Rickard

"You should invest in a bigger bed," Arianne purred, stretching herself out across its narrow confines.

Rickard turned from his window, and smiled.

She was magnificent in every way. Wholly naked but for the tangled bed sheet, her olive skin shone in the dawn glow as its reflection illuminated his bedroom, as her vast ocean of thick black hair spilt across the pillows. A sight to be gloried in to be sure, but made all the finer by the fact that Arianne knows how beautiful a picture she is, here and now. And she grins as she looks at him looking at her, and her eyes make his heart jump, as if his mortal souls were in peril with the sinfulness of her smirk. Even now, with him still sweating from their last love making, she teased him: an innocent hand on one breast, the other between her legs, pretending that she is not touching herself again already.

Certainly, with his lover stretched out over it, his bed does look small. But it serves both of them well, plenty robust, and they always have plenty of room, begin ingenious enough to economise on the lack of space.

"I like this one." he replied, leaning back to have cool window press pleasingly against his sweltering skin, "it suits its purpose."

"Maybe," the Princess pouted, the hand on her breast going flat and limp, "but it could be comfier."

Chuckling, he approached her and his bed, leaning over it with both hand resting at the foot, "I've never exactly heard you complain about my bed before now."

"When have you heard me complain about anything before?"

On reflex, he perked an eyebrow up, and smirked as he said, "There's no right answer to that question."

With a smirk of her own, she told him, "Maybe. But I at least thought you might squirm over it."

"I know better than to fall in one of your traps."

"Do you?"

Ah, now he knew he had erred. The flicker in her eyes suddenly change, the slight raising of her brow, the alertness in her body suddenly at the challenge he has accidentally thrown down before her. She shifted on the bed, rising to her knees on it so that they are as close to being face to face as is possible, and the sly way that she slithered towards him takes some doing in holding his ground watching her rise to the challenge.

"Do you really think you can best me so easily, Rickard?" She asked again, eyes narrowed and daring him.

Seven Hells, he thought, know when you beaten Rickard, preferably before you draw your sword. He might be the rival of any man on a tourney ground, with a lance and sword to hand. But here, in a contest of wills and words with Arianne Martell? Best to withdraw, and keep both sides' pride intact.

"Only, perhaps, in this instance. I wouldn't wish to provoke you, lest I be outflanked."

She scoffed at him, "Everything is always a battle with you, Rickard." Her hand touched his chest, found a scar he knew her to be fond of and traced the line of where the shard of a lance had once caught him. It had only been a practise in a tilt yard, and he had been squiring for one of the knights in question, but the explosion of wood on steel had seen a splinter tear a through his doublet. "The whole world is not part of some grand tournament for you to compete."

He grinned at the almost-pout on her face, "Certainly, everything is not a battle." He said, a hand sliding around her waist to pull her toward him, while he cupped a cheek to hold her face to his.

Nose wrinkling as she withdrew from their short kiss, she chastised him with a small laugh at the back of her throat, "Such a rogue."

This time she closed the gap between them, mouth opening, inviting him in with her tongue still teasing him. Both his hands drop down, one to hold and mould at her breast like bread dough and the other to knead at her bum cheek. Her body turns to liquid in his hands, she squirms and grabs at his flesh so that it's difficult for him to keep his hands at work. Arianne almost climbs him, arms around his neck, and hand yanking for purchase on his hair, legs snaking to be around his hips to the point that his knees shake feeling the heat of her close against his groin, pushed close together.

When she wants to be Arianne pulls back. She is pushing up with her hands on his shoulders, so he has to look up at her a little, the illusion of her having greater height than him. Her grin is so sharp that it might cut his legs from under him when she said, "I want to fuck you."

And by Gods blood does she.

For her talk of not the whole world being a battle, Arianne rode his cock harder than he has ever done to a charger in a list. She looms over him, head thrown back, her hair streaming behind her, lost in their shared pleasure, one hand behind on the bed to hold her up, the other pulling and groping at her own breast. Part of him thinks he should put his own hands to work, brush the secret nub between her legs or replace her hand at her breast but he's left paralyzed, not merely by the actions of her pushing further and quicker over his prick, but the sight and sound of her gasping, eyes closed and brows knitted in concentration as she fucks him. Its glorious while it lasts, and when it's over she folds across him panting, sweaty foreheads pressed together, cheek to cheek, aching and electrified, wishing they could have held on for longer.

"You are ravenous." He told her later, when they manage to leave the confines of his bed behind and begin their day.

Arianne scarcely glanced at him, as he shut the door on his room in The Black Hart behind him, sealing away that little corner where they can escape together alone.

"And you are boundless. Give me so much to feed off." She defended, descending the stairs before him, pretending she did not notice how his eyes still never left her body.

"Speaking of," he said briskly, as they came to the foot of the stair, "will my lady break her fast here this morning?"

Morning has begun to enter its maturity, which means his tavern has begun to come to life, his overnight patrons stirring. His working day has started, and time he roused Harry and Tyrek. The former landlady he can hear in the back, sweeping out the old kitchen rushes, the scrape of the broom on wood the only sound. Above, there is movement. He looked up and Harry is stood out of his room, bare chested and bleary eyed. Hardyng took up so much space on the balcony that he almost didn't notice the slip of a girl that waits on the tables at night scurry out of the open door.

