Tyrek

Tyrek knocked thrice on the door briskly, and opened it before the command to entre came. Poking his head inside the room, he saw Rickard, who raised his head from the book on the table and looked at him expectantly. When their eyes met, Tyrek simply nodded.

Slowly, Rickard closed the book, its pages shutting with a heavy thump, before rising steadily to his feet. On the table before him was a knife, that he took into one hand, unsheathed it slightly, examined the edge to his satisfaction, then replaced the blade which was then tucked behind his back safely. Then he rounded the desk, and slid passed him onto the balcony of The Black Hart, going steadily down the stairs as though he were going about his ordinary business of running a tavern.

It fell to Tyrek to shut the door, but not before he picked up the crossbow propped against the wall just inside Rickard's room, and adjusted the arrow fixed in it before he followed and took his place on the balcony where he could observe but remained out of sight to those below.

In truth, neither he nor Harry had put much stock in the note that Rickard had received from Princess Arianne, warning him of the assassins meant to come, until this moment. Just as the note predict it turned noon, and four conspicuous men entered The Black Hart before taking up exact positions prophesied in the damnable note. And so as planned Tyrek fetched Rickard, who calmly placed himself centre stage at the bar, two of the strangers at either end to him, while Harry was working by the tavern entrance sweeping up within a convenient distance to the other two sat at a table together. It was Tyrek's place to stand high in heaven with crossbows and wait for Rickard's move on them.

Looking down on the tavern floor, Tyrek thought that the timing of the assassins was either entirely flawless or apocalyptically mistimed, depending how well or poorly they had planned the attack. It was just after noon, and the flow of traffic in The Black Hart is cut to the bone as it normally is for this time of day, with all of Rick's guests, the Redwynes, cousin Daven, Ser Justin, are all absent. Fortunately, the summons for them to the Red Keep came in the morning, and they have decamped to pay homage to His Grace and the Queen, which Rickard was glad to encourage them to do in order that he might not have the trouble of them embroiled in his business.

Below, one of the men at the corner of the bar slapped down his now empty tankard on the bar, and turned Rickard, who was harmlessly wiping down the top with a cloth, and grunted, "Another ale."

Rickard looked at the man, and set down his cloth, but before he could move to the barrel, the second man at the bar's opposite end spoke up, "Gimme more wine."

From one to the other, Rickard glanced at, then laid his hands on the bar top with his face set to contemplation, "I'm afraid," he said looking at the man on his right, "that I might somehow provoke someone by serving him," he turned his head to the man on his left, "before serving you."

"Couldn't give a fuck," one said.

"Fucking ale, now," replied the other.

Politely, the Prince nodded his head, bent beneath the bar and picked up a wine jug that he placed on the top, before retrieving a fresh tankard and moving to fill it from a keg behind the bar. When the foam was spilling over the top, he turned to face front in the middle of the bar, tankard and jug side by sided.

He pointed at one, curiously, "Which one was yours?"

Tyrek saw the rolling of the man's head, and imagined his eyes spinning in his skull as he loudly grunted, "Wine!"

Ever the accommodating Landlord, Rickard smiled at him as he approached with jug, "As you say, quite right."

For such planning on everyone's part, you expect things to turn in a way you understand, but in the moment the things just happen and you don't have time to count on whether or not that was planned or not. All Tyrek had to count on was his eyes, and what they told him.

Suddenly, Rickard is not the affable landlord about to pour a customer his drink, but has thrown a full jug of wine in a man's face. The stranger's hands go to his eyes wiping away the weak as piss red, only to catch the horrible sight of the axe the landlord has pulled from beneath his bar in the commotion, before it goes crashing though the top of his head. The blow landed with a shocking crunch, but the man at first must not seem to feel the blow, for he just stood there, his back straightening with an axe protruding from the top of his skull. Not that Rickard noticed, as he had already vaulted the bar, tugging the knife from behind his back.

Across the bar, someone shouted, and from the corner of his eye, Tyrek saw the glint of steel before his ears recognized the sound of a sword scraping against scabbard as its unsheathed. The second man is roaring, and tries to move to cut off Rickard, charging across the room. But Tyrek felt his whole body turn as he shifted into full view on the balcony, the instinct of an archer over taking him as he pointed the crossbow, squeezing the trigger.

Ka-thunk!

And his arms vibrated at the feeling of the coiled spring launching the quarrel beneath him with perfect accuracy. Not that he even registered the success of his shot, merely that somehow the man he aimed at was thrown backwards against the bar. Only when he sees the quarrel jutting from the man's chest does Tyrek acknowledge it, and look down at the other two men.

Of the men sat at the table, Harry had dropped his broom and snuck behind one, his dagger making easy work of the kill as he drew the blade across his enemy's throat before he'd even began to move out of his seat, let alone move for his sword. A spray of blood across the table and his comrade awakens to the ambush within an ambush. The fourth man has a chance to draw his sword. But it takes such an effort that Harrold Hardyng has thrown his kill aside, a gargling, bloody mess, flopping like a fish, and drove his dagger hard into the final man's sword arm.

