Tyrek
The tide began to ebb, and as such Tyrek followed Rickard to the docks to bid farewell to Robb Stark as he takes ship for White Harbour and home. It was only the two of them to see the Young Wolf off after he bid his family goodbye at the Red Keep. That morning, the Princess Arianne was taken ill, and Rickard worried not to leave her alone had tasked poor Harry to stay behind and keep her company. In spite of their protests, he would not be swayed, lest the Princess see a Maester, but she refused that too – so it was to her bed, and Harrold Hardyng to wait on hand and foot. Not such a bad lot in other circumstances, Tyrek thought.
Grey Wind the direwolf galloped ahead of them, sending passersby scrambling away from them in a panic as the smoke grey monster moved through the streets of King's Landing. Above them, flocks of gulls swooped and dive in the breeze, screaming all the while. A wharf cat eyed the beasts greedily as some of them came to earth and gathered to caw together, but the sudden appearance of Grey Wind lolloping through the birds had them and the feline scattered. They made good time as a result. It gave Robb time to coax his beast aboard the ship called Swifter.
As Robb came to the city of King's Landing alone, so he departed. And not just that, but a legend already. The men of King's Landing now called the eldest son of Eddard Stark the Young Wolf. Who brought down the Mountain that Rides, the Knight of Flowers, and others that stood before him of lesser pedigree in the lists. And all because Rickard sent him a raven that summoned him to the capital. This was the power that Rickard had within him: to make a man out of a mule. Not, Tyrek thought, that Robb Stark had been a mule. Any future Lord of Winterfell had a name to be made, but how many of them ever had a name before they sat that seat and was named Warden of the North? Even now Lord Eddard, as Hand of the King, was unknown to many of the commons, for all he had done for King Robert in winning him his throne. Yet Robb Stark stood above him in the opinion of the smallfolk, fierce, gallant, and red headed.
Tyrek watched Robb as they dismounted. When they all stood in the ground as equals, Stark's arm went to Rickard first, and they embraced like brothers. "I shall miss you, my friend." Confessed the Prince.
Watching as Robb Stark squeezed Rickard tighter at the words, Tyrek marvelled and reflected on King Robert's nostalgia for House Stark and how it carried down the generation. His mind turned back to those weeks they spent crossing the wastes, amidst summer snows, and appreciated that while King Robert was the crowned head of Seven Kingdoms, the North was as big as the other six put together. It was well that Ned Stark and Robert Baratheon had been ward to Jon Arryn, and young Baratheon betrothed to that maid of legend Lyanna Stark, lest the Targaryen's might still have ruled Westeros. If that were so, where would any of them be? Dead, like as not, Rickard and Robb unborn, their father's head mounted on pikes, with the Seven Kingdoms left to their ignorance, superstition, and fear of the mutated relics of the dragon lords of Old Valyria.
"It will be your turn to come to me," Robb said, shaking him out of his thoughts, as Rickard and he parted.
Rickard laughed; his face was indulgent. "You forget." A gloved hand held onto to Robb's neck, "I am to be married again, at years end. You shall come to Sunspear as witness, else I shall not forgive you."
Robb smiled, and without another word, the two hugged again. When they parted the second time, Robb was grinning, "I am glad that you and your lady have one another to keep."
"I only hope that you should be so lucky with your own choice of Lady when the time comes."
Tyrek dropped his head. He knew that Rickard already had a candidate for Robb in mind. It had been him that he had first said first to, 'So, Robb and Myrcella…' If it had been up to Rickard, those would have been the two to unite House Stark and Baratheon. He felt in his bones that Robb would make himself worthy of the Princess, while Joffrey would only degrade any woman brought to his marriage bed. It was only Rickard's delicacy toward Robb that made him think it. If Sansa Stark were of some lesser house, Rickard would have not given a fig in concern for her – but with Robb for a goodbrother, and Eddard Stark as a goodfather, surely it would only be in the Prince's interest for relations to be amicable between any match between Stark and Baratheon.
When Rickard and Robb finally summoned the strength to part, it was his turn to bid farewell. Tyrek took Robb by the arm and pulled him close. "I am glad you came, Stark."
"And I am glad to know House Lannister is not entirely worthless," Robb replied.
