The Black Prince

by TheHatMan98

Rickard, of House Baratheon, Prince of the Iron Throne and of Westeros, sees his country collapsing and the strings of duty pull him into the Game of Thrones he finds him self beset on all sides, with friends in few places, and the storms of civil war looming.

25. GOT: Tyrek 6

Tyrek

It was a magnificent tourney, Tyrek had to concede. Young as he was, he had seen more than his fair share of tourneys: small, ones held by local lords that were the bread and butter for every hedgeknight up and down the Kingdoms; and the Grand tourneys of Casterly Rock, Lannisport and Highgarden where the Lords Paramount, lords high and low brought their finest knights to show their worth and full pageantry for the peasantry to see. Beyond the walls of King's Landing, a whole other city had gone up over the passing weeks, pavilions the size of houses erected, with golden streamers crisscrossing between them all, the wealth and chivalry of Westeros on display in one place.

Yet despite the immense splendour of it all, Tyrek felt it wasn't quite the same seeing it from this angle. Normally, as a Lannister and a companion of Prince Rickard, Tyrek had always been afforded a position of respect and dignity. He was used to attending the games in royal pavilions, escorted down to them in a golden litter, with a flagon of wine to hand and servants to wait on them when they watched the games. Not so now, on account of Rickard's fall in fortune since the last time they had been at a tourney.

Now their pavilion was in a damp corner, admittedly right in front of the lists, but it was the corner where the horses were exercised before a tilt, and the shit was piling up in front of it. Meanwhile, out the back of their tent, Rickard's bookkeepers had set up their main station and shouted out the odds for gamblers, highborn and low to come and place their bets. Occasionally, Rickard himself lifted the flap to whisper a new change in the odds for one competitor or another, and when they saw him, the knights or lords in question would lay a bet on the prince in a fragrant display of indolence, while the Kingslanders, who like the dirty, black-haired Prince that they called their own, would reach out to try and grasp his hands. And Rickard would smile and grasp them and bring them close to whisper one of his favourites in their ear.

After tenth or so time this occurred, Tyrek felt honour bound to warn his Prince, "You know, you should be in full armour by now."

"Bah!", he said, waving an arm dismissively, his legs clanking as he crossed the tent again, "I have plenty of time before my first tilt."

Tyrek rolled his eyes indulgently, "You sure? Not planning to unseat Boros Blount in your doublet, are you?"

A cackle ripped forth from Rickard's mouth, "Gods, but I could do as well!"

Tyrek knows that it isn't pride that makes the Prince say it. Though he sells himself short with a lance, Boros Blount is perhaps the least worthy of the Seven White Swords to hold a cloak of the Kingsguard, and Rickard knows that it doesn't take much to be the favourite in a bout against that one. Perhaps that explains his mood, even more restless than usual. When he wasn't out the back of the tent with his bookkeepers, he was peering out the front at the stands while pretending to put his armour on one piece at a time. He was tense, Tyrek noticed, which was strange for his cousin, and had been for days. In truth, he had begun to lament the cool feelings between Rickard and the Princess Arianne, she had at least the ability to calm Rickard's nerves, yet Tyrek didn't dare raise the subject for fear of fraying those nerves anymore. So instead, he let his cousin carry on, pounding his boots into the muddy floor, back and forth and back and forth.

Lucky for him, Harry Hardyng entered, his steel plate clanking, his breastplate emblazoned with his personal sigil: the Hardyng and Waynwood's in the first and third quarters, and Arryn moon and falcon in the second and fourth quarters. He madee his annoyance with Rickard's sloth plain to his face.

"Come on, Rick," he exclaimed, striding across the room to pour himself a cup of ale, his helmet under his arm. "You've had time enough to haggle with the bookies and sharpen your sword arm. Now is the hour!"

Behind Harry, so to enters Robb Stark, quiet in his greyed iron armour. Stark moves towards him, to whisper, "Harry has his blood up. It was brought him here or try watch him rut a serving girl through his armour." They both laugh and watch Rick and Harry bicker, the latter trying to badger the prince into his armour, the former resisting the urgency. At last, with proding from Robb, they coaxed the prince into his plate, black steel with enamelled with gold, and the outline of the crowned stag of Baratheon across the chest.

Leaving their helms behind, at Robb's suggestion they leave to tour the field and meet their competitors. Rickard seems to be cheered by the idea of fresh air and stretching his legs amidst company. They meet Ser Jaime, not a difficult feat for his shining gold armour had him standing out to everyone that day. His famous cousin is pleased to see them, eyes them all up with a grin, and Tyrek can tell he's eager to see Robb Stark unseated and wants to do it himself. When Ser Jaime dismisses them, they move on, and feel the ground wobble beneath their feet as they pass by the tent of Gregor Clegane. Harrold Hardyng humbly greeted the great Lord of Runestone, Bronze Yohn Royce. It's a shock to see humility in Harry, but Royce is a great power in the Vale, and Harry wants to be its Lord one day, and might well need Runestone behind him one day. Lord Jason Mallister picks them out and introduces himself to Robb and asks to be remembered to Lord Eddard and his lady mother. When the Lord of Seaguard turns away in a whirl of purple and white, his heir, Patrek, nods awkwardly and turns to follow his father. The Redwyne twins offer them all a cup of the Arbor's finest, Rickard declines and Tyrek follows his example, but Harry and Robb happily imbibe.