A shout of pain tears from the man's mouth, and then Rickard Baratheon is upon him with his own knife and plunging it hard into his neck. The cry is silenced but the man lives for a few moments longer, until the Prince twisted his knife and yanked it free, leaving the lifeless lump to drop down, followed soon after by the first man, the axe still buried in his skull as tears of blood fell across his face.

The world as Tyrek understood it to feel is slow to return, but it does return as he noticed the man with his crossbow bolt in his chest is still alive, clutching his wound with both hands.

Rick and Harry both stand still, looking at their work, though not with admiration as he sees the grim expressions they wear and knows that they have yet to come back to themselves. He calls out to them both, as he does so, realizes something that should have otherwise been at the forefront of his mind: Rickard has never killed a man, until now. Nor has Harry to his knowledge. It is one thing to see a man die, and he knows that both of them have seen their share of funerals, executions and accidents to be familiar with death, but to meet out the Stranger's work yourself, with your own hands, is wholly different to experience.

It takes a while, he is already on the ground floor when Rickard finally seems to have life in him again, but his Prince does seem to notice him.

"Well done," he said in a small voice, looking at his axe dripping blood from the inflicted wound. Tyrek noticed that Rickard was surprisingly clean, and seemed to have missed any splashes of blood, the only sight of it being his knife, softly drip, drip, dripping spots of it onto the floor. To Harry, he turned first, when the Prince noticed the one who was still alive, and he murmured, "Clean them up." Before advancing on the wounded man.

Tyrek followed his cousin, as he grab the man by the front of his cloak and dragged him across the floor, behind the bar, flipped open the cellar hatch and descended, the man's groaning and shouts of pain going on deaf ears as he was yanked and thumped off every step on the way down. The rage coming from Rickard was thick in the air, and Tyrek felt it with the weight of which he used to throw the man, arrow still jutting from his chest, onto an upturned beer barrel. Rickard stalked around the man like a predator, the knife still in his hand as he spoke.

"Tell me who sent you. That's the only chance you have of walking back up those stairs. Tell me who sent you and your men to kill me." Feebly, the man groped at the blood oozing out of his chest, touching the arrow, but Rickard went on insistent, "I have a maester that can tend to that if you tell me what I want. Speak up and quickly if you want help, you motherless fucking scumbag whoreson!"

And suddenly the knife is out of Rickard's hand and Tyrek stumbled backwards as he saw the fury with which Rickard launched himself at his prisoner, toppling the barrel and the man off it, his fist a blur as it laid into the pound of flesh before him again and again and again as the rage of Rickard Baratheon turned manifest.

"I tell you fucking speak up, fucking goddamn bastard…" and Tyrek is out of himself again, as he watched Rickard beat and scream, forcing upon this dying man a summit of all his grief and hatred that was so immense that it could have laid the Seven Kingdoms low to ash if it ever was reaped upon the land more than this poor wretch. On and on Rickard cursed and swore and bellowed, losing the sense and dignity of the common tongue for High Valyrian and words that Tyrek recognized but did not understand for the true filth and disgust that was now gushing forth from the mouth of a Prince at full froth.

Through it all a sudden snapping sound cut across the Prince, and Tyrek saw his cousin had punched clean through the thick, stubby arrow that had been the only encumbrance to his onslaught, yet a seemed enough to stop him at the moment, as he roared for the final time, "SPEAK, DAMN YOU!"

Between splintered lips, broken chest and burst lips, Tyrek heard, as Rickard did, the only sure words they would ever hear this man speak: "Janos" and "Slynt".

A final meaty thump punctuated the air as Rickard's fist landed for the final time, and all went silent, but for the cracked wheezing of a dying man and the heavy breath of Rickard, still hunched over his victim. Of the two of them, Tyrek was the first to move, doing so slowly, wiping his brow as he climbed to his feet, retrieved the abandoned knife from the floor and knelt down next to him as he slit open the dying man's throat, granting him blessed relief.

Eventually, he dared place a hand on his cousin's shoulder, murmuring his name, at which Rickard tremored for a moment, the finally raised his head. Tyrek was not surprised at the rawness in the prince's face, the red, puffy and wetness marking the rim of his eyes, nor the clenched jaw bracing the look of disgust. A rickety breath released from his nose, and Rick's hands braced his face and rubbed the length of it, too late for Tyrek to stop him, as he saw the blood covering them, the broken skin of knuckles and any number of other places they might have been stained red. When he brought his hands away, Rickard saw the blood on his hands, and feeling it coating his face frowned.

When he tried to wipe his cousin's face with his sleeve, Rickard flinched and broke away from his grip, stumbling over the corpse as he crashed up out of the cellar and back into the bar. Stowing the knife in his belt, Tyrek followed Rick up the stairs where he reached the top in time to watch Rickard uncork of a bottle from beneath the bar with his teeth and upend it over his face, wiping the blood off with the gush of brown fluid, before downing the final quarter of the drink in his mouth.

Two of the bodies were gone, a silhouette of blood and an ominous trail to the kitchen of blood signifying them. Harry entered and looked curiously at the drenched Rickard still silent.

