Author's Note: Hello again, and apologies for the wait.

This story received an absurd amount of support after just one chapter, and I can't thank you all enough for that. I hope I can live up to expectations!

I have the vast majority of this story planned out, at least in terms of major plotlines and outcomes. Unfortunately, a lot of what I don't really have planned out is here at the beginning, so bear with me as I try to figure it out amid my hectic, post-college-graduation life. (I thought it might slow down after my last bout with finals, but I appear to have been mistaken).

This chapter is horribly short, but I think it has some necessary if subtle development for the future. It also introduces a character who will likely have many chapters dedicated to them, although that (just like everything in my stories) is subject to change on a random whim. In any case forgive me for the length and wait!

As always, I hope you enjoy and review this chapter!

It was a blunted sword hitting a durable shield, but it still hurt to high hells when its wielder swung hard.

Damon Baratheon swung hard.

"Yield, yield!" Shouted the Westerman squire, a lad named Falwell who would have been horribly outmatched even if he wasn't visibly hungover. His shield arm hung limp for a moment, struck numb by his blonde haired opponent. Tyrek Lannister winced in sympathy, having felt the same pain many times over the last few years. The Prince straightened up instantly, the blunted steel in his hands angled downwards. His voice was clear in the morning air of Winterfell's courtyard.

"I was aiming for that shield, Lorent. I could have rung your head like a bell, because the shield wasn't going to stop me." It wasn't said arrogantly, at least not in Tyrek's opinion, but it showed no mercy either.

Falwell's face twisted and turned red in a mixture of embarrassment and anger, though he kept his voice calmer than could have been rightfully expected. "Thank you, Your Grace. I'll keep that in mind during our next bout."

Tyrek watched Damon watching Lorent as he joined the ring of Lannister guardsmen and squires in the courtyard, noticing the subtle look of confusion on his royal cousin's face. He had just been trying to give advice, though it tended to sound like gloating from the Prince's mouth. Tyrek understood—well, tried to understand, although it was difficult to do so when you were defeated in the sparring circle every time you faced the Prince. Damon Baratheon was simply saying what he saw, not to rub in his victory to try and help the others improve. There was no malice.

At least Tyrek didn't think there was malice. Something about the Prince's manner made one confused as to whether he liked you, hated you or thought you were dirt beneath his knee-high boots.

Tyrek had tried hard in the last few years of his life, ever since being sent to King's Landing to squire for King Robert Baratheon himself, to look at Damon Baratheon's position objectively. It could be difficult, what with his ability to beat the hell out of you and then tell you what you'd done wrong, but he thought he was closer to nailing it down.

Tyrek stepped into the ring, wordlessly taking the blunted sword and shield from Lorent and already preparing himself for the pain of a beating. Tyrek was decent with a sword and shield and strove to improve constantly—although squiring for a man who didn't care to learn his name much less train him proved difficult to overcome—but he wasn't on par with the prince. Damon spent more time in the training yard than he did anywhere else and it showed, as did the effects of squiring for the Kingslayer.

Let's just hope the Prince doesn't decide to be 'the Kinslayer', or Ermesande will be the youngest widow in Westerosi history.

Damon nodded to Tyrek in acknowledgement before crouching down in a fighting pose, sword and shield at the ready. They exchanged a few testing strikes, Tyrek focusing on keeping his guard while Damon stalked around him. His cousin had six inches on him, but Tyrek was broader through the shoulder. Broader didn't mean stronger, as he had learned years ago, but it was still his best shot.

Until Damon spun out of the bull charge Tyrek tried after blocking the Prince's blow, and the cousin of the Queen suddenly felt a shield colliding with his back. Even as Tyrek landed face down in Winterfell's frozen courtyard, he knew the Prince could have easily slammed that shield against the back of his head.

Tyrek didn't let the laughs of the surrounding squires and men faze him as he climbed to his feet, for most of them were sympathetic in nature. Damon stood near him, emerald eyes glancing over him to make sure he was whole. "You've tried that move more time than I can count, Tyrek."

Tyrek son of Tygett nodded. "It almost worked…once." He cleared his throat, aiming a smile at the prince. "That was an excellent move, Your Grace."