A laugh caught in Tyrek's throat, glad that someone else could see it. Though Tyrek knew that they were not as close in sentiment as they sounded. Nevertheless, maybe, he thought, that the Lannisters of the Rock might reconcile themselves to the rest of the Kingdom's yet. It's a trait within the Lannisters, to be their own worst enemy. Where in times past his grandsire, Lord Tytos Lannister, would flatter and seek to please and be loved by all, and now Lord Tywin Lannister suffered no meekness or mockery to him and broke all ingrates underneath him. Either way that you had it, there were those seeking to challenge, scorn or humble the Lannisters of the Rock.
Robb Stark might have agreed with such a sentiment, were not he and Rickard there to have showed him another path. That underneath the avarice and arrogance there were more to them. One man was much like any other, the difference between the two is artificial, men make themselves prejudiced – it is not something enshrined by any God, as Rickard once pointed out to him. We all go naked before the Father Above when the Stranger calls us, and he does call for us each in the end, and so too are we judged – Westerosi, Essosi; Andal, Rhoynar; Northman, Westermen – these distinctions do not mean a thing after the Gods call us to them.
The gangplank dropped, awaiting Robb to ascend with his faithful direwolf. Grey Wind sniffed suspiciously at the wood meant to bear him onto the galley, took a tentative step as he tested his weight on the planks before dashing quickly up and out of sight. With a final fond glance at them, Robb Stark ascended the ship and was out of sight.
They stayed there for an hour, watching as the Swifter's sails unfurled and blossomed in the wind and the oars began to dip to carry it away across Blackwater Bay to the East and away from King's Landing.
"It shall not be the same without him," Tyrek noted, as the gulls began to flock back to the dockside.
Rickard nodded, a sadness in his face hung for a moment. The Prince then sucked in a breath, and it was gone. "Little shall be the same from now on. Change is coming fast for us all."
He knew what that meant. There was an anxiousness in Rickard the past few days. His marriage to Princess Arianne had seemed to lift a burden from his shoulders, and he seemed the happier for it. They were no longer spending their nights held up in the Black Hart, and the doors of the Red Keep were open to them once again. But word of his marriage was still spreading, and one thing lingered on Rickard's mind more than anything – his grandfather, Lord Tywin. Had word reached him yet? And if it had, what response could be expected from that quarter? The shadow that hung over Rickard and the Princess had been the ire of Lord Tywin for their dalliance, but now that they were wed, and the match consummated (perhaps not strictly in that order) there was little the Lord of Casterly Rock could do now.
The gulf between the two still weighed on Rickard's mind, Tyrek knew. This matter had been the only time that he had defied and disappointed his grandsire. But perhaps now the way to a reconciliation had been opened for them. He had sat down with his cousin more than once with ink and paper to try and craft a letter to Lord Tywin, but each time the words failed to materialize on the page. After the last time had ended as frustratingly unproductive as the others, he had suggested to the Prince that he take his new bride West and meet with his grandsire, but the thought of the Old Lion's pride gave him pause: what if Lord Tywin snubbed her, refused to meet her, or even forbade her entry to the Rock? Where would that leave Rickard with his wife's honour besmirched? What could he do then? And how would his new Dornish relatives take the insult to one of their own?
Lazily, the two of them made there way back through the City to Red Keep. Tyrek tried recalling the last it had just been the two them like this: no Harry Hardyng; no Robb Stark; no Arianne Martell. Once it had been just them, when Rickard had first arrived at Casterly Rock, a small, shy Prince, it had just been them all the time. As the years went by other cousins came and went, but Tyrek had always been the constant with Rickard. So now he would go again South with him too when the time came. Part of that gave him pause, the idea of the only Lannister in Dorne, at Sunspear in the Viper's nest. It would take more than a single marriage to heal the wounds left during Robert's Rebellion. Even Princess Arianne might have come to tolerate him for Rickard's sake, and he in turn tolerate her, but that fragile goodwill would not stretch beyond the two of them.
They both turned down the narrow street of the Hook, at the foot of Aegon's High Hill, the Red Keep looming above them. A breeze in the air had his head flopping all around him, swatting him in the eyes as they rode, and the signs of the inns and taverns along the street creaked and slammed as the wind caught them. On the other side of the street, a couple of whores were leaning out of a window and whistled shrilly at them. Whooping, one flopped her breast out onto the sill and shook them, shouting for the Prince.
"Mother's mercy," Rick said, when Tyrek pointed it out to him, a hand of feigned modesty clutching at his heart. "It's Janos Slynt's wife."
