Author's Note: Hello again, and sorry for the wait!

Thanks for all the favorites, follows and reviews. I've fallen back into a small rut with this story, spurred by a touch of indecision about how exactly I want to get where I'm going. As I said, I know a lot of the latter stages of this story and have some of them all but written in my mind, but the journey there is going to see some bumps and sporadic changes because that just seems to be how I roll. Hope y'all stick around to see what I finally end up doing; it'll be a surprise for all of us.

Make sure to check out the (longish) second author's note at the end of the chapter!

As always, I hope you enjoy and review this update.

His mother answered nearly before the first knock ended. Her chamber door swung open, the Queen stepping aside and gesturing her second son in with merely a glance.

Damon entered, not meeting her eyes and heading straight for the wine he knew would be on the table. "I know what you're going to ask. I don't have an answer."

Cersei's tone held neither condemnation nor interest; it was quiet, blunt and emotionless. Damon knew the tone well, well enough to know it never meant anything good for him when the Queen used it. "That was the quite the display."

Damon saw no point in denying what had been made abundantly clear. "I was momentarily surprised by the contact. My reaction may have been a touch overdramatic."

The Queen took the glass of wine her son extended towards her, face remaining a stone mask save for the slight arch she gave her eyebrow. "Mere surprise made you stop breathing?"

He flushed as red as the wine in his mother's glass. "I might find the Lady Margaery...appealing. Physically."

The Queen sipped her wine, gesturing for Damon to sit in one of the wooden chairs besides the table the pitcher of wine sat upon. She took the other. "Physically appealing. A poet's words." Damon winced; Cersei had never made light of his difficulties in expressing himself to others before. She must be very disappointed in him. "Your brother saw the effects this...physical appealment had, on both you and the Tyrell girl."

Damon grunted, looking down at the mahogany table and scratching at an invisible blemish. "I know." Oh, did Damon know. He'd kept his eyes on his plate and his hands safely in his lap for the remainder of the meal, then gone to the training yard to work out the tension the very moment the table had been dismissed by an inwardly seething King Joffrey. It had made him go a bit too hard on Tyrek; one blow from a dulled sword had near broken his cousin's shoulder, and Damon realized it would take a different kind of distraction to settle himself down. He'd never made better time to Chataya's.

The Golden Stag didn't let himself ponder even a moment on Margaery's reaction; if he did, he'd probably let his cock lead his head to the block. Still, a very loud portion of his mind wouldn't let him forget the equally shocked look in his future goodsister's eyes and all the possible implications of that. Some were harmless, others mild, but a choice few made both his heads ache for vastly different reasons.

The Queen spoke again, oblivious to his inner thoughts. "Then you know he's going to be upset."

Upset? More like homicidal. Or fratricidal anyway. I wonder if the Seven hold killing a twin as a greater crime than killing a mere sibling, not that Joffrey will care either way.

"I wasn't expecting him to laugh and say 'have fun', mother."

Cersei finally showed an expression, and it was one of anger and disapproval. "This is no japing matter, Damon."

It certainly wasn't, and Damon bowed his head in deference. "You are right, and I apologize. It was simply an accidental touch, nothing more. While I realize Joff will likely contemplate murdering me, I'll make a point of avoiding the Lady Margaery for...well, forever I suppose." He raised his head in sudden, barely concealed hope. "That would be much easier if I-"

"No." Cersei glared at him, killing the remainder of her wine and then extending the now empty glass towards him to refill. Damon obliged. "Don't dare mention you returning to the front."

"Mother, I have only caused embarrassment since I have returned. On the warfront-"

"On the warfront you run the risk of dying. Don't give me lines about glory or honor; they will remind me too much of your uncle."

Damon swallowed; the absence of Jaime Lannister was a constant cloud over both his and his mother's lives. "It's not about honor or glory mother. It's about protecting the family from men who spread vicious lies about us in a quest for Joffrey's throne. I am useless to stop them here in the capitol, but with a sword in my hand..."

"With a sword in your hand you're just another knight to be killed by the enemy. No, that is not even true; you're a prince who the enemy will want to kill more than mere knights. You are not going, certainly not for such a reason as your inability to control yourself around a woman." Cersei huffed. "I thought turning a blind eye to your past indiscretions would help you, but now I wonder if it has simply made you a slave to your own desire, just as your father was."

His mother couldn't have stunned him more if she had bludgeoned him over the head with a mace. "You...you know?"

The Queen waved her off hand dismissively. "What, of your affinity for women? Of course I know."

Damon had never been more ashamed or embarrassed in his life. Well, that was probably an exaggeration, but this certainly ranked near the top. "For how long?"

"Since the beginning. Did you truly think me so blind as to not see what my own son was doing?"

