Rickard
She took him by surprise, not for the first time. He had gone to the tent to don his armour for the melee and not expected Arianne to be there, laid in wait. Looking back, her absence from the royal pavilion had been conspicuous and he probably should have put more thought into this. There had been something in the sly look that he saw her uncle casting him. Perhaps she had told him her intent as soon as it occurred.
Arianne never said a word, but she at least waited till he had his shirt off and had gone to the table before allowing herself to be heard, giving him the chance to turn around. He knew that was because she knew he preferred the sensation of fucking with a table. She'd not given him the chance to say anything either, grabbing both sides of his head and laying her mouth over his. Lucky that he was alone when he entered, for she couldn't have known that – and he hadn't bothered to warn her either. He at least made a point to keep it as quiet as possible, clasping a hand over her mouth as bent her over the table. This necessity she understood, and when his fingers began to slip away from her face, she bit on them to alert him to the fact and was again moaning into his palm.
Afterwards he regretted the use of his hands, he panted loudly, his cheek pressed against his naked back, realising he had neglected her precious nub that he coveted. Instead, aside from keeping her quiet, he had only freed a single tit and squeezed the life out of his as he released his seed inside of her. Arianne did not seem to mind it though; she seemed even more content than him after his arrival and she only spoke when he began to move.
"Stop," she commanded, and he stilled, suddenly alarmed, "leave it a moment."
He gave a bark of laughter and rested his cheek back against her flesh, and reminded her, "We don't have long."
"It is long enough for now," she said, shivering as her laid her bed of kissed across her back, "at least until tonight."
The moment lasted until he finally softened and slipped out of her.
"Are we no longer quarrelling then?" he asked, as he stepped back and picked his breeches up from around his ankles.
"For now," she teased, pushing her silks back down as she rose from the table. It was a stupid answer to a stupid question, but it came as a relief all the same. She was, after all, his lady, in body and soul, if not law.
"I'm sorry that we were quarrelling," he admitted, but she would not hear it.
"Hush" she said and tugged his hands bringing him towards her. "Lover's always quarrel, love. This at least makes it worth it."
To prevent him laughing, she kissed him, and it was sorely missed to feel her like this. When she released him, he was grinning as he spoke, "And here I was thinking this was only out of fear from my tussle with the Mountain."
"Hmmm," she did not seem impressed, "I saw. You were lucky."
"I know," he admitted. "God bless Robb and Grey Wind."
"And you were knighted. Well done"
"I know. At first, I didn't know what was happening, then I almost vomited at Ser Barristan's feet." The sound of her laughing swelled his heart. "Was your uncle sore about loosing out on his gold?"
"He was sorer that you were crossing blades with the Mountain and not him."
"I can imagine, though I make no apology. And I noticed that he didn't exactly leap to my rescue as Robb and Grey Wind did. He would have, but it was such a spectacle – you bounding down the field for Robb, sword in hand, shirt blowing in the wind. Even the Hound froze when he saw you going for his brother."
He hummed a second, "I hope he doesn't pay me a visit like this," and smothered her giggling with another kiss. He budged her back onto the table and felt the blood rising in him again, and he decided to repay her debt. It was as his fingers entered her slickness when they were interrupted, and Harry Hardyng arrived.
They did not hear the tent flap and Harry might have easily left them to it, but he choked out and alarmed, "G-gods, s-sorry, Rick" and stuck his head back out into the open air, while the rest of his body remained inside.
Only when he turned around, hearing Harry whispering to someone on the other end that he bellowed, "Come in or fuck off, Harrold!"
Arianne, bless her, exploded in laughter, even more so when Harry slowly peered back round at them both and had the gall to curtsy her and apologize for his interruption. Behind him are the rest of his companions, slowly shuffling inside in, their armour rustling. Tyrek placed his helmet over his head, as though hoping the visor would stop him looking at them. Robb decides that looking anywhere but in their direction is best, while Ser Justin Massey can only look in their direction with a lewd smile.
"My lords, I shall leave you to it," Arianne announced, smoothing herself out once again. He went to protest but she smiled indulgently and kissed the corner of his mouth to silence him. His cock, still at attention, twitched as he watched her go and not a one of them at that moment had it in them to look him in the eye.
