Author's Note: Hello again!
Thanks for all the favorites, follows and reviews! We are as of this posting 2 shy of 400 follows and 19 shy of 300 favorites, so thank you all so much for that support! We also broke the 150 review mark, so double thanks for that seeing as it's my favorite thing to see haha. Y'all truly do rock, and I hope I can make this story worthy of your support.
First bit takes its location and a theme from a deleted Twyin scene from the show. It's a pretty good scene that I have no idea why they cut, so if you're curious go on youtube and simply type in 'tywin deleted scene' and it should be early in the results!
Make sure to check out the second author's note at the end of the chapter!
As always, I hope you enjoy and review this update.
"Not that I'm complaining, but why are we here?"
"It's fishing, Tyrek. We're here to catch fish."
He didn't have to look at his cousin to see the unimpressed look on his face. "I know why we're here, Damon, but why are we here?"
The heir to the Iron Throne turned from where he sat at the edge of the small, secluded cove beneath the walls of the Red Keep, fishing line in hand. "You'll have to put that in Westerosi."
Tyrek Lannister, Lord of Hayford and the Prince's closest friend, cocked an eye at him, re-baiting the hook of his own line. "You hate fishing."
"I don't hate fishing."
"Yes you do. You said that very thing dozens of time on campaign. Don't make me fetch Bella; she'll back my statement and you know it."
Damon narrowed his eyes at the younger knight, trying to find an answer for several moments before eventually giving up and looking back to his line. "Okay, so it isn't my favorite pastime. But we're here now, so shut up and fish. Besides, you don't even know where Bella is."
"Chataya's."
This time Damon's glare was genuine. "How the hells do you know that?"
Tyrek shrugged, trying and failing to keep the smile off his face. "Oh, I have my ways."
"You saw her didn't you."
"She's my friend too, Your Grace, and you always spoke so highly of Chataya's."
Damon looked back to the cove, bronze face flushing red in embarrassment. "I never did any such thing."
"Perhaps not in so many words, but anyone who spends any lengthy amount of time with you learns to hear more from what you don't say than from what little you do." Tyrek hesitated. "I didn't see her in that sense, so you're aware; I just bumped into her on my way back with one of the others."
Damon couldn't help but chuckle at that despite his early embarrassment. "It wouldn't have mattered if you did, Tyrek. It's her occupation."
"I know you actually mean that, but still...I didn't."
"Noted."
The two men—one six and ten, the other half a year younger, but both already bloodied knights—returned to the fishing. Tyrek wasn't wrong; Damon hated fishing. Some men found it relaxing but the Prince just found it tedious and unsatisfying. You spent hours staring at water and a small line, and oftentimes you didn't return with anything but an aching back and half-blinded eyes. There were thousands of things the Prince preferred to do, or at least used to. Training, reading, women...even hunting, which he hadn't been since well before his father died, would have been preferable.
But there was a problem with all of those things. Before, when life at the Red Keep had been the only thing the Prince really knew, he could be content with just those things. Damon loved well-written books and trained for both enjoyment and the need to always improve his skills, and there was nothing he liked more than a woman, but all had lost a hint of there appeal since his return from the field. Well, the last bit hasn't, but I can only spend so much time in Chataya's without raising suspicion, and Jocelyn Swyft left to visit her mother's family on the Claw two days past. All of these happenings added up to one undeniable, awful truth.
Damon Baratheon was bored. Horribly, horribly bored.
And he'd only been in King's Landing for little more than a fortnight.
He missed the warfront.
He found that an interesting thought, one that didn't make sense on the outside but had the undeniable ring of truth to it when he admitted it to himself. Damon was not, in his own opinion, of the same vicious nature as his twin. The Prince got no enjoyment in taking lives, though by the Battle of the Blackwater he was so well versed in it that it hardly crossed his mind anymore and certainly not his conscience. He still found the war to be based upon stupidity and foolish pride, as well as the reprehensible greed and envy of his Baratheon uncles. All of it could and should have been avoided, and Damon never let himself forget that if he had only been stronger and not so bloody awkward he might have been able to do just that.
But despite all of that, and despite wishing he had had the strength to avoid the conflict they were now engaged in, Damon couldn't deny he was glad for it. The Prince could feel the differences in himself, both physical and mental. He was stronger now than he had ever been in his life in both senses, and while he still hated beyond hate talking to those he didn't truly know and still found himself second-guessing his words and actions in personal settings, he knew he wasn't the same weak, scared boy he had been moons ago.