"...I thought I was careful."

She shook her head, extending the once-again-empty glass. Damon filled it as bid, embarrassment and chagrin keeping him from meeting eyes as emerald as his own. "If you have been 'careful' all these years, I have made a mockery of your education. There is nothing discreet about a Kingsguard so often near Chataya's brothel, even if he is disguised. And there is certainly nothing discreet about living with a whore while on campaign."

The words were like hammerblows, and Damon slumped deeper into his chair with each one. "I don't know what to say."

"Then say nothing. Not about Margaery Tyrell, not about Chataya's or your brown haird paramour or even Jocelyn Swyft. And never, ever mention the warfront again."

He said nothing for nearly two weeks.

And then, as punishment for his 'indiscretions', the Seven sought to see his downfall.

The inner courtyard where he and his uncle normally sparred was still Damon's favorite place to train, but the lack of a grinning Jaime Lannister swinging a blade at him lessened the appeal. That being the case, he had branched out to the larger training yards since his return to the capitol, taking advantage of the influx of Reachman knights and noblemen and their lack of fear of him. Garlan Tyrell had quickly solidified the already burgeoning respect Damon had for him, and the Daring sparred with the Highgarden knight whenever possible. He'd already learned a great deal from the older warrior, and Garlan the Gallant had been kind enough to work with both Damon and Tyrek.

That last bit was what had really earned Damon's good graces. In their months of training together Tyrek had grown exponentially in skill, so much so that he was more than a match for most men he faced. Due to this rise in skill and Damon and Tyrek's familiarity with each other's fighting styles, the Prince found it took him longer and longer to defeat his cousin. Garlan, however, managed to do so quickly and repeatedly. That in and of itself told Damon all he needed to know.

But while branching out to face the fresh blood in the Red Keep's sparring rings had helped Damon keep the edge on his fighting prowess, it also meant he spent longer out of the social safety of his chambers and the private yard. The Prince was usually good at avoiding people despite this, particularly in the past few days when he had redoubled his efforts to avoid pretty much everyone not in Lannister red or Baratheon gold-unless that person in Lannister red or Baratheon gold was the King, in which case Damon avoided him like the Great Spring Sickness. But today, as the fates would have it, Damon had been less vigilant than usual; he and Tyrek were deep in conversation about the plausibility of using a particularly risky disarming sequence in battle, and whether or not it was more likely to knock your opponent's sword from his hand or help it find your throat. Ser Balon Swann, who Damon found was actually a likeable fellow and a good warrior, had become part of the conversation as well.

As focused as he was on the intricacies of their discussion, Damon let his feet follow their own path towards his chambers. Along the way, however, the traitorous appendages and the boots they were wearing led him directly into a Tyrell party lounging on a terrace, the permanent pavilions covered with sprawling vines of honeysuckle, their sweet scent carried through the air on a slight breeze.

It wasn't just any Tyrell party, however; it was the party of the King's betrothed. And, sitting at one of the scattering of tables, the recent focus of Damon's dreams and nightmares sat watching him.

He stopped dead, his two companions slowing to their own confused halts. Margaery was dressed in a gown of bright blue, the neckline modest but enough to draw Damon's eye, her hair loose and flowing over her shoulders. A silver necklace, ending in a sapphire the same color as her gown, clung tightly to the skin of her throat. She held a piece of silk in her hands, working it into a piece of cloth meant to be a...well, Damon didn't know what the hell it was supposed to be. Truth be told her hardly saw it, so engrossed was he in the woman holding it.

He regained his senses much quicker this time than he had the night of the disastrous dinner, which Damon had yet to attend another of. Forgetting all ideas of politeness or courtesy, Damon ripped his gaze from his brother's betrothed and turned smoothly on his heel, starting back in the opposite direction with hardly a second passed since his halt. He knew it was a mild insult, not even acknowledging Margaery when they had met gazes. Damon told himself that was probably a good thing, and despite his physical need to turn back around and stare at her he made it a full step back the way he had came.

"Prince Damon."

The musical voice stopped him as cold as it's owner's gaze and touch had. Why. Why did she have to call.

Damon contemplated running for a full two seconds before he swallowed, straightened, and turned back around. He found her gaze waiting right where he'd left it, this time joined by most of the fifteen or twenty bodies with her. Damon, somehow remembering his courtesies, bowed slightly, low enough to acknowledge he was speaking to a lady of high nobility but shallow enough to remind those observing that his own noble blood was higher still. Tyrek bowed a bit lower, as did Ser Balon Swann. "Lady Margaery," Damon returned. "We were just passing."

Damon started forward again, intent on walking so fast past them that Tyrek and Balon would have to sprint to keep up, but alas his future goodsister had other plans. "Nonsense, it is a lovely afternoon. You must join us."