He suffered through the japes and the mocking as they watched him arm himself, until at last he belted Harry on the bare knuckles with one of his gauntlets. He pointed at him directly as he admonished him over the curses and bloodily sworn oaths.
"You've only got to blame yourself for that, Hardyng."
The others held their tongues after, or at least now only took snide jabs at 'Hurry-up Harry', as he finished the adjustments to his armour, once more tying the orange sliver of silk to his arm.
Duly clasped in, they waited until they heard the blast of trumpets signalling the start of the melee. The Knights assembled beneath one of the stands where the smallfolk were housed and above, they could hear the expectant cheering and shifting of feet on the timbers. When he entered with his companions, the idle chatter going on between the knights through their helmets stopped at once and he received their curtsy, something he had not had to do in a long time. It felt good to do so, and it pleased him that things had flipped for him as easy as a coin. This morning, he was a spare Prince to these men, that most were prepared to confine him to the refuse pile. By tonight he would be their toast 'The Black Hart, Rickard Baratheon, Prince of Westeros, what fools we were'.
Trumpets cut the air again. A triplicate of blasts and they all began to exit from their position beneath the stands. As they exited, they formed two separate columns that moved to stand opposite of one another. Although the melee was effectively a free-for-all, the combatants formed two lines of battle to start with, and would charge one another, but once the lines met then it was supposedly every man for himself.
Dropping the visor for his helm, Rickard tested the weight of his morning star. He stood at the very end of the line, Harry on his right, then Robb, Tyrek, Ser Justin and so on. Lord Beric, he saw, had placed himself across the field, close to the centre. It mattered little, alliances did not properly on a melee field. There were at best convenient moments when not to attack.
At last, through the slit of his visor, Rickard watched as his father, the King, stood to his feet and gave the command. One final, long blast from the bugle signalled the order to begin. A hollow roar from inside every helmet went up, and they all charged forward.
A knight of House Celtigar was the first to come at him, the red crabs on a field of white adorning his surcoat. He opened their bout, swinging a vast, two-handed axe for him, which Rickard caught on his shield as he swung leftward with his morning star. It clanged off the knight's helm, and before he could react to the blow, he shifted his whole body to the left and swung again with the morning star, the back hand blow crumpling the visor of his helmet so that his cheek was exposed. He went to ground, the axe dropping from his hand as he spluttered, "Yield! Yield!"
Looking his right, he saw that any pretence to the order of the melee had vanished. It was already a brawl, men scrambling through the mud, weapons already been discarded as they merely pounded at one another with their mailed fists. He looked down and saw Harry on his back, apparently already dazed and knocked down, looking up at him, presumably going down in the initial clash of steel on steel. Offering him the pommel of his morning star, he helped him to his feet.
Harrold then recovered his war-hammer and promptly sped off in a craze. Rickard watched him take the Bar Emmon knight that had probably flattened him in the back of the head with a single blow before delivering a second blow to the chest of the Mallister he had been fighting. Tyrek was hammering his sword against the shield of a hedge knight. In the distance, he spotted a white cloak in golden armour at the far end of the field, his uncle Ser Jaime and the other white swords were all clashing with one another.
Rickard now rushed into the mix, he took down Tyrek's hedge knight solely with the weight of his own body against the man, flew and rolled away as those he been rammed by a bull. Next, he slammed his shield against a knight with white wolf's heads on his shield. His helmet was rattling with the sound of clashing steel all around him.
Their flank of the battle had all but collapsed and field was thinning fast. Raising his morning star in the air, he stormed forward, shouting, "On me!" for the others to follow him into the thick of the fray.
"I'm with you, Rickard!" he heard someone call back from behind him.
Tyrek sped in front of him, bellowing, "Casterly Rock!" and his crimson armour caught the sun as he ploughed into the pack of Frey's to the right, with Robb behind him and they soon disappeared from his vision.
Bronze steel flashed suddenly at him, as Ser Robar Royce charged toward him with his shield up and head down. Rickard raised his own shield and braced for the impact. Royce slammed into his shield, and a sword battered around his helmet, shaking the steel around his face. Rickard dug his heels into the mud beneath him and turned the shield. As Ser Robar slid forward to his left, Rickard spun rightward, morning star flying, and the spiked ball struck the knight in gorget. While the knight turned, Harry came out of nowhere and tackled Ser Robar to the ground and they were both gone in a clatter of blue steel and bronze.
