Author's Note: Hello again!
Thanks for all the support! Moving forward with some events that need to be addressed in some capacity, and trying to give more insight into Damon's convoluted psyche. Let me know what you think, particularly about how slight details changed will affect the canon storyline in major ways. Y'all rock.
Just a heads up, I'm going to mix a bit of the book and show storylines. But I'm going to make an effort to stick more to the books, which means certain things aren't going to happen that probably would happen in this chapter if I'd stuck to the show-but might show up in some capacity later, if I opt to go that way.
That's intentionally vague. Use your brains you beautiful people.
As always, I hope you enjoy and review this update!
Harrenhal was a testament to the destructive power of the Targaryens and their dragons, a monstrous ruin of blackened stone and burnt crenellations. Prince Damon Baratheon had craned his neck back to take in the monstrously thick curtain walls as he rode through the western gates, seated atop a bulky but otherwise unremarkable bay destrier, the last of the horses he'd taken with him in the flight from King's Landing. Damon, who as a Prince had seen more extravagant things than most, had found the thickness of the walls mind-boggling.
When he had come out of the gateway into Harrenhal proper, he'd realized that 'mind-boggling' applied to everything about Harren the Black's folly.
He'd seen the five towers, the smallest of which was still an absolute giant by Westerosi or any other standards, from miles away. Up close they seemed to reach into the heavens themselves, rising up and up and up and never seeming to stop. The sheer amount of ground Harrenhal covered was absurd, and while he knew it wasn't the case it sure felt like Harrenhal was bigger than the entirety of King's Landing.
There were thousands of men and women inside her walls even before Damon had brought thousands more, but it could have passed for a few hundred. They'd entered and seemingly disappeared into the sheer mass of the castle.
Damon Baratheon sat in one of the many rooms of the Kingspyre Tower, which his grandfather had taken as his command post/quarters. Lord Tywin Lannister was seated at the head of a long table, eyeing the assembled commanders on either side of it. Ser Damion Lannister, Tywin's cousin by blood and nephew by marriage, had taken command of the flight from Riverrun, which had seen the bulk of what had once been Jaime's force pull back to the border of the Westerlands before swinging south and making a quick, borderline desperate march straight for Harrenhal. They'd been harried throughout their march/flight by Riverlords and Northern scouts alike, and one lightening raid had been intent on freeing the score of prisoners and very nearly succeeded. But the column of Lannister infantry and cavalry now rested behind Harrenhal's ruined-yet-strong walls, and their prisoners—including Edmure Tully—were safely in the great cell at the base of the tower.
But it had taken time to make it from Riverrun to the border and then back east to Harrenhal. And in that time, the world had finished it's descent into hell.
Prince Damon sat to his grandfather's right, barely registering what was being said around him. It was poor form, but Damon's mind had always been prone to running itself into spirals that led inevitably to the ground, and ever since the Whispering Woods it had run all the harder.
There was good news, and there was bad news; most of it was bad. But the biggest issue to Damon wasn't just good, it was great; Jaime was alive, held captive by Robb Stark in the very castle Damon and his uncle had been besieging oh so recently. Damon had told himself the Kingslayer was still alive ever since the Prince and Tyrek had galloped away from the slaughter in the Riverlands, but now he had absolute proof that the man he near worshiped actually was. If Robb Stark's message demanding the return of his father and sisters for the son of Tywin could be considered absolute proof, that is.
It was to Damon.
His other uncle on his maternal side, Tyrion, had shown up unscathed as well; in fact, he had appeared in Tywin's camp with hundreds of the warriors of the Mountain Tribes of the Vale at his back, and had fought alongside them at the Green Fork of the Trident when a few thousand Northmen had masked Robb's fording at the Twins. Damon was grateful his dwarf uncle had returned to friendly forces unscathed, even if that relief—to Damon's shame—was nothing compared to the relief that Jaime was alive. The Tribesmen were scattered throughout the camp, though a large number had left with Tyrion for King's Landing mere days before Damon had arrived at Harrenhal, where the one they called the 'Halfman' was to fill a temporary position on the new King's council.
