Author's Note: Me again guys, once again sorry this took so long. I hope you are staying safe out there, and I hope you enjoy and review this update! Coming in hot off the presses so let me know if you notice any major errors. Y'all rock.

You could see the Wall for days before you reached it. You could see the giants nearly as long.

A slight exaggeration. Slight.

Lord Tyrek Lannister of Hayford Hall, a castle he had been to perhaps a dozen times at most, glanced over at his friend, seated atop a bay charger to Tyrek's right. The King of the Iron Throne looked impassive, peering at the distant Wall and Castle Black, and the thousands upon thousands of wildlings camped around it. Though at this distance it all appeared as a great blob of distant brown with a background of white and icy blue, he had no doubt it was a forest of furs and rope and campfires, similar to the one they had destroyed previously. Except larger. A lot larger. Meaning a lot more wildlings and, at least in Tyrek's mind, a lot more giants.

And I hate giants.

It was a new hatred, but it may well be his most deep-felt. He was not too proud to admit a lot of that was fear, as he was terrified of the creatures.

There had been only one in the band of wildlings they'd scattered, afterwards identified as having splintered off from Mance Rayder under the leadership of Varamyr Sixskins. But Tyrek had seen that singular giant in action, during the second charge at the heels of Grey Wind. It had been trying to kill Ser Balon Swann, swinging the dead body of a horse—Damon's horse—like a club down at the man in white. It had been terrifying for a multitude of reasons, ranging from its size to the effortless way it wielded over a thousand pounds to the fact that Tyrek had actually recognized the poor creature as his friend's mount, his mind assaulted with the worst possible scenarios. Add to that that it had succeeded in killing Ser Balon with a wrenching of its hands, tragically mere moments before help could arrive, and Tyrek felt both his fear and his hate justified.

But Balon got him. The last thing he did as the giant crushed him was split its massive skull with his morning star.

Tyrek again glanced at his king. He knew Damon struggled to communicate and struggled to show…anything, really, but he had liked Balon Swann. Tyrek had liked him too, and the death of a man both young knights had grown close to had sank the last nail of the reality of war into his mind. To the outside world Damon had taken it without blinking, but Tyrek liked to think he knew better; for someone as good at killing people in battle as Damon was, he had had very few close to him be killed in battle. It had rattled the young monarch, despite appearances.

But the king was getting better at those, as evidenced by the calm and clear tone of his voice when he spoke. "Plenty to go around. I can't even hazard a guess as to their numbers."

Robb Stark, seated on Damon's opposite side, grunted in agreement, Addam Marbrand and Greatjon Umber nodding. The last of their party, Bedwyck the Giant, snorted out a laugh. "They be more than you or I ever fought combined, Your Grace."

Damon stared on for a while longer, then looked to the black brother. "And you're positive he could still be alive?"

Bedwyck shrugged. "Jon Snow was sent to parlay with Mance by Janos Slynt and Alliser Thorne. Whatever talking they done didn't end up doing much, as the next day the wildlings attacked again. Two days later they broke through, and only a few of us made it out. That's all I know." He shrugged again. "We assumed he was dead. Mayhaps he wasn't. Snow was tight up with a wildling girl who died when a raiding party attacked from the south. Rumor was him and Mace was friendly. Mayhaps he jumped ship."

Robb sounded much like a direwolf when he snarled at the small man. "Jon wouldn't. He's a Stark."

Despite being all of five feet tall and slightly built in comparison to the just shy of six feet and broad form of Robb, Bedwyck didn't look the least perturbed. "The Watch can do things to a man, not all of 'em good. And his name was Snow, last I recall."

"Peace, Robb." Damon spoke softly but firmly, and while Robb clearly wanted no such thing he opted to listen. "And you, Greatjon." Umber, redder even than Robb at the mention of possible dishonor in the Stark bloodline, clearly didn't give a hang about Damon's order, but acquiesced when Robb shot him a meaningful glance. Damon's command of the Northerner's was still sorting itself out. They respected his ability with a sword; rumor was they had even before the truce, particularly after he survived their focused attempt on his life. His efforts at Riverrun to save the Riverlander, as well as Sansa's championing of his treatment of her, also painted him in a brighter light.

Joffrey darkened it, by virtue of killing Ned and abusing Sansa and being, well, Joffrey. And a downside to their respect for Damon's blademanship was what had earned it; more than one solider with a dead brother or cousin eyed the king with hate. Damon needed Robb Stark to keep his people in line, and Robb hadn't let him down.

Yet.

Tyrek liked Stark, he did, especially since his wolf had saved the king's life at Last Lake, but he didn't quite trust him yet. Tyrek had never had a crown and didn't care that he never would, but he imagined they would be hard things to surrender once you possessed them.