"One more in the cellar, Harry," Tyrek told, who after a glance, nodded and tended to the final body above ground.

Staring still at the blood on the floor, Rickard grunted at him, "Go boil some water."

Relived at the response, Tyrek nodded eagerly, "Yes… yes, you could do with a bath."

But Rickard merely reacted irritably as he spat and turned from him, "I mean for the floor."

With the bodies removed from The Black Hart, the three of the set to work with mop, bucket and scrub brush. Each one of them took a specific patch of blood, and for the most they were quiet, but for the occasional knock on the door, which he would answer with a polite fuck off. Rickard and Harry barely looked up from their work, lost in soap suds and a reddish hue, as the Prince especially went at his work hard enough that Tyrek might have wondered if he were trying to sand the wood with his scrub. Occasionally, the sound of his ardent cleaning would be interrupted by the muttering of a few words that Tyrek could only catch a few of: once 'the Smith', another time 'the Stranger' and lastly a couple of choice swears in High Valyrian.

For his part, he tried to keep his head down while Harry looked blankly into space more than he did any cleaning, his expression still vacuous as the mop propped him up. The look he held did not change until Rickard finally spoke properly, dropping his brush into his bucket with a loud plop! as he stood up.

"Alright," and they were all three suddenly alert, he and Harry watching Rick expectantly, "we know it was Slynt. Now it's time to fucking strike back."

"Good," growled Harry, his knuckles cracking audibly as his eyes narrowed.

But he could not share the sentiment, "Are you sure, Rick?" He asked, the image of flesh mercilessly beaten and pounded beneath his friend's knuckles still blistered onto his eyes almost. "Might it not be prudent to wait…" But he was cut off.

"Every hour we wait, is another hour we give Slynt to strike again. And the longer we wait the lesser afraid he becomes of being hit back…"

"Exactly," he said, interrupting himself this him, "let him put his guard up and surprise him when we do strike!"

Harry snorted, "You mean give him a true sense of security."

He scowled at the Valeman, who merely sniggered and looked to Rick to continue.

"Forgetting Slynt, what message does it send to everyone else if he gets to act with impunity."

"Seeing how we dispatched his assassins should send a message to everyone else."

"And what witnesses have we to spread that word, Ty? Or are you suggesting we mount the bodies on pikes atop the front balcony? A strong message to be sure, but one that might just kill off all our business and give us the unwelcome attention of the cocksuckers atop Aegon's Hill." Rickard shook his head, resolute, "We strike now, while the iron's hot.

"Give the word, Rick." Harry trumpeted, nodding his head.

The Prince pointed at Harry, "Good, Harry. You: go find Slynt's sons. So far as I know he has two, both in the Watch. I don't care how but you get them here quietly, without making much noise and as unharmed as possible."

"Tricky," Harry said, "but I can do it."

Tyrek did his best not to laugh, seeing the look on Harry's face and thinking that were we to grow a wagging tail, he'd be mistaken by everyone for a bloodhound. He stood up and then paused before moving out the front door, asking, "What do we do with the bodies?"

"Feed them to the pigs for all I give a fuck," Rickard not so much said as he blasted it out the front of his mouth, as blunt as a brick. Harry timidly nodded, then left.

When he was gone, Tyrek looked at Rickard, "And what happens when he comes back with the prodigal sons in tow?"

Tyrek felt a slash of anger when Rickard shrugged.

"I don't know. But I'll know when Slynt reacts to my having his boys hostage as to how I'll metre out punishment. How harsh depends on him. Either way, him knowing that I can reach out hit him where he thinks he can't will be enough of a blow regardless of whatever follows."

His eyes stayed on Rick, who turned away back to his work, but he would not be put off by him yet. Frowning he said, "You know it'll be bad. Slynt's reaction, I mean. Otherwise you wouldn't do it. You want him to respond badly to give you an excuse…"

He stopped as Rickard sighed angrily, though he did not turn back to him as he responded, "I'm not responsible for Slynt's actions. To the extent that I am responsible for anyone's actions in a time of war, I'm accountable for my own and those who'd follow my orders."

"Are we at war, Rick?" He demanded, his own temper flaring to match Rickard's, "Here within this building, and on the streets? Has the declaration somehow slipped from my memory, or is it wholly absent?"

"Gods, you've no idea how much this fucking bores me." Rickard snapped before composing himself, "Make your point now, or shut the fuck up."

"My point is: are you trying to become the son of a bitch that everyone thinks you are?"

Most infuriatingly, Rick did not shout, curse or cry as he might have bet on, but his temper snuffed out and he laughed instead, as he mockingly stated, "I tell you truly I don't give a Godsdamn what people think of me anymore."

"I don't believe you," he replied, snorting, "What about your reputation?"

"It's a sorry thing." He shrugged, looking into the middle distance with half a smile, "but it is my own. My own, Tyrek." Each of their eyes met, "Mine."

"Seven Hells, you really don't anymore, do you?"