A chorus of agreements rung out from those around her, chiefly her handmaidens. Damon's mind rushed for a plausible excuse, but as it so often did in public-and in particular around the Rose of Highgarden-it failed to provide anything useful. But the Seven, despite this ensnarement they had set for him to punish him for past sins, came to his rescue; the warm breeze blew again, and the cold sensation of it blowing against his sweat soaked shirt gave Damon an idea. "We are much too unpresentable. My apologies."

There, an excellent excuse. It also happened to be true; both Damon and Tyrek were dressed in simple breeches and tunics that had fit them a year ago, the shirts soaked through. Cersei had always complained of Damon's tendency to walk to and from training looking 'like half a peasant', but the Prince didn't see and had never seen a point in ruining the best of his wardrobe with sweat and blood. He may be a Prince and thusly not lack for gold, but the practical portion of his mind simple wouldn't allow him too. He allowed himself a moment of self adulation, as the practice was helping him save his own hide.

Or so he thought.

The Prince hadn't even managed to start moving again before Margaery spoke once more. "Oh, don't concern yourself with such things. All of us here know you were simply better readying yourself to defend the crown, and will not hold the results of that against you." The same chorus of agreements came from those in her party, as did a few giggles from those seated closest to her.

Damn. Damon's mind scrambled some more, and this time threw something of it's own accord at him. He gestured towards the silk and cloth in her hands. "We're not very good seamstresses."

The Tyrell party laughed to a man, and Damon only then realized they thought he'd made a jape. He tried to smile a charming smile, to make them think he'd actually done it on purpose.

Margaery shook her head. "We won't hold that against you either."She smiled, a devastating smile that nearly buckled Damon's knees. "Please. Sit."

Something in her tone had him moving towards her table before he could convince himself to fuck it and run.

The members of her party-the Redwyne twins, a few Reachman squires and ladies-rose as he stepped underneath the pavilion. Damon, apprehension and excitement striking him in the stomach, waved for them to return to their seats. Margaery and those at her own table did the same, Damon noticing the others seated with her for the first time. Megga and Elinor Tyrell, cousins from lesser branches, were seated near her. Megga was overweight and laughed very, very loudly; Damon imagined she spoke the same. Elinor was willowy and witty, the former fact intriguing Damon in a sinful way and the latter terrifying him in a much more potent one. Alysanne Bulwer, one and ten and the Lady of Blackcrown, was also present, as was Alla Tyrell, another cousin of the same age as Alysanne. Both smiled shyly in an endearing way, but Damon paid them little mind as he approached. All his focus was on the lady they served.

And Sansa Stark, who stood directly to Margaery's right.

The Northerner, taller by a head than the future Queen and with hair so red as to be flames, was every bit as pretty as Margaery Tyrell. She may have been physically prettier, if he was to be honest, though Margaery appealed to the Prince of Dragonstone in a way the Prince didn't understand. She looked much better than she had in her times as Joffrey's betrothed, though the stress of being the sister of a rebellious lord in the court of her brother's enemies was evident in her face. Damon smiled slightly and nodded to her, hoping it came across as friendly to the poor girl. She dropped her eyes from his, though, and Damon imagined his emerald gaze reminded her too much of Joffrey.

"Alysanne, Alla," Margaery said, politely but authoritatively. "Please be dears and give your seats to Prince Damon and Ser Tyrek."

Damon shook his head. "We couldn't take..."

The Rose of Highgarden clearly would have no argument. "Nonsense. You will seat, if it please you." Or if it doesn't, Damon finished mentally.

The two youngest at Margaery's table nodded, scurrying out of the way as Damon and Tyrek-Damon taller than all of them save Sansa by a fair margin, Tyrek as broad as Alla and ALysanne put together-took their vacated chairs. The Prince made a point of sitting at an angle from Margaery's left, next to Megga-it kept Tyrek between him and witty Elinor, while also keeping him from being directly in front of Margaery's gaze.

Not that it mattered. As she sat, the rest at the table doing the same, her brown eyes locked onto his emerald ones. "I must say, Prince Damon, I feel as if you have been avoiding me."

That's because I have been. Ardently. Damon, throat suddenly closing, cleared it before answering. "I...apologize, my lady."

Tyrek, bless his soul, came to his cousin's rescue. "I can tell you from experience, Lady Margaery, that Damon leaves that impression on everyone. If you're not losing to him in the sparring ring, a pastime I suggest all of you avoid, you'll see neither hair nor hide of him." Tyrek smiled charmingly, eliciting a giggle from Elinor and Megga and a smile from Margaery.

