Robb

"We shall make King's Landing in the hour, m'lord," the ship's captain told him, and he turned to take the hard faced Braavosi in the eye.

At Robb's sighed, Grey Wind growled at the sea again, then whined as he turned from it. The Direwolf had not had an easy time of the voyage, and Robb had struggled to get the Direwolf up the gangplank at White Harbour, but eventually the beast had relented yet even on the wood decks of the ship he continued to be a nuisance to the crew, refusing to move below decks and keeping a resolute watch on the sea as they cut through it – as if he expected the ocean to rise up and swallow the craft. Because of this, the crew and the captain had ran out of patience with the both of them, owing to their arrival at King's Landing much earlier than they planned.

His throat tightened at that. He was still unsure, unsure of what to do when he landed in the city, and how to go about it: his mother had urged him to go seek the King's master-at-arms and present him with the dagger, but that would look queer and Robb did not trust the man to keep silent. He would have to present him to his Father first and no doubt face his ire as well, before taking the chance to explain himself. Then there was Rickard, upon whose invitation he was supposedly here. It would look strange too, that he had not gone to the Prince, who might surely ask questions, which Robb was sworn not to answer.

It was contemplating all this that was interrupted, when he saw the shore line and King's Landing peak over the horizon. The most visible part of the city was the Red Keep, high over the highs of Rhaenys and Visenya, an indefatigable structure with it towers stretching up to the sky, like the points of a crown. Three hundred years past, it was here that Aegon the Conqueror landed and brought Seven Kingdoms under his rule, and on top of his meagre fort rose up a Capital that has since grown into the Kingdom's largest city.

Beneath the city walls, a harbour stood at the mouth of the Blackwater Rush, with quays stretching out like fingers across the water. The ship beat its course towards one, the oars cutting through the still water and beating into a trail of foam behind them till they were retracted and the helmsman brought them in by the push of sails alone.

The gangplank was away below his feet the second when they pulled up against the quayside, and Robb tossed a bag of coins at the ship's master before he followed after the eager Grey Wind, the Direwolf happily sniffing at the solid ground beneath his feet. He scratched the wolf behind the ear, as the ship's crew brought his bags, giving a copper to each that came for their trouble, before he turned and studied the city before him. It wouldn't take much to get lost in this place, and he considered again what now he should take as his course of action.

Except he didn't have chance to consider for too long.

He had saw the men before they saw him, men of the city watch, with cloaks that were easy to recognise. Yet this did not set him at ease, in fact the opposite, and his hand went to his sword as they were here to look for him. Not that they might have known who he was by the look of it, they did not know him at first sight, but after they saw Grey Wind and looked back at him, there was resolve in their eyes.

"M'lord?" one said, and looking at the hand on his sword, "No need for that, m'lord. We're here to escort you."

In spite of their words, Robb did not loose the grip on his sword. How was it they knew him to be here? Had the Lannisters discovered his departure? Or had Lord Stark sent these men? Did his mother not trust him to do this, and sent on word ahead to their father after all? Or had they been betrayed from within, had someone at Winterfell been discreet?

"Who sent you here?"

"Lord Petyr Baelish, m'lord. Master-of-Coin to His Grace."

He did not know the name, or the man behind it. At least he thought he didn't. Had this Baelish known him somehow, had he come North with the King and Robb surely couldn't remember the man. He thought not but then why and how else might he know of Robb and his mission here.

"Do you know who I am?"

"No, m'lord. M'lord Littlefinger said only to bring you to him, and see that you were not mistreated."

Grey Wind growled unhelpfully, and Robb took his hand off his sword to ease the Direwolf. Knowing he could not refuse the offer in any reasonable way, he merely nodded and had Grey Wind follow reluctantly in his wake.

Rather than the Red Keep, they brought him to a brothel, which despite his better wishes, he entered. One of the men tried to have him leave Grey Wind outside, but he refused, knowing the folly in parting from his guardian and that a loose direwolf in King's Landing could only cause the kind of trouble he wished to avoid. The whores of the brothel starred at him as he parted, but none dared approached him as the immensity of Grey Wind stalked in front of him. They were pretty girls to be sure, prettier than most of the girls in Winter Town's brothel. But despite the pretty faces, he almost felt as if there daggers in their eyes, each one trying to peel more than the clothes from his back and the coins from his purse.

