Rickard

"Gods dammit!" He shouted, as the needle nipped at his flesh again.

"Oh," Grand Maester Pycelle crowed, "Apologies, my Prince." His wrinkled hands stilled, the needle and thread still in hand, "Are you sure you will not allow anything else for the pain?"

Rickard grabbed at the goblet across the table from with and downed the wine. "Just fucking get on with it, Pycelle." He snapped, "Knowing, I'd appreciate less enthusiasm."

The old man resumed his work, restitching the wound on his belly. The needlework had torn open again that morning and he began bleeding from the wound once more. He'd gotten used to it by now, as the stitches tore themselves at least once a day for three since he'd taken the wound. It would scar badly either way, but it had looked worse at the time than it had been, the round hole twisted open by the Darkstar's hidden blade. When the Maester's had all crowded into the bedchamber around him, they had feared the worst just by looking at the hole, but after they had forced onion broth down his throat and agreed there was no smell of it at the wound, Pycelle had confirmed that his stomach and guts had been unpunctured. After that, it had been a simple job to clean him up with boiling wine and sew him shut.

All the while he'd been in agony, and they'd only dopped him up with milk-of-the-poppy when it came to the cleaning. Still, it had been worth it all, to see the bastard on the floor, mashed up eyes looking up at him, the contents of his skull splattered across the stone. He'd kept his word, and murdered him, his head battered in – Ser Gerrold Dayne of High Hermitage, ground up to paste and powder underneath him, the Darkstar was just meat, gristle, and bone in a wooden box now. It had felt good at the time, it felt a relief afterward, but on the night he had wept. He'd wept for Arianne, as they held one another, and said not a word to one another about the ordeal.

"Best we walk through this alone," he had warned Tyrek, the next day, unable to suffer a word on the subject.

No thought requested was equal to one freely voiced. He would talk with Arianne when he was ready, and she him. In the meantime, it was still with him – not that he regretted it, but there was something that weighed on him. As if the hand of the Stranger was on his shoulder, or like the scales of judgement had tipped against him. He had killed men before and slept justly afterward. Cut throats, knifed them, beaten them to. But it had never been a fair contest – never an even match, he'd always avoided it. Dayne had been better than him in truth, it was a gamble that had let him put Ser Gerrold flat on his back, but even then, he'd refused to submit to his fate. The hidden blade had cut into him, desperate, clawing, almost winning. Almost. And then he'd beat his head against the wall, looked at him, shared his gaze as the light flickered out. He had made the Darkstar pay for what he had done. But that had not been enough, and he piled on the knight's skull the summit of all the rage and pain and grief with in him. He would have torn and ripped the mocking, glittering silver hair, but that it had all turned scarlet from the blood and finally he'd stopped and knelt there amidst the gore. It was the light that got him, weighed on him.

That, and the would-haves and the mayhaps of Arianne. What if Lord Beric had been too late in stumbling on Darkstar? What if Arianne hadn't held them off? What if they had forced her? What if they had? What if? What if? It had been too much, was still too much. His face twisted, spike of pain shot through his belly and his blood was on fire at the thought of her defiled. The first time he had torn his stitches, he had been about to strike Alleras a mortal blow trying to confirm if she had been raped. He'd felt them pulling his skin apart, and the blood blooming as rushed out of him, but he'd not relented till he had forced the answer out of the Summer Islander and been sure that it was the truth. But still the thought of it tormented him.

There was the rest of his retribution to be had. Darkstar was dealt with, but there was still the one who had backed his play. He had not managed to wrangle that information out of him, after he had battered him to death. Lancel had to be dealt with too. His involvement came as a surprise, but perhaps it was an indicator as to the crime's architect.

Rickard reached across the table and poured himself more wine for the pain before he spoke, "Pycelle, are you reliable?" The maester's spotted hands stilled at his work, and his face rose to look at him.

"My Prince?"

"Can I count on you to keep a conversation between ourselves?"

The old man gave him the whisp of a smile, "I am sworn to serve the Crown, my prince. King Robert is my only master, and I serve the Royal Family to the best of my ability. Yourself included."

Rickard noted that was not an answer. "Can you account for any connection between the man who stabbed me and anyone else here at court?"

"My Prince?"

He took a swallow of wine and looked at the Maester. "You're a knowledgeable man, Pycelle. I'm asking what you know about Darkstar and who was cavorting with in his time here." Pycelle bristled for a moment and went back to his needlework, not daring to look up at him. "I recall, during the Hand's tourney, he was introduced to my brother…"

A sigh interrupted him.

"Prince Rickard, I delivered you from your mother's womb into this world. And I watched with sorrow over the years as you crossed paths with Prince Joffrey time and again. Brothers of such strong will, it almost seems fated that you quarrel. Children being…" he paused and considered, "being so… callous in their youth… when grown I have seen it lead them to apply malice to experiences in childhood when there was only negligence in thought behind them. Consider, if you would your uncle, Lord Stannis, and his peevishness when it comes to supposed slights by King Robert against him," He snipped the thread of the stitch and picked up a cloth to wipe the blood off his hands. "I do not believe that Prince Joffrey would ever mean to inflict such harm on you, my Prince, nor your good lady wife. You have until recently been somewhat unfortunate as events have turned against you. As such I can see how it may behove you to see an author behind something that is purely incidental."