The giggles he couldn't care less about; Tyrek could have both Elinor and Megga if he wanted them, and may the Maiden grant him stamina. But the smile from Margaery made Damon jealous for the thousandth time at Tyrek's easy charm.

Elinor leaned around Tyrek to smile at the Prince. "From what I gather you go no where else, my Prince."

He shrugged. "There isn't much else to occupy my time."

Megga, proving Damon's assumption that her voice was as loud as her laugh, trumpeted from beside him. "In King's Landing? Surely you jest, my prince."

Damon the Daring didn't quite know what to think of Elinor and Megga's use of 'my prince'. It was different than the normal recognition of rank, flirtier and intentionally said in a sultry tone. Part of Damon liked it...a lot, because he'd heard them and other words in similar tones and much more interesting situations. In this setting, though, the rest of him found it uncomfortable. "I don't."

Margaery spoke again, giving him another reason to look at her. "Prince Damon has been here all his life, Megga. I doubt he finds it the same thrill we who haven't been do."

He nodded, perhaps a touch too eagerly. "Exactly."

Elinor sighed, returning to her needlework. "I suppose that it is good you train so much, what with the war and all."

He found himself glancing at Sansa, who's brother Robb was firmly on the other side of the casually mentioned war. He noticed Tyrek doing the same, his cousin answering so Damon didn't have to. Thank the Gods for Tyrek. "I'm sure all of us here hope for a quick and more peaceful end to it."

"Peaceful?" Megga again, Damon wishing suddenly that he had sat by Elinor instead. She may trap him with her wit, but at least he'd still be able to hear whenever she was done. "Odd words coming from a knight who fought bravely in the Riverlands."

Tyrek swelled with pride, though he tried to keep it from his voice. "I don't know if I was any braver than others."

Damon leaped on the chance to keep the focus off of himself. "He was, my ladies. He saved my life in the Whispering Wood."

Elinor and Megga fawned over Tyrek at that, Sansa remaining intent on her needlework and Margaery watching her cousins expertly wrap Tyrek around their fingers with a knowing smirk. She glanced at Damon, who realized he had been staring, and spoke as soon as he jerked his eyes to Tyrek, both blonde knights blushing for different reasons. "Yet you are the one they call the Daring, my Prince."

This 'my prince' near broke him in two. Tyrek luckily saved him, for the hundredth time in the last ten minutes. "Aye, and well deserved Lady Margaery. Damon broke the Riverlander lines at the Three Hills near on his own, and nearly drowned trying to save a wounded enemy at Riverrun."

The first was a lie, and the wink Tyrek sent Damon showed he knew it. It set Megga and Elinor to fawning over him this time, though, and Damon imagined Tyrek thought he was returning the favor from earlier. Despite not having any idea how to respond to the praise, Damon couldn't deny that a part of him enjoyed it. We're even, Tyrek, though I'm going to give you an extra wallop in the ring for embellishing the tale.

The banter went on for several minutes, mainly between Tyrek and the two Tyrell cousins. Sansa said nothing, Margaery chiming in but seemingly more than content to watch her humorous cousins flirt with the blushing Lannister. That was fine; Damon was content to watch her.

Balon, who had gone to stand beside his sworn brother Ser Meryn Trant, suddenly reappeared. "Forgive the interruption, but Prince Damon has been requested in the Queen's chambers."

Damon nodded and rose, one hand still on the table as the others did the same. The Prince was shocked that he felt a touch of regret at the blessed means of escape. He bowed again all the same. "Thank you for your time, my ladies."

Margaery smiled. "The pleasure is all ours, Prince Damon." As she spoke, she casually lay her fingertips lightly on the top of his hand.

It took all of his willpower to remove his hand, bow again, and take his leave.

His feet felt tied to stones and his heart was in his chest as he and Tyrek left the pavilion, Balon falling into step behind them as they made for the royal apartments. Damon, cursing himself for a fool, felt the fiery impressions her finertips had left for a long, long time.

Damon didn't, however, see his grandfather watching from a window a hundred feet away.

A/N: Does that mean something? Does it not? Did I mention Sansa for a reason or simply to throw you guys off?! Is he secretly going to elope with Megga Tyrell!? Will this be a harem fic with all the Tyrell's and Olenna Redwyne to boot!?

:) I suppose you'll have to wait and see ((because sometimes I'm not even sure to be honest (but the last one is a definite no))

Anyhow, I'm not overly happy with the first bit but it got me back into writing on this as well as let me drop a few lines I liked. And of course it actually served a story purpose that might or might not pop up again later, dependent upon my random whims. Anyhow, let me know what you think and keep leaving suggestions!

Just a quick note, I'm much more likely to answer PM's than reviews even though I read all of both kinds, so if you have a specific question you desperately want me to answer I advise you send it that way. But hey, y'all do y'all.