They led him to Petyr Baelish in a back room, that was large and hung well with fine pink curtains, and surrounded by cushions, sofas and plush chairs which varied in the darkness and paleness of their reds. The man himself sat at a desk, a vast ledger spread out before him, and when Robb entered he rose: slight and thin, but hardly the bookkeeper or whore-master he expected him to be, with eyes sharp and green, like a cat's, that stood out in the black of his hair, despite the peppering of grey at his beard and the flanks of his ears. He dismissed the guards, easily with wave of his hand, but Robb felt no less at ease.

"My lord," he said smoothly, "welcome to King's Landing."

Robb narrowed his eyes at the man, noticing how quiet Grey Wind had gone: he was doing the same, "I'm not sure if I should thank you, my lord." He said, evenly, "I have never been summoned like a criminal before. Southern hospitality is appalling."

Baelish merely smiled at him.

"You hide you anger well, my lord. A credit to your lord father, but please you needn't be so courteous with me. It was not my intent to offend you."

Robb merely crossed his arms, "How did you know who I am? And how did you know I was in the city."

"Lord Varys knows everything, my lord. Even before some of us do it." He grinned, and Robb felt unease as those cat eyes took the measure of him.

"My mother warned me about the Spider. And my Father had no love of him before he left Winterfell," he said shaking his head in disgust.

"Wise man, your father, on that account at least," Robb ignored the slur, and the man said after a moment, "How is Cat… I mean, Lady Catelyn? Is she well?"

Now Robb took in this Baelish again, searching his face for some trinket of meaning, but found it wanting. Carefully, he told the man, "She is well enough." Then he asked, "How was it the Spider came to know I was in King's Landing?"

"Bolder men than you dare not call him that to his face, my lord. You'd best follow their example. The eunuch can be sensitive about such. I imagine it comes from his lack of a cock." He stepped around the table, hands behind his back, like a man walking his estates, "As to you question: the eunuchs birds flutter everywhere, and nothing and no one enters King's Landing without him knowing. They fly further than the city walls even – when he learned you were on your way, he told me."

"You? Why you? Why not my Father?" A spark of anger struck from worry flashed in his voice for a moment, which went well noticed by Baelish.

"Your Father is Hand of the King, boy. Don't fear I shall fetch him when Lord Varys arrives. As for me, well… I have always been close to your family… to your uncle, Edmure, Aunt Lysa. Your mother. Cat."

There was something in the way he half said his mother's name that put Robb enough on edge to unfold his arms and lay a finger on the pommel of his sword. It was then he remembered something, half a story he heard longer ago. When his mother had been a girl at Riverrun, there had been a squire called Baelish, whom his uncle Brandon had duelled – and nearly killed. Robb didn't know why, or how, or what came next, but he got the sense the idea was never far from Lord Baelish in that moment.

"Strange," Lord Petyr said, as he seemed to finish examining Robb, though he spoke more to himself, until he asked, "Why are you here, my lord?"

Robb shrugged, "A son has a duty to his father, and his sisters. Why should I not be here?"

"Duty?" the word seemed to amuse the man, which irritated Robb no end. "No, my lord. While you do favour your mother, you are not a Tully. It was not Duty, Honour, nor Family that brought you here. In fact, they would compel you to remain in Winterfell. So, again?" Robb was saved by a soft knock at the door, and Littlefinger sighed, "Enter."

A small, round man stepped through the door, a strong whiff of perfume going before him, while his head was a hairless dome. He moved silently in soft slippers, dipping his head when he walked up to him. "My lord Robb," he greeted offering a hand, "the very image of both Father and Mother."

The moist powdered hand shaking his made Robb's flesh crawl, "Th-thank you, Lord Varys." He struggled to say, and the eunuch bowed his head sadly.

"It grieved me to hear about your brother Brandon. So young, the gods have mercy."