The Princess turned a bowed to him, as she spoke, "No, my lord, not this morning. I must return to the Red Keep."

He tried not to let the disappointment show, shrugging.

"Very well," and turned his face back up to the balcony, shouting, "Harry! An escort for the Princess of Dorne, quick as you can!"

Startled, Harrold looked down, his hand stopped mid motion of rubbing his eye. As his hand fell and the words reached his sleep addled brain he eventually nodded, turned and Rickard watched him go back to his room and the door close behind.

"I shouldn't expect him to make much of an escort any time soon." Arianne said, he sly smile cutting across her face.

"Lucky me then: that I still get to spend more time with you." The world closes in around them both again, till it's the two of them, hands on faces caressing one another's cheeks, lips, his beard, and her loose curls that have escaped to below her chin. Propping herself on her tiptoes, Arianne tilts her head slightly and doesn't so much kiss him as drag her lips over his, teasing.

He groaned, withdrawing in irritation, with himself more than her.

"You shouldn't provoke me so much," he added with a smile of mock warning, "especially when you're about to leave."

"You shouldn't be so easily provoked."

"Not my fault," he began, but the sound of a door opening and solid footsteps denoted Harry fully awake and coming down from his room. They separated, and bid a more cordial goodbye, "Until tonight, my lady?"

"Tonight, my prince."

He clapped Harry on the shoulder as he passed, and the two of them left for the Red Keep, leaving him to his breakfast. He passes through to the kitchen, which is fully stocked with everything, and a fresh pig carcass hung. It had been a bugger to track down the suppliers of the Red Keep's kitchens, but found they were and now they supply The Black Hart too at a discount, because he had promised protection to them from Janos Slynt.

Nothing is safe from that man in this city, he recalled thinking. How long has justice been gone from Westeros that now even the King's butchers are hard done by? The Commander of the City Watch must go, for the King's Landing's sake if nothing else.

Rickard shook his head of Slynt, and put his head through an apron and took up a knife from its chopping board, setting to work to cut the bacon from the animal.

After a while, when he had strips of meat sizzling in a pan of their own fat, Tyrek appeared. They all have to dress simpler these days, but suits Tyrek he noticed, in simple red shirt, brown leather trousers tied with a belt that a knife hung from, whose gold buckle and hilt are the only thing to suggest the wealth of Casterly Rock is in this one's blood.

His cousin stopped in the door way, and looked at him covered in blood and swinging a cleaver.

"Gods. You look like a murderer."

He laughed, set the cleaver down, and turned his sizzling meat with another knife. "Not like you've never seen me like this before, Ty." He said, flattening the strips with his flat of his blade.

"True," conceded Tyrek, "but I'm not used to you looking as though you can always carve up a carcass."

"Is that what I look like nowadays?"

Tyrek, perhaps wisely, doesn't answer but excepts the bacon laid before him on a plate. He cuts more of it from the pig, and quickly has it crackling away in the pan knowing Harry will be back soon, and hungry.

"We'll be busy today," he warns Tyrek, conversation sparked back into life.

"Oh?"

"The first of the tourney knights will be arriving. Had word in last night."

"Anyone we know?"

He nodded, "A couple. The Redwyne twins for sure. Some of the Marbrands and Crakehalls as well."

"Heh, Horror and Slobber are always good value." Laughed Tyrek, spearing lumps of pork in to his mouth, "Any expectation on the Tyrells?"

"Loras is on his way," Rickard grunted, as he turned over the meat in the pan again, "Had word from Willas, but Garlan hasn't made up his mind yet."

"Hardly surprising," shrugged Tyrek, "him not being long married and all."

"True, but without those brothers of his you can expect Loras Tyrell to be at full froth with his horseshit." He said, shaking his head deploringly.

"I wouldn't be so sure." His cousin opined, again shrugging, "he'd be a fool to try anything with Gregor Clegane in a tournament."

"Gregor?" the Prince was shocked, he hadn't heard the other Clegane brother would be coming. "Gods there's all the fun gone from this fucking contest." He bemoaned, removing the pan from its stove and dropping it irritably on the counter, almost launching the contents from it.

"Never know," replied Tyrek in a consoling tone, "could get lucky and he'll take his brother's head off."

Rickard dragged a stool out from beneath the kitchen table, and parked his arse upon it saying, "You noticed something about my luck these days?"

Tyrek said nothing and carried on to eat his bacon without a word, while he sat and considered a while before he eventually said, "I intend to see Littlefinger today."

His cousin gagged, and through coughs and spraying chewed pig everywhere, he asked, "What… possible reason… c-could you h-have… for that-t?"

"We need money. And I'm going to ask him to put me in contact with the Iron Bank of Braavos."

Between further barks and coughs, Tyrek regained control of himself to only then lump disapproving waters on his Prince as he shook his head and gulped at the milk in his goblet. "Getting involved with the Iron Bank strikes as a bad idea, Rick." He warned, but he was prepared to hear none of it.