When Rickard turned back to the ongoing maelstrom, something slammed into his shoulder. He shouted in pain at the air contracted in his body. He barely registered the white owl of Mertyns dancing in front of him before he rushed forward, too late. Another blow from the morning star came down on the top of his own head. Rickard could feel the dented metal pressing into the top of his head as, stunned, he tumbled into the knight opposite. His face slammed against the metal of his helmet as the earth came up to meet him. He was now on top of the knight that struck him.
Panicked, he groped at the top of his helmet, his morning star forgotten. He let the ear take him for a moment, half expecting to scoop his own brain out in his hand. But all he could feel was the steel of the helm, beneath his gauntlets, dented but not punctured. The sound of the other man's breath in his armour below him cut through his fear, and he realised that the man was pushing at him trying to get him off from above him. Unthinking, Rickard brought the hand from his helmet slamming down on the other's and began to beat against the face of his opponent until he submitted from the assault.
The blood was up in him now, he could feel the sweat running down his back, his ears pounding and the adrenaline running his brain. He was conscious of the shield still on his left arm, and groped the floor for his morning star a moment before he grasped one, his own, the Mertyns, or some other who had abandoned it, he could not tell. Rising, his voice came up without any thought but for battle, "Gods' blood!" and he charged into the combat, morning star spinning, downing another two men and began scanning the field.
There were perhaps twenty men on the field now, fighting in their own isolated clusters. Only two of the Kingsguard remained on the field, his uncle Jaime amidst them, as they clashed with knights from the Riverlands. The Red Viper and a band of Dornishman were at odds with the Knight of Flowers, Loras Tyrell, back by some fellows from the Reach. Conscious of his isolation, Rickard raised the morning star in the air, calling out, "Prince's men, to me!"
Only three voices answered him, and they soon followed. The Lightning Lord, Beric had fought through to him, mace frayed and worn. Robb to had answered him still holding a shield of dubious value as the edges was splintered and shattered. He pointed to the edge of the field, were Ser Justin and Tyrek had been dragged from the field, as had been the Redwyne twins. Harry was the last to come. His visor had been ripped off somehow, and they could see a cut rushing blood around one eye, like red tears.
They paused to collect themselves and catch themselves, but green blur was suddenly amid them, laughing. Rickard shouted and fell back, colliding with Harry, as the blur spun round them all, Dondarrion and Robb tried to meet it but both shied away at the last second. The laughing and the scent of burning flooding his nostrils alerted Rick to the foe as the mad Myrish priest, Thoros of Myr. The sword was burning with the glow of wildfire.
"Watch him," he shouted, pushing Harry away, "Get round him!"
The sound of his voice alerted the priest to him, he whirled on him, "My friend, the Prince!" True enough he was friendly with the heathen priest, but not enough to stay his blade on this field with such coin at stake.
His flaming sword flashed at Rickard, who caught the blow on his shield and swung back with his morning star, but the Myrman was already pulling away from him and rounding on another. They held him in an awkward circle, unable to get to grips with him and his sword properly. Each time he struck a blow he shifted out of reach and struck at another one, stopping them from closing in on him. But soon his attacks started to centre on the shields, his and Robb's, soon Rickard realised why.
Robb suddenly backed away flailing with his sword and shield arm, breaking the circle. As the Red Priest struck the shield again, it was clear that the shield itself was aflame. Now fighting his shield more than anything, Robb stumbled backward, shouting, "Yield!"
As Thoros began to turn at the sound of Robb's surrender, Rickard swung too late to save him, but caught his enemy in the elbow. The bone snapped, and Thoros lurched and contorted with the pain, just as Harry rushed him, and brought him to the ground, pushing his head into the mud where he must have heard a muffled yield, for when Harrold rose the priest only pushed himself onto his back and did not rise himself. There were now only seven of them on the field, but his three had their armour all scorched and blackened in places from the Wildfire sword.