By a roundabout route, they came to the royal pavilion. Few had yet taken the stands, and the lords and knight not partaking gathered with their ladies and the royal family. Rickard expressed his sorrow that to Ser Barristan Selmy that he would not see him on the field. The Lord Commander dipped his head, "Someone must account for the safety of His Grace, my brothers will be enough to do the Kingsguard honour today. I look forward to seeing you tilt, my prince, my lords. Tourneys like these are for the young to prove themselves. You do yourselves credit."

The four of them feel as though they might grow a foot right on that spot, Harrold Hardyng goes pink, and Rickard Baratheon can't bring himself to look Ser Barristan in the face. Only Robb Stark can speak for them, croaking "Thank you, my lord." Somewhere a lutenist starts plucking the strings to "The Bear and the Maiden Fair" and they excuse themselves from chivalry incarnate.

The Royal Family and the Hand of the King's have managed to form a cluster their own, though the patriarchs are absent for now, as is the Queen. Rickard embraces his little brother and sister, Robb does the same for his sisters, compliments are exchanged, Tommen and Arya state their envy of their elder brothers, who teasingly encourage the younger ones. Myrcella Baratheon swings off Rickard's arm as though it were the branch of a tree, she admonishes him for not visiting. The Prince smiles and hugs her through his armour, they kiss cheeks and half-whisper conspiratorially, though the rest of them hear well-enough.

Prince Joffrey snorts at this, and makes his presence felt with his usual insult, "I hardly know why you bother taking part, Rickard. You can't expect to win."

Rickard indulges his brother, "I don't, Joff. I expect to lose. Which is more than you can expect."

As Joffrey scowls and is about to regurgitate fresh insult onto his brother, he steps in, "What Rickard means to say, my prince, is there are better reasons to ride in the lists than the champion's purse. For the honour of one's House and family." Unused to someone interrupting their arguments, both Princes turn to glare at him.

"Well said, Ty," says the cool and arrogant voice of cousin Lancel. "One would have thought you meant it from down there in the gutter that you dwell."

Perhaps as much as Rickard hates Joffrey, Tyrek hated Lancel Lannister, and promptly cuts him down, "Fortunately, from the gutter you can tell all the other shit that belongs there, Lancel."

Around them, things take a hush, Tyrek acknowledges that he may have said louder than intended. Still, its worth the scandal to see the look and Lancel and Joffrey's faces, who eventually turn to look at one another and the former manages to shake himself out of it first and say to his Prince, "Joffrey, there is someone that wishes to meet you."

Grateful for the excuse to leave, Prince Joffrey shoulders his way through them. They turn to watch him go, as Lancel leads him off to be introduced to another contender, and while they all quickly dismiss it, Tyrek notices Rickard lingers on his cousin introducing his brother to a white-haired knight, in purple, white and black.

"Rickard?" Robb said, trying to draw the Prince back in, and eventually took note of the stranger that had caught his eye. "Who is it?"

Tyrek now only noticed the fist Rickard had, clenching hard around the pommel of his sword, and suddenly felt as though his guts had just tried leaping up his throat. He recognized the sigil of the lilac field crossed with a sword and falling star, "A Dayne?"

Robb suddenly sounded awed. "Dayne, of Starfall? As in Ser Arthur, the Sword of Morning? My father always said he way the greatest sword in Westeros, he was there when he was killed in the Rebellion."

Rickard made a show of spitting on the floor, and the grip on his sword did not ease. "This one is Ser Gerrold. Who men call Darkstar."

He could only frown at this. Neither name meant anything to him, and he could not think what or why it meant something to his cousin, and he glanced past him to Robb, who simply looked just as confused as he did. All the while, Rickard kept starring, hand on his sword. It took the Princess Myrcella to shake her brother out of the stupor, having apparently disappeared and reappeared, with a familiar face in tow.

"Arianne," Rickard said, becoming suddenly, if at all possible, even tenser than he had been before, but at least the hand fell from his sword.

Tyrek couldn't help but notice the coy face on Princess Myrcella, as though she had just reunited Florian and Jonquil. He might have expected to take each of their hands and place them in one another, but he pre-empts the little princess from following through with this, and coughs loudly.

"We shall leave you two to it," and Rickard looks at him gratefully with a half a smile, while the rest of them disperse to give Rick and his Dornish girl their space.

Harry takes him aside and indicates the Dornishman from before. "That Dayne, I'm to ride against him first."

"Think you can take him?" Robb said, looking him up and down.

Smiling, Hardyng doesn't flinch, "He doesn't look like much."

Tyrek rolled his eyes, but he supposed without knowing that there is no reason to say that Harry cannot have it in him. "I doubt that Rickard would object to if he broke his neck if you lance strayed into his head?"

"What is it with them? You know of any grievance?"

He truly couldn't say, but takes a punt, "Well, he's Dornish…" He let it trail and glanced back to Arianne Martell.

"Rickard feeling jealous?" Asked Robb, his eyes darting between the two.

Tyrek just shrugged.