"If things don't go the way we hope with Slynt and the Watch, we'll need ready gold to fight this war with – gold which is in short supply around here. And besides, I plan on buying this whole street out: the stables, the blacksmith, everything, and a few more taverns around the city – those that can't pay us to protect them from the goldcloaks at least. We need ready money to do that with, Ty."

"And how do you expect to be able to pay your debts back. Being as money is such a problem." Tyrek kept his voice calm, but it didn't take much to sense the panic and irritation beneath it.

Bluntly, Rickard told the truth, "Then we're fucked. At least as far this place will go: I'll put The Black Hart up for security on the loan, but that'll be it. Anymore and they can swing and we'll go without."

From between is hands, he heard Tyrek grumble, "Not that you have anything else." Though seemed not to have further protests for the Prince, for which he was grateful. He left Tyrek to finishes his breakfast, and readied his tavern for opening.

Harry did not return to The Black Hart until after noon, in happy spirits, and he did not come alone. He explained that he had been delayed at the Red Keep and also to a long route back to the tavern and come in proximity of the Great Sept of Baelor, and he had all but collided with vast caravan of silk and steel, as a column of knights were entering the city, trumpeters blaring before them and the smallfolk swarming around looking on. A train of the caravan spotted Hardyng's horse's livery and after introductions followed him back to the tavern. Knights, squires and men-at-arms now flooded the space of The Black Hart, like a besieging army through a breached wall, filling even the street outside with the immeasurable weight of human mass.

After watching it from the window of his room, Rickard now descended, climbing down the stairs in magnanimity, every inch the Prince welcoming a court. He had half-dressed for the occasion. Upon seeing the numbers of people turning out for his tavern, he garbed himself in simple but fine clothes: fine silk shirt, virgin white, and leather breeches of a rich, reddish-brown; he topped himself with a sweeping cloak of black leather that gave him greater bulk in the shoulders and sleeves likewise kept his arms even broader than they were, while its length to his feet would make him seem taller from a distance. Fist full of rings was spread across both his hands as well, with a fine gold belt buckled across his waist, as well as his usual pack of holy medals and relics hung around his neck by simple string or small chains of silver which almost made him rattle as he walked as they bounced and giggled on his chest. On the precautious side, he armed himself for the worst with the small axe he tended to carry now, wedged in his belt on his hip for all to see, and for the even worse – a knife tucked around his back, obscured by his shirt and hidden by the cloak.

As he descended the stairs to the crowd, Rickard felt the punch in his gut as he reminded himself of his father, all smiles and wide arms around a sense of faded majesty. Silently, Rickard vowed that if he ever truly stooped so low then he would die rather than get there.

Some recognized him as he came down the steps, and rushed through the torrent of men to meet him. He saw them as he came, broadly grinning, waving as he shouted, "How now, my lads?!"

A roar went up among them, as now the whole room noticed and clamoured almost all clamoured to embrace him. Hands flying out, thrust upon him that he take, shake and then release before grabbing another one, till eventually all were satisfied and many began to disperse until he was left with but a few that he knew well.

The Redwyne Twins greeted him first, Horas and Hobber, each with their curly red hair ruffled and wearing the same grin of their square faces.

They are cordial and formal, polite; he is less so, "What has you reprobates so riled? You'd think you'd never a met a Prince?"

"Good to see you, Rickard," cuts in Justin Massey, as the twins each moved to answer, a knight of Stonedance. Pale with flaxen hair, Ser Justin was known for his easy going and Rickard had known him on and off since he had squire for the King when he was still a child.

"And you, ser," he greeted back, clapping him on the shoulder, slapping his cheek half-heartedly, "you come to pay homage to this Prince too."

"I don't know about a Prince," came a heavy grumble from behind Massey, "but I've heard that the Black Hart is a man to behold."

Shouldering between the bodies that made up the crowd came the only man in the room that beat Rickard for sheer brawn as well as height, flowing blonde hair streaming behind him and hazel eyes glowing with mirth.

Rickard threw is arms wide in welcome, beaming as he shouted, "Daven!"

The cousins embraced one another, and Rickard patted hard on Ser Daven Lannister's fox fur cloak as the latter gave a grunt of laughter when they finally separated, saying, "So much for this fearsome Black Hart I've heard of. What kind of Prince are you supposed to be?"

Frowning, Rickard shrugged at Daven, "The same kind I always was," he said, grasping with something to say that might meet his cousin's expectations, "though you can't find fault with my place though surely? Casterly Rock she may not be, but the Black Hart is as fine a place…"

"He doesn't mean this place," interrupted Horas.

"Yeah, he means you, Rickard," finished Hobber.

"Me? Black Hart?"

"Surely you know?" Justin Massey asked with a smile that Rickard was sure he meant was meant to be offering assurance, but the clear crease in his forehead shattered the illusion for Rickard. "That's what people have started calling you: Rickard the Black Hart."

