Author's Note: Hey guys, long time no talk!

All I can say is life is quite hectic and I'm sorry. Anyway, we broke 1,100 followers and 900 favorites. Yay us! Thank you all for the continued support despite my infuriating tendency for long absences.

As always, I hope you enjoy and review the following update!

"Are you sure this is a good idea?"

"Of course not."

Well that makes me feel great. Tyrek glared at the dozens of hostile faces eyeing them from both sides of the narrow track they rode down, most of them in some snarl or another. Just great.

It was surprisingly quiet considering the number of bodies pressed in. Not from their own party—Tyrek was keenly aware of just how few men Damon had taken with them into the heart of the Northern camp. Twenty, to be exact. Twenty against five times two thousand.

Brilliant idea indeed, Your Grace.

By the way both Ser Balon and Ser Jaime were crowding to either side of them, they were even less fond of Damon's folly than Tyrek was. He imagined he looked like a scared pup, eyes darting from side to side, waiting for the bearded, haggard faces to lunge towards him with fire and sword. The lord of Hayford had no qualms with appearing that way; it was true, after all, and Tyrek was fond of the truth.

And the truth is that we're all dead. Lovely.

The only person seemingly unperturbed was Damon Baratheon, first of his name. His king sat straight in his saddle, black and gold armor polished to a shine, Valyrian steel blade sheathed in its crimson scabbard on his hip. His helm was hooked to the saddle pommel, and the king kept his stallion moving forward at a leisurely, calm pace, as if he were riding through the courtyards of the Red Keep, not through a gauntlet of men who had tried many times to kill him.

The king could be a fool, of that there was no doubt, but he was still Tyrek's best friend. He and the most powerful man in the world shared a close bond forged by battle and blood, and Tyrek found he trusted no one and nothing more than he did the aloof, awkward Golden Stag it had taken him years to get so much as a smile from. When they had returned to King's Landing and all it's glories, Tyrek found his old companions and their games to hold little interest to him anymore; only men who had fought and bled with him truly held his respect, and whatever his quirks and faults, Damon had fought and bled with all of his men as if he were one of them.

But he's still an idiot, Tyrek thought petulantly, returning to his vigil of glowering in apprehension at the northerners and rivermen surrounding them. Hopefully, that idiocy didn't get them all killed.

Robb Stark—crownless now, though he still carried himself like a king—awaited them outside what was clearly his command tent. The ladies Catelyn and Sansa accompanied him, as did over a dozen of his lord bannermen. Few of those bothered to hide their disdain for the situation, and Tyrek's hand slipped ever closer to the pommel of his sword as the king's party reined to a stop in front of the Starks.

"Lord Stark."

There was a long moment of tense silence. Tyrek watched the face of Robb, seeing the internal conflict on the former King of the North's face as the man debated what his response would be. Finally, Robb inclined his head slightly towards the golden knight. It wasn't quite the proper bow that would be expected of a bannerman to his king, but it was enough deference that Tyrek doubted Damon would press the issue. He did not.

"Your Grace." Robb looked to his many gathered lords, face growing hard when none made to imitate his nod or greeting. It took another moment of tense petulance before one did, then another, finally all of them stiffly giving their greetings.

Again it was less than protocol demanded but was passable, and Damon was smart enough to take what was given this time as well. In a smooth motion the king dismounted his stallion, the others in his party doing the same. Sers Jaime and Balon fastened themselves to the King at once, Tyrek assuming his normal position not far from Damon's right hand. Damon's voice gave no indication of the wariness and worry Tyrek knew his friend was feeling. "I see no point in pleasantries unless you do. Shall we begin?"

Robb inclined his head, gesturing towards the open tent flap. After only a moments hesitation Damon stepped forward. Jaime outpaced him, going through the flap first, while Balon fastened himself to the king's back as they entered. Tyrek in turn stuck close to Balon, the others in the retinue behind him, as the kings party stepped into the dim lighting of the command tent.

A conglomeration of tables was assembled in the center around the posts, another collection of chairs around them. Sconces lit the interior, sunlight only peeking through the canvas in a few places. Damon walked to a chair at the back of the tent, seating himself so his face was to the opening. Jaime and Balon stood to either side without a word passing between them, faces wary.