Tyrek laughed, and they continued. The portcullis was open to them, and the guards on the drawbridge to Maegor's Holdfast stopped their drill to salute the Prince as he crossed over. Pages and grooms came forward for their horses, and Rickard untied his riding cloak and passed it to one of them to take away, before he began tugging off his gloves from his finger and wedged them in his belt. Tyrek gave the order for them to take the cloak to the Prince's new chambers. Things were still in motion for Rickard as to where he was to reside. Though he had spent past nights sleeping in his wife's chamber, they were not the kind to befit a Prince of the Realm, and his old room had been occupied by Lord Renly, though not wanting to put his uncle to any inconvenience, the Prince was having new rooms opened for him for him and his new wife to share. They were a steep climb to the top of Maegor's Holdfast and not yet ready for him. Tyrek had been there when the King's steward had showed them to Rickard and Arianne and noted how grim they were, having gone unused since the time of Aegon the Unlikely, and no one seemed sure which of his sons had used it then. He had rolled his eyes when Rickard drolly said that a willing heart and two hours with a broom were all that it required to satisfy him.
They came back to where they had started the day. The Princess's chambers. He and Rickard ambled along the corridor toward the room, chattering idly all the while. "Wilas Tyrell has written to me," Rickard said, his feet ringing on the stone floor. "Apparently Loras and Renly have a mind to bring Margaery to court."
He frowned, "Whatever for?" Lady Margaery Tyrell was the daughter of Lord Mace, of an age with him and Rickard and a fine beauty by any standard.
Rickard shrugged, "He didn't say, but knowing those two I can guess." His voice was sour and disapproving. "They'll bring her hear, parade her before the King and make her sell herself to him. Or Joffrey. Inch by inch for something: titles, honours, gold, Gods alone know."
While Rickard only shook his head as he placed his hand on the chamber door, he grinned, "She's not so tall, Margaery. The King can hardly bankrupt himself paying for her."
A snort of laughter betrayed his cousin and cut through the disapproval as he opened the door. He turned his head back to him, fighting a smile and mouth open to berate him, when something sharp glittered in front of him. Tyrek saw it and made to grab his cousin. Rickard must have saw something from the corner of his eye and jerked backwards to collide with him. Fumbling with his belt, Tyrek instinctively pulled the dagger on his hip and thrust it wildly over Rickard's shoulder into the doorway, his arm around Rickard, who clutched at him in surprise.
"Gods, Rick!" A familiar voice shouted at them. "Sorry."
It was Harry, a sword raised and pointed at them. Shocked at the appearance of him, Tyrek lowered his dagger. A makeshift bandage was wrapped around Harry's head, and red stain oozing from the side of it, while a purple welt had swelled above his eye below the stained bandage.
"Seven Hells, Harry," He said, his heart pounding in his chest, as the Valeman lowered his sword.
"Lord Beric," Rickard noticed, shaking him off and out of grasp. Tyrek had not noticed the Marcher Lord further in the room his own sword raised and poised to strike. "What in Gods' name is it?"
"Bad business, my Prince," the Lightning Lord sheathed his sword as he spoke, his face grim and Tyrek noticed he could not quite meet Rickard's face. "Your cousin Lancel was here, with the Darkstar in toe. They…" His face fell to the floor, "they had a riding crop with them." Tyrek didn't understand. He looked at Harry's face, half-pulped and bloodied, incomprehensible as to how a riding crop of all things could have done that to him. "I found Harry here on the floor outside," Dondarrion continued, his face coming back up from the floor slowly, "they almost knifed me on the way out when I came in." The elder man paused as Rickard rose himself up to his full height and squared up to him, his breath slow and heavy.
"She's alright, Rickard." Harry interrupted, jerking his thumb to the bedchamber door, and only then did Tyrek understand. The dawning came on him like a bile rising his bowels through his belly to his throat.
He'd never seen Rickard move so fast in his life, as he scrambled forward and flung the bedchamber door open. Tyrek exchanged brief, grim glances with the other two before he went after his cousin. All the curtain's had been drawn in the room, and he entered in darkness after the Prince. Even the hangings of the bed had been drawn to a close, and he found Rickard pulling one back and peering at the bed and occupant inside. Quietly, Tyrek tiptoed forward behind his cousin, starring after him.
The Princess had their back to them, folded over and curled up in herself, but she was not asleep from the humming resonating from her. Tyrek could not place the tune. Rickard slid onto the bed, and timidly reached out a hand to pull back the bedsheets. The fine silks and satins of her dress had been torn and shredded to ribbons, but that was the best she had of it. Across her back her olive skin was stripped by angry, vicious red marks that streaked across in every wicked direction, some so bad that they had cracked and split her flesh so that blood ran down her back.