Seven hells, I sound like Tywin.

As it was, he spoke up to help move along from the potential strife. "We could probably slaughter many if we charged as we did at Lost Lake, but their possession of the Wall and Castle Black make things more difficult."

"I doubt the wildlings have much experience on defending a castle." Stark shrugged. "Then again, it doesn't take much knowledge to hide behind a fortification and shoot arrows over the top of it."

"And lances do nothing against stone," Marbrand chimed in in agreement.

Damon, never having looked away from the camp in that very Damon way of his, said nothing for a while longer before speaking again. "We couldn't kill all of them, no matter how superior our men and arms are to theirs." A pause, and when he spoke again there was a hitch to his voice. "And I have had enough of women and children dying for my taste." He turned his bay to face Tyrek and the others. "We won't be charging."

There was another elongated pause as the northerners waited for Damon to continue. When they realized he wouldn't, the Greatjon filled the silence as only he could. "Then what do you suggest we do if not attack?"

The king looked to the Greatjon, then Stark, then Tyrek and back again. "The same thing that landed us all here. I suggest we talk."

The Rose of Highgarden dismounted from the horse hired in White Harbor in the courtyard of Winterfell, her body screeching in protest from the abuse of constantly riding these last few days. Combine that with the fact that she had spent those same days living in a tent much smaller than her usual accommodations, and days before that being tossed around on the Narrow Sea between Maidenpool and White Harbor, and Margaery was admittedly not at her best. She felt sore, exhausted and filthy. And it was bloody cold. Margaery couldn't quite stop the shiver that racker her body for a moment, and she imagined she looked like a bedraggled scullery maid turning blue and frostbitten.

So when Sansa Stark stepped into the courtyard, looking exquisitely put together and even prettier than Margaery remembered, she could admit her normally unassailable confidence took a small hit. Nevertheless she smiled as brightly as she could and called a greeting. "Lady Sansa! The North suits you; you look radiant!"

It was unfortunately true. Sansa, when Margaery had last seen her—not counting her entrance into the trial alongside the king—had been a worn, scared girl in southron silk. The Sansa of the present, striding towards the Tyrell party with a white-haired man and a maester flanking her, was a confident woman in northern wool and fur. The Stark direwolf was emblazoned proudly on the bosom of her black dress, and her hair was no longer in a high southern style but instead a single northern braid. Instead of moving like a shadow in an attempt to not be seen, as she had done in King's Landing, she moved with the grace and poise of a woman at ease in and in command of her surroundings.

Is this the Sansa that Damon has had in his camp all these moons?

Concern about the threat the northern girl posed was renewed.

Oblivious—probably—to Margaery's thoughts, Sansa smiled smally. "Lady Margaery, it is good to see you again." The taller noble came to a stop in front of Margaery, both curtsied the other, and then embraced.

She peered up at the other girl as they parted. "I wasn't lying my dear, the cold has done you wonders."

Sansa's smile neither faded nor grew. "It is good to home. Though I wonder why you are here, though please do not take that as a slight. I am very pleased to see you, merely surprised."

How honest do I be here? The question had crossed her mind many times on her flight north. Did she tell the truth as it was, that she was all but chasing the king down in an attempt to make him marry her? That sounded pathetic even to her own ears, although it was more or less what she was doing. Did she lie and say that the king had requested her? Probably an unwise move for a multitude of reasons. She didn't know how close Robb and Damon had gotten since the peace, and though she doubted they had become confidants—it was Damon after all—she did know that Sansa and Robb were. Mayhaps she had some insight already?

Another shiver prompted her to stall. "I am here to get warm, Lady Sansa. And perhaps speak with you later."

The northerner nodded in understanding. "Of course." She turned to the white-haired, older man. "Maester Luwin, could you please prepare accommodations for Lady Margaery, her cousins and Ser Loras?" She turned back to Margaery. "I'm afraid you are but a few of many visitors to Winterfell these days. Your rooms may not be what you are used to. In that regard, your men will have to camp outside our walls. Ser Rodrik, could you please escort them to a suitable location?"

The girl from Highgarden had noticed the bustle of the capitol of the north. Outside her walls was a near city of tents, both well made and poor, with dozens of bonfires casting smoke into the sky and hundreds of smallfolk huddling around them. Men at arms bearing the insignias of their lords—the giant of Umber, white sun of Karstark and flayed man of Bolton were just a few among many—were camped around the growing refugees, an expanding defensive perimeter. Margaery imagined the families of those lords to be among those staying within the walls.

As Loras went with Rodrik Cassell to sort out his men and Elinor and Megga fell into their roles as Margaery's tenders, instructing several of the men to stay behind and begin unpacking the mules with their possessions, she stepped closer to Sansa, speaking lowly. "What has happened, Sansa? Have the wildings broken through?"