Robb's hand flexed hard around the eunuch's then, and he swore Varys dragged them back in pain but there was no sign of it on his face. "Yes, my lord. Our Maester and my mother have him well tended to." He crossed his arms again, starring down unhappily at the man, "Lord Baelish said you're responsible from his men bringing me here."

"Of that I am guilty," Varys giggled, and sat himself on one of the dozen spare seats in the room. It was a strange feminine noise from someone so otherwise unfeminine. "Did you bring the dagger perchance, my lord?"

Robb bit his lip, and starred at the man. How could he have known of the dagger? Was it witchcraft? The only people who knew of the dagger were all in Winterfell. Nevertheless, Robb reluctantly reached into his furs and retrieved the weapon of Bran's assassin, demanding, "Do you know who sent it to my brother?"

"I think it's time I retrieved Lord Eddard," Littlefinger said abruptly.

Varys considered, and Robb looked from one to the other, "Please do, as I ruminate on this."

"No need, my lord," Baelish grinned, "I can tell all on my return."

Robb was about to speak, but the Master-of-Coin had already swept out the door.

A good hour at least passed. Robb and the eunuch sat alone, waiting on Littlefinger, each keeping their silence. Lord Varys spun the dagger around in his hands, marvelling at the edge on it, and Robb assumed that he had never had chance to marvel at the fine edge of Valyrian Steel before. The intensity with which he examined the blade unnerved Robb, and the entirety of his situation only furthered his lack of ease: he was alone, in a strange city, seemingly unknown, but for the good will of strangers who brought him to a brothel, as though he were anything but the son of the Hand of the King. Grey Wind paced the room restlessly, his yellow eyes taking in everything, and at every loud, sudden noise his ears would prick up as his head turned fully to sniff at the offence.

But more oft than not it wasn't worth the effort, until at last Grey Wind let out a single howl. Robb quieted him, took him in hand easily and hushed the wolf. Varys tore his eyes away from the dagger, and looked at him and his wolf, slightly curious, before smiling and returning his face to the dagger.

Afterward, Robb heard footsteps approaching from out the door, and without thinking he stood up. The door open sharply and in swept Lord Baelish, as the door was filled by Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell.

Robb's heart swelled with relief now that he was face to face with him.

"Father," he said, and bowed his head before he approached.

"Robb?" Lord Eddard replied, astonishment in his voice.

Baelish remarked, "I told you, my lord. Glad to see you do recognise your flesh and blood so easily."

Father and son threw scowls at the man, before the elder closed the door, stepped inside the room and addressed his son, "Robb, how have you come to be here? Is it your mother? Or… Bran?"

It was easy for Robb to read the worry in his father's voice, "It is both, my lord." He told him, trying to stand tall and sound as much a man as he could, "though not exactly as you might expect."

Lord Eddard's brow deepened, "How long have you been here? What is this place?"

"Scarcely two hours," it was Baelish that supplied this information, stepping forward and gesturing to the room, "and this is as it is: a Brothel. Mine." He grinned, cat-like to match his cat's eyes. "And would there be a place less likely to house Eddard Stark's son? I thought it best for all we keep young Robb's present a secret from the Lannisters."

"Why?" His father sounded impatient, and he looked square at Robb. "What is your purpose here, my son?"

Robb sighed, turned around and took the dagger from the eunuch, whereupon he offered it to Lord Stark. "This blade was meant to open Bran's throat. The man wielding it failed, after mother and Bran's wolf fought him off." His father's face darkened, and it only grew blacker as he went on Robb told the rest and filled the blanks. He told him all, of his mother's mourning, the fire in the Library, their council in the Godswood, to his journey with Grey Wind by ship, to his landing and Varys and the guards. By the time that Robb was finished, his father had seated himself on one of the sofas, contemplating the dagger in his hands as the eunuch had done.

"This dagger," Lord Eddard said at last, looking at His Grace's Master of Whispers, "who's?"

Varys sighed and looked at his feet, sadly, as if he was about to weep at his own answer, "Alas, I cannot answer for its origin and owner, my lord. No more than you yourself at least."

