Author's Note: Hello again!

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

Two men, shockingly similar in features and expression, stared at each other from opposite sides of a redwood table.

One was a king, the other a kingslayer. Both had emerald eyes, pronounced cheekbones on clean-shaven faces, and golden blond hair shorn short.

One was well into his prime, young but aged just enough to have become somewhat jaded and grizzled; the other was just entering his, old enough to have seen war but young enough to still crave his mother's embrace. Both had killed men, more men than either could count.

One had two hands, the other only one. Both were clueless as to what to say.

King Damon Baratheon, first of his name, had nearly buckled to the ground upon seeing his uncle in the throne room. The man whom he trusted most had been ripped away moons ago, and the King of the Iron Throne had spent the interim trying his best to recover him…and failing, over and over again. Jaime's sudden and shocking return to his life was a blessing from the Seven of a magnitude the king couldn't express.

It was also a shock for more than the sudden appearance; his uncle Jaime, when Damon had seen him last in the Whispering Wood, had been tall and strong, with golden hair to his shoulders and a smile that never faded. This uncle Jaime, the one who had returned to King's Landing mere days before Damon himself had, was two stone lighter, his hair cut short and smile most certainly faded. And, where his right hand—his sword hand, what had been his pride and joy—was supposed to be, there was nothing. Empty space at the end of a stump, tied with white bandages beneath a folded sleeve.

Damon, as was normal, had no idea what to say. There was plenty he wanted to—he wanted to ask how Jaime had been treated, if he was alright, who had done this and how they were going to kill him—but the words simply would not come. They had refused, from the moment he had first seen his uncle through when he had all but drug him into the private solar they now sat in through now, when they sat and stared and no one spoke.

Thrice Damon opened his mouth to say something, to tell Jaime how happy he was to see him again and how much he had missed his guidance and to ask what the fuck he was supposed to do now, but nothing ever emerged. That was odd—not being able to put words to his thoughts was common in the King, but not when around his uncle. Around Jaime the words had flowed seamlessly and often, until now.

Jaime Lannister finally broke the silence, after long minutes of staring at his nephew contemplatively. "You've grown."

It wasn't exactly what Damon had expected him to say, but it seemed to break the trance of silence. The King nodded gently. "I suppose I have, in the months we haven't seen each other."

"They tell me you took command while I was gone."

Damon shifted slightly, shaking his head. "They tell you wrong. I merely yelled a lot and got others spurred to action. I wouldn't have been able to do that, if it weren't for you." His eyes dropped to Jaime's missing hand. "You paid a heavy price for my life."

His uncle snorted abruptly, Damon looking up to meet identical eyes. "A hand for a nephew is not a heavy price."

"It was your hand, the thing your every repute—"

"I know what it was and what it meant, Damon." Jaime's voice had an edge for a moment but softened just as quickly. "But I have another hand, while I only have one squire. I can learn to fight with my left much easier than I can replace my nephew. I don't care if you're a king now, I refuse to hear any talk of an uneven trade." Jaime let his eyes roam over Damon again, the king still in his black and gold armor with the plain grey helm now sitting on the table between them. "Although I will have to find another squire. Ser Damon the Daring…quite the moniker."

Damon shifted uncomfortably. He had been honored and proud of his knighthood when it had been awarded, but he had thought then and certainly thought now that it would have been much sweeter if it had been awarded by his uncle, the man he had squired for and trained with since he was able to walk. It should have been Jaime to place a sword blade on his shoulders and charge him with upholding the law and protecting the weak. "It was grandfather's idea."

"But it was earned. You're better than most of my Kingsguard brothers. Actually, you're better than all of them, now that…" He trailed off, glancing down at his own hand.

They relapsed into awkward silence for several more minutes, each second killing Damon inwardly. This wasn't their dynamic. This wasn't how things were supposed to be between himself and his uncle Jaime. It might be how things were with Damon and nearly the rest of the world, but not with the man he praised. It was awkward, difficult…wrong.

Abruptly the King shot to his feet. "Follow me."

Jaime cocked a brow. "Where?"

"Just follow."

His uncle stared for a moment more before slowly standing. Damon nodded, then whirled and exited the doors he had come through, armor clanking. Tyrek and Ser Balon stood on the other side, the latter still on duty to his king and the former waiting to speak with his friend. Tyrek began to speak, saw Jaime and the determined look on Damon's face, and then fell into step beside his king without needing to be told. "Where are we going?"

"You're the second person to ask me that. Just come."

Damon ignored everyone they passed—he was too focused on where he was going to even register who they were, not caring if he gave offense or not. It took much too long to get there, but eventually he and his three companions came to a stop at the entrance to the small, inner courtyard where Damon had spent thousands of hours with a sword in his hand.

The King stopped, turning to the three men. "Tyrek, go to the entrance on the other side and shut the door behind you. No one, and I mean no one, enters."