The blast of trumpets announced the start of the tourney, and jousters departed to ready their mounts. As they left the Royal pavilion, Tyrek noticed Rickard with an orange strip around his right arm, the favour of his Princess. Due to last all day, the lists opened with Ser Jaime seeing off Ser Andar Royce off as easily as if he were riding against a quintain, and then saw off Lord Caron in similar fashion. Both Clegane brothers towered over the field, Ser Gregor terrifying his opponents into falling of their own accord after an accident in his first joust saw his lance drive through a gap in his opponent's gorget before it snapped in his throat, leaving the Ser Hugh of the Vale choking on his own blood. Harry could not unseat Ser Gerrold in the end, despite breaking two lances on his shield, in the end the Dornishman's third shattered on the Valeman's belly as his own slid harmlessly passed by his head. Rickard tilted first against a Frey of the Crossing in a single tilt, and then Ser Balon Swann, which seemed to surprise him so much that he offered the knight a second chance to ride against him, but he was graciously declined. Robb acquitted himself well, outpacing the Master-at-Arms Ser Aron Santagar and the Red Viper's squire, Ser Daemon Sand.

The Red Viper himself caused a stir. The crowd hated him, and he seemed to relish the way that they all hissed at him when ever he made his presence felt. After unseating the freerider Lothor Brune without much a trouble, he rode against the darling of the Smallfolk, Lord Renly, the King's brother. The Prince's lance banged so violently against Renly's head that he flew backwards over his horse, his legs in the air, feet still in the stirrups and his head dragging and bouncing through the mud. When Lord Renly's horse was taken in hand by the grooms, he rose, unhurt, but both antlers of his ornate stag's head helm and been snapped clean off. After this, swords were almost drawn – Rickard rode against Ser Gerrold Dayne, and after shattering three lances against one another, the Stoney Dornishman final drove his lance into the head of Rickard's charger, ejecting him from the saddle to slide through the mud, while the animal screamed with blood from its mouth. Tyrek and others ran down the field to check Rickard was unhurt, but he was already on his feet, rushing to his mount. He watched his cousin as he eased the passing of his favourite horse, that old war-demon Thunderer, when he rose up again in righteous indignation, swearing loudly for the Dornishman's blood, and trying to draw down his blade, but Tyrek had grabbed his arm – it took three of them to restrain Rickard before King Robert drew himself up and demanded obeyance, though Rickard did not hear himself awarded the victory on account of Dayne's dishonour. He went on to unseat Robar Royce before Ser Jaime tipped him out of the saddle.

Despite this however, the greatest upset of the day came from Robb Stark and Ser Loras Tyrell. The Knight of Flowers remained a favourite to many, and he made his name a cheer on the lips of the crowd whenever he drew up to joust, his armour enamelled with the images of a different flower, while a cloak of red and white roses fell across his horse. Each time Ser Loras unseated a foe, he plucked a rose from the blanket and tossed it into the crowd. At the start of their contest, Ser Loras rode up to Sansa Stark, and personally handed her a red rose. Perhaps that lit a fire under Robb, who when they both set off, threw his fully body forward against his horse, and covered the ground faster than anyone else that day. As the two came on one another Robb drew himself up, the lances both exploded and both of them were thrown back each trying to claw for the reins, but Robb's simple plate proved lightweight, and the weight of Ser Loras' and his cloak of roses only seemed to drag him down. Once he tumbled from his horse went rolling through the dirt, the roses turned from white to brown. While the crowd gasped in the shock of the outcome, he, Rickard, and Harry erupted in cheers and laughter, with Rickard so overjoyed, he grabbed Ser Justin Massey at the knees and threw him over his shoulder and spun around, shouting, "Gods bless the Young Wolf! All hail! All hail!"

When Robb rode back around the field and came up on them, he lifted the visor of his helm wearing look of disbelief as Ser Loras was helped from the field. So dumbfounded he barely noticed as they pulled him from the horse and onto their shoulders. Yet despite all the gallantry, it came down to only four: Ser Gregor Clegane, Ser Jaime Lannister, Prince Oberyn of Dorne and Robb Stark.

By the time all was decided, the Sun had fallen beneath the horizon and King Robert rose to declare that the remaining jousts would take place on the morrow before the melee and the archery. The court moved to the shores of the Blackwater, where the feast had been laid, tables and benches and been raised and laid with breads and fruits, as spits turned over fires, ready to be carved.

Tyrek gathered with the rest of Rickard's favourites on one of the benches, as they all boasted of Robb's triumph, while the man himself turned a brighter red and rubbed at the back of his head.

"Gods be good, Robb shall do for them all on the morrow," Harry said, "Lannister, Clegane, Martell: fucking fodder for the Young Wolf."

"Aye," Rickard agreed, "what's a dog when it's confronted with a direwolf, but food. Speaking of, pity the Hound didn't ride. I'd give good money to watch Sandor eat the dirt."

More laughter erupted, as they passed around plates and filled up cups for one another. In addition to himself, Harry and Robb, Lord Beric and Ser Justin joined them, as did the Redwyne twins, the Marcher Lord, Bryce Caron, and Ser Balon Swann.