"Ari," Rickard said, his voice trembling.
"They treated me like I was an animal." The Princess whispered, "But they could not make me do what they wanted."
Tyrek stepped backward at that, a hand on his mouth, as it dawned on him that in the realm of might-not-have-beens, perhaps this evil was not the worst that the Princess might have had to suffer through. He watched his cousin shrank and folded himself into the bed alongside his wife.
"Who?" he asked, the tremor still plaguing his words.
"You know who, Rickard." Her voice was too weary to be impatient with him.
Tyrek could have told him, Lord Beric had after all. But perhaps you might have told Rickard anything at that moment and its potency would be dulled to the point of irrelevance.
"I'll kill him," Rickard said, the shakiness in his voice was suddenly gone. Only determination remained. "I'll bury him in his own blood."
Princess Arianne had not moved a muscle, she remained entirely still with every word she spoke. "Do it."
He emerged from the bedchamber after Rickard. His cousin left without a word to anyone, just went out the bedchamber, through the other room and out into the Red Keep, a storm striding through the castle alone. Tyrek met the other who were just looking at one another, Harry at last sheathing his sword.
"We have to stop him," Lord Beric insisted urgently, moving toward the door after the Prince.
Tyrek checked the Lighting Lord in his stride. Slapped a hand to his chest, flatly, spun him sideways and left him stunned after his skull thudded dully against the wall. "You can't stop, Rickard." His voice was almost jovial to his own surprise as much as anyone else's, excitement rising at the thought of satisfaction being delivered. "You can walk away from him now, or you can stand beside him, my lord. But don't ever try and get in his way again."
They caught up with Rickard quickly, and in turn found Ser Gerrold in Queen's Ballroom. Tyrek was relived to find that Queen Cersei herself was absent, instead the room was filled with all kinds of men and others from the court. All drinking, and well into their cups. Men in Lannister livery were slumped over tables, and who should they have found in the middle of it all but Ser Gerrold Dayne, cousin Lancel looking apprehensive at his elbow.
When Darkstar noticed them, all approaching him, he looked Rickard up and down and said: "Oh, I was expecting you."
Rickard came to a halt in front of the Dornishman. Mute, he unpicked a glove from his belt dropped it wordlessly in front of his quarry. His cousin was radiating such tension, Tyrek feared that when he snapped his wroth would explode over everything in sight. He ran a hand through his hair and felt it sticking up awkwardly in places.
People began to notice the Prince then, and some rare genius ambled up to him, a tankard in each hand, offering it to Rickard, "A drink, my prince."
With torturous and deliberate slowness, Rickard raised a hand to clutch one of the tankards. He held it for a tremulous moment before launching the contents into Lancel's face. The beer splashed over his cousin's face, the locks of his golden hair darkening as it flowed over him, and droplets fell from on to his breeches and doublet as the brown stain flowered on his garments. A single murmur flooded the room as those around them realised what was happening before a silence gripped and they all simply stood and sat watching the scene unfolding before them, petrified with anticipation.
Cousin Lancel slowly opened his eyes with a slow lizard blink, as his face registered the situation and froze in the face of the leviathan looming above him. Still clutching at his own drink, Lancel looked sideways at no one as he timidly announced, "I don't fight duels." And put a hand to his face as if to hide himself from the shame of his answer.
Wordlessly, Rickard plucked the other tankard and flung its contents again, this time at Ser Gerrold. The knight was ready for to receive it, and the ale began to wash away, a smile stretched into a grin across his aquiline face. He stretched out a hand and snatched the Prince's glove from the floor, as he rose to his feet in front of Rickard and dabbed delicately with it at his face before proudly declaring, "I do." And with a crack, whipped the leather glove across Rickard's cheek.
But for the snap of his head to the side as he received the blow, Rickard moved not an inch. "One hour," he said, his voice black with rage, "swords only."
Dayne's violet eyes narrowed, and the sinister grin never faded. "What about shields?"
"Use whatever you like to conceal you pissing yourself."
"Not to first blood then?"
Rickard's hand flew up and grabbed the Dornishman by his collar, "I'll kill you, you stinking little cocksucker: here and now if anymore words come pouring out that cunt mouth of yours." He released Dayne by flinging him back against the table.
Darkstar collided with it, latching onto the edge to keep him up right. His eyes narrowed, and smile changed from pure mirth to pure loathing, "Real fights always between you and being called a cunt, eh Black Hart."