He could see it for himself, suddenly in Rickard the manner and deathly stare in his eye as he spoke, and hated it. What was more than that though, he despised himself for only now noticing, as looking back he never saw a sign of it till now. Tyrek thought himself a fool now, where even a blind man might have caught the change in Rickard Baratheon, but he had not.

The Prince saw his distaste and straighten his back as he spoke to him, "If that's too much for you, Ty, if you don't have the stomach for where we are going I'll understand, you can leave. But if you stay, you fucking stop fighting me every inch, because I can't afford you second guessing me at every turn."

In retrospect, he should have thought about it. Gone away considered and come back to Rick with his answer. But he didn't. He gave no second guess of himself and his choice.

"No, Rick. I'll stay."

When the hours go by, and The Black Hart is reopened for commerce (with the addition of two hostages, bound and gagged in the landlord's room) and a slightly darker series of patches in the floorboards, it appears that things have returned to normal. But they aren't, and the customers seem to be able to smell through the usually thickness of human stink and strong liquor the difference, like confused bloodhounds with a vague whiff.

Cousin Daven sure had it in his nostrils, as he took Tyrek to one side at the bar.

"What happened, Ty?" he heard, avoiding looking up at Daven, only able to stare into the vast chest of his elder.

Shrugging, as he wiped a glass, Tyrek retorted, "I've no idea what you mean?"

Suddenly, Tyrek felt a yanking on his front, as he was hauled over the bar, his feet coming off the ground as the irritated Daven growled at him in a hushed voice, "Don't bugger me about, Tyrek. Rickard's walking about that balcony on the front like he's the captain of a war galley-"

"Don't be stupid, coz. You know Rickard gets seasick."

Tyrek was jerked further forward again, his feet dangling even further off the ground, forcing him look into Daven's menacing grimace, "Bloody tell me, Ty." He warned again, but for the first time he resisted and managed to fight off Daven.

Released, he said seriously, "Look here. I can't get into it, and neither will Rickard, but chances are something will kick off tonight – so do Rick a favour, ignore that bloodstain you're standing on and go sit at your table sober as a saint for tonight. But keep that big fucking greatsword to hand… just in case."

It took a while, but gradually Daven eased off, particularly when he took a glance down at the at the faded red mark beneath his boots. "Alright, coz."

Before they turned away from one another, Tyrek reached across and grabbed his elder by the arm, and gave him his final words on the matter.

"Look, Daven," he said, as the frown returned across his cousin's face, "I'm not fanatical about the way things are with Rickard. But the fact is, he's at war for his standing and station in life; he needs us – we're family, we owe it to stand by him. You know we'd do the same for us."

Gotcha, thought Tyrek, as Daven gave a downward look of slight shame, then looked up toward the top floor and the Black Hart's outer balcony where Rickard was, as he murmured, "Rick can always count on my sword, Ty." At last they nodded at one another and Daven left to retrieve his arms.

If Rickard goes in to battle tonight then at least he won't go alone. House Lannister will itself and their finest Prince proud, Tyrek though, a bounce of pride for Casterly Rock and Lannisport jolting through his gut. The idea of the redoubtable Daven Lannister walking into fire beside them eased the anxiety that had been constantly gnawing at him since Rickard had sent Harry top kidnap the Slynt sons. He'd already seen to it that their younger cousins old enough to bear arms – Jason and Willem – were down here for it, and tooled them up with crossbows as best he could, though the fact that they were each only four-and-ten and still only able to muster peach fuzz for beards was not the kind of backing that inspired him any confidence the way that Daven would. Besides Ser Jaime, Daven Lannister might House Lannister's finest and that carried weight in any contest.

"Can't an honest person get a drink here?" came a sudden question, that shook Tyrek from his thinking.

He looked up from the tankard he'd been scrubbing since Daven had left, and saw the dark face and black eyes of the Citadel Acolyte, Alleras, to be looking at him expectantly. Tyrek smiled, for he liked the errant would-be Maester, who entered service with Rickard on the expectation he'd lead him to greatness.

"An honest man, yes," Tyrek answered, dropping the tankard on the bar, before bending to retrieve a flagon of wine and a cup which he poured for Alleras as he continued, "even a dishonest man can. Though I'd not like to wager which you might be."

Alleras laughed, a high pitch tone that Tyrek had come to pick out often over the usual furore that was the Black Hart's usual ambience. "You wound me, Lannister. And imply I'm the latter, which may be close to the mark." He said with a grin, swirling the wine in his cup.

Feinting prickliness, Tyrek half frowned and scoffed, "My skills with a bow, I tell you I did hit the mark."

The acolyte smiled, and toasted him. When Alleras set his cup aside and leaned slightly over the bar, "Fancy yourself an archer then?"

He couldn't help but snicker, "Finest the Gods ever made the way Rickard likes to tell it."

"Crossbow?"

"Now and then, mainly just hunting. Truth is I'm too skinny for it, so I stick to a longbow. That I am good with."

"You'll have to show me some time. I draw an arrow myself."

"Longbow?" He caught a laugh in his throat and managed to hold it back, "Really? You don't look like you have the arm for it, and you seem on the short side."