Littlefinger was laughing, "My lord, if the blade's owner is all you wish to know, then I can supply that much. It is mine."

"Yours?" Lord Stark said, but Robb ignored him.

"Bastard," he said, drawing his sword, the steel singing as it left its scabbard.

"Wait, Robb," His father said, voice cracking like a whip. "I doubt Baelish would admit to owning the knife had he been the author of the assassin."

"Thank you, my lord," Littlefinger bowed his head, otherwise unperturbed by Robb's sword, "this dagger did belong to me, until Prince Joffrey's last nameday. His Grace held a tourney for the celebrations. In the final tilt, I backed Ser Jaime to win it, as did everyone else. You can imagine our faces when Loras Tyrell unseated the Kingslayer. I lost my knife, the Queen lost an emerald necklace, and Prince Rickard became in debt to half the Reach. Cersei 'reclaimed' her jewels, but everyone else had to part with their items."

"Who?" Lord Eddard now demanded of Littlefinger.

"Tyrion Lannister."

"The Imp?" Robb said, furious, while his Father sounded less sure. "Why should he want my son dead? Bran has done nothing to harm him."

"I would not think Tyrion Lannister acted alone," Varys cautioned, "no more than I would expect the Starks of Wintefell to act independently." He simpered oddly, bending low and looking at the both of them. Robb met his Father's eyes and they both turned away, appreciating the eunuch's point.

Lord Eddard paced, wondering aloud, "If the Queen had a hand in her brother's work then, or god's forbid, Robert…"

Robb's guts lurched. If the King was part of this, then why not anyone? Why not Lord Tywin at The Rock? Why not Lord Renly, the King's Brother? Why not the King's sons, why not Joffrey and… Rickard? Could Rickard have had to do with this somehow, who stayed with Robb at all hours in those black days after Bran's fall, and spent countless hours in a Sept lighting candles to his Gods for his brother's life.

"Gods preserve us," Robb murmured, sagging under the weight of the thought.

"No," Lord Eddard then resolved, "I will not believe that of the King."

"More than like the King himself did not know," Littlefinger offered, "Part of the art of ruling is to know when to shut your eyes. King Robert's grasp of it is flawless." He shrugged, and when neither Stark had a response to it, he continued, "Any accusation is treason nonetheless. Accuse the King, and trust that Ilyn Payne's sword shall dance on your neck, Stark."

"But the Queen," Varys offered, encouragingly, "if proof could be found, and if you, as his friend and Hand, could make him listen, then mayhap…"

"We have proof," Robb said, shortly, "The dagger."

Littlefinger laughed, taking the dagger in his hands, "This? Fine steel, but the Imp could easily disavow himself from it. And with his catspaw dead, who is there to prove him false? My advice: forget all, and drop it in the Blackwater."

Both Starks regarded him coldly, and Lord Stark remarked, "Lord Baelish, we are Starks of Winterfell. One of my sons lies crippled, perhaps dying. He would be dead, and my lady wife with him, but for a wolf pup we found in the snow. If you truly believe I could forget that, you are as big a fool now as when you took up sword against my brother."

"A fool maybe. But unlike your brother, I am not rotting in the ground. Very well if you will not be dissuaded, so be it. But do not expect to willingly include me in this business."

"Good," Robb barked, Grey Wind growling beside him resolutely, "We have no need of you either way, my lord. My Father is the Hand of the King, second only to the King."

Despite the fire in his voice, Baelish found him more of an amusement, "And a pretty badge the office gives him, boy, but little else besides. But if you are so resolved, I shall do my best to keep both of you alive. For Catelyn."

That pleased Robb none, but his Father seemed satisfied, if not wholly happy with idea of Petyr Baelish watching over them, "Very well," he said, his last word of the Master of Coin, before he turned to the Master of Whispers, "And you, my lord?"

"I serve the realm at the King's pleasure," he beamed, rising from his cushioned chair, bowing, "You may rely on me to act on its best interest."

Whether this answer satisfied him as well, Robb could not tell in his Father's face. Only that Lord Stark's grey eyes now turned on him with intent. "There is no more that you can do here, my son." He placed a hand on Robb's shoulder. "It is time for you to return to Winterfell."