He still didn't like talking but he was certainly better at it than he had been, and while he always felt like an idiot after speaking in private with others he found himself doing it more and more. His time in command of the force at Harroway had strengthened his ability to give orders—command had more of the expected structure he relied on anyway, and had gone from being very, very hard to merely difficult—and Bella and Tyrek had broken into his confidence in two vastly different but effective ways. He trusted them both almost implicitly, though the only person he trusted absolutely was his uncle Jaime.
If it wasn't for the absence of the man he idolized, life at war was almost perfect.
Camp life was boring as well, horribly so, but it was a different kind of boring than the boring Damon faced now. On the front there was always the underlying current of life or death—you never knew when an arrow from the woods would find your heart, or screaming knights and levies would burst through your camp with fire and sword. Training while surrounded by the tents and fortifications of war had a different feel than training while surrounded by high, safe walls. Even lying with a woman was different, more exotic and exciting in odd but wonderful ways.
And then there was battle.
Again, Damon didn't believe himself bloodthirsty, but something about battle called to the Prince. The combination of terror, fear and even joy came together to almost nothing, in a way Damon couldn't describe. He felt nothing at all on the field, nothing but drive and will to kill those trying to kill him, yet at the same time he felt every emotion he had ever known and the undeniable, fierce pull of life itself. He hated it yet loved it, wished it were at an end yet craved for more. And he desperately wished he were at the front now.
If it were up to Damon he would be, but upon his return to King's Landing, however heroic it had been, that decision had left his hands. He had escaped to join the fight the first time because his mother hadn't been expecting him to do so, but now she was both expectant and prepared. Damon looked away from his line—the damn thing hadn't been touched by a fish all day anyway—and glanced over his shoulder thirty or so yards behind himself and Tyrek. Ser Balon Swann, newly appointed to the Kingsguard after the death of Ser Preston Greenfield during the bread riots Damon had thankfully missed while on campaign, stood in his white armor, keeping an eye on the Prince. It was ostensibly for protection, and that had a layer of truth he supposed, but Balon, Damon and Tyrek all three knew he was also there to make sure the Prince didn't make a second run for the front. Everywhere the Prince went one of the Kingsguard accompanied him, even if it was within the walls of the Red Keep.
It was vexing. Both because he had had to admit his unprincely activities on the Street of Silk to Ser Balon and swear the man to silence, but also because if it weren't for his mother's precautions Damon would have done just what she was trying to prevent him from doing. At least she openly admits it. I respect her for that even if I'd like to throttle her throat.
So here the Prince sat, fishing in a protected cove while over three quarters of the army he had served with were marching back to the Westerlands to drive Robb Stark and his raiding Northmen out. Damon was secretly shocked his grandfather hadn't permitted Damon to go and thusly overruled Cersei, but for reasons of his won Tywin had not. The deep, unpleasant side of Damon that he kept well hidden even from himself whispered that the old/new Hand of the King was worried the second son of Robert would grow too popular through more exploits on the battlefield, causing potential strife in Joffrey's rule. Damon's ugly side said it would, but his true self despised the thought. Joffrey may be cruel and unfit, but he was the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms. Damon neither deserved nor wanted the crown.
Yet, as he pulled his line in and realized the bait had been stolen while his mind was elsewhere, he would almost take the responsibilities of being King if it meant he had bloody something to do. Something other than fishing, that is.
"Where is the King?"
"Your brother is holding court."
Damon turned his head to look at his mother's sharp profile, a touch of anger in both his eyes and voice. "His future Queen is entering his city, and you're telling me he is 'holding court'?"
Cersei looked first at him, then glanced around them pointedly. Damon knew what she was getting at, but he didn't agree with her concerns. He and his mother stood at the head of a royal procession, the street leading from the River Gate already cleared behind them by rows of Lannister men-at-arms and goldcloaks. The only people in feasible earshot were Ser Loras and Ser Borros Blount, and Damon had spoken quietly enough that neither could have heard him. And Tommen, who stood beside Damon with his elder brother's hand resting on his shoulder, but the boy was too focused on the array of knights and soldiers to take notice of what his mother and brother were saying. "Don't give me that, mother. You and I both know grandfather is the one holding court; Joffrey has no need to be there beside saving face, and anyone with eyes knows better anyway."