A position that had already been filled not all that long ago, and rather quickly and stupidly opened back up.
This was where the bad news came in.
The Lannisters—which includes me, even if I am a Baratheon—no longer had Robb's father to trade. Joffrey, King Joffrey the First of His Name, had chopped the Lord of Winterfell's head off after the man had admitted to trying to give the crown to their uncle Stannis in a coup. Damon loved his brother by virtue of Joff being his brother, but Damon couldn't find very much shock or surprise that his twin had already fucked everything up within a few fortnights of taking the throne.
Damon had lived all his life with Joffrey, even if they had little to do with one another by mutual accord. He knew what his sibling was capable of better than almost anyone, and while Damon felt a streak of guilt for the thought, he was terrified of his brother's coming reign. He didn't see a way Westeros came out intact once it ended.
It's already falling apart, and it just began.
As it was, he didn't really know what he felt about Lord Eddard's death, and certainly not about Stark's supposed confession. Damon respected the man's reputation for being honorable and forthright, but a public admittance of trying to usurp Joff's crown for a man well down in the succession certainly harmed that perception. Stark had seemed a sensible man, not one prone to bouts of ambition or insanity, which were the only things that could have driven him to do what he did.
On a personal level Damon hadn't known him much beyond that, but he liked Lord Stark's children, including the eldest who had slaughtered a contingent of men Damon had been a part of. Eddard had been courteous and polite, as well as of the quiet and thinking nature Damon was known for, which made Damon predisposed to like him, but he felt no true sadness at his death. The Prince hoped that was due to the nature of their relationship and not due to Damon's experiences thus far on the battlefield.
The Prince tuned back into the briefing in time to catch a very vital, very disturbing piece of information he had not yet been privy to. "As of the last information we have, Stannis sits at Dragonstone with few men while Renly is in Highgarden with a great many. Both are claiming themselves Robert's rightful heir."
It was another shock in what had become a year of shocks and surprises. Damon spoke, his surprise keeping the quiver of unease from his voice when Tywin settled pale green eyes on him. "How in the name of the Seven do they suppose that? They are fourth and fifth in line after my late father, with the first three very much alive."
His grandfather's gaze was still intimidating; no number of battles and killings would ever change that. "Ambition and greed. They have both decided upon a farce of a story to discredit King Joffrey and his siblings, though how Renly claims to be above his own brother is not yet clear."
Ser Damion Lannister was scowling as fiercely as Damon, though his was more of concern at two more enemies forming to be dealt with when they were having enough trouble with the two they already had. Damon's was a scowl of confusion and betrayal, even if he had never been close to either of his Baratheon uncles. "What story could they possibly hope to be believed?"
Tywin's jaw clenched for a moment, and then he simply took a scroll from in front of him and handed it to Damon. The Prince took it, spreading the parchment in front of him and skimming across the information to get the gist.
He read it twice more in painstaking detail, because he didn't believe what his eyes told him.
What?
The message was a brief paragraph of the most insulting trash the Prince had ever had the misfortune to read. And, to make it worse, it was centered on his family. Around his brothers and sweet sister, around his beloved mother and the man he loved most in this world. Around the Lannister name and the legitimacy of Joffrey's Baratheon one.
Around him.
Damon realized he was angry, which was odd. Damon fell victim to all sorts of impious emotions and reactions—lust, pride, envy—but he was never one prone to anger, no matter what was thrown at him. Even when he was in the midst of battle, moving on pure adrenaline and battlelust and fear, he didn't feel anger at the men he was killing or those who were trying to kill him. It was simply men doing what they thought was their duty, and the Prince doing what he knew was his.
But right now, hearing what his father's brothers were saying of Damon's mother and her twin, the Prince was furious. Enraged. Plain old fighting mad. Damon leaned back in his seat as he met his grandfather's eyes, his own squinting in rage. "Filth. Utter filth and lies. They resort to rumors and degradation of their own kin to try and seize the crown for themselves."
