the Prince caught it and brought the offending limb down over his own knee. It was a sickening noise, and Tyrek saw the grotesque angle the arm now jutted at, just as the Watchman holding him released him.
The floor rushed up to meet him, as he coughed at the rawness of his throat, air flooding back to his lungs as a blessed relief. When he turned his head back up, he saw Harry throw the man on the floor like a ragdoll at two others, and they endsed as a crash, a piling up off flimsy weapons useless on the floor, golden cloaks strangling them like bedsheets. Allar Deem was whimpering on the floor, clutching at his mangled left arm, while Rickard turned on the man who had him by the throat.
Rick's opponent thrust with the point of the halberd and the Prince let it come at him, before batting away the spear tip with his forearm at the longer shaft, like he were using shield. But when the halberd drew back, the axe head caught the outstretched arm, slicing through the mere wool covering flesh. A stripe of blood went through the air, and Tyrek watched Rickard clutch at the wound growling.
When the polearm thrust a second time, Rickard sidestepped the whole thing then grabbed the wooden shaft with both hands. Tyrek saw the blood blooming on his cousins arm like a lethal flower, but Rickard was unfazed as he slung his foot around the goldcloak, catching him behind the ankle and pulling the man off his feet. He slipped away to the floor, releasing the halberd which Rickard offered to Tyrek, still looking up at him from the floor, like a hand up.
He rose to his feet, and was about to say something to his friend, but Rickard had already dropped the halberd and turned away to help Harry, who was wrestling a man with club, each with one hand around the other's throat, and Harry holding off the club that the man was wielding with the other.
As Rickard passed him, the halberder roused from the floor. Tyrek sprang on him as he did, bring his foot down hard on the man's face which ended in an odd clicking noise. After he pulled his foot away, Tyrek saw the man's nose bending upward at an odd angle, blood running from his nostrils and mouth, as he spat his front teeth onto his chest.
Meanwhile, the pile of when Harry had lain low were stirring, and Tyrek glanced the glimmer as one of them reached for a dagger as he pushed his comrade off his legs. Like with the last, Tyrek hurled himself at the man kicking the dagger out of the Watchman's hand, before he bent to his face, warning with a strangled voice, "Move not a muscle."
And, seeing the congealed mass of Allar Deem, Rickard holding the last man standing by the neck from behind, as Harry laid him a beating with his own club, the man on the floor stilled as he was bid.
"How's my position looking now, you godless fuck," Rickard shouted at Allar Deem, once the final goldcloak had been bloodied enough, adding a final kick to both, "So this how it works for the watch? Fat fucking bastard Janos Slynt doesn't let anyone operate that doesn't pay? Bust up ribs and burn out anyone that says no?" A further furious barrage of Rickard's foot came down, kicking, stomping, "Well who's the only breaking ribs tonight? How many you break?"
From the puddle on the floor, "I… I t-think I… broke t-two… r-ribs." Sobbed Allar Deem, only to choke down on the words as Rickard smashed his heel into the man's chest, sending him spread eagle in a pool of blood and tears for the packed tavern to all see.
"I meant honest people's businesses, you motherless cunt." Rickard walked away from him, rubbing the cut on his arm, and took up the halberd that he'd let drop.
Allar Deem saw it in his hand, and sobbed harder, "Don't kill me. Please, D-don't kill me."
"I won't kill you," he slammed the bottom of the weapon right on Deem's chest, "You're gonna deliver Slynt a message."
"I-I'll tell… I'll t-tell him!"
"You tell that fat, butcher bastard every injury he puts on me and mine, I'll pay the bastard back tenfold. Tell him I'll pay back every drop of blood and sweat will a gallon more of his own. Tell him to and the Goldcloaks to stay away from The Black Hart, and any other place I tell him to. He steps out of line with me again, I'll deliver the next beating to him in fucking person, and it won't be the kind he gets crawl away from. But most important," Rickard slid to a knee, his hand on the halberd to keep him steady, "you let him know King's Landing, from Dragon's Gate to King's Gate, Cobbler's Square to the foot of Aegon's Hill is Rickard Baratheon's. Understand?"