The Queen finally focused her full attention on him, eyes both angry and astonished. Damon reflected both emotions in his own; anger at Joffrey for not being here to meet his to-be-bride, and astonishment at himself for speaking so rashly to his mother. Her voice was sharp when she spoke, though she managed to keep it as low as his. "I will hear no such talk, Damon. He is your rightful king."
His anger rose again at that, but so did his chagrin. The second helped temper the first. "Aye, he is my king, but Margaery is soon to be my queen. More importantly, she is going to be his. Why is he not here to greet her?"
"I told you."
"You told me the diplomatic answer. Now tell me the truth. Please." He added the last on barely in time, chiding himself again for the sharpness of his tone. Cersei's eyes narrowed, but Damon knew his mother wasn't overly angry at him. She'd expressed joy in his shift from meek to merely shy, and while the Lioness would not appreciate backtalk from her son she would be glad he was building courage to do so.
At least Damon told himself that was her thought process. It was possible she was just plain pissed at his insolence, in which case he was in for a few very unpleasant verbal lashings once back at the Keep.
Cersei held his gaze for a long moment, emerald on emerald, before returning her eyes to the gates that would soon admit the Tyrell procession. She didn't speak for a moment so long that Damon thought she had resolved to ignore him before her voice came out even lower than it had before. "Margaery must be made to come to her King. All the way."
"She's already crossed hundreds of miles."
His mother ignored that. "All the way to her King, wherever it is he decides to be. The Tyrells are already far to comfortable with their new power at court. Loras in the Kingsguard, Mace on the Small Council alongside several of his chief bannermen...they are showing too much power. The populace need to see the Lannister's are in charge, not the Tyrells."
Damon almost corrected her, what with the Baratheons being in charge, then realized she was right. Tywin, her, Tyrion...the Lannisters ran the Kingdoms no matter what house Joffrey belonged to. Still, Damon nearly scoffed at the fact that Margaery hadn't even stepped inside the gates of King's Landing before she and her family were engulfed in the politics that dominated the city. But that is the nature of power I suppose. Those who have it strive to keep it and show they're keeping it, while those who get a taste always want more.
Even if he found the excuse ridiculous and noted the machinations of Tywin and his mother all over it, he couldn't deny some truth behind the thought process. The Tyrell name, or more precisely Margaery Tyrell's name, was already on every peasant's tongue in the city. Almost from the moment the union between Joffrey and Margaery had been announced wagonloads of food had been arriving in the city, distributed to the poor and lowly who so recently had been so hungry they had started riots over a few crumbs of bread. Each wagon was delivered 'as a gift from Lady Margaery', given in her name and thusly endearing the girl from Highgarden to the smallfolk.
It was a brilliant move, Damon had to admit, and very, very effective. Still, Damon couldn't help but point out that the Tyrell's had originally sided with Renly, and thusly the reasons for the starvation in Joffrey-held King's Landing was mostly on them in the first place. The fertile, extensive Reach produced nearly half of the food in all of Westeros, and shipments from there had been vital to the towering population of King's Landing since the moment the city had been built. If they hadn't originally sided with his uncle in an attempt to make Margaery queen there would have been no starvation in the first place.
Not that that would ever cross the mind of the smallfolk. As Bella had taught him, all they cared about were warm places to sleep, healthy children, and enough food to feed them, and would swear their eternal loyalty to whatever ruler gave them those three things. And, at the moment, that ruler was very clearly Margaery Tyrell, although she had no true ruling title in the city beyond the King's betrothed.
Despite all of this Damon still found Joffrey's absence absurd, but because of it he let the matter lie and joined his mother in looking toward the River Gate. There was also another reason for his anger he knew, beyond what he allowed himself to admit. If Joffrey were here, he probably wouldn't have to be, and even if he were he'd have a minor, unimportant role. But without his royal twin here, it fell to Damon and Tommen to help his mother make the Tyrell procession welcome. So, Damon.