His grandfather's stoic face remained stoic, but he nodded once sharply. His eyes dropped to the parchment still in Damon's hand, giving the Prince the hint to pass it on down the line, but he covered the not-so-subtle hint by speaking. "Agreed. Both Baratheons are merely trying to seat themselves on the Iron Throne. All of us here have no intention of letting that happen, but first we must focus on the Stark boy. He is unlikely to be placated now that his father has been executed, but we still hold his uncle and sisters."
Both men of Lannister blood waited until the piece of parchment made the round to continue. Damon was furious, embarrassed and worried all at once at the glances some of them gave him upon reading it. He didn't like that. He didn't like that at all.
Ser Forely Prester moved the narrative forward. "What is your plan, Lord Tywin?"
"Stark is a green boy, but he is a green boy who has my son. We may no longer have his father, but we still hold parts of his family. I want Jaime back, and I am sure Stark wants his sisters."
"So we negotiate a peace?"
Tywin shook his head. "There will be no peace; chances of that were lost when the King removed Ned Stark's head. We will have to defeat the Stark boy on the field of battle, which will be considerably more difficult while he holds my son."
It will be considerably more difficult with Stannis and Renly as daggers pointing at our backs. But Damon didn't say that, because he was well aware that Tywin already knew it.
"We need to force his hand before he can consolidate the rest of the Riverlords; we still hold the numerical advantage while they are scattered, and many of the Rivermen won't support Robb while we hold their lords hostage." Tywin was meeting each pair of eyes in turn, a command/intimidation tactic that no one could pull off quite like Tywin Lannister could. It gave Damon, who by now had killed more than his fair share of men, positive shivers. "We bring the boy to us. We use Harrenhal as a command center, but we march out and scorch the Riverlands a village at a time until Stark comes at us. If he wants the Riverlords to support him, he cannot sit by idly while we tear their homeland apart."
Damon spoke again unprompted, and part of his mind noted it as a record for him, particularly around his grandfather. "What if he uses the same tactic for the Westerlands? More than Uncle Jaime was captured in the Whispering Wood."
"We're already in the Riverlands," Lord Brax said. "Stark would have to fight his way into the West and then take the castles. We have the advantage if we strike now."
There was a chorus of 'yes my lord' in response, and Damon joined in. A map of the Riverlands was unceremoniously spread out across the table, and with no further preamble Tywin began divvying out assignments. They had near twenty-five thousand men in Harrenhal, with riders being sent to the western Crownlands for additional support and several hundred men already raiding alongside Gregor Clegane. A thousand of those men were going with Forley Prester to High Heart. Another thousand were going under Flement Brax to Acorn Hall, ordered to burn villages with impunity along the way.
Damion Lannister was appointed in command of the scouts, charged with keeping an eye on Robb to keep another Whispering Wood from happening. Other commands were given to to this knight or that lord. Damon sat through it all, wondering which man he was going to ride with and how in the lord he was going to cope with that.
"You will lead seven hundred men and storm Lord Harroway's Town."
It took Damon a solid five seconds to realize Tywin was talking to him.
Damon was prone to worry, but not to panic. This time, however, he panicked heavily.
"But…Lord Tywin. I'm not qualified—"
Tywin cut him off. He did that a lot in their interactions, but Damon was usually more thankful than upset since it kept the Prince from sticking his own foot in his mouth. "You have handled yourself better than most in the battles you have fought. Indeed, your actions have given you the nickname of Damon the Daring. And you are a Prince, as well as a Lannister." Tywin looked back to the map in dismissal. "You are as qualified as any other."
Damon normally wouldn't dare to speak after Tywin claimed the subject closed—especially after their one-sided conversation those months earlier in the command tent—but his fear of actually being in command of others made him try anyway. "I'm only a squire."