Rickard felt his heart sink to lead in his belly. Rickard, the Black Hart? That was a fine name for a tavern he'd thought but if people started whispering that as a name for him, it was far too close to Blackfyre in his ear. He'd expect to for some to think of him like that given his circumstances now, and his behaviour, but nothing so open, not for them to tar him with the association like a brand upon his skin.

"They're calling me the Black Hart." He said, flatly, turning to look up at his cousin who was taking in his expression, "Who?"

"Well, everyone," Daven conceded reluctantly, "people on the roads, smallfolk and lords and knights alike. Even in the streets of this very city."

A false smiled curdled across Rickard's face, an illusion of pleasure that seemed to fool the four of his guests as he quietly considered, then stepped wholly into this idea they had of Rickard Baratheon, a pantomime Black Hart. He inhaled heavily, then clapped Daven on the shoulder and barged his way toward the tavern bar, speaking quickly.

"Well enough of the talk about fucking mummer's monikers and the like, you sers look in need of drink. Here, come on, I'll get some of my finest from beneath the counter."

His patron's part for him like he's a rock through water, and the four following in his wake all seem to perplexed at first at the sudden change to overcome him, though if any are worried they seem to take it in their stride. He slams cups down, some of the worst he has, gnarled and battered looking things that are lined in a row like a guard on parade. With his teeth, he uncorks a bottle of mead from beneath the counter – fine stuff truly, sweeter than any he'd had before trying it, and as liable to knock a man out as milk-of-the-poppy – which he sloppily throws into their cup, only small measures, hardly a third and motions them each to take one up, which they do and he raised a toast to them with bottle.

"Your health," and by the time he's set down the bottle and wiping the back of his hand, they a struggling to keep their lips to the cups in spite of the powerful smell of the liquor. He doesn't stay still for long, taking vast steps half way down the bar, he bellows down at Tyrek, "Get down here, coz. See what pests have shat on my doorstep."

Tyrek glances up and him, shocked for a moment, but then meanders his way toward him, a cloth in his hand.

"Cousin," Daven and Ty each greet one another, with a nod and a fond smile, while for the others he reached across the bar and shook hands with the Twins and Ser Justin.

"Glad you could all find it in yourselves to come celebrate the appointment of the King's new Hand." Tyrek noted, offering the proper and polite reason as to why they were all here, but Rickard didn't let any of them the chance to further opine on the matter.

"How about that Northern blowhard? I've met his son, Robb, a true champion of the breed. But Lord Eddard himself, must be too long since he came South. Then again, if we're lucky my Father will have bought with him a good, long shafting for the Small Council. Who'd have thought Stannis was the smart one, running off to Dragonstone like that?"

He is grinning, a challenge thrown down to see if anyone among them will pick it up, but they all seemed too startled, unsure of him all of a sudden. And so Tyrek had to intervene on their behalf.

"Come on, Rick." He jovially said, taking the bottle of mead from the bar top and adding a gentle refills to the cups that have barely been touched. "They haven't come here for politics."

"Yeah," shrugged Horas, "you know us, Dick. We're not ones for that kind of thing."

Apart from when it comes to which one of you inherits the Arbor, Rickard thought unfairly.

"What do you have besides drink around here?" Hobber inquired, starring over his shoulder and trying to get a good look at the serving girls going between tables with food, flagons and tankards.

"No women," Rickard said, bluntly, "my place doesn't swim in that shit. Any of my staff go to bed with anyone its on their terms, and anyone tries to force the matter had best expect a fucking beating." Hobber made a face at that, as though he didn't believe him, or that he was referring to other people that might be beaten, but he said nothing to test the point and so Rickard carried on, "Every other night we have fights, Harry runs them and the books, talk to him if you want to sign up or try a flutter. Fists or fencing, he varies it time to time. Otherwise after dusk he have a dice table to try your luck on."

"And can we expect 'help' with our luck?" Asked Ser Justin with a wink and a nudge, "Being friends of the landlord?"

Indulgent, Rickard chuckled at Massey, "Any improvement in your fortunes would better be looked for in prayer," he advised, "This is a fair establishment: fair odds, fair prices, fair company. But you'll all four stay as my guests, yes? And being friends of the landlord, I'll cut you a decent price for the whole stay – free feed included, plus my company. I guarantee you'll find nowhere else outside the Castle with better to offer, but why in fuck would you want to go there?"

He finished a heavy laugh, and they all shared it, though they all four seemed to laugh longer than him and Tyrek, more than likely to buy time while they mull over his offer, he deduced. Out the corner of his eye, he observed the Twins exchange a glance, and Daven had his eyes switch from his Lannister cousin to his Baratheon one, then back, as if trying to catch a signal on one of their faces. Ser Justin did nothing, expect his laughter felt a little too louder than it normally was.

Yet when they all stopped laughing, and he gave an expectant look, they all agreed. My Prince it would be our honour to drink and dine under your roof for the length of our stay in King's Landing.

Happy, Rickard clapped his hands together.

"Excellent," he bellowed, and was on the move again. "Now I have a meeting to go to, business of sorts. That'll give you chance to settle yourselves in, but I shall be back to entertain you all, my friends. And we shall drink well tonight, be assured." He is rapid in his movement that has him out from behind the bar in a swagger that amused everyone that watched him, arms outstretched one pointing out the door and the other straight at them with an assuring gesture as he bid them farewell, "Until then, the hospitality of The Black Hart is yours."