"But you've always acted like a cunt, Darkstar. And when ever your mouth moves it always looks like a cunt talking back at me."
"And you always run your own filibustering cunt mouth back at me. And I will take it to kill you."
"Won't shut up!" Tyrek exploded, turning to Harry Hardyng, who startled, looked at him queer. He couldn't bear it anymore, the slick grin, the pretence, and the vanity smothering his questionably bold words – he had enough of the Dornishman up to his back teeth. "Every bully I ever met," he said to Harry, "never learned shut their fucking mouth…" Silence once more descended on the room, and as he became conscious of all the eyes in the room now on him, he turned to the Darkstar, "Except when they're afraid." The grin guttered out.
"What you assume is cowardice, Lannister, is in fact fixation with other matters. The Prince and I are having a conversation you are not privy to."
They met on the drawbridge in front of Maegor's Holdfast, its dry moat and the iron tipped spikes below them. When they left the Queen's ballroom, they had followed Rickard back to the apartment, where the Princess remained. He dispatched Harry into the city, to fetch his Maester-to-be, the Summer Islander, Alleras; while he and Lord Beric fetched the Prince's arms and armour, dispersed at they were between the Black Tavern, his new chambers, and the Royal Armoury. When they returned, Harry had beaten them back, and he was sat with Rickard, the chamber door closed to them, as Princess had her back tended to. Once he and Lord Beric entered, a band of servants helping them to carry what the Prince had sent for, Rickard rose, and they immediately began to seal him into his steel cocoon.
As they fastened the buckles on the breastplate, Harry Hardyng peeled off a second. Returning, Tyrek fixed him with a puzzled expression, "My bow?"
Hardyng nodded, holding up the yew shaft for him to recognize, and turned to Rickard, "If things turn sour, Rick, you drop flat." He pointed at him with the tip of the bow, "Tyrek can plug him an arrow, and if needs be I'll come in and knife the bastard."
At the words, Rickard's blue eyes flashed like the crack of white lightning. He snatched the bow from Harry and flung it away in disgust, "Either of you do anything, and I'll cut your fucking throats besides his!" The Prince turned away from them and fumbled with the buckles of his armour. The Dornishman would have the advantage in the armour: scratched and dented from the melee at the Hand's tourney, Rickard had yet to fit himself with a replacement, and it was still too small and ill-fitting in places. There were gaps for the Dornishman to at the joints, joints that he would have taken note of the last time that they clashed. To compensate, Rickard had put chainmail underneath the leather padding and steel, but a well-placed cut with enough for would chip that apart. "Things turn sour, and I die, you're free to do as you like then. But so long as there's breath in me you don't touch a hair on him. I'll murder this bastard or die in the attempt. Son of a bitch came here to kill me, but he hasn't the guts to call me out. And won't see me gut stabbed in an alley in Flea Bottom, because he wants to make a name out of it." The Prince was pacing as his steel shod hands fumbled alone with his armour, "And don't I now yearn for them days now behind us. When a drawn blade across the throat made final restitution." He shook his head, an embittered laugh in his voice, "fine, I'll play him at his own game. But going after my fucking wife. Godsdamn Arianne," As his frustration peaked with his armour, Rickard drove his fist into the wall, "I'm gonna end his fucking life."
They said not another word until they were on the drawbridge awaiting Darkstar's arrival. A crowd gathered on either side of the moat and on the battlements above. No one seemed prepared to stop them, they were too excited to see blood run on the floor. It was getting on when Harry finally chose to spoke, "Maybe he'll prove craven."
Small chance of that, Harry, he thought before Rickard responded, "If he doesn't, I'll drag him out of whatever hole he's hiding in and beat his head against the cobbles until I've knocked the Mother's mercy into it."
"And say he's already ridden out? Back to High Hermitage?" Harry pondered.
"Then he's just delaying things. You think the Red Viper will sit idle when the news reaches him? I'll have Lord Beric summon the Marcher Lords, and while Prince Oberyn calls the spears of Dorne, we'll lay waste to that hovel and burn him out. But not before I rip his life apart. Landed knight like him'll have debts. How many bankers across the Narrow Sea would like me to owe them a favour by calling his debts in. There's no border fortress in the world that can protect you from the click of a Bravosi abacus or promissory note of Pentos."
That would be a satisfying sight to be consider. Tyrek contemplated it, Ser Gerrold Dayne stripped of all lands and titles and incomes. Penniless, residing in some mountain hovel, dressed in homespun cloth, a rabbit slung over his should for the pot. Perhaps they should inflict this punishment on Cousin Lancel for his part in this. It would be easier on Uncle Kevan, than having Rickard dragging him out from behind Queen Cersei's skirts to hack his bollocks off.