He missed Myrcella fiercely. His sister would be near unrecognizable by the time he saw her again he knew, for Tommen had been so different when Damon returned to the Keep that he had hardly recognized him. But Myrcella was in Dorne, sent there by Tyrion to protect her from Stannis and the Starks. Damon was glad the dwarf had recovered, but he was angry all the same for taking his reunion with Myrcella away from him. He'd hoped she would have accompanied the Dornish party that arrived a few days ago with Oberyn Martell, but she had not.
She would have loved this moment. What's more, she would have done well in it. Damon wouldn't. His stomach was about to chew a hole through abdomen with dread already, and the Tyrell's weren't even at the gates yet.
When the first banners of golden rose on green field did file through the gate, led by an honor guard of Reachman knights in colorful, expensive armor, Damon straightened. He was dressed in Baratheon black and gold, newly made clothes; both he and Tyrek had found the wardrobes they had left behind too small for the bulkier, taller forms they had returned with. His lion-pommeled sword, it's sheath crimson and gold, hung at his side, the only comfortable thing he was wearing. Damon missed his armor nearly as much as the warfront, despite it too pinching places he didn't want pinched. His head and face were bare, showing golden locks cut short and golden skin darkened by days training under the sun.
I hope I make a glorious sight, for the Seven know I'm about to make some pitiful sounds.
The Tyrell procession of knights and men-at-arms formed two columns on either side of the street, much as the Lannister forces and goldcloaks were doing behind Damon and the rest of the royal party. More wagons of food proceeded them, and Damon heard the steady cry of the smallfolk—they had been lining the streets since early morning to see the girl they already adored—rise in volume and intensity at the sight. Damon chuckled quietly to himself at the move, quietly applauding the Tyrell's for never letting the peasants forget what they were doing for them.
"Is that Lady Margaery's carriage?" Tommen pointed a chubby hand at a brilliant, white and green contraption coming through the gates to rapturous applause. He noted, for the thousandth time, that Tommen's hadn wasn't nearly as chubby as it used to be-his younger brother was growing up already, much quicker than Damon had.
He nodded, ruffling Tommen's hair. "Indeed it is." He smiled down at the younger Baratheon even as the fear in his gut grew, knowing he was about to be forced to carry out the sort of duty he abhorred.
The first woman to exit the carriage after it pulled even with the royal party was not at all Margaery, the reputed beauty of the entire south. She was old, wrinkled, and small, with some sort of...hat?...covering her ears and forehead. But when she set foot on the ground, assisted by two very, very tall guardsmen, and laid her eyes on Damon, he knew two things right away.
First, this was Olenna Redwyne Tyrell, the Queen of Thorns. Second, he was absolutely no match for her.
In classic Damon style, he proved that quickly.
Cersei stepped forward, and only years of practiced protocol made Damon follow, hand lightly urging Tommen to come along. "Lady Olenna," their mother said, "welcome to King's Landing."
Olenna hardly even acknowledged Cersei, eyes not leaving Damon. "You're a fair bit more handsome than I had heard, King Joffrey, but you look like a scared child. Come now, I am old but not poisonous."
Damon froze for a moment, stumbling over the few words he could bring forth. "Lady Tyrell, I'm not...I mean."
Her shrewd eyes dropped to his sword, then lightened with understanding. "Ah, you're the younger twin, the swordsman my grandsons wrote of. Damon, was it? Garlan told me they call you the Daring. I don't see how a man who can hardly speak to a harmless old woman could have such a nickname."
Damon was scrambling for something—anything—to say when another voice cut in. "Come now, grandmother; do not be so rude to my future goodbrother."
The Prince, thankful for the rescue he so badly needed, looked to the new voice, and felt blood rush places it didn't need to.
They were right. Margaery Tyrell is beautiful.
Deep brown eyes, full of mirth, looked up into his emerald ones. A pretty smile adorned a prettier face, flanked by cascading dark brown hair. Damon nearly gave her a once over, but years of fighting public impropriety—and those eyes—kept him from it. He didn't have to look her over to see her slender yet womanly figure in a dress of dark Tyrell green. Damon had seen many pretty women in his days, both clothed and unclothed, but he knew without doubt that today he had seen the fairest of them all.
And she is going to be my goodsister. How wonderful.
Tommen, sweet Tommen, saved him. His younger brother stepped forward, bowing slightly to Margaery and smiling at her shyly. "Welcome, Lady Margaery."
Those brown eyes left Damon after a moment longer to return Tommen's greeting with glee, and Damon felt the trance break. He bowed his own. "Indeed, welcome."