It had been little trouble finding Petyr Baelish's brothel. He had known it by reputation as his Father's favourite place to venture, and so most things about it were common knowledge in the Red Keep even without most of the inhabitants laying eyes on the place, let alone frequent it as a customer. One sharp turn down an otherwise inconspicuous street into an alley, then through to a dirty square that would scarcely be an hour's broom-work from being respectable.

He looked around from there, but a shrill whistle cut across him from above, and turning his eyes up to a window found the building, where two women were leaning out of the window giggling and hollering, a single breast flopped out to look at and entice him. Large enough he supposed, three stories tall, though all the windows were shut on the side facing the street where he approached, yet he could hear on the side facing the river laughter and a lute playing that carried across the water where the windows must have been thrown wide open. Besides that it was unremarkable to his surprise, at least until he crossed the threshold.

Inside was a different story.

The decorations form a myriad of colours everywhere, yet they all seem to be overpowered to settle into a deep hue of burgundy: the carpets, the ceilings, the walls and tapestries. At first, he noticed the men, rather than the women – the livery of a hundred different lords, either slumped over a table or chair, one even lying underneath, as they starred at the whores, trying to catch their eyes, or the bolder ones actively talking to them, in a pitiful attempt at trying to seduce the seducers. As for the whores, they all seemed to blend into the environment, their whisps of garb the same shade of burgundy, which was where, Rickard realised, the rest of the room got the tinge from.

He stood looking around, until the clear matron of the brothel approached him, "My prince," she said, in a throaty voice, as she grasped and clung to his arm, "it is our pleasure to welcome The Black Hart, now tell us your pleasures and we shall see how well me and my girls can accommodate."

Rickard smiled, and felt a sudden heat in his cheeks, as he saw the girls that dotted around the room turn and take an interest in him, where before they had been apathetic or teasing the current clientele.

"My lady," he said, taking one of the matron's hands off his arm and kissing it politely, "I am here to see Lord Baelish. Might he be found? That would be my pleasure."

"Alas, my Prince, Lord Baelish is busy at the moment. Might we not-"

"I am happy to wait." He interrupted softly, still smiling. "In fact, I will insist on waiting. Tell Lord Baelish that he need not rush to see me."

The matron paused, and thought a moment, and he watched her glance around for a few seconds, looking to see whether any of the girls not working might not be enough to entice him. When she realised his attention was firmly on her and not them, she relented.

"Very well, Black Hart." And she motioned at one of the whores, who had perhaps a year on him, with fair skin and nut-brown hair, though she had at least foot on him in height. "Take the Prince to wait, see that he is cared for until Lord Baelish is ready."

He tried protesting, but the matron was adamant to the extent that she did not release his arm until the whore took his other and began pulling him from the entrance room down a hallway. Beyond the threshold, the usual shrieks and cries that you imagine are constant, and distantly he heard the lute and singing he had from outside. She led him through a hallway, then up a stair one level, before she finally dragged him into with plenty chairs and cushions, but to his relief, no bed.

When she released him from her clutches at last, Rickard sat quickly, stretching an arm out over the back of a small sofa and crossing one leg over his knee as he leaned back languidly.

Meanwhile, she stood there for a moment, awkwardly, before asking, "Your Grace?"

It took him a moment for him to realise she was speaking to him, "Hmmm? Yes, thank you, but you don't need to stay. I'll tell Lord Baelish you did your duty."

As he said it, he cringed at his words, though she found no trouble with them, "Thank you, Your Grace," she said, suddenly smiling almost smugly, "But Lord Baelish always expects someone to stay with his guests, so they can always be entertained." And she moved to the far side of the same sofa he sat on.

"Sounds paranoid," he said, more to himself but she answered him anyway.

"Lord Baelish says he hates to let a guest or customer go unsatisfied, Your Grace."

"Prince," he corrected at last, and when she cocked her head and screwed her face oddly at him, he went on, "I am only a Prince. Only the King and Queen are referred to as 'your grace'. Me, you only refer to as 'my prince'," she smiled that almost interested in the minutia of courtly addresses, but then from somewhere inside him a bitter resentment bubbled up before he could catch it, "Don't suppose my father gets much chance to make the point when he's here."

After that, things remained silent as a tomb, neither of them speaking. Him just simply staring as the floor, following the pattern of the rug with his eyes, while the whore given over to entertain him fiddled with the scraps of cloth that covered her breasts. They could have sat like that for a minute or an hour, Rickard didn't care, he'd wait out Baelish like a siege if he had to.

But to his relief, he doesn't, and after a short interval Petyr Baelish comes striding through the door, smiling coyly at him as he stood in the doorway.

Rickard rose to his feet, quickly, saying in a droll voice, "Thank the Gods, Baelish. Just in time. I feared this this fine lady would rob my virtue if we were left alone much longer."

Politely, he offered the Master-of-Coin his hand, which must catch at least somewhat off-guard, as he hesitated before shaking the Princes hand.