The other four on the field were not the four that he would have preferred to fight to the finish. His uncle Jaime, his gilded armour flecked with blood and dirt still remained, as did Ser Arys Oakheart of the Kingsguard, his white cloak and armour similarly stained. The other two were Dornishmen, the last two Dornishman that Rickard wanted to fight. Oberyn Martell smiled at him across the field beneath his half helm, his copper scales and shield glittered, his spear twirling between his fingers as careless as though it were a stick of barley. Ser Gerrold Dayne was distinguishable only by the dark eyes through the slits of his helmet, and his curved falchion had been blooded by someone that day.
Rickard began to weigh the odds in his head, as they all seven simultaneously came together in the centre of the field. The air was stifling in his helmet, and despite the quite protest of his companions he fumbled with the strap keeping it in place and discarded his shield. Once it was loose, he placed it under his shield arm.
For a moment, no one spoke or moved, the only sound to be heard was seven ragged breaths. With nothing to lose, Rickard spoke, "Some fight." The combatants seemed to exchange glances, almost incredulous, at him. But for his uncle, whom Rickard was sure was smiling under his visor. "Looking at us all, we might almost recreate the Battle of the Trident in miniature."
"Plenty more men fell that day, nephew," Ser Jaime commented, placing the blade of his sword against his shoulder.
"Plenty more Dornishmen, I grant you," and he heard the Prince of Dorne's laughter.
"Bold talk from the Black Hart," the Red Viper taunted, "I am disappointed. My low estimation of you have plummeted. See how bold you are without someone backing your move, without two of your own."
"I have two, and did have two more besides, and will do off this field. Just like you have this one here." He pointed at Ser Gerold with helmet, "That your plan, eh, Dayne? Dispatch these two then, then come for me with this one to fucking hide behind. And how's that blade, hmm? Seems some amount of blood on it for just a tourney blade. Had someone been fucking honing that in their spare time for you?" He mimed the use of a whet stone for the Dornishman's benefit, "My oath to this, that thing cuts me too deep, I'll cut your fucking throat with it. And you?" He turned back to Prince Oberyn, "I see you got that big fucking filibustering spear there, and doubtless somewhere else you have hidden some pussified stabbing instrument. Well, here's my knife," he put his back for them to see the scabbarded blade in question, "See if I don't wipe my arse with yours yet."
"Still all but talk, Baratheon," Ser Gerrold said at last. "Talk of filibustering, take account of yourself."
"I don't see you taking the effort to stop me."
"I see you, Black Hart. I will see you bloodied in the mud yet."
"Well, the moves yours to make, cocksucker."
As it happens, it is his uncle that makes the first move. Turning on his sworn brother, he yanked on Ser Arys white cloak threw it over his head. When he turned his head back, Ser Gerrold was coming straight for him.
"Watch my right," he said gesturing at the white knights and stepped forward to meet Dayne, but Harry disobeyed, and Rickard saw the young falcon draw his sword and run straight for the Red Viper.
As Dayne, came close his helmet lurched forward straight for the Dornishman who stopped to deflect it with his shield. Next, he threw his morning star, the ball and chain wrapping around his sword. By the time Rickard was on him with his own sword drawn, Ser Gerrold had barely untangled himself. The air was filled with the sound of steel ringing on steel.
His sword in both hands, Rickard slashed down on the Dornishman's shield, taking a chunk away with it as he pulled back to check his opponents cut. As the swords collided, he spun beneath them both, turning the parry into a cut that had the Dornishman reeling, the tip of the sword barely an inch from his visor. When Darkstar closed the distance again with a back handed cut, Rick checked the bow, but released his right and shoved his opponent hard in the face and he came on with another downward strike with both hands. Ser Gerrold tried to meet it with his sword but was still reeling from the shove, and almost lost his guard but for he suddenly thrust forward his shield, blunting it on the Prince's face.
Rickard pulled back clutching his nose, and as he did, he caught sight of Harry and the other Prince getting the better of him. He swung a wild cut behind him, that caught Ser Gerrold off balance, and he flailed to meet it, then took off for the Red Viper. Only by the time he reached the two, a twirl of the spear took Harry into the air and landed him on his back as he clutched and his pulped face. As the gap closed between them, Prince Oberyn sensed him coming spun the spear fast and wide so that Rickard had to drop to his knees. He slid through the mud, the spear going over his head and was inside the spears reach, and the Prince could not bring it to bear against him properly.