Narrowing his eyes at the elderly Maester, Rickard allowed himself another gulp of wine, "You're implying that Ser Gerrold acted alone when he attacked my wife."

Pycelle demurred a little, "Saving the good princess, the Dornish are notably hot-blooded. And were rumours of a 'connection' between Ser Gerrold and the Princess."

Rickard clenched his fist at that. "Are you suggesting my wife brought this on herself?"

Those pale, milky eyes flew open at his words, and Pycelle bowed deeply, "Gods above, my prince," his voice was quavering, "n-no, I would never think that-"

He held up a swift hand to stop the wittering. "Enough."

"Forgive me, Prince Rickard," he bowed again. "If you will excuse me, I have other duties…"

"Go." And the old man left him in silence.

When he was gone, Rickard snatched the flagon off the table and hurled it at the fire, where it clanged and settled in the ashes. He had known that the old man would tell him what he wouldn't want to hear, and part of him hated to hear it. But maybe there was the chance that he had the measure of it. Was he holding Joffrey responsible because that made it easy? And if it had been Joffrey, where was Sandor Clegane to be found in this? The Hound was his brother's favourite pet and would have surely done his bidding. But if not Joffrey then who?

He rose to his feet and pulled his black doublet black over his head. Each movement was greeted by a stab of pain in his middle and part of him rued the necessity. Once dressed he turned and entered the bedchamber. Arianne is laid in bed, propped up on cushions and pillows, needlework in her lap. He slides onto the bed to lay beside her, careful not to strain his wound, and watches the click and clack of the needles.

"How was it?" she asked, without lifting her eyes from her work.

"More of the same," he replied, rubbing at his side.

"I heard you throw something. What did he say?"

"Mmm," he hummed, his only answer at that time, but she gave him a look that he refused to meet before relenting. "He seemed to suggest that I'm looking at shadows to see who was behind… what happened." He can't be more specific than that."

"Hmmm", she said, fingers stopped stitching a moment. Only a moment, but it was long enough for him to sense the mood drop. "He…" she pauses, considered, "may not be wrong," she conceded.

Rickard starred ahead, "Are you sure of that?"

She looked at him again. It was the face she made when she meant him to know he was begin condescended. "I'm sure of nothing in King's Landing, Rickard. And I was less sure of anything when it came to Gerrold Dayne."

"You knew he had something up his sleeve." He pointed out, recalling the conversation she'd had told him of with Lord Varys.

When she stopped her needlework this time, she set it aside. "Had I the faintest notion of what he had planned, if indeed it was planned, then what would you have done? Would you have cut his throat on a mere notion?"

She knew him to well, he reflected. He wanted to say yes, but in truth, regardless of how dark the suspicion she would have laid before him, he would have just roared, and cursed and sworn black, bloody murder on Gerrold Dayne, but his knife would have laid idle besides.

"Perhaps that's a weakness," he wondered aloud.

Her hand cupped his face, and he looked at her, face saddened at what he'd said. "You're not a weak man, Rickard. You are strong, courageous, and cunning when you want to be. You're also a good man, and my husband." Her face grew a smile, cat like, "and with my help you'll be a great man."

He smiled back at her, touched her hand with his, "I love you."

They leant to kiss, when his ears pricked at the sound of the door behind them opening. He turned his head slightly to shout, "Go away!"

"Is that anyway to speak to your King?"

His head snapped to the door, and saw the enormity of his father, Robert Baratheon, standing in the doorway looking unimpressed. He wore a black velvet doublet with the crowned stag of Baratheon worked upon the breast in golden thread, and a golden mantle with a cloak of black and gold squares. Both he and Arianne moved to rise from the bed, but his father is already moving across the room to his wife. He kissed her on both cheeks, the perfect fatherly gesture to his new daughter-in-law, and urged her back to recline on the bed.

"Sit, child," he told her, "and don't argue."

Rickard, nevertheless, did climb to his feet, and managed a proper bow to his sovereign. "I hadn't expected you, father."

"I need to send word to see my son?" Rickard doesn't have anything to reply to that, and the King fills the silence that he leaves after him, "How are you both healing?"

It was the second time that his father had been to see him since his duel with Darkstar. The first time had been brusquer than this. There had been an attempt, led by his mother, to chastise him for rushing into a duel and for calling out Cousin Lancel. According to her, it was beneath his dignity to be tossing his gauntlet down at a man for a minor slight, and other bullshit about requiring a sovereign's permission to duel at court. When his father had tried to lamely join in this rebuke, Rickard had whirled on him and said: "I don't recall hearing you ask Jon Arryn's leave to avenge Lady Lyanna!" The King had gone quiet at that, and for a minute Rickard had sworn that his Father might strike him, but instead he had laid a hand on his shoulder – it was the first time that Rickard thought that someone understood. Not that it lasted long, for someone pointed out he had started bleeding, and the discussion had not been reopened since then.

Rickard reached out and grasped Arianne's hand from across the bed. "We're both fine, Your Grace." He said, shortly.

"We are grateful for you to come check on us," Arianne added.

"Good, good," the King said, smiling indulgently at her. He then turned toward his son, "I have ordered the Small Council to meet. Can we speak alone?"

Rickard squeezed, Arianne's hand in his, "You can speak freely in front of my wife." He looked at her. "There are no secrets between us." The King frowned at that, looking between them.