The Summer Islander half giggled and flapped his robes like they were wings, showing off its bagginess, "I have the arm, but these don't flatter them the way I'd need them to."

"You have your bow?" Tyrek asked, suddenly as his eyebrows raising at the idea in his head. "Or if not could you use one that isn't your own.

Alleras tilted his head in contemplation, "I don't, but I could." He admitted, raising cup to lips again.

"And you'd have no problems losing your quarrel against a man in anger?"

He laughed at the question, and drew a loud slurp of his wine, "If I did, I wouldn't have taken archery up."

"Good."

Though Alleras might have carried on smiling, there was noticeable turn in his voice to a more serious tone, "This wouldn't have something to do with the fucking tension in this room, and the Prince wafting around outside like he's expecting someone in here to a cut a loud fart?"

"I wouldn't say it was that exactly, given the trouble – the fart, as you say – is coming from without than within. But you have the gist."

"So, the Prince is out there trying to catch first whiff of it coming down the street?"

"Since you enjoy the fart metaphor so much, yes," Tyrek answered rolling his eyes. In truth he was surprised: there was more to the acolyte than he let, more than the story Rickard had gotten when he hired him on as an alternative to a real Maester. "Take up a bow for the night then?"

Grinning, Alleras threw his head back, downing the remainder of his wine, and shrugged as he said, "I suppose I will, if only to see how fair a contest any competition between you and I would be?"

"Fair enough. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go pay homage to the Prince-who-would-be-fucked." Tyrek sighed, and began walking toward the end of the bar, rounding it.

As he went he heard the would-be maester murmur how he'd heard that the Prince actually got fucked regular, which despite his better nature made him laugh as he climbed the stairs. If Alleras was half as good an archer as he was cocky, then in any quarrel the acolyte might rack up a hellish body count; which right now was as good a comfort to him as Daven and his greatsword.

The air was crisp when Tyrek stepped out onto the balcony, not wholly cold but a sharp contrast to the sweltering heat on the inside of The Black Hart, and Tyrek suspected that it was only the lack of a breeze that kept Rickard stalwart in the night air. The Prince turned his head back halfway to look who had come out, then turned back to look out onto the street below him, expelling a blast of smoke from his mouth, still sucking down on his pipe.

"You should be on the bar," he noted mildly through the cloud engulfing him.

"Harry and the wenches can manage it on their own," Tyrek said to excuse himself, as he stepped forward to draw alongside of his cousin. He looks across at his closest friend and cousin, watches the look of concentration on his face and how his hands are held behind his back. Rickard has started to look like this a lot now when he knows someone is going to bring him news. He'd try and keep the look whatever anyone would tell him: if the whole royal family were struck down with plague, that Tywin Lannister had wedded a milk maid, or Storm's End had collapsed and fell into the sea – Rickard Barartheon would face all unflinching, like a man.

"I just did you a favour." He told Rickard, not fussy or looking for a bone to be thrown his way. "As far as events that may or may happen tonight go."

"Oh?"

"Just recruited a couple heavy hitters to back whatever play you have planned."

Intrigued, Rickard turned a little with eyebrow raised, "Recruited whom?"

"Daven, thought you'd appreciate having his sword at your back. Jason and Willem, too. And your substitute for a maester – who swears he might rival me with a bow and arrow."

"Really?" That seemed to surprise Rickard, "You allow him to make that claim?"

"You're the one who boasts my skill, Rick." He answered sheepishly, eyes dropping to the floor a little.

"Because its fucking worthy to boast of," Rickard insisted, a furious trail of smoke following each word, "And you fail to tout your own skill as a bowman."

Tyrek scoffed, grinning, "Send the crow to the raven black. You're the one who just shakes his head and blushes when a man praises your work with a sword."

Rickard gave a half shrug half shiver with his shoulders, "Difference is I'm a Prince: compliment toward me have inflated value." He sighed, and crossed his arms across his chest, "So, a decent archer, and two squires: that'll surely have Janos Slynt quaking."

He looked at Rick, frowning and noticed his flat refusal to look toward him, "You forget Daven." He insisted, with some weight behind him.

"Yeah," replied the Prince slowly, as if considering the weight of something just by his eyeball, "He said yes straight away did he? When you approached him I mean?"

"You got the wrong end of it," Tyrek said, shaking his head, and feeling anxious at these question about Daven, "He approached me, wanting know what's up with you and the like. I didn't tell him, but when I hinted that there might be bloodletting tonight and you need him, as a member of the family like, then he didn't ask anything else and said he'd have your back. It was as straight forward as that. Why? Since when did you stop trusting family?"

Rickard looked sharply at him for a moment, then sighed and returned his gaze forward, "It's his purpose in King's Landing I question. Whether it being honest or dishonest, though I don't mean malign when I say dishonest."

"You think he's a spy."

Of course Tyrek could how Rickard might think that, though it shook him a little knowing that his cousin was doubting even the parts of their family where there were no worthy doubts.

"If you were the Old Lion, wouldn't you send out Daven to come keep an eye on me? And wouldn't this tournament be the perfect excuse to send him?"