As Rickard came to a stop, he slammed the pommel of his sword in the Viper's side, and he bent double, only for Rick to rise, slamming the top his hand into the Prince's jaw. Oberyn cut across him, punching him in the shoulder with his copper shield, and Rickard lunged out again with his arm with elbow and shoulder catching him hard enough to knock him backward. As Rickard spun around raising his sword, the Darkstar was back with him.
He was not as cavalier as before and paused before coming to grips Rickard. He dithered, as Rickard lunged with a feint after feint, each one forcing the Dornishman to raise his shield lower, then higher, then lower again. Frustrated with his metal being tested, Dayne swung heaving the heavy falchion at Rickard's right, and he turned a feint to catch the blade with the tip of his sword on the shaft, but the curve of the falchion was such that the point of the blade stopped so close to Rickard's face that he flinched away in surprise. As he did the Dornishman then swung with his shield, but Rickard shied away and sidestepped out of reach turning the falchion over his head, luckily just as Prince Oberyn rejoined them putting them both in his front. Gods only knew what had become of the White Knights and the Lightning Lord. His fight was right here in front of him.
"Together, or separately. Form a line and I'll have you one at a time if you wish."
It didn't surprise him when they failed to be so obliging, and they both came on. The spear jabbed, and Rickard caught it, and side stepped the falchion as it came whirling, and they went on in the fashion, unrelenting, neither one giving him the space to counter as they pressed one attack after the other. A chorus of steel sang out, the long spear flickering in and out between the clattering of swords. They were good, Rickard realised, surprising himself with the thought, that whether he would have fought them together or apart that they each had it in him to have the better of him, but the Prince's spear was giving him the worst of it, as the length away kept out of reach.
For a time, he'd tried drawing back, sword in one hand and settled in like a Braavosi fencer, arm stretched to full length, but it was futile, as the weakened guard opened him up to Dayne's heavy cleaves, and the spear still gave the Viper a foot's advantage. All Rickard could do was give them ground, and space to open up for a chance he soon realised that they would allow to come.
His breath began coming ragged, and sword heavy in his arms, while neither Dornishman slowed down. Even there they seemed to have the advantage, despite their age on him, they had the stamina and time to run down on him. They would run him around the field, pushing him back all the way if they could, and beat him without ever laying their steel on him. Rickard was buggered he'd let them.
Checking the Prince's spear a final time, he turned the jab and caught the falchion in the air as it came down and ducked down, pushing forward as the steel screamed above. As he moved, his fist flew out and caught Prince Oberyn in the face sending him reeling away. Dayne tried to bring the falchion down him again, but Rickard pirouetted out of reach of the blade, and as it it followed through then darted back forward at him, stamping his foot at the Darkstar's knee and as he buckled came down on top of him the pommel of his sword smashing into the visor of his helm. They went to earth together, their armour rattling.
He'd make it a gutter fight if he had to, a fucking tavern brawl. Pinning him to the ground with an arm across his throat, Rickard brought the pommel of his sword down on the visor again, expecting to crack it like a walnut. The metal bent and he pulled down to strike again, but as the felt the visor split under the blow something smashed against the back of his head and his vision was full of stars.
As he reeled, Dayne reacted and knocked the sword from his hand, rolling them over. Rickard became conscious, as the stars faded from his eyes, of Prince Oberyn twirling the spear above them, but lasted only a moment as the image of Darkstar blocked out all light. Rickard began to taste blood in his mouth as Ser Gerrold's fist broke against his face, again and again. It didn't stop until Rickard manged to get hand on his helmet, pushing his fingers through the visor. Dayne began pushing down on his throat with one hand and tried to fend him of with the other. As Rickard choked on and felt the world blurring, all he could do was tighten the grip on Dayne's visor and at last yanked down hard, tearing the steel away.