Her Tully face became very Stark like—stony and grim. "This is not the place. Soon."

Soon became three hours, the three Tyrell ladies agreeing to share a room together and cleansing themselves one at a time in a tub attended by three servants, but Margaery eventually found herself in the Lady Sansa's quarters, seated across from her with a meal of venison and ale before them.

She had greeted and spoken with the Lady Catelyn, who had been attending matters of her own knowledge when the Tyrells arrived, finding her very clever and very beautiful even in her middling years. Despite her expectations, Catelyn had not even hinted at a curiosity at their arrival, merely entrusting them to her daughter's care after a shared look between the two. Sansa had seemed to more or less take command of the southern ladies.

The difference in the woman continuously showed itself; the nervous, always polite girl from King's Landing was no more. After the expected and admittedly enjoyable small talk over the meal—and damn it if Margaery didn't find herself still liking this potential rival—she finally broached the topic. And by she, she meant Sansa.

"Why are you truly here, Margaery?" Sansa asked as she stacked the remnants of her meal together. It was asked quietly, unobtrusively, but Sansa eyed her from beneath her brows as she asked it.

Three hours was not enough time. She still hadn't decided the best way to proceed, so Margaery did what she rarely ever had before; she just opened her mouth and said the first thing that would come off her tongue. "I am searching for the king."

Sansa blinked, nodded smally, and waited. Margaery soon obliged, though she phrased her words to test the waters. Now that it is known, I might as well use it to my advantage. "An…agreement was reached between our families."

"Does this agreement include you following the king hundreds of miles north without a royal escort?"

Margaery grinned smally. I think I might prefer the old Sansa. A lie from a personal friendship standpoint, but true from a political one. "If you ask me, yes. If you ask my grandmother…well, she has been five steps ahead of me my entire life. It only makes sense that eventually I would sneak one by her." She cocked her head, peering into Tully blue. "Was this agreement not mentioned by your brother or the king, Lady Sansa?"

She shook her head. "Neither. Damon would not have spoken of it ever, though I imagine Robb would have. Has this agreement been…finalized?"

The sheer bluntness of the implication irritated and shamed Margaery while also leading her to develop a touch more respect for her now-very-much-so rival. She speaks his name so casually, when she was always so proper beforehand. How close have they gotten? Or is the Sansa I saw in King's Landing simply in no ways the true woman? Is it both?

Despite her inner turmoil, she turned her small grin into a smirk bordering on the lascivious; she would admit to nothing, not to anyone who didn't already know, but if Margaery was to be plagued with doubt by what may have happened between the King and Sansa, then Sansa could be plagued by the reverse. "Why Sansa, even if it has been a lady would never tell. Why? Have there been an agreement or two 'finalized' between you and Damon?"

She blushed faintly in the firelight, and Margaery's mind was immediately torn between 'they have!' and 'they haven't, she is merely embarrassed'. This split in thinking and all of the conflicting emotions they brought on were compounded by Sansa's next words. "Why Margaery, as you yourself said, a lady would never tell."

Suddenly, Sansa Stark smiled. A genuine one, if Margaery's normally accurate interpretation was correct. "We need not argue nor kindly chip at one another, Margaery. I do not believe our goals are in conflict." Before Margaery could subtly question just what Sansa's goals may be, she had continued. "You have missed the king. He and our respective brothers shattered a wildling host at Lost Lake some days north of here. You will find many a prisoner from that conflict in our dungeon."

This was news enough to temporarily throw Margaery off her line of thought. Surprise and fear of a different kind filled her now. "So they have broken through the Wall?"

Sansa's face returned to that of a Stark at once. "Broken through, climbed over, how they managed is not yet known. But as you can see, Winterfell is filling with our people both highborn and low fleeing from the wildlings. The atrocities have been…" She swallowed. "Many."

It was an inconceivable thing. She had never been there, but all had heard of how immense the Wall was, even in a land of summer like the Reach. She had heard the rumors of tens of thousands of wildlings coming south, but that had seemed like a story to scare small children, not a legitimate threat. Margaery swallowed before speaking again. "And where is the king and Garlan?"

"Per Robb's letters, they are moving to retake the Wall…against the rest of the wildings. The footmen departed for there a week ago."

Margaery wasn't sure if Sansa was a friend or a foe, but she now knew one thing for certain. The biggest threat to her becoming Damon's queen wasn't the red-haired beauty of the north, but instead his own foolishness.

Which she imagined was only half as foolish as her own. "I thank you for your kindness. We shall leave on the morrow, Lady Sansa."

Damon hadn't ridden into the hostile camp this time. Improvement. Grandfather will be so pleased.

Though not enough improvement to appease Tyrek, apparently. "You love trying to die. Why do I always tag along to also die."