"Well, if that's the case, my Prince," he replied in good humour, "then I can always leave you for five minutes longer."

The Prince withdrew his hand, "Thank you, but no. I'd hate to keep you busy any longer than I have to." His own politeness grated on Rickard, but he didn't let it show, not least for a couple of faces leering in through the door, men and women both – whore and customers looking for a better show to gawk at.

"I must say, I wasn't expecting you, my Prince," said Baelish, a hand stroking at his beard as he shifted to put himself fully inside of the room, perching upon the arm of a chair. "Nevertheless, what have you need of? How can I help?"

Rickard said nothing at first, before he strode over to the open door held a hand up to the spectators that had gathered to look, turned and kicked the door closed on their faces with the heel of his boot. When looked back at Baelish, the man had an eye raised at him, and the Prince raised his hand and dropped them again dejectedly.

"You know me, my lord."

"Do I?" Asked Lord Petyr, still stroking his beard thoughtfully.

"You know that I am a man with all his money spent. You are a man that knows how I've spent it all. You're also the man who controls my money and what I receive as a Prince. Now with one word, you have cut off my paltry allowance and sent me destitute. Yet you are also a man that knows how to borrow money from across the world, and with one word from you I could be supplied with a very stable line of credit from the Iron Bank of Braavos."

Baelish pondered his words, mulling them over as he clicked his tongue against his teeth and his fingers twisted the hairs on his beard into a sharper point, "I could do this… but, my Prince, why should you want this? Your appetites are not so endless as you royal Father's, and rather than dwelling that tavern you currently do, you could go anywhere – Casterly Rock or Storm's End, or find some lesser, ambitious lord to shelter you on the promise of favour?"

Rickard snorted at the suggestion, "What favour have I to give? A second son with no given inheritance, what can I promise for certain?"

"Across the Narrow Sea the?

"Like the Beggar King?!" Rickard might have been insulted had he not been keeping a tight lid on his temper. Sighing, he shrugged, "Either way, if I leave King's Landing, I'm not longer my own man. Staying at least is on my terms, which is why I need a loan if I'm to make a living for myself in this city."

"Why?"

For a moment, Rickard just stared at Baelish, watching him survey him and realised he did not like it. He moved to take up his former seat on the sofa, arm stretched across the back and knee thrown over his leg.

"My lord, do not take me for a fool." He said, looking away from Baelish and out of a window facing the river. "I hold everything I have from the King, my father, as do you. But now everything but my title has been stripped from me, and even the word of a Prince can carry you so far in the world. Because I know what my father and my brother don't – men do not run the world from the head of an army, from fortresses with the highest walls, not even the Red Keep and that damn Iron chair. Men run the world from Gulltown, and Braavos, wherever the merchant ships sail off East. The scrape of a quill on a promissory note, not the cut and thrust of a sword. I need to make a living, but I can't do it without ready money on loan."

The Master of Coin continued to observe him, impressed he hoped. His green eyes still considering him, and hand still paused pinching the point of his beard.

When at last he spoke, he asked Rickard, "If I were to make these introductions to the Iron Bank, what would I get in return?"

"You would profit from my rise in King's Landing," The reaction was immediate, Rickard saw the man's entire stance and expression change, watching Baelish transform from indulgent curiosity to entirely interested in the Prince. "I've made an enemy of Janos Slynt and I mean to bring him down as well. I expect that you, like the rest of the businesses in the city, have to pay protection to the City Watch, extortionate to most but I suppose you can afford it – even if it is inconvenient. I also imagine, if any of the liveries I spotted downstairs are anything to go by, Janos Slynt expects a certain amount of…" Rickard wrestled distastefully with his words a moment, "of 'accommodation' towards him, his officers, even lower ranks. I imagine they can be inconvenient, and I imagine yourself wondering whether or not its worth the trouble or gold you part with. Or the gold you don't have chance to part with. Back me and I'll remove the uncertainty."

Baelish turned his back on him, hands together now, as he deemed a judgment on his proposition, "And with Slynt removed, I expect you would be the one offering protection."

Rickard nodded, then realised that Baelish couldn't seem with his back turned, "At half the cost to the business, though 'some' would be exempt. I could oversee protection of some places for free, to those who help the transition of power from the City Watch. And with the free money and lack of headaches, I expect you'd be free to buy every brothel and whorehouse in the city."

He turned back to face the Prince, still sat languidly, laying out his proposition, "You wouldn't want some of those brothels for yourself?"

Flatly, Rickard stared down the question.

"I don't swim in that shit," he said, before rising to his feet again. "Do we have an accord?"

The master-of-coin pretended to look around in further contemplation before he answered. "I won't go to the Iron Bank for you," Rickard felt his fists starting to clench hard, "I'll loan you the gold myself."

The Prince faltered, his mouth opened on its own slightly, and there was a noticeable pause before words filled him again, "… I'll be wanting ten thousand gold dragons at least, probably just a first payment."

"Very well."

Resolutely, Rickard protested, "I won't be shafted on interest."