At last, Darkstar appeared, armed and armoured, his helm under his arm, the skin on his face the usual pale colour, mirth still glimmering in his lavender coloured eyes. Wordlessly, he placed a foot on the drawbridge, placed the helm over his face and drew his sword. Tyrek offered Rickard his own helmet, but the prince shook his head and gestured Harrold to come forward. Harry raised the Prince's greatsword, hilt first, and he pulled it loose from the scabbard with both hand. It was a broad bladed claymore, only a foot shorter than Rickard, the crossguard sloping forward towards the blade. The blade was not the only lethal part to it as the wheel of the pommel crowned with a spiked stud. It was not Rickard's usual choice of blade, but he kept a broadsword and dagger on his belt either way, and there was always the knife at his back.
As Rickard stepped onto the drawbridge himself, Darkstar raised his guard and stepped forward. They moved tentatively at first, Rickard standing tall with greatsword raised above his head, Darkstar crouched low, diamond shaped shield up with sword behind it. There were a few feet between them when Rickard went straight into it. He lowered the sword, let go his left hand, snatched the dagger at his waist and hurled it blade first at Ser Gerrold's head. The knight flinched back, raising his shield in time for the dagger to ping off it harmlessly. He began lowering it beneath his vision, just in time to see Rickard's claymore coming arching down on top of him.
The two-handed blow came right from behind Rickard, all his strength behind the swing. Darkstar raised the shield once again, only for the blade to come crashing through the iron band and wooden planking all the way up to his arm. He tried wrenching the shield free of the blade, but it was stuck until the Prince grasped it with both hands and yanked it, splintering the wood, one of the planks snapping and hanging limply by a thread. Free, the Dornishman backed away and Rickard let him dropping the point of the sword to the floor, both hands on the pommel
"Sure that you won't need that dagger?" Asked Ser Gerrold.
Rickard kicked the blade of his greatsword and brought it back into his stance, pointed straight at his foe. "Come closer and judge for yourself."
Dayne lurched forward, his wicked falchion swinging left for Rickard, who caught the blow, and grabbing the blade of his greatsword in his mail fist turned it over. Darkstar moved left and pulled away. They were both facing it each other along the edge of the drawbridge, nothing behind or beneath either of them, but a deadly fall into the spiked pit below. Rickard swung wide with the greatsword, hoping to unbalance the Dornishman, but wise to the precarious position behind him if he lost his balance, caught the blow on his shield, and flung himself sideways to the centre of the drawbridge. Rickard rotated his greatsword and brought it back above his head, bulling forward as he brought it down again. Ser Gerrold was on the floor, and raised his sword, catching the blow as it fell.
Once caught, the Dornishman checked the blow, lashing out with both legs, the first knocking the greatsword to one side, the second landing on Rickard's hand, which released the blade, sending the claymore spinning to one side and out of his reach. Tyrek watched while Rickard fumbled to draw his broadsword from its scabbard, as Ser Gerrold scrambled to his feet and towards their end of the bridge. Rickard came after, his broadsword drawn, as Dayne flung aside the ruined shield to face him. The air rang with the sound steel singing against steel. Broadsword flashed, and falchion slashed in reply. Rickard bulled forward, while Gerrold danced away. They came quick toward them, so that Tyrek had to push away the onlookers trying to crowd in, less some get slit open by a stray glance of the sword. He stuck his elbows and shoulder into fellow squires and city watchman to get them out of the way, and he swore that he heard a woman's scream drown out as the crowd finally began to flee, and people were trampled under foot to get out of reach.
By the time that Rickard had drove Ser Gerrold back off the drawbridge and into the courtyard of Maegor's holdfast, people were running in panic in every direction, and the two combatants entered it deserted. Tyrek watched with furrowed brow, as Harry whooped and hollered.
"Go on, Rick, stick the fucking boot in! You've got him running!"
He was not so sure. This was not the same Darkstar that he had seen Rickard fight before. That one didn't give an inch, didn't lead you on and trade ground for space – he would meet you head on, blow for blow. Did he mean to tire out Rickard with the merry dance? Or frustrate him with the lack of chances to close the distance, wait for him to get sloppy with his rage? Would Rickard realise if he were getting sloppy, or notice as his sword grew heavy in his hands as the fight drew out?