"Rickard," Arianne began, "You don't have to…" but the King interrupted her.

"No, no. It's… fine." King Robert did not seem so sure. "Only it is Council business, and well… I thought you might sit in." Rickard frowned as his father continued. "There is a spare seat since Stannis has retired to Dragonstone. And I thought you might sit in his stead. As Master of Ships."

Rickard released Arianne's hand and dropped onto the bed stunned. Master of Ships? All he could think to say was, "I get seasick." He recovered himself quickly when he felt the frown on his father's face deepen. "Forgive me, Your Grace. I am honoured. But," he looked at Arianne, her face blank as a canvass, "I cannot accept."

A frustrated smile, peaked on the corner of his father's mouth, "Ned couldn't refuse his seat on the Council." Neither can you, was the unspoken words. If my friend Ned Stark cannot say no to me, how can my own son? "It wasn't so long ago you were begging to sit on my council. Writing charters and signing petitions."

All that felt like a generation ago now, the world seemed to have shift out of all recognition since then. Rickard thought and considered as he slowly spoke, "I wouldn't presume… I wouldn't want to unseat my uncle. He would be better suited to it. Is better suited." Whenever he dared to imagine himself on the King's council, it had never been in his uncle Stannis' place. Renly's perhaps, but never Stannis'. If anyone on his Father's small council had earned their seat, then it was his Uncle Stannis: who had held Storm's End against all comers during the Rebellion; after the siege had been lifted, he had then built a fleet and taken the Targaryen stronghold on Dragonstone; in Greyjoy's rebellion, he had smashed the Ironfleet at Fair Isle, the taken Great Wyk in the name of the King; and since then had ruled second only to Jon Arryn in the Seven Kingdoms. Not mention, Stannis had retired to Dragonstone in some foolish notion of solidarity with him. What kind of message did that send to him, if Rickard paid him back by supplanting him?

"If Stannis bothers to come back for his seat in the Council, then you can step aside for him if you wish," his father said, dismissing the notion of his brother, "until then, his seat is yours. If you want it."

Of course he wanted it. He had been trained for it. Those years at Casterly Rock he had spent under his grandfather had been in preparation for it, always the Old Lion telling him that 'one day, Rickard, you shall sit on the Small Council and advise the King and his Hand.' Of course, the King in question then had been his brother, Joff, and the Hand was Tywin himself, and whoever came after. But still the opportunity was here.

"I have business in the city," he explained, "and besides, I'm not long for King's Landing, remember? Before years end, we're both departing for Dorne and Sunspear." He looked to Arianne, trying not to plea with his eyes so obviously.

"Before years end," the King agreed, before saying, "that is months away."

"May I ask, Your Grace," Arianne interjected politely, "What business has come up that so urgently requires Rickard's council?"

His Father's face soured at that, as though he had hoped not to divulge this information. But he told them all the same, "News from across the Narrow Sea. Lord Varys has word from his spies that Daenerys Targaryen wed a Dothraki Khal." This was old news, Rickard thought, and could tell the King was holding something back. "It now seems that the dragon is spawning."

"Ah." Was all that Arianne said, and Rickard frowned. It seemed almost trivial to him. An exiled Princess, who had never so far as he knew even stepped foot on Westerosi soil, now happened to be having a child by a savage warlord half the world away.

"And?" he asked, and grimaced as his father looked at him as though he were a fool and now regretted asking him to sit on the Council.

"If this girl whelps, her dragonspawn will be the heir to a Dothraki horde. One hundred thousand riders."

"And this girl's whelp has an uncle I recall. The Beggar King sold his sister to the Horse Lord for the promise of a throne. You really expect the Dothraki to honour it, now he has what he wants from his new bride? I'd look to Viserys for trouble before I ever considered his sister and any savage child she manages to breed for this Khal of hers."

"Then I'll have all three dead!" His father's voice was on the verge of raising.

Rickard tried to guard his tongue as he spoke. "It… might be a wise precaution." He decided to move things towards the thing that really mattered and rose from the bed. "Father, if you have need of my advice, you can have it. Freely. Without a council seat. You want it now, wait for Viserys Targaryen's plan to blow up in his face. Wait for him to toddle off back to Pentos after this Dothraki sends him packing emptyhanded, then ask the magisters to make him a gift for you and lop his head off at your leisure. In the meantime, put it out of your mind and send to Dragonstone for my uncle to retake his seat." He could see that this advice was not what his father wanted to hear, but he pressed on anyway, "If you still want me to sit at your council table, send word to me at Sunspear a year from now, and I will be happy to serve at your pleasure."

His father turned with a sneer, "Yes, Rickard, I'll do that." He sounded as though he regretted making him any offer to begin with. Rickard was not surprised, in truth, and watched his father walk out without much disappointment.

"I thought you would accept the offer," Arianne said when he sat back on the bed beside her.

"Do you wish that I had?" He asked, unsure of what exactly she felt toward this.

"I don't know. I'm not sure what to think of this," she shrugged, "He expected you to share his feelings about the exiles." She was watching him with curiosity.

"I agree with him that the world would be better off without the Beggar King and his sister trudging around Essos, cap in hand." He conceded, "But really, chances are in year or two this Khal will bore of his trophy wife, brain her skull in and the Beggar King will be worse off for his gamble. And if Daenerys happens to birth him a son, he's more like to take for the father than her. It'll be another savage pillaging his way around the grasslands in the east."