His cousin nodded once. "I'm on it."

The king turned to Ser Balon as Tyrek started across the rough cobbles. "You will do the same on this side. I don't care if it is Tywin Lannister or my mother; no one opens that door until I come back through it, Ser Balon."

The knight of the Kingsguard nodded. "Of course, Your Grace."

Damon turned and entered, holding the door and gesturing with his head for Jaime to do the same. The Kingslayer hesitated for moment, then did the same, Damon shutting the entrance behind him.

Neither man said a word as Damon walked to the rack of training swords as he had done a thousand times before, removing his own sword belt and dagger and exchanging them for two of the blunted blades.

Jaime never said a word until Damon turned back to him. "I've never fought with my left hand."

Damon shrugged. "Neither have I." Unceremoniously he tossed a blade down at his uncle's feet, hefting the other in his own left hand. It felt foreign and wrong, Damon knowing he looked every bit as awkward as he felt when he gave the blade a few practice swings.

His uncle hadn't picked the blade up. "I'll never be as good."

Damon imagined he was one of if not the only person Jaime Lannister would admit that to. It touched him, while also making him horribly uncomfortable at any thought of his uncle being anything less than excellent at anything he tried. "No, I don't suppose you will."

Jaime's face grew a touch annoyed. "Then what's the point?"

Damon settled into a fighting stance, ignoring his uncle's warning tone. "Are you going to grow it back?" Jaime just stared at him. "No? Well I don't intent to have the greatest swordsman I have ever known refuse to pick up a blade over something as simple as losing a hand. Now pick up the sword."

His uncle peered at him, after a long moment shaking his head slightly. "You sound like Tyrion."

The mention of his mother's other brother brought back the reality of what Damon had before him, as well as the anxiety and fear associated with the fact that Damon was now king and was the most unqualified person for the title. But he didn't let that bother him, not now; now he had his uncle back, and while both of them were changed, he had missed this courtyard and this scenario too much over the past few weeks. He wasn't going to miss it now.

"Maybe. Now pick up the sword."

It was as pathetic as both of them had known it would be. Their first 'spars' were considered victories if they even managed to connect with each other's blade, much less intentionally score a hit. One of them defeated the other more often by accident than on purpose, but after a while both settled into a silent, competitive state.

Midway through Damon switched back to his right hand, realizing it would do Jaime no good to train against the king if the king were as bad as Jaime was. It was a disconcerting reversal of roles from when Damon was a child; back then Damon had been the one hopelessly hacking away, his uncle blocking each blow easily while shouting encouragement or advice, while now it was Damon doing the encouraging. Jaime said nothing through all of it, breaking out into a heavy sweat and panting but refusing to give up.

They fought for hours, until darkness settled in the King's Landing sky. Damon knew he had been derelict in his duties that day—his first as king in his court, and he had done nothing but what he personally wanted to—but he couldn't find the capacity to care. As he and his uncle sat polishing the blunted blades in torchlight, he leaned to his right just enough to nudge Jaime's shoulder, never looking away from the task at hand. "I…missed you, uncle."

Damon didn't have to look to see that the old smirk, at least for a moment, had returned to Jaime's face. "I know."

The King of the Iron Throne stepped into the Small Council chamber half an hour before daylight, expecting to be the first man there for the dawn meeting. He wasn't, as Lord Tywin Lannister's gaze stopped him in the doorway, the Lion of Lannister standing behind the head chair of the table.

His grandfather was completely expressionless, bowing slightly at the waist towards the king. "Your Grace."

Damon swallowed apprehensively. He'd not yet been alone with Lord Tywin, not since hours before the then-Prince had absconded with Sansa Stark. After training with Jaime the night before, Damon had spent the next few hours playing with Tommen, who had grown absurdly in the time he had been gone. Afterwards, he had spent a small amount of time—arguing—with his mother, enduring her anger at his once again leaving without so much as a word of warning. He knew it came from a place of love, but his mother had never been one to pull punches, and for a moment he had almost wished he had weathered the wrath of Lord Tywin instead.

Until now. Now he remembered why he had avoided the man once he had left the throne room.

The king knew he should have gone to the Hand first thing, to see what news he hadn't known of yet and to receive council on what move he should make. There certainly were plenty of decisions to be made; what to do about Robb now that the deck had been shuffled so drastically, where the hell Stannis was.

What to do about Tyrion.

Damon wasn't dumb, contrary to public opinion. He knew, better than most, that Joffrey had been a bad king. He knew his twin had been utterly fucking mad, and that all Joffrey had cared about was the enjoyment of Joffrey. Plenty of men and women had plenty of reasons to kill him, and one of them finally had.

He knew Tyrion may well have been that one.