Allar Deem nodded, but Tyrek rather got that he did not. There was no sudden light in his eyes, no flash of realisation that it was the Prince himself that, with the help of the heir to the Vale, had just beaten him and six other Goldcloaks, within inches of their lives, unarmed and sustaining no injury besides a single scratch.
"Drag them the fuck out," Rickard ended, bellowing at the three in the pile Tyrek had his eye on. They seemed the only ones capable of standing under their own power, and they set to work, trying to drag Allar Deem and the two unconscious fellow out through the smashed ruins of the door. While Rickard merely dropped the halberd, and walked to the bar, as the stunned eyes of nearly a hundred of King's Landing's finest drinkers watched him in silence.
Footsteps rushed, and Tyrek turned to see Arianne Martell flying down the stairs to Rickard. Had she watched the whole scene? Surely, because he saw the pained relief on her face as she passed him, and went to Rickard, but he merely shrugged her off with a patient but loving look, and let her look at the blood ruining his sleeve.
The Prince bent over the tavern's bar, and fumbled with a cup and a keg mounted on the top, when he returned to face them all, he raised it and said: "Now that nasty business is all over: free drinks! FOR THE NEXT FUCKING HOUR!"
And a roar of cheers went up.
"Shit!" Rickard swore, and Tyrek watched him bite down hard on his lip, squeezing the horn of ale in his hand harder than any python, as Princess Arianne Martell threaded a needle through the cut on his arm. Truly she was no maester, but there was no doubt that when it came to needlework she was better suited than he or Harry
An hour had passed, and finally Rickard, Tyrek and Harry had all managed to slip up to the Prince's room to confer after what had happened. Harrold was a buzz more than a drunk bee, high on the adrenaline of the fight still, and he had perhaps imbibed some of their now depleted wine stock instead of serving it.
"I tell you, Rick, that was magnificent. You put the shits so far up the little sods, they'll never bother us now."
"I wouldn't be so sure, Harry," he told him, massaging his throat, feeling the area that was bruising from where he had been strangled, "You think Rick's the first to stand up to Slynt? Besides, sending his men back bloodied like that will wound his pride. He'll be back, if only to try and save face."
"And what were we supposed to do instead?" Harry asked, angry, "Just stand by and wait for him to cut your throat?!"
"I didn't say I wasn't grateful," he smiled at him, who seemed to faulter and smiled himself. "That's just the way it is. We'd better be ready for when he comes."
"I fucking plan to be," Rickard snarled through gritted teeth. He downed the ale, and slammed the empty horn on to his desk, adding a battery of curses after it before he spoke clearly again, "I have a few thoughts on what the fuck," he hissed as the Princess tugged a harsh stitch through his flesh, "will prove shield to our future prospects in the city. For one, I want watches on the street, day and night, and all of us to start carrying weapons openly. Sword, dirk, axe, I don't give a fuck, make sure you've always got a blade to hand."
"Consider it done, Rick." Harry said, "I'll round up a few street rats. For a bed and a bowl of stew a day, I bet they'll keep fine watch on the street for us."
"Good," the Prince then pointed at him, "Tyrek, tomorrow you'll go find an armourer and get some crossbows, as many as you think he can get out front without making it look suspicious. And some under the bar too. Mount them on the wall like fucking dear head, or whatever. If we get enough warning of them coming then we'll at least shoot some of the cunts down before it comes to throat cutting."
"Easy work, I'll make sure we have plenty of quarrels, and they're always loaded besides-"
He would have gone on, but then Rickard finally burst with a scream ripped from his mouth at the needle stabbing in his arm, "You…" he began, glaring at his nurse, but she was already interrupting him.
"Me: with a needle still in your arm. And can do a lot more damage with it yet. Bite your thumb," Her face was determined and Rickard shied and bit the appropriate finger as she finished her work. Rickard did not start up again until the Princess bent and bit off the rest of the excess thread that sewed Rickard's sliced skin together, adding a bandage she had prepared earlier to cover the dubious quality of her new needlework.
"You," he began again, flexing his bad arm, "my love, have letters I need you to send. One's to Oldtown."
"Oldtown?"
"Yeah, I find the sudden prescience of needing a qualified Maester in my service."