Shrugging, Baelish said, "Shall we say five percent over as many years? Fairer terms than the Iron Bank will grant you, I promise, but still fair to both parties." His arm outstretched, "Deal?"

"… deal."

"Fucking bollocks," remarked an outraged Harry Hardyng, as he took up the freshly dealt cards thrown across to him.

Letting out a ripple of laughter at the remark, eyes flitting over to catch the burning grimace on the Valeman's face, Daven Lannister immediately dropped a further addition of gold to the pot, adding, "There's Harry with bugger all to show for himself. Ten."

"Something you have in common then, Daven," Rickard said smirking, as he expelled a mouth full of smoke from his mouth, "Ten for me as well." He laid his cards face down and took the smoking pipe from his mouth, adding the gold with one hand and taking a long draft from his tankard at the same time, looking across to see how well besieged the tavern bar was at this hour.

Daylight was still creeping around in certain corners, though not enough to stop them from striking all the lanterns and candles in The Black Hart. It was not yet, their busiest time, and they still had time to spare for a card game, before Harry joined Tyrek in pouring drinks and Rickard went to stand on the balcony above surveying his fledgling empire.

Replacing the pipe securely between his teeth, Rickard took his cards back up and like the rest of them continued to wait for Robb Stark to make up his mind again. He did the often, taking longer than everyone to make his next move, but then Rickard wasn't surprised given that Robb rarely gambled, let alone with cards before.

Finally, Harry, no doubt still furious at his cards, said to Robb, "You've nothing, Robb. I can tell, so just drop your hand already, and the rest of us carry on."

Daven and Rickard laughed at the outburst, but Robb took one look at Harry and pushed all his gold into the centre of the table.

"Seven save us," Daven murmured, as Harry's jaw dropped, "Too rich for my blood."

"Lord Tywin's blood ran cold to hear that, cousin," Rickard warned, as Daven folded his hand, though he himself agreed that discretion might be the better part of valour for this hand and did the same.

Going pale, as he realised only he was now left to answer Robb's bet, Harry gulped and pushed all his gold to meet Stark's in the centre. Duly challenged, Robb set down his cards, and Daven let out a groan of frustration at his early capitulation, though Rickard was still watching Harry and the twitch of a smile he had on his face.

"Nothing," he said, "just as promised, you gutless-"

"Show us yours, Harry," Rickard cut through in a low, warning tone with a hand on his pipe as he released a small, controlled puff of blue-grey at his friend.

Reluctantly, Harry dropped his cards face down on the table with a downward face, whispering sourly, "Kind of man goes all in with that kind of hand."

Daven's groan of frustration turned suddenly into awed praise at Robb Stark for having bluffed the trousers off not merely Harry, but himself too, who'd had a hand twice as strong as each of them together, while Rickard was barking laughter in great jets of smoke through his lips and nose, clapping at Stark's performance, adding giving Harry a commiserate slap of the shoulder.

"Lannister men might well come undone if they face this one across a battlefield." Daven assured them all, as he began reshuffling the cards again. Rickard nodded his agreement and was about to take his cards, until someone by the bar started calling him.

He stood, and turned to see Tyrek there pointing at the door, before finding himself in an unintentional, unbreakable grin, as Prince Arianne Martell of Dorne was once more walking over the threshold of The Black Hart. She managed to spot him immediately, delicately sauntering over toward him, and as she approached Rickard bowed politely as he would have done for any Lady.

"Princess, again I bid you welcome," he said, and suddenly Robb, Harry and Daven were each racing to their feet, chair banging out wildly in their surprise at the arrival of a woman of noble birth.

"A pleasure to be back, Rickard," Arianne replied offering her hand, which he dutifully took and kissed. When Arianne took her hand back she turned to acknowledge the others, who all now bowed in turn, waiting for him to introduce them all.

"Princess, Harry, whom you already know. This is my cousin and friend, Ser Daven Lannister, son of Ser Stafford, Lord Tywin's goodbrother." Their reaction to one another was cool, each offering a stilted bow to the other, before Daven glanced at Rickard with an uncertain look and retook his seat. "I also have the honour to introduce Robb Stark, son of Lord Eddard and heir to Winterfell, another good friend, and soon to be my relation through Joffrey and Sansa. Sers, I give you Arianne Nymeros Martell, Princess and heir of Dorne, daughter of Prince Doran."

Robb and Arianne greeted one another much more cordially, shaking hand with one another and remarking on the pleasantness of meeting the other, and how he, Rickard, has had nothing but fine words to say about them and they've been longing for this introduction. It pleased him to see them so friendly, Daven notwithstanding, but he expected little different from someone who'd heard nothing of Arianne but rumour and the pejorative words of Lord Tywin in anger.

Despite the graciousness of Robb however, who invites Arianne to sit, she grabs him by the hand and asked, "Can you and I talk a moment? In private."

There's no urgency in her voice, but there is decisiveness, so making his excuse to the table he lead Arianne to his room upstairs, remarking as he opened the door, "You might find a more subtle way to seduce me, you know. Not sure who was fooled down there."

"Hush you," she warned, closing the door. "As if I would ever be so obvious." Brandishing a scrap of paper, she thrust it in his hand, "I have a message for you."