"No." He answered flatly.

"No?"

"No, I'd send Uncle Kevan, who we both know is probably the only person the Old Lion would trust to do it. But given as he doesn't have the excuse, I'd go to my brother and ask him who to count on for a spy. And him, not knowing what a rotten bastard his son is, would suggest…"

"Lancel," Rickard finished.

"Yeah," he agreed, nodding his head, "and Lancel being the waste of flesh that he is will send back and spread lies, or inflate the truth all out of any shape at the very best, not to mention whatever the hell Joffrey tells him to. Under which circumstances why not take Daven under wing, if only to dilute the picture of what people back at Casterly Rock think."

"I'm not sure the truth would be much prettier than the lies in that case."

"The truth never is, but at least you know where you stand with it."

Rickard sighed, "Alright the, I've no qualm with Daven. But it's your responsibility to keep him onside and in the line."

"Why not come off this fucking balcony and make him accountable to yourself?"

Perhaps he'd pushed his luck a little, as Rickard turned to him, scowling as he grumbled, "Get the fuck back down stairs, Ty, alright?" And looked back, murmuring, "Still have to consider my dispositions and feints for the coming manoeuvres."

Conscious of his having overstepped the mark, Tyrek bowed to Rickard and turned to go back in side, but when his hand went to open the door, his cousin called after him, "Wait."

When Tyrek turned back, his eyes were met by Rickard's own azure ones, burning bright, a trail of smoke still following him. He grabbed Tyrek by the shoulder and all but pushed him out the door, whispering at a lightning pace: "Best go tell your boys to be ready, put Harry and Daven by the front door – they are not to come out lest I tell them to; deploy Will and Jas as you see fit; then you and Alleras bring the brothers out onto the balcony with me, make sure you keep them tied and yourselves with longbows at the ready."

"Right you are, Rick." He said, with no further argument, and was away faster than a breeze.

As soon as he was inside, he was shouting over the balcony at everyone, relaying to Harry and Daven to take up their swords and hang by the door. His cousin was away first on his feet, sword arcing over his shoulder and rushing to brace against the door of the Black Hart as though he were about to vault over an entrenchment at the head of a forlorn hope. Harry was soon beside him, his own sword drawn from beside the bar. By the time he was down the stairs, taking two in every stride, he was calling for Jason and Willem to grab any of the several crossbows that hung on the wall with quarrels loaded for just an occasion. Neither of them hesitated, and were soon flanking Daven and Harrold peeking out the windows at the front of the building.

By the time that had been accomplished, Tyrek heard shouting from outside. Someone was calling Rickard he could hear, but little else, not even Rickard's replies. To him it was all indistinguishable between the tremor now in his guts at the chances of the coming combat. Suddenly, Alleras is in front of him, and he snatched his elbow, and all but flinging him upstairs and barking for him to retrieve the bows and quiver in his room, while he himself fetched the delinquent Slynt boys.

And as quick as he left, Tyrek is back on the balcony, tying the bonds of the Slynt brothers to the wooden railing either side of Rickard, before drawing a notch back on his bow.

Rickard stood in the centre of the balcony, bandying words with the fat, bald and enraged Lord Commander of the City Watch – Janos Slynt – who sons were bound and gagged flanking the Prince, and flanking them was himself and Alleras, bows aimed and arrows drawn. There was a large, strong company of goldcloaks backing Slynt, all mounted, some bearing torches, others with long spears or clubs and staves that were the usual armaments of their company. Tyrek felt none of the anxiety that he had expected to feel when confronted with this mob that had come for The Black Hart. They were outnumbered true, but there was no doubt in his mind that they were outclassed, and down the shaft of an arrow Tyrek could not have asked for any better a target than the jowls of Janos Slynt – if he had to put the Lord Commander down, then the goldcloaks wouldn't stand for much of a fight after they'd see the lifeless corpse of their command hit the dirt, twitching.

But that somehow didn't seem likely given the way that Slynt and Rickard were conducting their negotiations. Slynt was furious of course, shaking his fist, with sword in hand at Rickard, jowls all quivering with rage; but the Prince was quite calm, merry in fact, as though he might have been in the tavern below, resting on a beer barrel with a tankard in hand, joking with the punters.

"Lord Commander," he shouted, reverently with faux ignorance, "about your duties to the City?"

"Steal yourself, Black Hart!" Bellowed Slynt, with the antithesis of Rickard's humour, his frog like fat face a poisonous red, "I am not come to bandy words. Release to me my sons, or by Baelor's bastards, I shall burn down this pig's stye with you in it – Prince or no!"

"By all means do so," taunted Rickard, his grin resolute, before it soured and the warning followed, "but be sure that before the order finishes in your throat, one of my archers shall put an arrow through it. And before the flames get a chance to lick at my heels, I'll have cut the throat of both your boys – you'd better steal that as a mortal certainty."

"Coward!" Croaked Slynt, his face growing ever darker in its shades of purple. "Hiding behind archers, and a mere two of them. You think I'm afraid, boy?!"