"A good day," Rickard was boasting, and they winked at one another, knowing that especially with Robb's upset, the bookkeepers had been bombarded with gold: they alone had just managed to cover Rickard's loan from Petyr Baelish, the interest and more so besides. Before long, and if tomorrow went just as well, the Prince would be able to call himself a rich man again. And the good day looked as though it would prove to be a good night. The servants kept the cups filled all night, and Tyrek smiled as Rickard grew content, allowing himself for the first time in months to get truly drunk, so he joined him. Singers came in and played before the King's dais. The fool Moon Boy was summoned, and a juggler kept a stream of flaming clubs turning in the air. Gradually they stood and Harry, feeling his feet itching and emboldened by the drink, insists on dancing and to their amazement succeeds in getting the sister of Lord Bar Emmon to take a turn on his arm. Ser Justin soon followed, prying the widowed Lady Bulwer from a corner. Inspired, Rickard summons his sister Myrcella, and Robb his sister Sansa from the dais beside Prince Joffrey.

Tyrek watched them all, Lord Dondarrion beside him. "A pity your own Lady were not here, my lord. Perhaps you and her could have joined them."

Lord Beric almost looked ashamed of the idea, "Alas, I've never been able to get my feet to work right when it comes to a dance. Besides, she is not my lady as yet. Lady Allyria still resides at Starfall."

"Starfall?" Tyrek suddenly realized, "I didn't know you were to marry a Dayne?"

The Lightning Lord nodded, "Next year. And the little Lord Edric shall come with us back to Blackhaven as my squire when we do."

Tyrek couldn't afford to by coy with him. "What do you know of Ser Gerrold?"

"The Darkstar? Hah!" Lord Beric put down his wine, the taste of the name in his mouth sickening him. "That one would have us all back in the Century of Blood if he could. Still acts as though the Marcher Lords were all still petty kingdoms answerable to no one. Not of Starfall, his seat is High Hermitage and him and his people still raid across the Red Mountains. Three years ago, Lord Peake sent a company into the Mountains after him, not a man came back. Peake has been reliant on the Tarly's to hold the Western Marches secure ever since."

"Any reason he'd have to cross the Prince?"

Beric raised an eyebrow, "You mean for today? That's just his style, though I'll admit the brazenness isn't like him-"

"I mean before today," Tyrek interrupted.

"Before? No, not that I know of. Why?"

"No reason," he lied, watching as Rickard all but skipped over to them.

"Come on, Ty," he said, grabbing him by the arm. "'Cella needs a new partner."

Duly, pressed into service Tyrek did as bid and took the little Princess for a turn, while Rickard went to beg his mother for a dance. Many others had joined the dances by now. Prince Oberyn, his paramour, and the Princess Arianne held the centre of the dance floor, swirling and flourishing round one another in the Dornish fashion. Prince Joffrey had arrived to dance, stealing his betrothed from her brother, the Lady Sansa as red as the rose Ser Loras had gifted her. Harry was teasing a serving girl, and Robb was putting on a brave face as he toured the floor with the elderly Lady Stokeworth.

The music had grown faster with every course that passed, but gradually he became aware of something drowning it out. He turned around suddenly aware that King Robert was shouting.

"NO!" He thundered, and suddenly everyone had turned to look over at him, the music stopping in an instant. The King was in his feet, face red, and wroth with the Queen, sat beside him. "You do not tell me what to do, woman," he screamed at Queen Cersei. "I am king here, do you understand? I rule here, and if I say that I will fight tomorrow, I will fight!"

To her credit, Queen Cersei said not a word, but she was white as fresh parchment, her face so still it might have been carved out of marble. Behind the King, Ser Jaime placed a hand on his shoulder, only for him to wave an arm that caught the White Knight in the stomach with his elbow, King Robert then grabbed Ser Jaime and shoved him against the dais, sending him sprawling on the floor. Tyrek now saw Rickard at the foot of the dais on his mother's side. He moved now, moving to square up to his father and Tyrek felt his breath catch as he realised Rickard's hand was behind his back for his hidden knife, but before Rickard even had chance to vault the table, the Queen's featureless face snapped to her son, with a hand held up which stopped him in his tracks. No one else seemed to see this, their eyes were on the King as he was laughing at Ser Jaime.

"The great knight. I can still knock you in the dirt. Remember that, Kingslayer." He slapped his chest with the jeweled goblet, splashing wine all over his satin tunic. "Give me my hammer and not a man in the realm can stand before me!"

Jaime Lannister rose and brushed himself off. "As you say, Your Grace." His voice was stiff.

Lord Renly came forward, smiling. "You've spilled your wine, Robert. Let me bring you a fresh goblet."

While his brother and Ser Barristan Selmy came forward to take the King in hand, it all seemed to be over. The Queen gathered her skirts around her, and stormed off in silence, servants trailing behind. Tyrek moved forward to grab Rickard, who'd still not moved from beneath the dais, his eyes on his father, but someone was ahead of him. The appearance of Princess Arianne came as a relief, as she touched Rickard's arm and walked him back from the edge.

"Let me kiss you," he heard Rickard say to his Princess as he approached. Though the Princess made to peck his cheek, the Prince stole one from her lips. Before anyone important could notice Tyrek coughed loudly, and the two pulled away from one another.

"Tyrek," Rickard sounded annoyed, but the Princess laid a hand on his cheek that seemed to admonish him.

"You should be more careful, Rick."

"Bugger careful," but a quick glance around made Rickard rethink the idea, as he pointed out the Red Viper watching the three of them.

"You shouldn't have threatened him," Princess Arianne said, looking at her uncle.