"You've no great opinion of the Dothraki then," She said, smiling.

He smiled back, nodding, shuffling across the bed toward her. "You still haven't answered my question." He prompted, eager for her thoughts.

Once more she shrugged at him, "I think you have the right of it. Wait a year or two, see if he still wants you to at his side then. If he only wants you there now to agree with him on this matter, then what's the point?"

"Yes," he said, looming over her, grinning, "We'll go away and come back with a grandson in arms for him to bounce on his knee. I'm sure he'll be delighted to have my council then."

"A grandson?" Arianne asked, as he lowered his mouth to hers. "You're… sure… about… that…" she continued in between his kisses.

He stopped, grinning, "I suppose you'd prefer we had a girl first?"

She drowned a giggle against his lips again, before she said, "I'm just worried if you're up to it yet." And pushed against his side, biting her lip as she saw him wince, "Keep tearing your stitches out like this and Pycelle is bound to grow suspicious."

"Let him."

He closed the gap between them again, burrowing his face into her neck. She grabbed at his head and clutched a handful of his hair in her fist, cooing like a dove as he found the right spot to suck a bloom on her skin. Sensing the awkwardness of his position, twisting around to meet her, Arianne shifted herself, turned around and ends straddling him, looking down with a devilish smile. He knew that this part of his convalescence she enjoyed without any guilt. It put a thrill through him each time at the excitement she had, holding him in the palm of her hand like this. It sets fire to her blood, as she fucks him without a care for his pleasure, she goes into it only to satisfy herself, his own needs a purely incidental. He supposes she needs the relief more than him, but still grins like a damn fool when she finally collapses onto him, sweaty and sated, his cock still inside and full of his seed. There's nothing holding them back now they are wed, and he wants her now more than anything; more than her, he wants to see her with a ripe belly, a child swelling inside of her; wants to lay his hands across her and feel the kick of an unborn that they made together. He imagines her nursing a boy with brilliant blue eyes, black hair, and olive skin, and in his mind's eye it grows so he can ruffle the tuft of black hair and battle him with a wooden sword, growing up to have his mother tongue and wits and taller and stronger than his grandfather. They can do this now, freely, without the dread of bastardy behind it, conceive a child of their own, a family – then they'll be indomitable.

Later, at the Black Hart, he met with Tyrek and Harry Hardyng. They are surprised to hear of his conversation with his father. Harrold seemed to share the King's anxieties about the Targaryen's and the new one on the way. What if the Beggar King does this, or what if the Khal does that, he asked as he paced the common room. What if they cross the sea together? What if the Ironborn rise up again? What if the Dothraki overrun the King's armies? What if the other Great Houses take the field against the Crown?

"If that happens, Harry," he said, helping himself to a horn of ale from a keg, "I shall be out from behind this bar and in the field myself, sword in hand."

Of course, it is the great disappointment in all their lives thus far that they have yet to be tested in battle. They had all been so small during the last war, when Balon Greyjoy thought to make himself a king, so small that none of them had met yet. Rickard can stretch his memory that far back, just. When the Ironborn had sacked Lannisport, there had been a panic that they might sail round and strike at King's Landing with no fleet to oppose them. They had all been shut up in Maegor's Holdfast together, his father, his mother, his uncles, Joffrey, and Myrcella in her swaddling. The panic had not lasted long however, Seaguard had held out, and someone managed to remember the Redwyne fleet off the Arbor was still in play. Then they had all left, the men gone to fight the war, and he and Joffrey had both asked to go with them, each one of them pleading, let me out to fight. Of course, he had not discovered the soldier's heart in him back then, the ironmen did not frighten him so much as thought of being locked up with Joffrey again.

While Harry contemplated a war that will never come, Tyrek chastised him for not taking the council seat. "The Small Council, Rickard," he moaned, shaking his head, "You could have been there, where you belong. Writing the wrongs of the Kingdom."

"Master of Ships," he said, indifferent, "hardly the greatest office in the realm. And I name only. You really expect me to command the fleet, the respect of the captains. When I get ill even on a river barge. Besides, it'd be in name only. All the real warships are anchored at Dragonstone, patrolling the Narrow Sea for smugglers. My uncle will still be commanding them from there, I guarantee."

Despite his insistence, Tyrek remained unsatisfied. He told him that the office itself is immaterial, only that he would have a position. "And is Master of Ships so lowly? Who is to say where the remit ends? You could dabble in other matters; the ports will surely be obliging to you rather than Petyr Baelish. Renly struck me as lax in his duties, would he object to you picking the slack up? Jon Arryn depended on Stannis to carry part of his weight as Hand. Lord Eddard might look to you.

"Ned Stark doesn't trust me," he reminded Tyrek. "And Jon Arryn was old. Lord Stark is young and able enough to carry his office alone. I would rather go to Dorne, and remain the Black Hart, than stay here and be a shadow to Eddard Stark."