Darkstar shouted and pulled away in pain, clutching at his face, while the Prince coughed and spluttered, the air he took back in tight as he sucked it in agony. There would be no respite for him as in a flash of copper in the sun, the Red Viper was back and the laid the flat of his spear blade up side his head. Stars flickered in his vision again, and it happened a second time before Rickard forced himself, spinning in the mud, as the spear spun and turned for him again, he lunged out and grabbed on to the shaft. Oberyn yanked back on the spear, but Rickard held on for his life and when it pulled again rushed with the momentum to his feet.
They struggled with the spear, tugging, and pulling. Rickard finally twisted his wrist and the ashwood staff began to bend and in a spray of splinters the tip of the spear finally snapped off. He moved to slash at the other Prince, but it was erratic and suddenly a steel arm had itself wrapped around Rick's throat again and he felt the Darkstar's voice against his ear.
"I best not find you with another knife," and something slammed through his thigh, and sent him howling, his leg going from under him. He glanced down and saw his own knife in the Dornishman's hand, jutting out of him, and buried up to the hilt. The blade twisted and wrenched, and Rickard choked out a screamed at every movement as he shrank to the floor, his teeth gritted, and gripping the broken spear tip tight.
His arm flew back behind his head and Rickard only became conscious of the move when the Darkstar screamed in his ear. He then grabbed at the arm around and pulled with his full weight, sending his enemy flying full-bodied over him and crashing into the ground at his feet. Staggering backwards to his feet, each movement of his leg burned him at the new weight that had pierced it right through. Gripping it with both hands, he pulled up word and the flesh beneath his armour squelched and blood slashed everywhere as it came finally loose, his life running slick and hot down both sides of his leg.
"Hey, Dayne," he said, each words a pain over each agonising breath as he tottered forward clutching the blade. "I do have another knife. It comes to me now." Each movement was like being stabbed all over again, it was too much for him. His arms were sagging, the grip on his knife slackened, but he forced himself onward until someone made him pause.
"He's had enough, Prince," the Red Viper warned him, but Rickard disagreed. A bloody gouge had been left beneath Darkstar's eye, and the spear tip stuck out from his shoulder. Rickard wobbled on his feet, but he saw even as Darkstar was dragging himself away on his side, there was murder in his bloodied eye.
Rickard drew in his heavy breaths as he spoke, "He meant to do for me."
The Dornish Prince just shrugged at him, "And you can do for him, but not like this, eh?"
It was like lifting a boulder as he drew the knife to point at the Prince, the arm swaying as the world began to turn in front of him, "And you?"
The staff of the broken spear twirled in his fingers again, "I've no wish to see you dead. You're an amusing fellow, Rickard Black Hart." He pointed the snapped tip at him, "Yield?"
"I…" The world spun around him, his legs felt as though the earth was swallowing him up, "My head…" And then he felt, the last ting he could remember was the feel of the mud bouncing off his head.
Someone was humming a tune. It was far off in the distance at first, but Rickard became conscious as it drew closer. There was a familiarity to it. His head felt like an anvil, as though it had been fucked bloody by a hammer and there was a ringing in his ears from somewhere that he couldn't place. Something damp was spread across his forehead, and it seemed to soothe his head. He didn't dare open his eyes, somehow the effort felt too much for him in that moment.
He must fall asleep there, wherever it was, because when he wakes up again the humming had stopped, and someone is playing with his hair. The effort to open his eyes isn't such a strain, but his body aches all over.
"You're awake," said Arianne, her head laid on his belly, looking down the length of his body at him, her hand stretched out to toy with his hair, like a cat with string.
He hummed an agreement, and shut his eyes again, "How long was I out for?"
"Two hours, mayhaps three."
He shifted his head when nodding proved too much an obvious strain, "Who won?"
She lifted her head from his body, and told him shortly, "Your uncle, not mine." The sound of trickling water tickled his ear, and he felt a familiar coolness fall on his forehead. Arianne's hand lingered on his face as she laid it on him, and Rickard opened his eyes to look at her. "Two close calls in one day."
His smile dropped, "You can't blame me for that."
Her head tilted, disapprovingly, "I don't, but that doesn't mean I have to like it."
"I know," he admitted, and grabbed her hand bringing it to his mouth where he kissed each finger in turn. "I change it about myself if I could. But things will be different now."
"Now that you have your knighthood?" She prompted, a whiff of scepticism on her breath.
