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

Stuff is about to happen. We'll talk about it in the second a/n.

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

They met on a blackened hill.

It hadn't always been black. Indeed, the near-choking smell of smoke told just how recently this nameless hill had been covered in daises and trees, a piece of solidarity and nature amidst a world of sword and pain. But Westerlander axes and Reachman flame had done away with all of that in controlled, intentional style, going about the removal of trees and brush from the crest of the hill for a thousand yards in a circle from the point where Damon now sat.

Anything that might hide a man, even a lone assassin, had been removed or demolished. At no point were the surrounding woods close enough to put a hidden archer within feasible range, and any natural dips or ditches in the rolling sides of the hill that might have been covered in long grass were now completely exposed, their canopy of green nothing but blackened stubble. It was a touch sad, but now there was zero chance of a surprise.

Well, almost zero chance. The Prince of Dragonstone had long ago learned that surprise had the damndest way of surprising you.

Damon Baratheon sat a black stallion at the crest of the hill, staring down over the distance of burnt ground to the green tree line a gentle slope and thousand yards away. He was accompanied by only three others, each atop a mount of their own. Ser Balon Swann held the King's banner, Joffrey's sigil of stag and lion flapping in the breeze. Ser Tyrek Lannister held the white flag of parlay, nothing more than a bedsheet tied to a lance. Lord Edmure Tully held nothing but his tongue, his hands secured to the pommel of Damon's saddle by a length of rope.

More for show, really. If this goes south, Ser Edmure will soon find himself dead, unarmed or not.

This was what Damon had been trying to arrange for moons. Somewhere hidden in the trees down there sat Robb Stark, the proclaimed King in the North, and his army of Northerners and Riverlanders. Damon had become uncomfortably familiar with the latter, having fought those men a dozen times and nearly been killed by them just as many, but he had yet to see hide nor hair of Robb Stark since forever and a lifetime ago at Winterfell.

Today though, after weeks of envoys and negotiations under flag of truce, that was finally going to change.

The Young Wolf had agreed to a parlay with the Golden Stag.

Damon had been asleep in a painfully empty bed when Tyrek had awoken him, saying a man with furs and a flag of truce had surrendered himself to a sentry. That man turned out to be Hullen Woolfield, atop the same bay mare he had ridden off on days earlier. With him he had a letter, sealed with the Stark direwolf.

There had been a flurry of responses back and forth since then, letters from both Damon and Sansa going out and letters from Robb coming in—though none from Jaime, despite Damon's request for them. Regardless, this meeting had finally been set up, on the first day of the new century.

The day of his brother's wedding.

King Joffrey Baratheon was set to marry Margaery of House Tyrell within hours; both king and future queen were likely already in preparation here at the crack of dawn, for it was to be an all-day affair. Seventy-seven courses or some such foolishness, all sorts of pomp and circumstance. Damon was supposed to be there; so was Sansa Stark for that matter, and Tyrek, and Ser Balon and a large number of the lords waiting with his army. There had been letters from the capitol both asking for his return and demanding it, insisting that it wouldn't be proper for the king to marry without his brother present. Damon had seen it all before, during his first flight from the capitol—he'd made something of a habit of the improper, committing borderline treason time and time again to do what he thought was best.

And this parlay was for the best. They hadn't executed him yet, and Damon was willing to hedge his bets they wouldn't do it now.

So, all of those wedding guests, prince and prisoner alike, waited a few days march into the Riverlands, a week south of where Damon had first tasted battle. This particular area was in no-man's-land, close enough to Robb Stark's base of operations at Riverrun to be frequently patrolled and raided by Northerners while also close enough to King's Landing to be frequently patrolled and raided by royalist.

Close enough for both armies to fall back to heavily defended bastions, should it all go to shit.

And it had a high chance of all going to shit.

Damon normally wouldn't focus on that; he had been so intent on arranging this, so sure he could make something work, that he couldn't allow himself any self-doubt now that it was coming to fruition. But when the only other thing he could focus on was his brother marrying Margaery Tyrell, he gladly decided to study the faults in his logic.

There were plenty, most glaring of which that Damon had no fucking idea what he was going to say to Robb Stark.

He was going to propose a trade of Sansa and Edmure for Jaime of course; that much had been planned since the moment Tywin told the prince that he was returning to the front. It had also been hinted at heavily in the setup of this parlay, both sides talking of it without actually talking of it. Damon wasn't concerned about that; it made sense for both sides, and he saw little in the way of Jaime soon being back as the prince's idol and mentor.

It was the whole 'end-the-war' thing that Damon was unsure about. He had been so focused on getting his uncle back that he hadn't properly prepared for just how he was going to convince the Stark king to lay down his arms and return to the king's peace.