He would brook nothing further on the topic from Tyrek after that. Instead, he set them to their other business. The streets of King's Landing had quietened since the end of the Hand's Tourney, but it was still busy: smallfolk still come to him with their woes; merchants and traders are always asking his protection, or to settle their disputes; money still rolled in from his investments, and he still needed to send it back out into the world to make more. He had an eye on a pair of galleys in need of refit down by the docks and has a mind to buy them and fit them with goods from his trader friends and his own businesses to send across the Narrow Sea. Word has come to him of an iron mine on Crackclaw Point, and a rumour that prospectors have found gold in a brook by the Wendwater river. Recently, he had given out a few small loans to the craftsmen of the city and considered why no one in Westeros had ever started a bank – it would keep our money in the Kingdoms, instead of sending it out across the Narrow Sea to fatten the pockets of the Essos bankers instead.

They sat there, the three of them, weighing out the gold on the scales. Tyrek keeps the ledger of amounts, and profits, what gold has gone out, what will come back in, what they should be returned, what they actually receive. Harrold had always hated this business. He would rather be out menacing thugs and robbers in the markets or staring down the gold cloaks across a street somewhere, but he always stayed out of duty to ensure that he missed nothing important. Rickard wondered about Harry – he was getting too old to be following him around all the time, and unlike Tyrek he was too important to besides. Rightly, he should have him sent back to the Vale, but part of poor Harry cannot stomach the thought of the Eyrie without Jon Arryn there and the idea of being up there alone with only Robin Arryn and Lady Lysa for company was far from appealing. Beside that, Harrold was excited to see Sunspear.

Clouds had gathered outside, and they began to hear the pitter patter of rain on the tavern roof. Tyrek rose and went to pull the shutters on the windows closed, but at the front window he stopped and looked out. His voice came out, awkward and strained, "Rickard?!"

He turned from the coins on the table toward his cousin, rising to go to him, clutching at his side. Outside, he heard the clopping of hooves on stone and the clattering of men in the armour. At the window, he caught the tail end of column of men going passed the street beyond the yard, some mounted, some afoot, the trail of crimson cloaks behind them. The children that they use for lookouts on the entrance for the yard already came running up the steps of the Black Hart toward them.

"Soldiers," they reported, breathlessly, "Queen's men, all in armour. The Kingslayer leading them."

He exchanged a glance with Tyrek, "Where were they going?"

"North, ser. Toward the Dragonpit." One of them said, looking up at them from beneath the window.

"Was the King with them?" Tyrek asked, frowning.

"No, ser." They all agreed after sharing a look with one another.

"They father wouldn't travel to a brothel with a full escort," Rickard said, as Harrold now came over to them.

"What's to do?" He asked, brushing a lank of blonde hair from his eyes.

"Lannister soldiers on the street," Tyrek answered him, as they both began to follow him out of the door into the yard. "Ser Jaime leading them."

"Ty," he began, voice stern, "you and I will follow them see what it's about. Harry, you gather the knifemen here. This smacks of trouble to follow."

"Sure you're up to going on foot?" Tyrek asked him, unsure, as Harry peeled off to summon as many of their men as he could.

"No time to mount," he answered, holding his side, as if to stop the stitches from pulling themselves into ribbons. They took it in leaps and bounds, half jogging and half pacing after the soldiers. They took shortcuts through alleys and shop fronts. At times they were out of view of the soldiers but kept on their trail by the sound of their marching, sometimes blocked only by a running wall that without they might have been able to run alongside them. For a time, they had almost lost them, as they ended up in Flea Bottom before they lost the sound of the soldiers. After doubling back, they picked up their trail again down the Street of Silk.

The rain had picked up, and they both burst out on to the street only for him to almost collide with Petyr Baelish, ahorse, coming the other way from the soldiers. Lord Baelish's bloodbay reared at the collision, and the Master of Coin fought to bring it to heel.

"Black Hart?" Baelish exclaimed, as he realized who had run into him, "What luck!"

He looked up at Baelish, his clothes going sodden from the rain, and noted the look of relief he held him with. "Littlefinger! We saw the soldiers. What's happening?"

"The Kingslayer and his men have absconded Lord Eddard. He's beyond reasoning with."

"What?!"

"I was headed to fetch the city watch…"

"Bugger the watch," Rickard said, already turning away from Baelish and down the street. Tyrek called back behind him at Petyr. "Harry Hardyng is calling out our men at our tavern. Go tell him to bring every blade he can at once!"

He heard the sound of Baelish gallop away without another word. Feeling his cousin back at his side, he said, "You know Harry won't make it here in time."

Tyrek drew his dagger, "It'll be for you to hold them off until he does."

Rickard could not count the number of men his uncle had brought down from the Red Keep. They had formed a cordon, blocking in Ned Stark and his men, spears crossed to check any escape. As Rickard saw his uncle draw his sword, he plunged forward, his wound howling with the effort, as his voice carried his way for him.

"STOP!" He boomed, crashing through the cordon with Tyrek. The line of spears buckled, and he was suddenly in the middle of them all, "THERE WILL BE NO BLOODSHED HERE!"

"Stand aside, nephew," his uncle commanded impatiently, his sword still in hand.

"This is madness, uncle," he shouted up at him, striding forward to grab the bridle of his stallion, "this is the King's Hand."

"He was," his uncle said, taking the reigns of his horse in his other hand. The animal shook its head, and the bridle slipped out of his grasp. "Haven't you heard? Lord Eddard resigned his seat only this afternoon."

"And that excuses this folly?!"

"Keep back, Prince Rickard," Lord Eddard called out to him, drawing his own sword, "this is between myself and the Kingslayer."