Damon and his dwarven uncle had never been overly close. While both enjoyed the ministrations of women of ill repute, Damon tried to at least hide his most of the time, while Tyrion flaunted it openly in a manner most unsuitable of a noble of his birth. The Imp was also horribly clever and quick of wit, something that made Damon uneasy despite Tyrion's attempts to cheer his nephew. They'd never been close because of it.

But Damon didn't want to believe, not for a second, that Tyrion had killed Joffrey.

He had plenty of reason, perhaps more than others did. Tyrion had been a favored target of the last king ever since his rise to the throne, mainly due to the Halfman's propensity to discipline Joffrey in his youth. Damon knew first hand the type of torture, emotional and mental, that the demon who had been his brother could inflict upon a soul, and just the type of anger and hate it could stir up in them.

But Damon didn't want to believe. Whatever his faults, Tyrion had never done anything but dote upon the youngest Baratheon children, Damon included. He'd even tried to do so on Joff, when the now-dead man had been a child. And he was smart, much to smart to so openly kill a king.

Wasn't he?

Perhaps not. But surely, if he had killed the king, he wouldn't have been so stupid as to dump the remnants of the chalice that held the poison onto the ground in full view of the wedding goers.

Wouldn't he have?

Damon was sick of not knowing.

And Tywin was sick of waiting for an answer from his grandson.

"Where is Sansa Stark?"

The King snapped back to reality, stepping forward into the council chamber and taking a seat across the length of the table from his grandfather. "In her chambers, I suppose."

Tywin took the other end, peering across the table. Damon did his best to meet his eyes. "The same chambers she should have been in for the past several months, yes?"

Well at least it didn't take too long to get to it. "Ah, yes. Those chambers."

Tywin clearly wasn't amused. "I do not like to be taken for a fool, Damon."

"No one could consider you that, Lord Tywin. I merely did as I thought best."

The Lion of the West snorted. "As you thought best, eh?"

Damon swallowed. "Yes. It was working, as well."

Tywin arched a brow. "Oh?"

"Yes. I brought Robb Stark to the table."

Tywin nodded his head in fake agreement, pursing his lips. "Ah, yes. Was that before or after he tried to kill you and very nearly succeeded?"

The king shifted in his seat. "After."

Tywin stared across the table for a long time, so long Damon had nearly lost all ability to meet his eyes. But, just before the king could take no more and looked away, Tywin's stiff posture relaxed ever so slightly. "I see the moniker you earned for yourself on the battlefield is not entirely ill-fitting." His tone hardened again. "Though I hope you don't intend to do anything so…ill-advised again."

Damon blinked, wondering if he had truly gotten off that lightly. "Um, no. I don't."

Tywin nodded once, sharply. "Good. I am here to help you avoid such reckless moves again." Tywin's voice never faltered, never showed so much as a hint of regret at the loss of his eldest grandson. "I don't think I need to tell you that Joffrey was a bad king."

The king shook his head. "No."

"Good. You've already shown more intelligence than your twin did." Tywin stood, and Damon nearly caught himself standing as well despite him being the king here. In title, at least. His grandfather strode to a pitcher, sitting on a side table. For a moment Damon thought he intended to pour them both wine here before the sun had even broken the horizon of the sleeping city, but the king quickly saw it was milk that was poured instead. It's like he knew I'd be here early.

Damon imagined he probably had. Little seemed to get by his grandfather, and he seemed able to anticipate his oldest surviving grandchild's moves before the grandchild in question had made them.

Except for my intention to steal away with Sansa. But I'd best keep that too myself.

The Hand placed a glass before the King before returning to his chair, speaking as he did so. "Your brother did little to help you and much to hurt you, before his demise. I have handled what I can, but your crown still sits in a precarious position." Tywin settled into his seat, taking a drink while watching the king over the rim of his glass. Damon listened attentively. "Do you know in what ways?"

The king didn't need to think; it was all he had been focused on since the moment he had learned his brother was dead. "Robb has one kingdom and half of another pledging independence. A third is in open revolt, causing a headache for both us and Stark. And Stannis is…somewhere."

Tywin's face was neither approving or disapproving. "Essos, we believe. Trying to hire mercenary bands to fight for him, now that most of the noble houses had abandoned his cause."

The king blinked. "How does he intend to pay for them?" Damon knew the Lordship of Dragonstone was a significant seat, but that was only due to it's history and stoutness as a fortress. It had little means of securing wealth across it's rocky islands.

I should know. It was mine, at least in name, before it all became mine.

He shuttered a touch at the thought of that, though he tried to keep his Hand from seeing.

Something in Tywin's tone clued Damon that that had been a good question to ask. "Exactly. With what money?"

Damon realized the Lion wanted him to answer, and found he didn't have one. "I…don't know."

Instead of a berating, Tywin nodded. "Of course you don't. You were not meant to be King, so you had no need to know the state of the realm or its finances. But you are king, now."