"No." Robb said, before his father had even finished, "I cannot. Not yet. You have need of me here still."

"Most noble but unwise," the eunuch told him, "The Lannisters would ask questions as to why you are here, my lord. It would be difficult to explain."

"Except it wouldn't," Robb said, keen to deploy his trump card, "I have an excuse. Prince Rickard invited me South, back before he left Winterfell. I couldn't accept at the time. But now it serves as cover…" He was about go on, but he saw in turn the three men's faces at the mention of Rickard Baratheon: Varys sighed, sadly; Baelish sniggered, turning his grin behind his hand; and his Father looking graver still.

Lord Eddard squeezed his shoulder, "My son… this is not a good time for Prince Rickard."

He frowned, and Petyr Baelish answered the question his face was asking, "Poor Dick is out of favour with his Grandfather. As such, he is no longer welcome in the Red Keep. On pain of the Crown's considerable debts to Lord Tywin being called in now, Rickard Baratheon is refused entry and residence to the Red Keep."

"But," Robb, appalled, was about ask why… but then he remembered, the night of the feast in Winterfell, a drunk Prince and a crumpled letter. He changed his question: "How? The King is his Father."

"Quite easily, King Robert or no," Varys explained, looking as though the whole situation was a pain to him, "Technically, since Prince Rickard was a boy he has been a ward of Casterly Rock, even to this day, his is lawfully the squire to Lord Tywin, his guardian. Who is within his rights to demand his ward's return."

"And Lord Tywin being Lord Tywin can do more than merely demand it," Littlefinger said, drolly, "Unfortunately, Rickard is stubborn and refuses to leave the city. He's taken up residence in a tavern, and gets in street fights with the city watch. Janos Slynt is apoplectic…"

"Surely you can't blame Rickard. He has a right to remain."

"Princes have no rights in King's Landing," Baelish continued, "each of them are manufactured by the Crown, and bought and paid for by the King's treasury. The realm has ways of snapping errant ones back in place. You'd think Lord Tywin would have told his grandson that much."

"Well if his situation is so poor, then I shall remain regardless." He looked at his Father, "Rick's my friend, my honour compels me."

Lord Eddard paused, frustration on his face, but eventually he relaxed, and he released his hand from Robb's shoulder. "Very well, my son. You are a man now I see. Though if to stay is your choice, you will reside in the Red Keep. You are not to follow this prince into the doldrums, understand?"

Robb nodded.

It was close to sunset when Robb finally managed to get away from the Red Keep and set about finding Rickard Baratheon in the labyrinthine city. There had been the business of reintroducing him to his Father's household in the Tower of the Hand, shocked faces all who couldn't believe it when Lord Eddard returned with Robb by his side. Their shocked faces soon turned happy though at the sight of him properly before them, even more so when Arya came bursting into the Hall and launched herself at him, a wooden sword of all things in her hand. Fortunately, they don't seem interested in asking questions, but are happily placated by news of Winterfell alone – and in accord with his Father, he trims all detail of Bran, the fire, the assassin and his mother.

After that, he had to be introduced to the King.

Robb felt his skin go still with wonder, as Barristan the Bold bid his entrance to the King's chambers. His Grace was surprised to see him, seated at a table, with a Lannister squire pouring him wine, but pleased nonetheless. And, assuming his purpose, King Robert bid him fair luck in the coming tournament, for which Robb thanked him, watching his Father grimace slightly, as he wondered why Lord Eddard had not mentioned the coming Tourney in his honour. Then Robb took Grey Wind to the King's kennel master, reluctantly, yet eager to settle him with Lady, his littermate. But, in spite of all, eventually Robb was able to get away as Jory Cassell advised him where he might find Rickard.

The sky was burning orange when Robb walked down the street and spotted the tavern sign, hanging and creaking in the evening breeze. The Black Hart. He read beneath the painted animal that Rickard had named his new home, approaching it alone.

As he neared, he heard a voice from beside him, "Seven Hells. I'll be damned for this, Robb."