Tyrek was unsure what to do with himself, angling to the right as others flooded into the tent. He was Damon's friend and his unofficial aide, and clearly in the king's favor, but when it boiled down to it, he was lower on the political scale than many of the others present. He was a Lannister, yes, and of the Casterly Rock branch, but his father had been dead for years and few gave his position as Tywin's nephew much mind. He was the Lord of Hayford Hall, yes, but that was through his marriage to a child who had only recently turned eleven and was as yet unflowered, and he'd spent all of no time in the castle his future children would one day inherit. Even if he was Lord of Hayford Hall in full practice instead of title, it was still a minor lordship. He wasn't a commander of the army he travelled with, and while he was a knight, there were many knights of far greater prestige in the Baratheon/Tyrell forces.

Damon caught his cousin's eye, his right-hand gesturing to the chair on that side of the king, Garlan Tyrell having already taken the one on the left. Tyrek felt a twinge of pride as he followed the King's silent order.

It took a moment of bustling, but soon the assembled major lords were seated. Others, minor lords and sons and brothers, filled the tent to full capacity, standing shoulder to shoulder. The only area of relative space was behind the King, made so by the presence of two men in white armor.

Robb had seated himself at the entrance to the tent, his mother at one hand, sister the other. He allowed a moment for his lords to settle himself, then spoke. "I'd like to start with a few declarations. Your Grace."

There was a long pause before the last bit, Robb clearly having grown accustomed to hearing that rather than saying it. Tyrek glanced at Damon beside him, seeing his golden head nod. "Alright then, Lord Stark. Let's hear them."

"My father was a good man. He died a death he didn't deserve."

The King of the Iron Throne nodded. "He was and did."

"My sister suffered cruelties at your brother's hands. Only that she insists you had no part of them allows us to sit here; had you, there would have been no peace between us."

Tyrek glanced to the Lady Sansa. She sat stoically, her face regal mask, her eyes on the table before her. He saw Catelyn Stark glance at her daughter, arm shifting as she likely gripped her daughter's hand under the table. Damon spoke, voice quiet. "The Lady Sansa did. While I had no part in them, she has my apologies for all the wrong done to her."

Robb nodded, jaw working. "I wanted these things said, Your Grace. Openly."

"I say them because they are true. A war was fought, the reasons on either side valid. Let us end it. All of us."

There was silence. Long silence. Eventually some lords nodded. Some subtly shook their heads. Some didn't move so much as a fraction.

Damon cleared his throat awkwardly, then spoke again after a long moment. Tyrek was proud of how clear the king's voice sounded. "Lord Stark and I have reached agreements, as did Lord Tully and I before he returned to your camp in the middle of the night. For an oath of fealty from each and every one of you, I am willing to forgive our past bloodsheds."

Robb nodded, eyeing his own lords. "All hostages are to be released. In return, we join King Damon in his ongoing war against the usurper Stannis."

Grumblings, scoffs, some nods. Eventually Robb spoke again, ice in his voice. "I have agreed to these terms. If any northerner disobeys them, I will help Damon burn your keep to the ground."

Damon chimed in quickly, before Robb's own lords grew vocally dissident. "I have already sent riders to the other crown forces. Each of them are releasing prisoners and preparing to march to join me—us, I mean, in freeing the north from the Ironborn."

Lord Roose Bolton, pale eyes scaring the Seven's blessing from Tyrek, peered at the king. "Are you going yourself, Your Grace?"

Damon nodded. "I am."

Greatjon Umber snorted. "What of the Freys?"

Edmure Tully chimed in. "The Freys owe fealty to the Tullys."

"I doubt they give a fuck, Tully. The old weasel was slighted."

A riverlander spoke up. "They are one house."

A northerner. "Two. The Karstarks are in no mind to heed us either."

Umber again. "Frey still has his bridge." The big man glanced once at Robb. "We still need it."

Ser Jaime, for better or for worse, spoke. "Perhaps another can take the Young Wolf's place in a Frey bed. Perhaps they could even stay there."

Robb instantly turned red, the blush deepening in color as a few sniggers broke out. Robb and Umber looked ready to break Jaime's neck. Roose seemed almost amused, if that were even possible for a Bolton.