From the corner of his eye, Tyrek observe the Prince, and how suddenly his hand went to the axe on his hip, tightening around the grip. Suddenly, he slowly closed his eyes and reopened them with the fact that whatever mercy or restraint Rickard was showing to Slynt had just evaporated.

"I know that like any other fucking bully, Slynt," Rickard spoke measured, but with fierce restraint, like a rabid blood hound ready to be loosed from his chain, teeth grit and jaw clenched hard around his words, "you never learnt to shut your fucking mouth…" the axe was drawn, and all went silent, and even Janos Slynt suddenly sucked down a breath of hesitancy and fear, but Rickard merely grinned at the reaction, "… except when you're afraid. Rest assured, I have two archers here, and two more besides. But if needs be I'll come down there to kill you myself – afraid of me, or not."

"Godsdammit, Baratheon!" Cursed the Lord Commander, his jowls bulging, "The King will hear of this!"

"I hope so! By the Gods, ser! How I shall love for him to hear all of our quarrel, and how well I know he'll be pleased that, not only have you tried to have his son killed, but that you have corrupted King's Landing to the core. His own loyal, decent subjects reduced to strangers and vagabonds in their own country! The capital of Westeros reduced to a doghole, your own private sewer – a conduit for you to funnel all your shit down. What happens now: Justice, a correction of the course. Just make sure you remember that before it came to this, I warned you what was to come."

And brandishing his axe with a flourish, everyone watched the Prince – himself, Janos Slynt, Alleras, the Goldcloaks, even Daven Lannister and Harry Hardyng had their ears pressed close listening to what was about to happen – as he strode over to Jothos Slynt and swung down hard. At first there was a simple bonk! and the air was shattered by the sound of Janos Slynt's eldest screaming, holding up the bloodied stump of his right hand. Then again, all was noise, as the horses of the goldcloaks immediately caught the scent of the blood spraying, roared and reared, stamping and braying; while their masters too were shouting, trying to get control of the ill-trained mounts; all but Janos Slynt, who was howling in rage at the sight of his maimed son, then at his other son cowering in fear as Rickard now came at him; a bang! sounded this time, and the balcony shook as the Prince now took the hand of Morros Slynt; yet behind it all, Tyrek swore he could hear cheering of a kind, coming from behind him.

He had no time to think on it, as suddenly Janos Slynt had drawn his sword, raging, screaming at his troops, "GO! BURN IT! KILL THEM! I WANT HIS HEAD!" And those with spears lowered the points as if to charge, while the Goldcloaks with torches moved forward brandishing them, ready to fire The Black Hart and all inside.

Tyrek did not even hesitate to think, merely aiming his bow at the closest goldcloak and releasing the arrow it held. It caught him in the shoulder where he aimed for, and the man dropped his torch to the mud as he clutched at his wound. Then, Tyrek stopped and turned to look at Rickard for a command, an order, a plan of action, but any words stopped dead in his heart as he watched the Prince grasp the fallen Slynt son and fling him over the side of the balcony to land in the mud beneath them.

The sight struck him dumb for a moment, but then a blur whizzed passed his vision, as a voice screeched, "Shoot them, Lannister!" It was Alleras who was calmly loading and launching arrows one after the other. Now the hesitation was out of him, now there was only the fight, and Tyrek held his ground, brought up his bow and a fresh quarrel from the quiver at his hip and fired it at the closest goldcloak.

Beneath them from the tavern, Tyrek heard the thunderous crash as a door was smashed open, and the unmistakable voice of Daven chanting: "Lannister! Lannister!" And an immense blonde blur was swinging left and right at the mounted watchmen, taking one full in the chest with a blow so powerful it levelled both horse and rider from his saddle.

Yet soon Tyrek realised Daven was not alone, nor were he and Alleras the only ones launching missiles at the goldcloaks. Mugs, tankards, flagons, jugs, chairs and even a table were all been flung, presumably, from out of the tavern windows at Slynt and his men. Also, the unmistakable site of smallfolk, neighbours and punters of The Black Hart both, throwing themselves body and soul at the Goldcloaks, some totally unarmed, women and men who were barely older than boys flinging themselves at the watchmen, who overwhelmed the horsemen by sheer weight of number. Over the chaos, he could hear someone carrying up a call to replace Daven's as the words "Rickard!" and "Black Hart! For the Black Hart!" had a small echo, but the main were a barrage of curses and swears upon the Goldcloaks: "Bastards!", "Off our streets, bastards!" "Leave us be, whoresons!"

It was a mob, a riot. And by the gods if it wasn't a fine sight to Janos Slynt and his men turn tail on their horses and flee – his sons slung over the back of a pair of his battered riders – or scramble out of the mud, desperate to escape the rage of people driving headlong at them. When the mob moved on up the street, throwing things and still crowing taunts after the Goldcloaks, Tyrek began laughing and turned to Rickard who, though bloodied, was doing the same. The pair of them sharing the astonishment of all that had happen.

"Gods be good, Rick," he finally said between laughs, "I give you, the King's own loyal, decent subjects!"