Olenna spoke again. "At least the youngest has some sense of propiety to him. I daresay the middle is only good at swinging his swords."
He felt a spike of deep embarrassment and slight irritation at the statement, although he knew Olenna Tyrell had him pegged correctly. A strong voice came out of nowhere, however, surprising himself, Olenna and Cersei all three. "I'm good at more than swinging my swords, Lady Tyrell, but it is what I do best. I leave the diplomacy to the King, who eagerly awaits you and the Lady Margaery at the Red Keep."
Cersei barely kept her shock off of her face. Olenna raised an eyebrow. Damon openly gaped at his own clearly delivered statement.
"See, grandmother," Margaery chimed in with a laugh, causing Damon to look back at her. It was far to easy to look at her. "You need only give him a chance."
Damon tried to find something clever to say, but his mind had gone blank again as it always did and the discomfort he had lived with all his life returned to his stomach. He gaped like a fish under her gaze for a moment before he merely inclined his head, Queen Cersei stepping in for a second rescue and taking over the rest of the greetings.
Several other Reach women had filed out of the carriage, each of them prettier than the last. Several men of standing introduced themselves, Damon shaking hands with several. All the while the smallfolk cried for Lady Margaery, who smiled and waved to their delight as Damon tried not to look at her.
Damon followed the protocol decently well once the effect of seeing Margaery and being lashed by Olenna's wit had worn off, but he was never more thankful than when the short greeting was over and the Tyrell's returned to their carriage. Cersei and his brother returned to their own and Damon to the black palfrey he had ridden, taken a position at the head of the procession alongside Sers Loras, Balon, Garlan and Ser Thaddeus Leygood, who had commanded the Tyrell party from Highgarden to here. The Golden Prince led the procession through streets of euphoric smallfolk, hearing them cry 'Margaery, Margaery' over and over.
Damon was thinking it to, mostly for reasons it was shameful to admit but he was forcing himself to come to terms with, but also in worry. He didn't like the idea of so lovely a creature falling into the hands of his brother, and then didn't like the idea that he didn't like the idea. He knew nothing of Margaery beyond her being physically attractive, even if it was enough so to temporarily stun him. She could well be as bad as his brother, or worse, although worse than Joffrey was hard to imagine. She had been married to his uncle Renly after all, consummated or not, and was only coming to Joffrey now that her previous bid for a crown was gone. He knew nothing, and certainly couldn't judge her character on her pretty face.
That's what he told himself, over and over and over.
By the time the procession reached the Red Keep, Damon realized his past with women, where he had allowed himself to pursue every unattached one he took a fancy to, was going to cause him no small amount of trouble. He may not have been proud of it, but he had felt no worry that it would ever come back to haunt him when it came to women he couldn't have.
He was wrong.
But surely, despite that past, Damon, who was nervous and awkward and had thusly become hesitant to trust anyone or anything, wouldn't find himself wanting to trust a woman based solely on her looks, would he? He was fully aware of how stupid a woman could make a man, seeing it in himself time and time again. Damon at least knew the weakness for women was there, and that meant he could control it couldn't he? He had always told himself he would not be a slave to a pretty face no matter there standing or lack thereof.
He'd been wrong about that too, apparently, for if he wasn't careful that is exactly what he was going to become to Margaery Tyrell.
He was going to spend the foreseeable future swimming in some very dangerous waters.
A/N: So there's that!
This story has had more underlying sexual themes than anything else I've written, so I figure I'd best repeat something I mentioned in a previous work for any readers new to my work out there. While I hint at it a lot and leave little to the imagination in some instances (particularly in this story since it has effects on Damon's character and past/future relationships), I will never write explicit sexual content. I realize that that is almost expected in this fandom due to the base material, and I am certainly not downing authors who do write it or readers who want to read that sort of explicit element, because to each their own. But it is simply something I myself will not be doing.
It's a big part of game of thrones I realize, but I'll only use hints of it for characterization and to occasionally make myself laugh. Just letting y'all know, in case that helps you decide to stick around or decide to leave. As I said, to each their own!
I always love to hear your thoughts, especially about characterization since that's what my stories seem to focus on most haha. I hope you'll let me know what you think of Damon and the rest of the story so far, love or hate!
Y'all rock.
Kerjack