He turned, and saw the jovial figure of Harrold Hardyng grinning at him as he walked over from a place he had been propped, watching the street.

"Harry," Robb said, smiling, and shook the Valeman's arm when it was offered. "Good to see you."

"And you," Harry seemed to admit, grudgingly, "though now that I see you, the shock has faded."

"Seen me? I was expected."

Hardyng laughed, "You really didn't expect to walk around, bold a brass, with a direwolf in tow and go unnoticed did you?"

"No, but still…"

"Ah, don't worry about it," Harry interrupted, waving his hand and drawing in beside Robb as they walked down toward the tavern, "the way things are right now, Rickard needs to keep an ear to the ground on the streets anyway."

"I see…" Robb said quietly, as he notice Harry's hand fall to his hip where it toyed with a dirk openly pinned to the front of his belt.

Harrold saw him notice, sheepishly explaining, "Rick can explain."

They entered together, the twin doors yielding an atmosphere that was warm and welcoming enough, the scent of strong ale and roasting meats flooding his nostrils. It was wide, spacious with plenty of room between the tables and stools that dotted the centre and benches which held the edge of two walls, while a bar stretched across the third, and only windows cover the one that held the only entrance. Looking up he spied the top floor, with doors to different rooms, he supposed for Rickard and other patrons, that were led to by a wooden staircase that didn't wear its years well. The tavern's patrons did not fill the whole space, and they were not raucous, but Robb supposed it was early in the evening and things might soon change. Harry tapped him on the shoulder, pointed out Rickard, and said to hold back.

The Prince sat with his back to the door, and had not seen them come in, residing at a round table with a second person that Robb didn't recognise. A summer islander as far he could tell, sat across from Rickard, as set of tankards between them, though they looked so far untouched. They were conversing heavily, and Harry ducked into to whisper in the Prince's ear. To Robb's surprise, Rickard did nothing but merely nodded and carried on his conversation, though Harry motioned for him to come forward so that he was in earshot.

"… remind me," the Prince was in the middle of saying, "how my letter to the Citadel requesting the service of a metal can't have reached Oldtown barely two days ago, yet I have some down on his luck acolyte here before me, as if by magic offering sew up all my cuts and bruises?"

"Not down on his luck, my lord," the summer islander grinned, "I am here on the instructions of my mentor, studying some of the accounts and records on offer at the Sept of Baelor. He dispatched me from Oldtown some weeks ago. Since I've been in the Capital, I caught word of your need for a Maester and thought I'd be a fool not to offer my services."

"Yeah," grunted Rickard, "and not like you'd turn your nose up at the gold to weigh your hand down with. What doesn't smack of desperation there, hmm?"

The summer islander scratched his bald head, smiling, "The gold would be nice, I don't deny. But I have a temperate lifestyle, my lord, my lodgings in King's Landing are comfortable for me, and His High Holiness' emissaries extend the Faith's hospitality."

Rickard propped his face up on his fist, "Then what do you expect to gain by entering my service?"

A shrug, "I've heard a Prince's service is a precious thing."

"So patronage is your price." Robb watched Rickard consider this. "Fair enough. But being as that's the case, you sure you can spare the time to be on hand here? Your studies not going to take you away, make you unavailable at an inconvenient time like when my friend Harry's arse explodes at both ends?"

The summer islander smiled, "My studies should be accommodating."

"Really… fuck was your name again? Alleran?"

"Alleras."

"Right."

Rickard looked Alleras over, as did Robb. Hair a deep enough shade to match his skin that built into a widow's peak. Slender eyebrows framed his black eyes, that were sharp and round enough to take in more than the surface of a person. He did not wear a maester's grey robes, but perhaps he did not earn the right yet, being a mere acolyte. Instead, Alleras wore breeches, doublet and a cloak, all dark but otherwise unremarkable.

"You have the makings of your chain?" Rickard asked.

"Yes."

"Produce it."

Alleras put a hand into his doublet, then pulled out the small chain of his order, took it off, and placed it in the Prince's outstretched hand. Rickard drew it close to his face to examine the poultry three links tied to a string, listing each one as he could work it out, while Robb tried to remember what Luwin had told him of their significance to the Maesters.