"If that were so, Lord Eddard, by what right do you take my brother captive," Ser Jaime bristled. Rickard stood still at that. "You remember your uncle Tyrion, don't you, Rick? Short fellow, sharp tongue. It would seem on his return from the Wall, he was met with some trouble on the road. Word has reached Casterly Rock already. Your grandsire is rather vexed by the impertinence."

Rickard turned to Lord Eddard, "What is the meaning of this, my lord?"

"The Imp was taken by my order, to answer for his crimes."

He couldn't believe it. The eyes of smallfolk were peering out at them all from barred shutters and locked doors. The world had gone mad. The Starks had all but slapped House Lannister in the face. His uncle urged his horse forward, "Put up your steel, Stark."

The Lannister spears turned into a phalanx, and Stark's men all raised their swords. "NO!" Rickard cried, stepping between the lines of steel, drawing the knife at his back to brandish at Lion and Direwolf alike. Tyrek drew beside him, his own dagger pointing from one side to the other. "The man that strikes the first blow will learn to call me his enemy!"

"Don't make a threat you aren't prepared to follow through on, nephew," his uncle said, coaxing his horse forward to him.

Rickard again seized the stallion by the bridle. "You've made your point, uncle!"

Lord Eddard called out to them both, "If I am slain, then Catelyn will slay Tyrion in turn."

He felt like the lady Elenei, standing between Durran Godsgrief and the Storm gods. "Think of that, uncle!" Rickard urged him. "Ned Stark dies, so does Tyrion."

"I hardly think so," his uncle demurred, "Lady Catelyn Tully cut her hostages throat? No." But then he sighed, and sheathed his steel, "But I am not prone to wager with my brother's life.

Good, Rickard thought, they were coming back from the edge now, slowly, slowly does it. "Come with me to the King. He'll order Uncle Tyrion free. He has no other choice.

"Ha!" His uncle spat on the floor, "You've greater faith in your father than I, Rickard." He turned his gaze toward Lord Eddard, "But I suppose I'll let you run back to Robert to tell him how I frightened you, Stark. I wonder if he'll care." He whipped his soaked golden hair out of his face, and turned to look back down at his nephew, "I ride for Casterly Rock, Rickard," and jerked the reigns of his mount into a trot, "I shall warn your grandfather not to look for you."

"Fucker," breathed Rickard, sliding his knife away. He turned back to glower at Lord Eddard. "You are a blood fool, Stark. You've declared war on the Lannisters!" The streets began to empty of Lannister men, as they trailed after Ser Jaime. "You've sewn the wind, do not act aggrieved when my grandsire reaps the whirlwind." Lord Eddard bowed his head, and looked as though he were almost apologetic. Sickened, Rickard left him there in the rain.

They found Harry at the bottom of the street, twenty fierce looking sons of bitches in tow. He had taken the time to haphazardly armour himself as well, a breastplate fixed to his chest, and a pair of spaulders on his shoulders with the straps not fastened properly. "Turn the men around," he ordered when he came within ear shot over the pounding rain, "there's no knifework needed here."

Once they returned to the Black Hart, they did not tarry. He had them mount up and together they climbed back to the Red Keep. They made the journey in silence. A black mood had overtaken him, Tyrek was radiating apprehension, and Harry wide-eyed with disbelief. No one impeded their way into Maegor's Holdfast, and no sooner than they had dismounted, someone was calling his name. Arianne stood, waiting on him, huddled under a cloak, starring bleakly out at him as the rain fell around them.

"I sent word into the city," she then stopped herself, pulling her hood down, "you already know."

"I know," he said, as she fell in beside him, "I know that Lord Eddard is a fucking madman! I just had to stop him and my uncle going at it in the street, like they were fucking brigands." He was soaked through to the skin, but there wasn't time for him to change out his clothes, "Where is the King?"

"In his chambers, I believe." She answered, matching his steps, "Your mother has already gone to him."

"Good," He tilted his head to shout behind for Tyrek and Harry to hear, "Go and find Lord Beric, I'll meet him in our chambers." They stopped and looked at one another but did not continue to pursue him. Arianne kept pace with him as he turned now to her, "You should go too."

Her voice was sharp with him. "Someone needs to stop you tearing your stitches out." He did not reply to that.

He found the King and the Queen as she predicted: arguing, in a hall near the royal bedchamber. The King did not seem to look so kingly as he had when last they spoke. His doublet was ruffled and untucked in places; wine spots spattered all down his front. The Queen was ever more dignified: an ermine shawl across her shoulders, her green eyes fortified by the gold trimmed emerald gown she wore.

"This is an outrage," His mother raged as he entered the room, "By what right does he lay his hands on mine own blood!"

"Quiet, woman," his father snapped at her, look morosely away from her. Then he spotted him and Arianne in the doorway, "Oh it's you." He added, flatly.

His mother glanced at them both, suspicious of them entering. Rickard stepped into the room, pushing the drenched hair out of his hair. He came to stand by a brazier and put his hands in to warm himself from the cold, "Yes, it's me. I just stopped blood running in the gutters." He raised his head to his mother as he spoke. "Uncle Jaime has set out for Casterly Rock. I take it my grandfather has already called his banners?"

King Robert sniggered at him, "Bet you wish you'd accepted my offer now?"