He was pretty certain it wasn't a question, but Damon answered it anyway. "Because I'm the king?"

Tyrek paused then sighed. "That and my friend, I suppose. But my point remains."

Damon grinned.

The two golden men were at the crest of a small hill just north of the ruins of Queenscrown, in the land that had been part of the 'New Gift' to the Night's Watch two hundred years ago. The valley held an abandoned village, all the small buildings collapsed or collapsing. Snow covered the scattered stones and ice the small creek near it, underbrush slowly reclaiming it bit by bit, but the center of the buildings, where once the village had gathered, was still mostly clear. It was there the supposed meeting would take place.

He had only six companions, as would Mance Rayder if the King-Beyond-the-Wall honored the terms. Tyrek and Garlan, as he rarely went anywhere without them these days. Robb Stark with Greatjon Umber and Brynden Tully, as Robb rarely went anywhere without them. Rounding them out was Bedwyck the Giant, who had actually been the message carrier under a flag of truce and the Baratheon banner, accompanied by Dacey Mormont and Ser Addam Marbrand. Both of them were waiting with an emergency contingent of five hundred knights and riders in case negotiations went south; Tyrek, as the best horseman of the seven, had disliked his directive to turn and ride for help at the first sign of danger, but he would follow Damon's command.

He supposed he should have a Kingsguard here with him, something Borros Blount had tried to argue, but Damon had ordered the man off. Borros would not have been his choice for a Kingsguard; Damon considered him both a coward and a spy for his mother, the second of which he had proven to be and the first he walked along the border of showing. Oh he rode and fought, but he always wound up in the rear guard or the outskirts, not in the thick of it with the man he was sworn to protect. Damon didn't rightly mind that; he would feel less safe with Blount around, not the opposite.

Balon Swann had been a brave man, and an excellent Kingsguard; had he not died saving Damon's life he'd be at his left hand, but a giant had done the knight in. Damon had battled the guilt of that every day since; he knew men died, he knew men died for him, but never before had a man he'd considered almost a friend done so. The infantry was only a week or so behind, their forward scouts having reached Damon's camp at Queenscrown, and Damon was near crawling out of his skin awaiting Bella. They had much to do, and he had much to turn over to her embrace.

Steering his thoughts away from that before they grew too out of hand, he returned to the thoughts of his Kingsguard. With a start he realized he was at least in part responsible for filling the recent openings; his guard of seven had become a guard of five through death and desertion. He had his uncle of course as Lord Commander, Loras Tyrell, Meryn Trant, Arys Oakheart and Borros Blount. Of those four the only one he wanted there was Jaime, though Loras was certainly qualified; Borros and Trant were pawns of his mother or grandfather or both, and while he knew they had their interest aligned with his own, neither man was good enough with a blade to wear the white. Arys Oakheart might be a decent fellow, though Damon didn't know much of him, in any case he was in Dorne with Myrcella. Loras was a pawn of the Tyrell's, a capable solider to be sure and certainly skilled enough with a blade, but he had been the one to let Margaery into Damon's chamber. While the king had enjoyed what Margaery had done, he did not like what Loras had. What happens if they deem I need to die, a blade in my back from a man in white? I would not doubt it.

Damon glanced once at Tyrek. His cousin was a better swordsman than most of Damon's army and was as loyal to him as anyone could be, Damon knew it, but he was also married. While young Ermesande was only two and ten and her interactions with Tyrek had been few, especially over the past nearly two years Tyrek had been at Damon's side, she was nearing the age when their marriage would become a true one. It would be some time yet, perhaps multiple years more, but it would come sooner rather than later. Damon would not deny his friend a lordship or a lady.

Perhaps Jaime will have some suggestions of suitable replacements. I want no more spies, just men who can and will fight for me without sharing my personal life to the rest of the keep. I have plenty of others for that.

His thought process was interrupted when Robb Stark spoke. "Movement, Your Grace. It appears the wildings have arrived."

Damon sat a touch straighter in his saddle, letting his new cloak drape around his shoulders as he adjusted the stag pin holding it on his right clavicle. It had been presented as a gift by Tyrek merely a day hence, his cousin having conspired with a pair of camp followers to see it made. The exterior was the skin of the shadowcat that had so nearly done the king in, white and black striped, large enough to encompass his shoulders and hang to his ankles. The interior, that which rested against his shoulders and back, was a combination of two of Varamyr Sixskins three wolves, stitched together near perfectly. Damon already treasured it and would have worn it anyway, but Bedwyck had mentioned these were called shadowskins and held in high regard by the Free Folk.

I'll take all the help I can get.

Damon the Daring cleared his throat. "Well, let's get to it then," he said, and nudged his horse down the hill.

*tease* he still knows nothing