"Really?" He unfolded the scrap, but was at first unimpressed.

My Prince, it read, they shall come tomorrow at noon, and you shall not know who they are without this. And scribbled on the back of the note were a couple of lines and four Xs in two different pairs amidst the lines.

"Some fucking message," he remarked, his eyes raising from the parchment, "who sent it?"

"I don't know. But it was underneath my pillow when I returned to my rooms this morning."

Rickard frowned at that, the idea of people sneaking secret messages in to Arianne's room at night or whenever she's not in the Red Keep. "That supposed to give me comfort, that some bastards been tip-toeing into your room during the early hours?"

"That bastard used to be you."

Sour faced, he recalled, "I believe it was you snuck into my room, face all painted up. Still, I take the point." His face dropped to analyse the parchment. "Assuming you read it, and there being no sign who its addressed to, this mean anything to you?"

"Someone is going to try and murder you and the morrow."

"Evidently," he replied, rolling his eyes, and gesturing to the lines and Xs, "but these?"

"You don't recognize it."

Smugly, Arianne declared, "I immediately did." And turned on her heels, trotting back out the room. Rickard followed her until she stopped at his favourite spot to stand on the balcony overlooking the tables and bar of The Black Hart, where upon she offered him the note again and pointed. "You see?"

At first, he didn't. But then slowly the lines began to make sense, as he imagined the door as one, the bar another and strangest of all the table where he usually sat, the same where Harry, Robb and Daven were still playing cards, and the final line as the door of his tavern.

"Bastards!" He erupted at the realization, turned and stormed back into his room as everyone below, now quiet, stopped and looked up at him, but by the time they were watching Arianne had shut the door on his room again.

Pacing his room angrily, Rickard scrunched up the note in his fist, raging, "Some bastards planning to come here and spill blood, fucking gall on them. They expect me to just sit there lame as a lamb while they cut my throat, arrogant fucks!"

"Maybe," Arianne said, rolling her eyes as she moved to seat herself behind his own desk, "which is why I expect you were sent the note. In order to cut their throats before they have a chance to get to yours."

"You think?"

"I do, assuming that those Xs are meant to be murderers. Why else send a note to me to give to you? Unless it was so you could be warned and act on the knowledge."

"Oh, I will act," he assured her loudly, his pacing coming to a sudden stop as he advanced on her with pointed finger, "Be assured, I shall fucking act. But whom is friend to you and me that'd need this cloak and dagger means of communication without revealing themselves?"

Arianne shrugged, "Maybe someone who doesn't want to be thought of as friend? Or someone you already think to be an enemy?"

"No shortage on those people," he noted, swinging his arm around irritably. In his hand he felt the parchment still crumpled up. Smoothing it out, he looked once more on the scribbled Xs.

"I don't like it," he said, and turned to his lover, "you getting tangled up in this is bad tidings. As of now, you're not leaving the Red Keep," he had to raise his voice over her instant protestations, "and Harry is gonna be acting as a guard to you, I'll have him sworn to you as your sword."

"You will not, and I will do no such thing."

Rickard pinched his brow as he went on, merely interrupting to tell her, "Do not women owe it to their beloveds to follow their duty in times of war and do as they are fucking told?"

"And are we at war?" She replied, snarling more vicious than any wolf or lion known to man. "Have you received some declaration you haven't told me about? 'Rickard Baratheon, enemy of gods-know-who!' Whoever sent the warning gave it to me to give to you, but what happens when the next letter comes and you have banished me for your little war councils, hmmm? I'll fetch a broom and help sweep up the ashes after they've burned this place down!" She rose to her feet and rounded the desk, hands on her hips and cheeks flush with anger.

"I can't have you coming and going so long as there's a target on my back. What happens if you get caught in the middle? Or they just say 'hang Baratheon, we'll just go straight for his woman! That'll get the job done.'"

Rickard moved toward Arianne, to grab her and pull her towards him so he might shake sense into her, but something stopped him dead in his tracks and the sudden realisation of something pointed and sharp pressing on his throat. He had never seen her draw the knife, and in the aftermath spent the whole night wondering where exactly she kept it hidden on her body.

"I've told you before, Rickard," she said, her hand unshaking, which he had to admire, "I can protect myself." And finally she withdrew the blade gently, dropped it onto the table, then licked her thumb and pressed it to the spot of blood that had bubbled from his broken skin.

The Prince sighed heavily, his shoulders sagging, "Fine," he relented, "but I want you out of here tonight. I'll need the night to ready for tomorrow's visitors."

"Very well," she said, accepting his new compromised position.

"I worry, you know," Rickard whispered, and finally she let him touch her, brushing the back of his hand across her cheeks.

Arianne, to her credit, smiled as she leaned into his touch, "I know. And I'd rather that than you not."

"Decent of you." He took her hand his as he spoke, "Come on, I'm quite sure we're being missed below. And I want music tonight, and I want to see you dancing."

She leaned her head on his shoulder as they walked out onto the balcony together, "I'm sure that will impress cousin Daven."

"I expect you to impress far more than just my cousin, love."