"What?" This surprised Tyrek, but Rickard seemed not to notice him at that moment and spoke only to the Princess.

"He told you about that? He also tell you that he offered to buy me off?"

"He wanted to provoke you."

"He succeeded."

"And what did that accomplish?"

Rickard smiled, "It might save his life. He's starring me down instead of the Mountain."

Sensing the Princess's confusion, Tyrek stepped in, "You see Princess, Rickard made a bargain with Lord Eddard to keep the peace for the duration of the Hand's Tourney, including that no blood should come between your uncle and Ser Gregor on account of past grievances."

Rickard puts it simpler, "You want a donkey's attention, you bring a pole down between his ears."

It doesn't stop the Princess pouring scorn on his words, "'Past grievances'?! Is that what you call the murder of women and babes, Lannister?"

Tyrek takes it so that Rickard needn't, but it needs to be said, the Martells need to understand that no one besides them gives a damn for what happened to Princess Elia and Rhaegar's children.

"Ari," Rickard ends up pleading, "Not tonight. I didn't pull my knife; don't you pull one now."

Tyrek left them alone, for Rickard to try and placate the Princess. In the end, he watched them leave together, Rickard escorting her back the Red Keep, and in the end, he ended up leaving alone, back to the Black Hart and his bed, expecting Rickard not long after.

The next morning, Tyrek found himself being rouse early by Harry Hardyng. Cousin Lancel was there for him, slouched in the saddle looking worse for wear. "The King has need of us both," he said impatiently.

"What?"

Lancel did not seem willing to suffer his surprise, "You are still the King's squire you know?"

"You're not serious?"

Rolling his eyes, his cousin said scornfully, "The King is." And he turned his horse about.

Tyrek mounted his horse sleepily and trotted after his hated cousin. As they arrived, the camp was beginning to stir. Fat sausages sizzled and spit over firepits, spicing the air with the scents of garlic and pepper. Young squires hurried about on errands as their masters woke, yawning and stretching, to meet the day. The shields displayed outside each tent heralded its occupant.

"The king means to fight in the melee today," Lancel finally divulged, and Tyrek could not believe it as they neared. The king's pavilion was close by the water, and the morning mists off the river had wreathed it in wisps of grey. It was all of golden silk, the largest and grandest structure in the camp. Outside the entrance, Robert's warhammer was displayed beside an immense iron shield blazoned with the crowned stag of House Baratheon. Tyrek half-hoped that King Robert might have fell asleep back into his cups, instead, the King was roaring.

Tyrek had never had to squire for King Robert before, not properly. He had never done anything more strenuous than pouring the King's wine, and the past year he had been able to beg that off with Rickard's help. Arming the King was more of a melee than any tourney that Tyrek had ever been party to. Lancel and he wrestled with the padding and the plate as King Robert cursed them and drank. Tyrek felt relived when Lord Eddard Stark entered the tent, as they struggled with the breastplate.

"Your Grace," Lancel finally said to him "it's made too small, it won't go."

"Seven hells!" He swore. "Do I have to do it myself? Piss on the both of you. Pick it up. Don't just stand there gaping, Lancel, pick it up!" The King now noticed his Hand. "Look at these oafs, Ned. My wife insisted I take these two to squire for me, and they're worse than useless. Can't even put a man's armor on him properly. Squires, they say. I say they're swineherds dressed up in silk."

Lord Eddard only needed a glance to understand the difficulty. "The boys are not at fault," he told the king. "You're too fat for your armor, Robert."

Robert Baratheon took a long swallow of beer, tossed the empty horn onto his sleeping furs, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and said darkly, "Fat? Fat, is it? Is that how you speak to your king?" He let go his laughter, sudden as a storm. "Ah, damn you, Ned, why are you always right?"

Lancel was looking at him for help when suddenly the King turned on them both again, "You. Yes, both of you. You heard the Hand. The king is too fat for his armor. Go find Ser Aron Santagar. Tell him I need the breastplate stretcher. Now! What are you waiting for?"

Lancel pushed him out of the way to get out of the tent and took off with out a word, almost flattening Ser Barrsitan Selmy as he went. Rather than take off after Lancel, Tyrek decided he would leave him to it, and went straight to the jousting field. When he got there, Rickard's bookkeepers were assembling, and he gave them their orders to disperse and about the crowd when it assembled. After they left, he entered the tent alone and moved to ready Rickard's arms and armour for the tourney. For the melee, the Prince always carried a Morningstar with his shield and kept a sword on his hip when he inevitably discarded the Morningstar. One of Rickard's pauldrons now carried a dent from where Ser Jaime had struck it off when he downed Rickard the day before, but that was not the only issue with it. While King Robert's armour was too small for him on account of his girth, Rickard's was getting too small on account of his height. It had been fitted and crafted for him at Storm's End two years ago, and there were gaps in the shoulders where the metal didn't stretch to meet the breastplate. In a proper battle, a keen eye would find the gap and poke him through the holes – his prince would need a new one soon, but at least he might be able to afford a new suit before too long.

"There you are," Rickard said, as he entered the tent an hour later, "Harry said Lancel came for you this morning."

"The King had need of me. Said he would fight in the melee, and we were to arm him."

"And will he?" Asked Robb Stark, the direwolf Grey Wind entering behind him and the Prince.