"True enough, and," he rubbed a thumb and forefinger together, "plenty other things besides."
"Risking your life turned a profit at last then?"
"You would have had things done differently, if you were me?"
She did not seem to have an answer, and admitted as much, "I don't know, I only hope things will follow as you say."
"Give it a year," he told her, "when I'm properly of age, I'll take you South. I'll go to Sunspear and plead ourselves before your father. We'll wed, and he'll recognize you as his heir."
Arianne smiled at him, contented and they stayed like that, side by side. Until as voice from no where came to them, "May we enter?"
Rickard lifted his head and Arianne turned calling back to the voice, "Come in, Harrold."
As Harry Hardyng entered, Rickard grinned, "Found your fucking manners then?"
Harrold did not answer him, and it fell to Tyrek to speak for the two of them, "You're awake. How's the leg?" Rickard lifted his bandaged limb, noticing the stiffness in it that he could not bend. "Harry feared that you might lose it. Seemed to have the notion that someone had poisoned your knife."
"Well," he said glibly, wiggling his toes for them to see, "my foot hasn't gone black and dropped off yet."
"My fault, Rickard," Harry suddenly said, dropping to his knee in front of him, "Should have listened, watched your flank. 'Stead I went off like a damned fool for that Viper. Idiot," and Harry actually bunched up a fist and pounded it against his own skull.
"Seven Hells, Harry, stop," Rickard shouted as his friend did it again, "Ain't you to blame." Resigned he admitted, "Both those Dornishman got the better of me, I don't think even you would have made the difference. They were good. I only kept going as long as he did by playing by Flea Bottoms rules and even that wasn't enough."
"It would have been," Harry insisted, "if I had been there and fought like that too. Or yesterday, I could have brained that Daynes head in against my lance."
"Enough, Harry," he ordered, and his friend finally went quiet, "you didn't fail me today. You were with me to the end, even Robb and Tyrek here didn't stick it out that long. And I saw you scrabbling in the muck. Aye, hold your head up, lad."
He never expected to see Harry Hardyng cry, but by Gods if its only a single tear that escaped him before he sucked in his air and stood up, nodded, and stepped aside, as Tyrek placed an arm around his shoulder for a moment.
His cousin broke the silence before it had time to settle, "The King came by here before, after they finished binding the leg."
"Really?"
Arianne nodded, "He got irritated with the Maester for knocking you out with the milk of the poppy. Said he wanted to speak with you."
"Well," Rickard said, perplexed, "he's already had me knighted I should be so lucky that he makes me a lord on the same day."
"Said that he was proud of you, Rick," Tyrek announced.
That stunned him, more so than any blow struck that day. "Did he?" was all that he could manage.
He made it to the night's feast in the Red Keep under his own power. Many stood for him as he came into view, waiting until he passed, which proved to be a long affair as he moved, leg dragging behind him every time he limped forward. Others came to him after he sat down, shook his hand, and patted him on the back. His sister was among those that came to greet him.
"You were very brave today, Rickard. But it frightened me."
"Ah, sweetling," He said, and patted his good knee for her to take a seat, "Forgive me, won't you?
Dutifully, she kissed his cheek, and perched herself neatly on his knee. Despite events having their black edge that day, the feast was as fine a night as Rickard had for far too long. On the maester's advice, he stayed away from the strong drink, but that night he could have hardly needed it. He watched the King on the dais in a good humour, Robb brought his sisters and the Hand over to join them and Arya Stark proudly displayed the bruises she obtained with her dancing master. Such a beacon he was that night, that even Oberyn Martell joined them, with his paramour, the bastard, Ellaria Sand on his arm.
Rickard raised a cup to the man as he bowed to him, and they spoke earnestly, "I think I did not respect you as a swordsman until today, my Prince."
He smiled as the Dornishman confessed the same, "I had no idea that you were trained as a Braavosi water dancer. I saw those movements you fell into to keep me at bay. The straightening of the leg and bending at the knee. Not exactly the right sword for the manoeuvres but it was well done."
With regret, Rickard humbled himself, "I would not say trained. I have read books on the water dances, studied its practitioners at a distance. In truth I prefer fencing in that fashion to sparring with broadswords."