They were in the middle of the courtyard, as they began to slow, Tyrek began to see. Rickard's strikes were not coming so fast as they had, and Darkstar made to counters to them anymore. It came to it that Rickard stopped entirely, and just stood watching.
"What's he doing?" Harry demanded, pulling at his hair with his hand in frustration.
Tyrek had no answer and could only look on as the two now came to a stand still and started to circle one another. As Rickard stopped and raised his sword above his head again, he paused and held it there as the Dornishman mirrored his movement. The Prince stepped backward at the sight, and then so too did Ser Gerrold.
"The bastards mimicking him," Tyrek realised.
"Mocking him, you mean," A voice said from behind him. He turned and saw his cousin Ser Jaime approaching, the white cloak of the Kingsguard trailing behind him.
"What are you doing here?" He asked, putting his body in front of the white knight to block his view. Of course he had an idea, but he wouldn't let him interfere.
Ser Jaime merely glanced down at him as though he were an insect. "If anyone asks you, I came to stop this madness." He stopped and looked over the top of him at the Black Hart and the Darkstar doing their dance. "But this is best left to sort itself out." He shook his head, "I thought you could be counted on to prevent something like this, coz."
Tyrek glowered at him, "The Darkstar attacked the Princess, cousin. His wife. Even if I wanted to stop Rick, what was I to do?" From the way that Ser Jaime glanced at him and then back at Rickard, he suspected that even if Ser Jaime had been there himself, he would have been had pressed to stop Rickard throwing his glove at Ser Gerrold's feet.
"He's toying with him," Ser Jaime noted, as they watched Rickard and Dayne each copy the other as they moved into a different stance.
"Who?" Harry asked, but before he could reply, Rickard lunged forward, his sword above his head once more and swinging down. Ser Gerrold lunged forward into the cut, the swords clashed, and they passed each other. Rickard tried to swing down and behind to catch the Dornishman on the leg as they went after the steel clashed, but his falchion was there to check the cut. They faced one another again, and Rickard dropped low, sword poised in front of him.
"He's baiting him," Ser Jaime said, frowning, sounding disappointed.
"Rickard's bored of running after him." Tyrek insisted, "Can you blame him?"
"But he'd be a fool to take it." Pointed out Harry.
But Harry had the wrong of it. Darkstar stepped forward, Rickard thrust at him. Tyrek would not have believed it had he not seen it with his own eyes: as Ser Gerrold stepped into the thrust and slammed his arm over the blade, trapping it in his arm pit, before his falchion whirled. Rickard released his sword and shied away from the slash, now unarmed. Harry cried out, and Tyrek too felt the panic boiling up inside him, until he saw the grin on Rickard's face and heard Ser Jaime mutter, "Clever boy, Rick."
As Ser Gerrold stood satisfied with having relieved the Prince of his weapon, he was unprepared for Rickard to rush him. He put his shoulder into Dayne's waist, and grabbed him, lifting high. When Rickard dumped the winded knight on the floor, both of their swords abandoned on the floor, he brought his mailed fist down on his opponent's face again and again and again. The knight tried to swat at Rickard under this barrage, but it was fruitless as he couldn't see the blows falling between the slit of his visor and the pounding metal. Rickard only stopped to wrench at the visor, and demanded, "Show me your face, coward."
Darkstar's silver hair spilled onto the floor as Rickard relieved him of his helmet and slammed it back down onto his face, leaving him split lipped and bent nosed. His face was pulped, and Tyrek cringed as he spat teeth out onto his breastplate. Rickard left him there as he went to retrieve his sword.
"Gutter bastard," spluttered the Dornishman, as he rubbed at his mashed in face.
Rickard laughed, as he bent to pick up his sword. "That's me. Now," he gave a mock swing with the blade as he turned back to Darkstar, "Before I send you to burn forever in the Seven Hells, you'll tell me who sent you after Arianne?"
It was Dakrstars turn to laugh. Watching the now blood dripping grin creep over Gerrold's face again sent a sickness straight to Tyrek's stomach. "That fucking harlot," he reflected, "what makes you think I didn't do this on my own?"
Rickard stalked forward as Darkstar came to kneel in front of him, "Because you're smart enough to fear the Red Viper's retribution. He wouldn't give a devil's fart for attacking me, but Arianne, my fucking wife," the sword flexed as his grip tightened on it, "you wouldn't make a move on her without covering your back. Now who? Joffrey?"
Ser Gerrold dipped his head, then raised it, silver hair covering his eyes as he shook it, "And what incentive can you offer?"