Tyrek shrugged, "I believe your father arrived to talk him out of it after I made my escape."

"Good," Rickard announced, seeming relived, "Last thing we need is Fatty constipating the contest."

Horns blew for the day's first joust, "Ready, Robb?" he asked, and when he nodded, he and the Prince helped the heir of Winterfell into his armour, as outside the heralds announced that Prince Oberyn and Ser Jaime would contest the field first. They had Robb armoured but for his helmet, and stepped out to watch the first contest, as both men couched their lances, and the horses broke into a gallop. The Red Viper leaned forward as he rode, his lance rock steady, but Jaime shifted his seat deftly in the instant before impact. Martell's point was turned harmlessly against the golden shield with the lion blazon, while his own hit square. Wood shattered, and the Red Viper reeled, fighting to keep his seat. A ragged cheer went up from the commons.

Despite the excitement, the Red Viper just managed to stay in his saddle. He jerked his mount around and rode back to the lists for the second pass. Jaime Lannister tossed down his broken lance and snatched up a fresh one, jesting with his squire. The Red Viper spurred forward at a hard gallop; the Dornish sand steed was perhaps the fastest horse anywhere near King's Landing and made Martell a smaller target for his opponent. Lannister rode to meet him. This time, when Jaime shifted his seat, the Red Viper shifted with him. Both lances exploded, and by the time the splinters had settled, a riderless blood bay was trotting off in search of grass while Ser Jaime Lannister rolled in the dirt, golden and dented.

Cousin Jaime had to be helped back on his feet, for his ornate lion helmet had been twisted around and dented in his fall, and now he could not get it off. The commons were hooting and pointing, the lords and ladies were trying to stifle their chuckles, and failing, and over it all anyone could have heard King Robert laughing, louder than anyone. Finally, they had to lead the Lion of Lannister off to a blacksmith, blind and stumbling.

By then Ser Gregor Clegane was in position at the head of the lists, and Robb was mounting. They had moved their arms for the day out in front of the tent: the maces, swords, Rickard's morning star, his bow and a quiver of arrows for the archery, and fresh lances. Rickard grabbed one of the lances and held it up for him to take.

"Good luck, my boy," the Prince said, trying not to look so grim as he might have done. Robb nodded and managed a smile before he set off.

Robb's direwolf had take a seat outside, his ears up alert and expecting, golden eyes never leaving Robb. Tyrek watched the beast and Rickard put a hand on it head, which it seemed to allow but made no difference to its mood, still watchful. Behind them, Harry Hardyng came from behind them with Lord Beric Dondarrion.

"We saw the Red Viper paste the Kingslayer." After that silence hung awkwardly in the air, "Is Robb feeling up to it?"

"He didn't say," Tyrek murmured, for Rickard's mouth was a tight sealed line across his face. He supposed they all felt the same, the guts turning knots in anticipation.

They watched as the immense knight and the heir to Winterfell each saluted the King, then moved to opposite ends of the list. Ser Gregor brought his mount to the line, fighting with the reins. And suddenly it began. The Mountain's stallion broke in a hard gallop, plunging forward. Ser Gregor wrenched his shield into position, driving head long, and as soon as it had started Robb Stark was on him, placing the point of his lance just right, and in an eye blink the Mountain was falling. He was so huge that he took his horse down with him in a tangle of steel and flesh.

They heard applause, cheers, whistles, shocked gasps, excited muttering, and over it all the rasping, raucous laughter of the Hound. The Young Wolf reined up at the end of the lists. His lance was not even broken. It might well have been the best tilt of the whole tournament. Yet Tyrek noticed quickly when he went to embrace his cousin that Rickard had made not a sound and had stepped forward in apprehension, and Grey Wind too was on his feet, unsure of everything.

In the middle of the field, Ser Gregor Clegane disentangled himself and came boiling to his feet. Beneath his helmet he was roaring something, curses Tyrek assumed. He wrenched off his helm and slammed it down onto the ground. His face was dark with fury and his hair fell into his eyes. Rickard then seemed to understand what was happening, as he darted backwards and was then pelting down the field with something in his hands, Tyrek still could not understand, nor did Harry or Ser Beric, and they looked at one another in bewilderment.

"My sword," shouted Ser Gregor to his squire, and the boy rushed from beneath the King's pavilion with it out to him. By then his stallion was back on its feet as well.

Then Tyrek suddenly understood. He looked down, urgently gagging out, "Harry, the dog!" After almost a second's hesitation too long, Harry lurched to it and grabbed Grey Wind by the nape, trying to pin and stop it from bolting down the field.

Still, they could all only watch in horror as it began to play out. Gregor Clegane killed the horse with a single blow from his sword of such ferocity that it half severed the animal's neck. The crowd, still cheering, turned to shrieking in a heartbeat. The stallion went to its knees, screaming as it died. By then Gregor was striding down the lists toward Robb, unaware what was happening, his bloody sword clutched in his fist. Rickard was still thundering down the field shouting himself hoarse, "Stop, Clegane! Hold your blade! Hold!" and was brandishing what Tyrek now realised to be his sword, but his words were lost in the uproar. He saw Lord Eddard shouting as well but these words too were drowned out.