Mainly because he wasn't actually operating with the king's authority. He was mostly certain that, if he were able to actually bring Robb to the table, the capitol would forgive his recent spree of roguishness and accept the headway he had made. It only made sense for them to; Damon had no doubt he would pay for his deceptions and impropriety, perhaps quite severely, but if he could hand them the ability to nullify a major threat they would be fools not to take it.

Then again Joffrey was king, so foolishness was certainly in play here.

There were also the facts that Robb hadn't been beaten on the field of battle and had a very reasonable and justifiable cause for rebelling. While accepting a crown and proclaiming himself king was a stroke too far, the Lannisters and Baratheons had certainly provoked them to an extent. It could also be argued that Robb was winning, or at least that he certainly wasn't losing. Why would he back down when he was in such a good position?

Damon realized his plan may have been horribly hairbrained at the same time Robb Stark rode out of the woods from below.

It was quiet, nothing but tension and the smell of smoke in the air as Robb and his three chosen companions rode slowly up the hill. Damon watched them come, stomach knotted in anxiety that he tried to keep from showing on his face. It took years for the King in the North to reach the top of the hill, all of the dangers and risks and worries swirling around Damon's mind so fast as to almost overwhelm him and render him useless.

A year ago it would have. But that Damon had been a boy, and this Damon had seen too much death to be one of those anymore.

Robb Stark had grown into his frame since that time in Winterfell, a beard accompanying the auburn locks held out of his eyes by a crown of bronze and iron. He was dressed in furs and leathers, atop a sorrel stallion of southern breeding—likely one of Damon's own horses, stolen in the first of the raids. The Prince didn't let himself focus on that very long at all.

Two of his companions were much the same, one an older man of impressive height and build. An Umber most like, although Damon had thought Hullen Woolfield had been an Umber as well. The other was a touch older still, though the black trout holding his cloak together left little doubt as to who he was. Blackfish Tully eyed Damon impassively, glancing only once at his nephew Edmure.

The third companion was a woman.

Catleyn Tully sat a bay mare, dressed in a blue cloak with hair like her daughters pulled into a tail. It took Damon by surprise, the King in the North bringing his mother to such a parlay, but when he saw her gazing past him towards the woods behind the Prince he understood.

"She isn't here, Lady Stark."

Damon realized those probably weren't the best words to start this meeting, but he didn't have any better ones.

Robb spoke, and he sounded nothing like the boy he had been last time they met. The Young Wolf's tone was authoritative and strong. Kingly. "And where is she?

Damon met Robb's eyes, Lannister emerald and Tully blue. "Where is my uncle?"

Robb gazed at him for a moment, then leaned back slightly in his saddle. "Alright, Lannister. You've been trying to see me for months; here I am."

His eyes narrowed slightly. "I'm a Baratheon."

Robb shook his head. "Not according to your supposed uncles." The King in the North cocked his head slightly. "You know, it's a miracle no one saw it beforehand. You look just like him."

"And who is that."

"Jaime Lannister. Perhaps Stannis was on to something. Perhaps my father was too."

It only took a few sentences, and I've already lost control of this conversation. How in the seven hells did I think this was going to be a good idea.

Damon cleared his throat, both to push down his apprehension and his genuine anger at Robb's insinuations. "I'm not here to trade insults with you, Robb."

The bigger companion spoke. "It's King Robb."

Tyrek answered him. "Not in the south."

The Prince broke back in before either could continue. "I'm here to talk of peace."

The King in the North snorted. "Peace. Says the man who has killed more than one of my lord bannermen."

His tongue answered before his brain could. "Says the man you've been trying and failing to kill for months."

Robb merely shrugged. "Such things happen in war."

Damon took a moment before continuing. "You know I am no good with words. If you wish to fight with those, I will leave now; there is no point in throwing insults at one another."

The Northern king opened his mouth to respond, likely with a wit that Damon wouldn't know how to counter. Instead, his mother cut him off. "I want to see my daughter."

Both men, king and prince, looked to her. The former gave her a look of irritation, the latter a blank stare. "Your daughter is a guest in my camp. She is safe, but wishes to return home."

Catelyn Stark shook her head. "I would like to see her, Prince Damon. With my own eyes. Please."

Her son took the narrative back. "Why isn't she here?"

"I brought your uncle, as you can all see."

Edmure Tully, who had been quiet as the grave, suddenly spoke. "I am fine, thank you all for your concern."

Damon continued, ignoring the poor jape. "Why isn't my uncle?"

"Do you have her or don't you, Damon?" Robb's voice was hard.

"I sent you proof."

"Letters that could have been written by any hand, and a lock of red hair that could have come from any head. I want to see her."