"Silver," rewarded the maesters skilled in healing and medicines.

"Bronze," for star studiers, and gazers of the constellations.

"And copper," a given for those maesters who have mastered the Histories of Westeros and most of the world beyond and before the Seven Kingdoms.

When he was satisfied, Rickard handed the three joined metals back to its owner, as he asked, "And what link are you studying toward now?"

"My Valyrian Steel link, ser."

Robb frowned, and Rickard seemed just as puzzled, "I'm not familiar with that link of a chain."

Alleras grinned, so wide that Robb felt his insides lurch at the twist of the Acolyte's mouth, though his voice was more bored in its tone, "Valyrian Steel is reserved for the 'higher mysteries'. Only perhaps one in every hundred maesters may forge a link studying: Divination, alchemy…"

"Magic?" the Prince interrupted, and Robb couldn't tell if he was disgusted or derisive at the notion. While Robb was frankly struck dumb, magic was for Old Nan's stories, legends from the Age of Heroes and rumours of the East beyond the Smoking Sea. The Maesters of the Citadel were men of the real world, scholars and scientists; they did not dwell on fantasies or skulk away like the magicians and wizards of child's tales, glowering over their glass candles.

"What secrets of magic do you expect to find in the Sept of Baelor?" Rickard sounded scornful of the idea that the Faith of the Seven had any association with these secret arts.

"Oh, none." There was a movements quiet, before Alleras decided to move on, "So, what will my pay be for my service?"

Rickard took up his tankard, and downed the remaining contents before speaking, "Two dragons a month, plus bed, board and drink free. A woman too, if any of the girls take to you, assuming you haven't sworn off them yet."

"That all."

"Sure, but a man who accepted that, would either be a fool, or smart enough to know that when their Prince begins moving up in the world, that Prince would have more to offer. And if you might be tempted to sell me out to someone with a bigger price, well… prove yourself useful to me, and I might be tempted to beat their offer. Fair?"

Alleras rose, declared, "Fair," and Prince and acolyte shuck hands over the agreed terms, before the latter then left to pick out a room.

With both Robb and Rickard now as alone as they could be, he felt able to approach his friend. Slowly, an eye on the Prince, Robb replaced himself in Alleras' seat, placing both of his hands upon the table.

Rickard Baratheon was much as Robb remembered, a youth two years younger than himself, but the only factor that gave it away was that he had more of a foot on the Prince. Otherwise, The Prince was built like an bullock, thick arms from practiced sword work, and a sturdy chest that broadened into his wide shoulders. A mop of shadow was his hair, much untidier than when Robb had last seen it, and likewise the Prince's formerly cropped and evenly shaven beard was now looking wilder, though it was a flower bed compared to the King's sprawling forest. Finally, Rickard grinning him his easy, assuring grin, curled slightly higher on one side than the other, almost as if he were baring his fangs, and those wide blue eyes narrowed on his current interest, clever and calm, not the beer blazoned or frenzied storm that they could easily be.

"Robb Stark," Rickard said, throwing arm over the back of his chair, and leaning off the ground, with a foot now on top of the table, rocking him back and forth in perfect balance. "That's some fucking speed you come South with Robb."

"Is it?"

The Prince grinned wide, pleased and excited as he spoke. "Can't have gotten my raven less than two weeks ago, yet here you are. No doubt having made hell and leather from Winterfell. Suppose you gave Lord Stark some hell of a shock?"

"My Father was not wholly pleased to see me at first," Robb admitted, then dipped a toe to test the waters, "thank you for the letter, by the way. It was well written."

"Bah," Rickard waved a dismissive hand, "just telling you what you ought to know. Half the lords of Westeros will be at this tournament in honour of your father, yet who does he have to fly the direwolf in his name? Captains of guard and the like? Good men I'm sure, but really? The Hand of the King is owed more respect, even if he won't do himself any favours."

"Mmmm," Robb didn't know what to say to that, in fact he didn't really know why Rickard thought who ran in the tourney was his business. "Well, you've done me a favour at the least, Rick."