"What offer?" the Queen said, her eyes flickering to each of them in turn.

"It doesn't matter," he said, answering neither one of them and both at the same time. "Even if he hasn't called them, I suppose that my uncle will do it for him once he reaches West." He looked at his father, "Are you going to stop this before it goes too far?"

"And what do you expect me to do?" His father asked, sullen.

"You're the fucking King," he snapped back at him, and Arianne laid a hand on his shoulder, "Command."

"Is that more of your wise council?" the King bristled as he spoke.

"Mock if you want, you know I'm right. Have your friend Ned put an end to this? Do you want the great houses at war with one another?"

"I'm not accountable to you, boy. I'll see this resolved."

"You'll see to it my brother is released," the Queen insisted. "And the Starks can count their blessings that they walk away from this matter without their heads on spikes."

"Shut up," the King shot back.

Their heads all turned again, as Eddard Stark entered the room, just as sodden and damp as him. He bowed to the King, saying, "Your Grace, my pardons."

"Ned," Robert said gruffly as he rose to his feet from his chair. "I take it you know why you were summoned?"

Lord Eddard might have been a statue, the only move he made was a solitary blink before he answered the King, "My lady wife is blameless, Your Grace. All she did she did at my command."

"I am not pleased, Ned," Robert grumbled.

"These actions are treasonous." The Queen asserted, scowling at Lord Stark, "Who are you to presume to raise a hand to my family?"

"The Hand of the King," Ned told her with icy courtesy. "Charged by your own lord husband to keep the king's peace and enforce the king's justice."

"You were the Hand," Cersei began, "but now…"

"Silence!" the king roared. "You asked him a question and he answered," Rickard watched as his mother subsided and his father turned back to the Hand. "Keep the king's peace, you say. Is this how you keep my peace, Ned? Abductions on the kingsroad, scrapping in the streets with the Kingslayer. I will not have it, Ned."

"Catelyn had good reason for taking the Imp…" Lord Eddard tried to interrupt, but the King would not be overridden.

"I said, I will not have it! To hell with her reasons. You will command her to release the dwarf at once, and you will make your peace with Jaime."

"Jaime Lannister turned armed soldiers against me and my men on the streets! All just to chastise me."

Rickard turned away from the brazier, "You hardly backed away from the quarrel, Lord Eddard. If I hadn't been there, you'd have been up to your elbow in blood just as readily as my uncle."

"Exactly," his mother said eagerly, "Lord Stark was returning drunk from a brothel, and went looking for a fight with my brother."

"You know me better than that, Robert," Stark implored. "Ask Lord Baelish if you doubt me. He was there."

"I will," the King vowed.

"Baelish ran into me," Rickard came forward to say, "he pointed me down the street of silk before the fighting broke out. It was outside of some whorehouse."

"What were you doing outside of some whorehouse, Ned?"

"Some whorehouse? Damn your eyes, Robert, I went there to have a look at your daughter! Her mother has named her Barra. She looks like that first girl you fathered, when we were boys together in the Vale."

Rickard held his mother in his eye. It was her usual perfect mask, still and pale. Rickard had seen her wear it all his life, it was her hands that always betrayed her. They came together, clenched, the fingers trembling. The king glanced at his queen. "This is no fit subject for the queen's ears."

"Her Grace will have no liking for anything I have to say," Ned replied. "I am told the Kingslayer has fled the city. Give me leave to bring him back to justice."

"No," he said. "I want no more of this. Now it ends."

"Is that your notion of justice?" Lord Eddard flared. "If so, I am pleased that I am no longer your Hand."

The Queen looked to her husband. "If any man had dared speak to a Targaryen as he has spoken to you…"

"Do you take me for Aerys?" Robert interrupted.

"I took you for a King. Jaime and Tyrion are your own brothers, by all the laws of marriage. The Starks have driven off the one and seized the other. This man dishonours you at every turn, and yet you stand there meekly. By all rights, you should have this dress, and I the warhammer."

Rickard watched the king lash out with the back of his hand. He shouted as his mother fell to the ground, prepared to go for his father, a red mist over his eyes, but a hand on his shoulder pulled him back for a second. "Don't, Rickard," Arianne said. He glared at her, but she just stood there glaring back at him, "Will you duel the king next?"

He shrugged her hand off him but made no move forward. His mother picked herself off the floor, brushing at the red flower blossoming on her face, "I shall wear this as a badge of honour," she announced.

"Wear it in silence, or I'll honour you again," Robert vowed. He turned and met his eye, "You, take her out."

Rickard went to his mother as he was bid, but before he took her arm he stood in front of his father, square in his face. "You lay a hand on my mother in front of me again, I'll gut you." Part of him wanted the King to try and hit him. A tremor went down the stub of his finger, recalling the last time it had happened. If his father expected a similar outcome, then he would be glad to disabuse him off that delusion.

Arianne put her hand on his shoulder again. "Rickard, your mother." She reminded him. They left without another word.

In his chambers, his people gathered as he asked: Harrold and Tyrek, having found time to go and change their garb; and Lord Beric Dondarrion, fully informed of all events. He kept them waiting around a table in the antechamber a while longer as he changed his own wet clothes at last. Stripped off, he took time to examine himself in the looking glass. His stitches had lasted the day, but they were fraying, a dried blood marked the edges. Obviously at some point he started oozing and not even noticed. When had he had the chance to?