Later, after Rickard had to go and subdue his own mob by offering them more free drinks at The Black Hart in order to stop them going to far and causing an actual riot across the City, and the crowd was back under control and happily drinking. They were around upturned tables, and sitting chairs with smashed legs, but they were happy and not a risk to begin sacking shops. Rickard gathered them all up, and spoke to the entire tavern from the top of the stairs, he thanked them all for their service and charity, their bravery and promised to share the wealth and rewards with those who had stood with him today. It was benevolent, and somewhat true Tyrek supposed, but it was the ominous word he finished with that were soon to carry and spread across the city, and Tyrek supposed that was the point of the whole speech.

"I took the sons' hands, but I won't be finished until I've taken the father's." He vowed, and they all cheered him and toasted him, but the real crux of the night came when the crowd had dispersed into the night, drunk and sated from the fighting and free liquor – when Rickard gathered them all, those closest to him of them that were at the tavern that night in his room.

"I owe you all a debt for tonight." He began, and named them each in turn – Daven, Harry, himself, Alleras, Jason and Willem, the Redwynes, and Ser Justin Massey, who had roused themselves to give Rickard their swords, even though he, Tyrek, had avoided asking it of them. "And I mean to pay, I meant what I said out there – right now, loyalty is everything to me and I mean to reward all those who show it to me, especially all of you. Now you all know by now, me and Janos Slynt – among others – are locked in a death quarrel as for control of King's Landing. It's not a pleasant thing now, and it isn't going to get any more so."

Rickard looked down, sighed and rubbed his hands together, a reddish hue still clinging to them in spite of his attempts to wash them of Slynt blood.

"But it can't be like tonight – that mob, that riot: it was foolish, and we got lucky cause my back was to the wall and you all stepped up. And I'm gonna ask you all to step up again, if you want, to become a captain in my new little enterprise. I have gold, and now I mean to put it to work: hiring men, building, buying more taverns, more inns, shops, more gold, hiring swords. You'll all have your place and an equal share, you don't want in? Fine, leave now with no hard feelings – I'll still call you friend, and bare you no ill will. If you change your mind the offer will still be open, nevertheless leave now."

It went quiet, and everyone looked at everyone else to see if any would crack. After a long silence, the Redwynes each stepped forward, not daring to meet the Prince's eye.

"We're sorry, Rickard." Began Horas.

"We respect you, like family." Added Hobber.

"But we only came here for the tourney."

Rickard smiled at them nodded, and shook each of their hands in turn, while he saw them after, making sure they were well away from the door before sealing it behind them again.

"Can't say I'm shocked by that." Harry said sadly, when they were gone.

"Surely you don't hold them so your standard, Harrold," Tyrek replied, winking at the Valeman, who merely rolled his eyes in good humour as Rickard began again.

"I'm glad that you have all stayed, and I repeat, no ill will against them who have left us. It's a dangerous, squalid path we're on, remember. But now you all have an equal share, along with three others not yet present, as we go about our course to take this City, and perhaps restore myself to a position in the Red Keep."

"Who are the other three?" asked Ser Justin, warily.

Tyrek was unsurprised by the names, who else would it have been but those of them that would love to have been present, had they not been tied up as Rickard's advocates in the Red Keep, where he needed them. Brave and noble Ser Beric Dondarrion, the Marcher Lord who is still dreaming of keeping the Prince's Charter alive, who will legitimize Rickard's woes and give them voice in the court while he is banished from it; Robb Stark, young and a wildness and an eagerness that Rickard sees in himself, and loves; and finally the Princess, Arianne Martell, the Dornish Ambassador, who will weave the webs and catch the spies that Rickard needs for his dirtiest work, and have each other's hearts with a passion.

"It will be them in the Red Keep, and us in the streets," Tyrek explained to them, one hand on the door he leant on, "that's how we'll take the city inside of a year."

"Gods go with you, and get some sleep," Rickard said, finally dismissing them to their beds, except for himself and Harry. When the others were gone, he pulled a bottle from beneath his desk and cups for each of them, pouring out three meads that they all took and gulped in one after which Rickard refilled them.

"Hell of a day." Tyrek said nonchalantly.

Harrold rolled his eyes at him yet again, "You don't fucking say. And there was me thinking I start every day by opening a man's throat and end it by helping a riot against the goldcloaks."

"At least we're not gonna be alone in this anymore," interrupted Rickard, hands beneath his chin in thought.

"Extra hands and swords always welcome to help," Harry mused, toasting with his cup.

"Well, we'll certainly need the extra help after today."

It was obvious there was more than Slynt on Rickard's mind, and Tyrek furrowed his brow as he looked at his cousin and said, "What do you know that we don't, Rick?"

Immediately, Ty felt relief, as he saw the brightness light in Rickard's eyes and knew he was on the verge of saying 'Plenty!' and laughing, but the moment passed and the brightness dimmed in Ricard's eyes.

"Message from Arianne today." He sighed, "She said the Red Viper of Dorne is on his way."

He and Harry glanced at one another.

"Well… shit!"