Ah, there it is. As Damon always did when given a compliment that wasn't rigid with formality, his face turned a few shades darker and his eyes took on a slight panicked look, as if he didn't really know what to say. It's because he doesn't. "Er…thank you." He turned away to the ring of men and boys around them, anxious for his next opponent. "Garris."

Tyrek switched places with the Crakehall, pondering as always at Damon's actions. He'd tried, per his cousin the Queen's orders, to befriend Damon since he'd arrived in King's Landing two years past. It hadn't worked no matter what he tried, though there were odd times when he thought the Prince was trying to thank him for the efforts. Many of the other squires and pages in King's Landing—and even most of the men—thought the Prince arrogant and unapproachable, and at first Tyrek had agreed, but the longer he spent in the Capitol the more unconvinced he became. It seemed liked Damon tried, but he simply couldn't; if there wasn't a diplomatic, formal way of responding, he had no bloody clue what to say.

That or he really is an arrogant, self-centered prick. I may be just trying to find good things because we look alike.

Tyrek's inner musings were interrupted by the sound of Garris slamming to the ground, dropped by a vicious backhand blow to the knee. Three more competitors went up and fell down before Ser Rodrik Cassel, Winterfell's master-at-arms, invited the group of southerners to mingle with the northerners who had been training in a separate part of the yard. Damon fought Robb Stark, winning after a spirited bout, accepting the wolf heir's congratulations with a nervous smile and nod.

It was going splendidly, even a heavily swaddled Tommen getting in on the training and losing to young Brandon Stark despite Damon's encouragement, when Joffrey did what Joffrey did best.

Damon's twin was as tall as he was and just as lean with the same coloring, but they differed in the face. Damon had Queen Cersei's cheekbones and lean face, while Joffrey was a bit broader and softer, his cheekbones not nearly as defined. A pack of men—men, not the squires like Tyrek around Damon—hung with him, chief among them the scarred, vicious looking Sandor Clegane. The Hound scared the seven hells out of Tyrek, and he felt no shame in admitting it.

Joffrey spoke, hand on the expensive sword at his side and infuriating smirk on his Lannister face as he strode forward. "I would like a bout, Ser Rodrik."

The bearded northerner nodded. "Of course. Robb."

The Stark heir nodded, stepping into the sparring ring with a blunted sword in hand. Joffrey, however, raised an eyebrow. "Blunted swords are child's play, don't you think? I was thinking along the lines of live steel."

Tyrek felt a bit of apprehension in the pit of his stomach, eyes going between the two noble lads and the grizzled master-at-arms. Ser Rodrik's voice was firm. "I will not allow that, Your Grace."

Joffrey's smirk faded. "Allow, Ser Rodrik?"

Damon chimed in then, somewhat to Tyrek's surprise. "It is Ser Rodrik's right as Winterfell's master-at-arms to set the terms, brother." The Prince's tone was respectful and proper, but Tyrek knew Damon felt neither of those things for Joffrey. Or at least he supposed; Damon was always careful of courtesy and correctness, but only an utter fool could feel fondness for the real Joffrey.

Joffrey nearly glared at his brother, though he kept the smirk on his face. Besides, Joffrey never truly glares at Damon. The Heir had lost as much to the Spare in the sparring ring as the rest of them until he simply refused to spar Damon further. "Even so, I believe you would have right to overrule him, Stark. What say you?"

The wish to do just that was evident on Robb Stark's face, but he shook his head slowly. "Ser Rodrik is in the right."

Joffrey's smirk deepened. "Is that fear I see, wolf?"

The heir to Winterfell's face turned as red as his Tully hair. "Live steel it is, then."

Ser Rodrik wasn't in agreement. "It is still my sparring yard, Lord Robb. The answer is no."

Joffrey feigned a yawn. "I suppose I shall let you remain behind your master-at-arms' protection." Robb snarled in anger, all self-control gone, but Joffrey spoke over him. "But Princes will no longer stoop to such levels. Come Tommen, Damon."

Without a word the Crown Prince turned and strode away, his pack of dogs and many of the squires who had been with Damon following after him. Tommen looked to Prince Damon, who had hesitated. Tyrek watched as the Prince looked between the fuming northerners and his brother, conflict clear on his face.

And then Tyrek started walking as Damon, with a hand on Tommen's shoulders, turned to follow Joffrey.