Outside, he met with them, suddenly weary. He rubbed his temples with his fingers as he sat in a cushioned chair close by the fire. His head was pounding. "How do things stand?" Tyrek asked him.

Arianne filled them all in, "The King has ordered Lord Eddard to release Tyrion Lannister."

"Will he?"

She shrugged, "He didn't refuse. Personally, I think he's riding the whirlwind. His wife seized the dwarf and he's just covering her back. Events are out of his control."

"Is Lord Eddard still Hand?" Dondarrion inquired.

Again, she shrugged, "I expect Lord Eddard will soon reverse his decision to have resigned. As Hand he has a shield against retaliation. Outside of it, he's vulnerable."

"Is there anything we do know?" Harrold demanded, irritably.

Rickard stirred himself in his chair, "The Starks and Lannisters are at war. Is that plain enough for you, Harry?"

Harry avoided his eyes, "Are you? Are we?" As Harry shifted to meet his gaze, Rickard turned away.

"Tyrek?"

"I say we ride out after Ser Jaime. I guarantee you, if Lord Tywin has heard of this, he'll have called his banners. The West will be rousing as we speak."

"I'm sure he has," Arianne spoke as he finished, "But I fail to see why his business is ours."

Tyrek's irritation was palpable, "I know you've no love for my House, my lady. But what other option is open to us. We cannot take this lying down. And like it or not Rickard is part of our family, a family that you have married into I remind you. Rickard has a duty. It'll be expected of him to ride out and join whatever host is forming."

"My husband is not a dog to be summoned at every whistle of Lord Tywin," Arianne sparked.

"Lord Tywin had sent out no summons to him," pointed out Lord Beric. "If he has need of his service, he will send word. Until then, I would wait."

"And if someone struck you a blow, Lord Beric," Harry jumped in, "would you just expect Rickard to wait until he asked you for his aid. Or would you prefer he jump straight into the fray, dagger in his teeth."

"We don't even know, why Lady Catelyn seized the Imp," Arianne reminded them, "Perchance, she was justified. Did you ever consider someone might have a legitimate grievance with you people?"

"You people?" Tyrek fumed, "I assume you mean my family. And half of Rickard's."

"The less worthy half to be sure!"

"Enough!"

Rickard sat still, watching the flames twist and lap at one another. He beckoned with a hand, "Lord Beric," The Lightning Lord came forward, silent, "Any war between Stark and Lannister is bound to spread. I would be obliged if you returned to Blackhaven, ser. Call the marcher lords to you. Keep them out of the fighting if you can."

"I look to you for example, my prince," Lord Beric bowed to him. "I'll call my banners and invite the Marcher Lords to my seat. If you have need of our swords, send a raven, and I'll do what I can to deliver them."

"Thank you," he rose to his feet, as the Lightning Lord exited the room, "Tyrek, Harrold, would you give Arianne and me a moment alone." And they followed Dondarrion out. Alone, his wife took the seat that he had vacated.

"You've made your mind up already," she did not sound pleased.

"I made up my mind as soon as Jaime said Tyrion had been taken," he turned to look at her, and she starred passed him into the fire. "If you ask me to, I won't leave."

"Don't you make it my decision, Rickard!" She stood up, exacerbated, "Still, you are under Lord Tywin's thumb."

He went to her, imploring her to understand, "If I don't go, I'll never be able to look him in the eye again." Not that he ever had before then. "If it were your uncle that were taken…"

"Martells do not give men cause to seize them." She turned away, but did not walk out of his grasp, "If you wish to go, then go. I will not stop you. But," the anger was gone from her, leaving only frustration behind, "what do you expect the outcome of this to be, Rick?"

He sighed, "A short campaign in the Riverlands. There's no striking at Winterfell from below the Neck. Lady Catelyn is a Tully by birth. My grandfather will strike at Lord Hoster and burn the River Lords out until my uncle is freed or my father rouses himself to restore the peace."

"And you can walk into that? Can you? Slaughter your way through the Riverlands until the blood price forces someone else to act."

He held her, "Ari, I'm a soldier who's never fought in a war. But one thing I do know is that whether the cause is righteous or not, each war comes down to butcher's work." His wife did not seem acquiesce, but she resigned herself that further argument would be fruitless.

"What will you do then?"

He considered, "I don't mean to go to the Rock empty handed. I'll linger a few days, see if I can raise any men here in King's Landing that fancy a crack at the Tully's. Then I'll ride out with them West to join my grandsire. Tyrek will come with me of course. But I'll leave Harry here, with you."

She turned, surprised, "Why?"

He looked down. "I may be going to war, but I'd still wager it's safer for me on campaign than you are here alone. I'm leaving you in charge, and Harrold will be at your beck and call."

"You expect him to take orders from a woman." A smile cracked on her face.

"I expect him to obey my wife and face the consequences if he doesn't."

She laughed, "Oh be still my heart." He had her, he realised. When she laughed, he liked to think of it as a victory. But she paused, and bit her lip, "I feel as though we've had no time together."

He grabbed her hand and laid it on his heart, "My oath to this, Arianne: come what may now, you and I will still be on our way to Sunspear before this year is out."

He could feel her fingers squeeze at the beating in his chest, "I'll hold you to that, love."