Damon found himself clenching his jaw. "That is more than you sent to me. I have no proof my uncle is still alive, much less that—"

It clicked in his mind all at once. Damon reeled back in his saddle, the motion causing his stallion to shy to one side and nearly jerk the Lord Paramount tied to it to the ground. "You don't have him, do you."

Robb, to his credit, didn't hesitate and didn't look away. "No, I don't."

At first Damon was relieved, so relieved it nearly made him lose his seat atop his horse. But before it could truly settle on him, that relief turned to apprehension, then concern, then fear. "Then where is he?" If he wasn't a captive of Robb Stark, Jaime should by all accounts be back in the capitol. If he had turned up there Damon had no doubt he would have received word of it, but he had not. That left the list of places his uncle could be both long and short; long in that he could be literally anywhere, and short in that there were only two places he would be.

Unless he was dead.

Damon was, simultaneously, horrified and infuriated. His voice came out sharp and angry. "You killed him."

Robb shook his head calmly. "I did not. I released him, weeks ago, with the expectation my sisters would be released to me. It wasn't until I got your letters that I realized something was amiss."

The Prince of the Iron Throne shook his head in disbelief, reeling from the possible answers to this new information. "Yet you came to this meeting, knowing it was to arrange a trade."

The Young Wolf cocked a brow. "I came to this meeting to discuss peace, as you yourself said. For that, I have demands. One of which is my sister. Where is she."

Damon didn't answer for a long time, trying to get a grip on the rash of emotions and thoughts crashing around inside him like the waters of Shipbreaker Bay. If Jaime had been released, he should have returned. He hadn't, at least not to the Prince's knowledge, and that left the options of his whereabouts bleak and terrifying. That in and of itself was enough to make Damon want to curl up in a ball, the thought that his idol was quite possibly dead in a ditch somewhere with no one to even recover his body.

But something somewhere within him didn't allow that. Instead, it focused on Robb's other words. That he was, in fact, here to discuss peace terms. That, while he didn't have Jaime to trade, he seemed at least willing to discuss the possibility of a truce. With a truce came peace—at least on that front—and with peace in central Westeros came the opportunity to search for an uncle that, if Robb was telling the truth, was somewhere between Riverrun and King's Landing. Maybe dead. Hopefully alive.

"What are these conditions?" His voice came out calm and collected, nothing at all like what he was feeling.

Robb had never looked away from Damon's eyes. "Show me you actually have my sister, and we'll discuss them."

Damon hated tears, so the reunion between Catelyn Stark and her daughter Sansa—the latter tied firmly to Tyrek's saddle—was hard to watch.

With no regard for the potentially tense situation, Lady Stark barely waiting until Sansa reached the top of the hill before kicking her horse forward and wrapping her arms around Sansa's middle and crying into her daughter's hair. Sansa, who had been admirably stoic since her abduction from King's Landing, broke into deep sobs, her tied hands jerking against Tyrek's saddle as she tried to return the hug. Instead she buried her face into her mother's neck, body shaking with the tears.

Damon watched it uncomfortably. Robb, to either his detriment or his credit, almost managed to keep any emotion from his face. His voice only slightly wavered as mother and daughter cried and spoke in hushed, teary whispers. "I see you weren't lying."

"I told you I wasn't." Damon coughed, looking away from the crying women and trying to focus on the conversation ahead, although he gave Tyrek a not-so-subtle glance to tell him to keep an eye out. "What are these conditions."

Robb, still looking at his sister and likely fighting the urge to ride over and hug her himself, tried to return to the task on hand as well. It was kingly of him, though Damon could tell it was very difficult for him. "First would be the release of Sansa to me."

Damon nodded. "Go on."

"Second, you will assist the North in ridding our coasts of Balon Greyjoy."

The Prince of Dragonstone nodded slowly. Greyjoy had hit the North harder than anywhere else, and Damon realized for the first time that Robb needed peace as badly as Damon did.

Actually, he needed it worse.

Several phrases, from the mouths of both his grandfather and his mother, popped into his mind unbidden. Lessons taught to him since he was old enough to listen sprang back to memory, things he had found intimidating or unimportant to his life as a boy recalled when they actually appeared in front of him.

Damon had been so entirely focused on getting his uncle back that he hadn't seen the big picture of the conflict; he hadn't seen all that was going on. The North had a large army, it was true, but they were currently fighting a war on two fronts. Balon Greyjoy was in their homelands, while Damon and his men were in their way to the south. They had no ships to combat the Ironborn, no ability to hold onto the Riverlands and clear the squids away.

And without Jaime, they had no leverage. No power to hold over Damon and Tywin's heads, nothing to barter with. Their army wasn't bigger, their positioning wasn't better, and while Stannis wasn't outright at war with them, he was no ally either.

Robb Stark didn't hold all of the cards. Instead, Damon found he himself did.