Rickard's face drew back in a snarl, "You'll die quick, or you'll die screaming."
"This has become a farce," Ser Jaime said, and stepped forward.
Tyrek grabbed him by the shoulder, "No you don't." Harry stepped in front of the white knight, blocking him going any further forward. His cousin looked at them both holding him back and rolled his eyes.
"Rickard!" He shouted, "enough of this!"
Rickard rounded on him, his sword raised, "By Gods, I'll fillet you next, uncle!" He roared.
Tyrek saw the shift of silver hair, "Rickard! Behind!" He warned, and his cousin whirled back to the Dornishman. His fist landed on his shoulder, still he could not explain Rickard's howl of pain, as he sagged under the blow and grabbed at the fist with his spare hand. Not until the fist pulled back, and he realised the sight of the hidden blade, wet with Rickard's blood peaking out over his fist. It had it right gap in Rickard's armour, where the breastplate and pauldrons didn't quite meet. Tyrek released Ser Jaime as he comprehended what was happening. When Darkstar punched Rickard with the hidden blade again in the stomach he shouted, and he moved forward on instinctively, shouting, "NO!"
"No!" Someone else said to him, and he realised that now Harry Hardyng was holding him back now. He didn't put up much of a fight, as he felt his insides go to water as the hidden blade pierced his cousin's belly.
Rickard grabbed onto the fist with a hand as it punctured him a second time and held it there as his body began to crumple. His other hand seized Ser Gerrold by the shoulder but seemed to be there to try and hold Rickard up more than anything else. Rickard staggered forward, his weight falling on the Dornishman, who backed away keeping a hand on the Prince, as his fist twisted and wrenched the blade inside the belly.
He could hear a strangled cry from Rickard as Darkstar pulled him on. At one point, Rickard's grip on the bladed fist slipped and Gerrold pulled it free and tried to drive it back into him before Rick caught it again and they struggled the blade twitching as blood ran down Rickard's front, leaving a trail behind them as they stumbled onward still, before coming to a halt as the Dornishman backed into the blood red walls of Maegor's Holdfast.
When they came to a halt, the fight seemed to go out of Rickard then. His hands both released Darkstar, and dropped to his side, the blade driving back into his gut. Tyrek was on his knees, his mouth open, as he Rickard flung his arms around the Darkstar a final time, grabbing his head and drawing him close, and Tyrek thought for one incredible second that the Prince was about to kiss the man as he murdered him, before his arms flung the Dornishman's head back. There was a thud, as the skull smacked against the stonework, and Darkstar paused, dazed, before Rickard grabbed his head again and flung it back against the stone. The third time, Darkstar began to realise and started clawing at Rickard, trying to get away, the hidden blade sprouting from his knuckle seemingly forgotten. The fifth time, Tyrek could see the darker, wetter, redder stain blossoming on the Red Keep's wall. Tyrek lost count when Darkstark stopped moving and slumped to the floor, a trail of gore following his body as Rickard dropped his skull to cobbles beneath and kept on pounding it against the floor beneath.
By the time Rickard stopped, there were flecks of brain and skull spattered all around him and his face, blood splashed up to his elbows. He stopped there a while, and hunched over the corpse of Ser Gerrold Dayne, each breath heavy as it came. Harry had let go of him by then, and he took a tentative step forward toward his cousin on the ground. He stopped when Rickard raised his head with a sigh, looking around at them all. The Prince struggled to his feet, a hand holding on to his middle, where the blood spilled over his steel shod fingers.
Once Rickard was on his feet, Tyrek took another step forward and he felt Harry and Ser Jaime behind him just as tentative, but a raised hand from the Prince checked his advance.
"First one of you that touches me, I'll kill." He said, and Tyrek only now ridiculously realised the pain he must have been in, with each word a struggle as he shuffled forward.
All that Rickard allow was for them to follow him. They followed him into the Red Keep, up steps and stairs, and down corridors. Tyrek knew where they were going long before they arrived at Princess Arianne's chambers again. Each step was an agony to watch, and he could scarcely begin to imagine what each new movement was spasming through Rickard as they went. At least, the Acolyte Alleras was still waiting for them when they got there, and immediately dispatched Ser Beric for more bandages and fresh water and Grand Maester Pycelle.
Tyrek watched as Rickard finally collapsed to his knees as he opened the door to the Princess' chamber. His face still flecked with the horror, his skin the colour of parchment. "Ari," he called into the room weakly, "It's done."
"Good."