Harry interjected himself into the conversation, and so a debate went about the virtues about one sword against the other: Braavosi rapiers, Northern greatswords, Dothraki arakh, and the traditional broadsword. It prompts his uncle Jaime to join with them.
"Of course, the sword is one thing. But the man swinging it is the thing to make the real difference." He said, resting his head atop his fist when he sat, head lolling to one side.
"Easy for you to say, uncle," Rickard chided, leaning back, and noted, "Pity Uncle Tyrion isn't here. You'd have made him plenty wealthy today."
"So sure, nephew," Ser Jaime grinned, "Mayhap Tyrion would have laid his gold on your chances."
Rickard laughed and raised a hand, "My honour to this uncle, the day that Tyrion lose his faith in you is the day the Wall cracks."
Ser Jaime lets them enjoy the moment, before he delivered the message, "Your father wants to see you, Rickard."
Ah, he thought. So, it had not been a whim after all. "I shall go and see him then." Myrcella shifted off his good knee and Harry lent him an arm to sure himself on as he cumbersomely got to his feet. Tyrek attempted to his arm around, but Rickard backed him off. "I'm fine," he lied, and limped off.
The King was in the antechamber behind the Irone Throne, alone, but Ser Meryn Trant on the door, guarding. A brazier stood before the King in the corner, who waved his hand before the flames and rubbed them together. He had a table set aside, with two seats and a flagon resting untouched. His father turned to him as he entered, "Well, sit ye down, boy. Sit ye down. Will you have some wine?"
Rickard merely nodded, as the King pulled out one chair and then the other. Courteously enough, he waited till his son was seated before he sat himself. As he did so, Rickard heard the air cut through with the loudest fart he had heard in his life. It seemed to come as a relief to King Robert when it came, "Better. Better." He said, patting his belly, "Let the effusions out, Rickard. That's what the lump Pycelle tells me."
They sat there a moment, and Rickard could only think it was happening again, recalling the last time they had a conversation. But the King was different now, he wasn't mournful like before, now his good humour for the dais held. "So, knighthood?"
Rickard inclined his head, "I am grateful, Your Grace. Robb and I are honoured."
This seemed to please him, "Good, good." He nodded, vigorously, wheezing. "Watching you two out there, hehehe, reminded me of Ned and I when we were young. Me storming off ahead into trouble, him following after, and not always by choice." Rickard smiled at him indulgently as he continued, "It's good to see that carries on Stark and Baratheon, together like brothers."
"You chose Lord Eddard well for your Hand, Your Grace."
"Aye, Ned's a fine man. And Joff, your brother, he's to marry his Sansa."
Rickard nodded, shifting to look at the brazier, "Joffrey will be lucky to have her."
"And you don't envy him that- or her?" Rickard's gaze snapped back to his father and saw him leaning over the table to him, trying to study his face.
"No," he said slowly, "I'm sure they'll make a decent a match."
"Ned has another daughter, Arya." He stated it as though it were a suggestion and Rickard wondered what exactly this conversation was.
He thought and said: "Robb says she's fairly, erm, wild. For her age."
The King laughed, "My Lynanna was a wild thing." And his eyes turned to the fire, lost to time for a spell as he downed his wine.
"Your Lady Lyanna was a rare thing, Your Grace. Not in Westeros, over the Narrow Sea or in Valyria of old was there such a woman."
His father turned to him, and slowly nodded, "Aye, there is that. Only," he hesitated and groaned, "oh fuck this," and poured himself more win. "It's just that, well, Rickard. You are a knight now, and as well as a man grown. And" he gulped sloppily at the wine to fortify himself, "I know I've been a poor father to you," his eyes lingered on the hand Rickard held on the table and the finger he held on the table, as Rickard could only think on how Robert Baratheon had been a poor father to all four of his children
The King continued, "And I'd like to make up for it somehow if you wanted. Call it my gift for being knighted, or" he sighed, "penance if you want for things before."
"A gift?" He thought on the King's word, "Like Arya Stark?"
"If you wanted," the King agreed, nodding, "or Sansa if you preferred. I could talk to Joff and Ned, talk them into to it. Or-"
"No," Rickard cut him off. He knew what he wanted, knew who.