Robb was appealing to the royal box, his hand outstretched, "A sword! A sword!", but none was forth coming as the Mountain came upon him. The first swing of the sword came wildly and should have taken Robb clean out the saddle but at the last minute the horse turned and scented the blooded arm arching towards it and reared. The greatsword caught it in the bottom of the throat and more blood sprayed forth over Clegane, as Robb hit his arse from when his mount reared and was dazed on the floor. Again, the sword arched on the screaming horse, and severed the head with a second blow. Free of the breying distraction, Clegane turned on Robb, stabbing clumsily at him, but the Young Wolf was alert now and had raised his sword to redirect the blow. When the sword came for Robb again, at last there was Rickard, who caught the blow, and warned Clegane to still his sword.

The Mountain pulled back for another swing, Rickard grabbed Robb beneath the arm and flung him backward behind him to put himself between the two. Robb struggled and stumbled in his armour and the muddy ground, but the next blow was not aimed at him, and Rickard leapt backward barely able to check the blow, one arm still pushing Robb down and away from him. His sword arm shifted clumsily left, and the two swords clanged, splitting the air. As Ser Gregor's sword continued its flow, as though it had been unincumbered, Rickard shifted his into an arch that struck down the Mountain's chest but had no hope of getting through and merely left a slash down the surcoat, the running hounds of House Clegane now left without tails.

Unable to watch any longer, Tyrek turned. He had half a mind to grab a sword and run after Rickard, but new he'd only be an encumbrance. Instead he grabbed his bow and snatched a hand full of arrows from the quiver, biting down on them all and notching one. "Keep a tight hold on that direwolf, Harry," he tried to say. The last thing he needed was for the direwolf to take off and catch a stray arrow. Both Harry and Lord Beric were struggling with the beast, the former trying to pin him down with the weight of his body, but still Grey Wing struggled, snapping his jaws at them.

Tyrek loosed his notched arrow to check his range. Meanwhile, the Mountain had raised his sword high in the air with bow arms ready to bring down on Rickard, who had his sword raised to catch the blow with one hand, the other behind his back. Before Clegane brought it down however, the Prince nipped forward throwing the full weight of his body at Clegane. It had the effect of a pumpkin catapulted at a castle wall, but it gave Clegane sudden pause and Rickard's left, knife in hand, lashed across his foe's cheek like a scorpion's tail.

Tyrek ran forward and stopped again, loosing another arrow to check his range once more.

At last, Ser Gregor but the slash across his cheek sent the blow askew, and Rickard pirouetted away, swords clanging off one another ineffectually again, Rickard coming away from the bought having left another slash across Clegane's surcoat that cut one of the dogs in half over the middle. The Mountain followed after Rickard and was between him and Robb, but his eyes were now fixed on the Prince.

Tyrek shifted once more and checked his range for the last time.

Though he should have left the field, Robb Stark did not run from the fight. With the Mountain's back to him, and with the voices from the royal pavilion calling after him, he rushed forward and drove the edge of his shield forcefully into the rabid knight's knee. Clegane buckled, and tried to swat at Robb with his sword but couldn't find the reach and Rickard struck out again with his sword, leaving another slash across the Mountain's cheek.

Finally, Tyrek let loose with an arrow now in range and found it mark but splintered itself on the Mountain's spaulder.

Though the Prince ordered him to yield again, Clegane only came at him once more. The Mountain moved faster than Tyrek thought would be possible, not least after the blow to the knee, and was suddenly on his feet and pounding Rickard wielding the greatsword with only one hand. Rickard met the first blow sparingly, one hand still holding his knife, moving backwards. The second blow had him off guard as he tried to back off further still and to put a gap between him and Clegane.

With his heart in his throat, Tyrek felt his heart in his throat as the arrow was notched but he hesitated, they were too close together, and at this distance could countenance hitting Rickard if the arrow strayed, especially with Clegane moving now so fast.

Between the third blow, Rickard had dropped his knife and grasped his sword with two hands and meet the blow, but there was too much force behind Clegane for Rickard to compete. Tyrek saw as the fourth blow Rickard was moving into head long flight, he was prepared to put his back to Clegane and run head long away to get ground between them, but as he began to turn the fourth blow struck and Rickard's sword flew out of his hand.

"RICKARD!" Tyrek tore his throat out shouting, and he could only hear screaming.

Ser Gregor Clegane had the Prince by the throat, and for the first time Tyrek had known him, his brother looked small. Like a ragdoll as the armoured fist lifted him into the air. He's going to die, impaled on Clegane's greatsword. What will become of Westeros without Rickard?

But Rickard was a scrapper and as the greatsword loomed, his foot lashed at it. Knocking it aside for just a moment, it gave him the space he'd needed, and his other foot kicked off the Mountain's chest and letting him slip out of Clegane's grasp and pounding his full body on the ground. As he did so Robb Stark was there, his shield colliding again with the back of the giant's leg, bringing him again to one knee. Reacting as if on instinct, Tyrek now took his final shot.

The arrow sped through the air and speared it at the crux of his arm, flailing with the greatsword. Hearing Ser Gregor roar in pain was as satisfying a sound that Tyrek had ever heard that he barely noticed the wind rushed by his leg, and he realised that the direwolf was loose. Rickard too heard the howl of pain, and scrabbled to grab the greatsword, as did Robb Stark, and the three wrestled as the Mountain again struggled to his feet.