But all he said was "Go on."

"Lastly, you will recognize the independence of the North and the Riverlands. That includes the release of all prisoners of war, and the return of Ice to my family."

Damon almost laughed. "No."

Robb arched a brow. "No?"

"No."

The King in the North stared at him for a moment, expecting him to elaborate. Damon didn't. "What do you mean, Damon?"

"I mean you will not be independent of the Iron Throne. The North and the Riverlands belong to Joffrey Baratheon, first of his name. Not Robb Stark."

Robb straightened in his saddle. "I don't intend to kneel."

The Prince of Dragonstone shrugged. It was a forced move, made with a nonchalance he certainly didn't feel. "Then you don't intend to see peace, and there is no need for us to continue talking."

He had turned his horse completely around, Tyrek staring with eyes begging to know if he was supposed to come along, when Robb spoke again. "Damon."

The Prince turned back to him, keeping his emotions from his face. "Robb."

The Stark was staring at him intently. "We aren't children anymore, even if we were not so long ago. Even if we want to be again. These aren't games."

Damon didn't look away. "No, we aren't."

"My lords crowned me king when your brother murdered my father."

"When your father tried to usurp the crown."

Robb nearly snarled. "Lies."

Damon cocked a brow. "Are they?"

"My father was an honorable man."

The Prince had no argument there and didn't know what else to say except to concur. "I agree."

"Yet he is dead."

"And so are many men. Of both of ours."

"Yet you're willing to let more die."

Damon had never been surer of what to say in his entire life. "No Robb; you are." The King in the North said nothing, and Damon continued. "Peace can be had, but not independence. Discuss that with your lords and I'll discuss it with the king. Perhaps something can be worked out." He saluted, having said all he had wanted to and more than he probably would in the next three months. "I'll give you a week to answer me, be it peace or war."

Damon didn't wait for a response, kicking his stallion over to Tyrek and taking the rope tied to Sansa. Robb cut in. "Leave her with her mother. As a token of goodwill."

Catelyn, who had tightened the grip she had never relinquished throughout her son's negotiations, nearly broke his heart with her tone. "Please, Prince Damon."

Old Damon would have given her over then and there. Sansa was a young girl who had been caught in a string of events completely over her head. She'd been abused by Joffrey, tortured mentally and emotionally, and had only been reunited with the family she'd been away from for months minutes ago. Robb was clearly at least willing to discuss peace, considering the position he was in strategically; what harm could doing the right thing cause?

Old Damon would have said none. This Damon, the one who had seen blood and shit and death on battlefields, knew better. Sansa was the most advantageous prisoner the crown held; giving her away would do nothing good and everything bad.

He wanted to, though. He wanted her to escape and be free, this innocent girl caught in a spat between her brother and former betrothed.

For a second he faltered, then made up his mind.

"No." The Prince of Dragonstone literally pulled a sobbing Sansa from her mother's arms, despite shouted protest from Edmure and Robb and all three of the Stark companions. Sansa screamed, doing her best to jump from her horse despite being tied at the wrist to the rope in Damon's hands. Damon instead plucked her from her saddle and sat her down sidesaddle in front of him, ignoring the double-fisted punches she threw and tears she cried.

He almost expected Robb to draw steel at that display. The King in the North didn't, however, restraining his own mother instead, though his eyes were glaring and promised a retribution. Damon met the glare only a moment before turning jittery horse and screaming northern girl and galloping away. When he finally looked back, Sansa having broken down into a sobbing hunk at his chest, the Starks were gone.

The entire display had broken his heart, though he resolved not to let it show. He hated himself for it almost as much as he was certain Sansa and the Starks did.

But he was a Prince. A Baratheon and a Lannister, and there was a war to win.

Robb had only been partially right. They weren't kids anymore, but this certainly was a game, one the Golden Stag was finally beginning to play.

The Seven frowned upon him for his cold-heartedness though, as he learned a few days later. They punished him in the most devastating way they could.

They made Damon king.

A/N: I bet you guys didn't see all that coming, did you.

Or maybe you did haha.

Anyhow, a whole lot just went down, with big implications for the future. I know I'll get a lot of complaints about the Starks not being dead (yet...?) and 'non the canon storyline' and such, but I have a timeline backed explanation and plan. If you want to know my reasoning shoot me a pm, because I quite simply don't want to take the time to type it out in an author's note. A lot of you will have it figured out already; plenty of you are better at calling my shots than I am!

Next chapter (which will likely be a while but I'll try) we'll get started on the info in that last line. And then things really start to roll.

(unless I change my mind, because I'm me)

Anyway, let me know what you think about it! You guy truly do rock.

Thanks,

Kerjack

*tease* The king is dead. Long live the king...s?