And, as it turned out, finances were poor.

By the end Tywin's brief, matter-of-fact report on the crown's assets, Damon was rooted to his seat for all the wrong reasons. "You can't be serious."

"I have never made a habit of joking."

No, I suppose not, but I wish you were in this situation. "How in the name of the Seven did things become so out of hand?"

"Easily, when you think about it. King Aerys was a madman who spent money frivolously, with no one brave enough to curtail his habits for fear of being burnt to death. Robert was a man who cared more about hunting and whoring and drinking and couldn't be bothered by something so insignificant as running the realm he won on the battlefield. Joffrey was a boy as mad as a Targaryen, though I don't suppose we can lay too much blame upon him; he inherited the same debt from your father that you inherited from him."

The king had put the pieces together, just as Tywin had likely intended. "And Stannis intends to gather support from the Iron Bank by promising to repay the debts the crown owes them."

The Hand nodded again. "Yes, I believe so. So, King Damon…what do we do?"

He felt a ball of stress and fear grip his insides at that question, the type of inquiry he had spent his whole life trying to avoid having to answer. Ideas bounced around in his head, each dumber than the last, before he finally slumped in the shoulders. "I don't know." He glanced back at his grandfather, knowing the question the Hand of the King wanted to know. "Do you?"

Tywin almost smiled. Almost. "Perhaps. Ser Borros!" The Kingsguard knight who had followed Damon to the meeting stuck his head in the door. "Please shut the door."

Damon sent his grandfather a questioning look. "But the others…"

"The rest of the small council will meet with you and I at this time tomorrow, where we will discuss matters in more detail. Today, however, you and I have much to discuss."

The Rose of Highgarden found the man she had sought all day that evening.

Well, found wasn't the right word. She and her grandmother had kept knowledge of the king's whereabouts since he had returned to King's Landing, and this was the first time since before dawn that he had left the Small Council chamber. Damon, dressed in the same simple tunic and breeches like those he had worn before his brother's death, stood staring out at the ocean, far below the walls of the Red Keep. Her brother stood guard several feet back, acting not at all surprised when she quietly made her way towards Damon's side.

He'd been the one to let her know where the king was, after all.

Margaery found herself to be…nervous, as she approached the twin of her late husband. That was an odd sensation—she was used to inspiring nervousness in the men she set her intents on, not the other way around. She and Damon had spoken only a handful of times, but she knew his attraction for her. She also knew she couldn't be overly aggressive in inviting his approach; Damon was a man of honor if not one of words, and openly trying to work her way into his bed so soon after the death of his brother wouldn't set well with him.

Though he'd be tempted, she knew.

Let's not get ahead of ourselves.

She had just opened her mouth to speak, having closed within a few armlengths of the Prince, when he abruptly turn to set his emerald eyes on her. It froze her for a moment in surprise, though she covered it quickly with a small smile and bow. "Your Grace."

Damon, who had frozen himself on seeing who it was approaching him, swallowed several times before answering. "Lady Margaery."

She slowly took a few steps closer to him, keeping several feet between them as she turned to look out at the ocean as he had been. "I hope I'm not intruding."

It took the king a full five seconds before he seemed able to move again, turning back to the look the way he had been. "No."

It will take some time to get used to such…brevity. "I wished to offer my condolences, Your Grace."

She stole a glance at him, seeing his golden profile had gathered quite a bit of tension since her arrival. "Thank you. I…well, you too I suppose. He was your husband."

"For a few hours. He was your brother long before that."

"Yes."

Silence descended upon them, but Margaery made sure to not let it last more than a moment. "I want to thank you, as well."

"Oh?"

"For making sure Garlan returned safely. I love my siblings; I don't know that I could stand to lose one as you have."

Damon snorted in amusement, a good sign despite it's abrupt end. "He did a good job of making sure I returned, not the other way around."

A perfect opening. She turned to him, catching his emerald gaze intently in her dark brown one. "Then I should be thanking him, as well." She held his gaze a long moment, opening her mouth to say more—nothing too forward or romantic in the slightest, but something to keep the conversation moving—when he quite literally took a full step away.

"Thank you for company. I…must go."

And, just like that, her future husband turned and all but sprinted away.

Margaery was so surprised you could have knocked her off her feet with the touch of a feather. That shock quickly became a mix of bewilderment and no small amount of irritation, and then embarrassment as Loras chuckled—chuckled!—as he passed by her, following the King.

Margaery turned away, glad she hadn't brought any attendants to see such a dismissal of her.

Perhaps this won't be as easy as I imagined.

But she held her head high as she made her way back to her chambers. Be damned if she would let something as insignificant as a king's unwillingness stand in her way.

A/N: *tease* Next chapter: we discuss a little of what the fuck all that was about...OR DO WE?

Plus some Tyrion.

(I'm starting to have way too much fun with these :D )