Tywin cocked an eyebrow, half in annoyance, half in something Damon couldn't identify but did not like. "Oh?" Tywin reached a hand towards Ser Kevan, palm up. Damon's great-uncle, face trying to hide a smirk, drew his sword and placed it in his elder brother's hand. "Kneel."
Damon blinked thrice. Just like that? Aren't I supposed to have some trials of manhood, stay in a sept overnight…slay a demon with my bare hands? Something? I just turned six and ten a fortnight ago, for the sake of the Seven!
But his grandfather was waiting, the angle of his eyebrow rising as his patience dropped, and Damon did the only thing he could think to do; he dropped to a knee.
As his grandfather laid the sword on one shoulder, then the other, saying words Damon hadn't thought to hear for years, the Prince didn't feel joy or pride at being knighted so young, nothing that he thought he would feel when he became worthy, at least in the eyes of one man, to call himself 'Ser'.
All he could think of was how he no longer had an excuse for turning down the command, and how much terror had come to dominate his life.
Tyrek was in the middle of helping Bella organize the Prince's tent where she would be staying while he remained in the Kingspyre Tower. Well, that was the story; Bella would spend most of her time in the tower's chamber with Damon, but this was for appearances sake.
Not that a whore staying in a Prince's tent is something of a message or anything. But who am I to argue?
He was moving the cot for the fourth time, wondering how in the world the slender woman had strong-armed him into this duty, when the Prince literally burst in.
"We're going to Lord Harroway's town."
Both Tyrek and Bella spoke. "What?"
The Prince's voice was rushed, excited—scared. "I am to storm the town and take any members of House Roote left there as hostages."
Tyrek dropped the edge of the cot unceremoniously. Bella also eyed the work they—Tyrek—had been doing, realizing it was about to be torn back down. "Who is in command, Your Grace?"
Damon looked to his cousin, and Tyrek knew him well enough by now to see the fear in his eyes. "I am."
"But you're a squire…Your Grace."
Bella spoke too, equally shocked. "And six and ten."
Damon shook his head. "Not anymore." He glanced to Bella. "Well, your point is true. But Tywin doesn't seem to think that matters."
Tyrek wasn't sure what to think; confusion was a normal condition for him now. "You're a knight?"
Bella didn't seem to mind that much; it was the command thing she was having issues accepting. Tyrek imagined she knew intimately well how uncomfortable Damon was when he was in charge of anything that didn't have formal, regulated responses. "But…you're…"
"I know." Damon seemed to be as confused as the others. "What I don't know is what to do."
Tyrek shrugged. "Lead, I suppose. Fight. You're the best fighter I know. All you have to do is do it at the front, and you're normally there anyway."
"But…I mean…"
Tyrek felt every bit of the hesitation and concern Damon had; he had no doubt of Damon's ability with a blade, having seen it firsthand on fields of battle and in rivers of blood. As for a six and ten lad being put in charge of a band of hardened fighting men…well, any man who didn't doubt that was a fool.
Tyrek was a lot of things. A fool wasn't one of them.
But his cousin—his friend—needed to hear encouragement, not questions. Tyrek knew the Prince well enough by now to know Damon's mind would throw enough questions at him already. "You will do fine, Your Grace. I have faith. You're a knight after all, and that means something in and of itself. Ser Damon." Tyrek grinned at the last title.
Damon stared at him for a long moment, and then abruptly drew his sword.
Whoa, hold on a minute. Perhaps I said the wrong thing. Damon turned to face him. The really wrong thing.
But Damon merely gestured with his other hand. "I'm glad you have confidence in knighthood. Because I need loyal knights around me...Ser Tyrek." Damon almost smiled. Almost. "And if I have to do this, I sure as shit am not doing it alone."
Later Tyrek would realize it was knee-jerk reaction by the Prince to a situation he didn't know how to control. Damon was a thinker, and when he didn't have time to properly think he wasn't sure what to do. His responses—like knighting a lad of five and ten mere minutes after being knighted himself—could be extreme, as Tyrek would learn more and more in their time together.
But Ser Tyrek Lannister did have one hell of a ring to it.