"Think nothing of it, Robb. I'm just glad I'm not disturbing you, Winterfell wasn't the happiest of hearths when we left." His face dropped a little, as did his chair back down to the ground. Rickard put both hands on the table, and spoke quiet and consolingly, "I trust all is – if not better – calmer at home?"

Robb forced a smile that might have been genuine, Gods know he wished it could be, "I wouldn't be here if all was better at Winterfell."

"Good," the Prince's smile returned, and he tilted back into his seat again as he shouted toward the bar, "Harry, fresh tankards!"

A serving girl was soon upon them, plonking the heavy tankards down, an oozing of foam creeping over the rim onto the table, and the Rickard's old tankard was gone with Alleras'. They toasted 'Health' and 'Winterfell: in better times', and Robb sipped lightly at his beer.

Looking around their surroundings, and the slightly fuller room that The Black Hart had become, with denizens of King's Landing entering through its door, Robb finally broached his inevitable question for the Prince.

"I have to ask, Rick. How have you been forced out of the Red Keep?"

For a moment, Rickard stopped rocking his chair on two legs, glanced at Robb, then sighed, before putting all legs back on the floor. He scratched out his beard and took a long gulp from his tankard, before met his eyes dead on as he spoke, "I expect with the fragments of gossip you have heard up at the Castle, you've got a good idea of it." He ran a disgruntled hand through his hair, making it stand up hither and thither on his scalp, "My grandfather wanting me back in his custody, me being as rogue as wildling, that kind of thing?" Robb nodded, "And putting that together with… with what I confided in you at Winterfell, well that's all there is to say."

"So…" Robb began but looked around and leaned in, "so it is because of you and Arianne, really? You both are known, openly."

Rickard laughed loudly at that, with no mind for Robb's attempt for discretion, "Known: yes. Openly: no. See everyone seems to be pretending they don't known to a point. But I've stopped caring about that at this point."

"But Rickard," for the briefest moment, Robb swore it had been his mother's voice from his mouth, but before he could go on and check his friend cut him off.

"But nothing, Robb," he warned, a finger pointing at him as he took another draft of beer into his mouth. "The worst has near enough happened. I've nothing left to fear. All that's left for you is to meet my dear lady for yourself."

That's it, Robb realised. With nothing left to fear, all Rickard's guilt that had been on him in Winterfell was gone now that he and the Princess were discovered. He was a true rebel against his royal blood now, and damn the consequence, in part by choice. Which was fair enough, Robb thought, realising that there was little difference between slicing off an ear after having already cut off one's nose in spite of their face.

"I'd love to, Rick," Robb admitted, apprehension framing his voice, "But are you sure there are no more repercussions you've thought of?"

He watched the Prince turn the idea over for a moment, but only a moment.

"I have Durran's blood in me, Robb. Godsgrief saw down oceans, storms, wind and tide, the worst that the ancient gods threw at him – your Gods, Robb. But what do I have to stand against me? Men. Just men, like me."

Despite himself, Robb gave a short laugh, "You are not just a man."

He shrugged off his words however, and Robb saw the keenness as Rickard leaned forward, the unfamiliar spark in his eye, "Arianne is not just a lady either; a Princess like no other. Not in Westeros, or Valyria before the Doom, or the Dawn of Days has there been such a woman."

"You don't make her sound like any other Lady at the least…"

"I hardly do her justice," Rickard was urgent to say, reaching out for Robb, his whole person alive with the thought of the Princess of Dorne, "but then you can see for yourself tonight if you like."

He would, he admits, but he instead has to disappoint the Prince. Rickard managed to take it well, with his grin and offering a hand in commiseration. They drank their beer together after that, laughed and talked of the coming tourney, and how the finest of Westeros are going to come from all Seven Kingdoms to show their valour. Rickard enjoyed playing the jovial landlord, and he enjoyed watching it for a while, but Robb couldn't shake the squirming feeling in his stomach, the rough sense of foreboding in his guts that made him hope that, while the Prince might be fearless, those around him might for fear enough for him.