Of course, in hindsight, had he known that the direwolf could knock down the Mountain, he never would have let Harry hold him back. But what a sight, Grey Wind just appears like a blur launching himself through the air paws outstretched and tips the Mountain over flat on his back. Of course, it doesn't stop there, and once the Mountain is down, Grey Wind is on top of him teeth trying to grab his neck to tear and rip his throat. But even the direwolf's teeth cannot cut through the steel gorget, though that doesn't stop him trying, or from cutting his claws on his face. For a time, the only one screaming is Gregor Clegane until the voice of King Robert smashed through the air.

"STOP THIS MADNESS," he boomed, "IN THE NAME OF YOUR KING!"

"Grey Wind, heel," Robb's voice cut through to the wolf over the screams.

And as obedient as any hunting hound, he stopped and shifted, padding over to his master. When Ser Gregor rose for the final time, his face was bloodied, and observed the King on his feet and the twenty swords behind him – he went from the field without a word.

Like Rickard before him, Tyrek ran down the field his Prince and his friend, discarding his bow as the Prince retrieved his knife. Robb had managed to find proper footing and stood his full height and shook Rickard by the hand. By the time, he reached them both, panting, they were each smiling and laughing, turning to look as him as he came up to them.

"I knew I should have put Robb as favourite, eh, Ty?" The Prince cackled.

And by Gods if wouldn't have punched him, but for the tremor in his hand.

"That was good timing with that arrow," Robb said, and he almost suspects that they had it all planned between them.

"He nearly killed you," is all that Tyrek can bring himself to say, and its not clear about which one he's talking about.

"I had it all in hand," jested Robb, pulling his helmet from his head.

Rickard erupted in laughter, "Oh I could feel him quaking when your arse hit the ground."

Others began to crowd in on them then. The White Swords of the Kingsguard forming a cordon around them, as Lord Eddard Stark and King Robert moved in.

"Fat lot of good you lot were," Rickard complained grabbing a fist full of his uncle Jaime's white cloak and wiping the mud from his hands. The Kingslayer snatched the cloth back and ruffled at his nephew's hair.

Lord Eddard grabbed his son and started admonishing him, his face as white as his sigil. But Robb protested and pulled back, only for the Hand to grab at him once more in earnest. It was like watching a toddler and nursemaid.

"You," the King said, eyes on his son.

"Me?" The smile on Rickard's face went as though a candle had been snuffed out. Without thinking, Tyrek stepped forward with shoulder in front of Rickard but not blocking the King from him completely. The moment dragged and as last the Demon of Trident allowed a smile to betray him.

"You dropped your sword," he said, offering it, and the Prince took it without a word. "That was well done." And he laid he vast, meaty hand on his son's head, nodding in contentment. Then he glanced at Robb, "Leave him, Ned." And when his Hand reluctantly released him, "You fine as well, boy?" When Robb timidly dipped his head in a solitary nod, the King seemed satisfied. "Took some loyalty from you both, that." The took the measure of both youths before him, as he ordered them, "Kneel."

Tyrek stepped away then, he understood at once. But both Rickard and Robb were oblivious, his cousin looking at him as he moved away, as though he expected him to say or read it on his face. Slowly both knelt before the King with heads bow, who waved a hand for Ser Barristan Selmy to come forward, as he himself shifted to put an arm around his old friend Ned. As the Lord Commander drew his sword and took the King's place and laid it on Robb's shoulder.

"In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave. In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just…" Tyrek had to choke on a laugh as Rickard swore out loud when the sword shifted to his shoulder and Ser Barristan continued. "In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the young and innocent. In the name of the Maid, I charge you to protect all women…" On it went, until the greatest knight in the Seven Kingdom's finally asked of them both, "Do you Robb of House Stark, and you Rickard of House Baratheon, both swear before the eyes of gods and men to defend those who cannot defend themselves, to protect all women and children, to obey your captains, your liege lord, and your king, to fight bravely when needed and do such other tasks as are laid upon you, however hard or humble or dangerous they may be?"

"I swear."

"Then rise as Knights." The old man commanded and tapped them each on the opposite shoulder.

Together they stood to the cheers of the Commons and the Lords, a hail of cheers. As the space opened around them, Tyrek watched them both begin to bask abashed in the praise and was seized by a powerful notion. Pushing his way past Ser Barristan seized each of them by the hand lifted high in the air, shouting, "Champions!" And the people erupted even louder, the wave of noise blasting them all in the face.

"I'll never forgive you for this, Tyrek," Robb said, finding his effort to wrench his hand down a futile gesture.

Rickard merely stood forcing a grin, "Yeah. When Oberyn Martell comes for his gold, I tell him to come beat it out of you instead."

They could only one another at that moment as the storm of applause of cheers raged amidst praise of the Prince, "Rickard! Rickard! Hail, the Black Hart!" and some for, "Bless Robb! Glory to Robb the Young Wolf!"

The cheers carried them all the way to the Royal Pavillion, Tyrek forcing both of their arms aloft all the way. They needn't have worried about the Red Viper, as they watched him, in the face of the support for Robb and Rickard, dip his head and raise a cup to them. For Tyrek, that sight was the sweetest of the day, knowing his Prince had bested the Dornishman without a drop of either of their blood spilt.