Damon, for his part, was not amused in the slightest. "Silence, uncle."

"At once, Your Grace."

The king shifted uncomfortably. "Frey is angry, but he is not stupid. He will allow passage to us, if not at Lord Edmure's command, then at mine. And if not at mine, then at the end of a sword."

This seemed to appease a few in the crowd, Robb among them. The Young Wolf didn't quite let the matter drop, though, as Tyrek would have in his place. "We didn't speak of the Westerlings, Your Grace."

"Your marriage is consummated. I imagine you intend to keep it."

"I do. But I will not stand for punishment to them at the hands of Tywin Lannister."

There will be, whether you stand for it or not. Tyrek glanced at his cousin, hoping only his familiarity with the king made the worry on his lean face visible. "There will not be."

Another northerner Tyrek couldn't name spoke. "He listens to you, does he? Your Grace."

Damon shifted again. "My Hand of the King wants what is best for the realm."

"He wants what is best for House Lannister. We all know what happened to the Tarbecks and Reynes."

Robb Stark grunted in agreement, eyeing Damon. "If your grandfather intends to do that to house Westerling, leave. I will not have Jeyne's family punished."

Garlan Tyrell spoke, voice completely neutral. "They broke allegiance with their liege lord. So did all of us here, though, at one point." He looked to Damon. "If I may, Your Grace, I'd suggest leniency on this matter."

Damon nodded. "As far as I am concerned, House Westerling is pardoned so long as they swear fealty to Lord Tywin."

Robb's gaze didn't relent. "I'm not speaking of your concern, Damon. I am speaking of Tywin's."

Damon glanced once over his shoulder, presumably at Jaime, then returned his gaze to Robb. "I will speak with Lord Tywin. The Westerlings will not be punished." He swallowed almost imperceptibly. "You have my word." Before more could be spoken on the matter, Damon sallied forward. "Let us speak of the Ironborn. How many men do you have here?"

Silence for a long moment. Robb glanced at his own uncle Edmure, then spoke. "Twelve thousand combined."

Tyrek kept his face emotionless. Even, were we? I'm glad we haven't yet had to find out which side had the better tacticians. Damon nodded curtly. "So do I. Together we will have suitable manpower. Your supplies?"

Tyrek saw the tense set of jaws and shoulders, the twisting in seats, the almost inaudible grunts and subtle exchanges of glances. He understood it; half of the men in this tent had so recently been trying to kill the other half that any talk of logistics, of troops or supplies or movements, seemed a sin to speak of so openly. Robb, judging by his long silences before answering both of the past questions, felt that tension as well. Yet still, he forged ahead. "Low. I need to move from this encampment soon. I've eaten the surrounding countryside dry waiting on you to return."

Garlan Tyrell was speaking even before Damon finished turning to look at him. "I will write to my brother in Highgarden at once, You Grace. Supplies for the journey North will be assembled at the place of your choosing."

Damon thanked the knight of the Reach, then looked back to the Lord Paramount of the North. "I will have supplies sent from King's Landing to you here or on the road as well."

The Lord of the North shook his head. "Send them to Riverrun. I intend to muster there, consolidate my men, then head for Moat Cailin. Lord Reed still holds it, though he's been hard pressed."

"Is Riverrun yours to command, Lord Stark?"

The voice was cold and angry, and it silenced the already silent tent. All eyes turned to the tall and thin man with piercing blue eyes, standing against the canvas on the right side of the tent. Ser Roland Vance's eyes were flashing hot and bright with anger, his posture tense. Tyrek understood why; Roland's father Allard had died at the Battle of the Three Hills, the first conflict of either Tyrek or Damon's military careers. While that could be reason in and of itself, it was doubly damning considering it had been Damon's dagger through the eye that had done the deed. By the small, uncomfortable twist the king made in his chair, Damon clearly remembered well.

Roland Vance stepped forward, centering himself on the tables and those gathered around them. "We swore allegiance to you when you were king in the North. Now you're not. I see no reason I or the other riverlords should put stock in any of your commands now."

"Lord Stark made peace with the crown. If you won't follow his command, follow mine. Muster at Riverrun." Damon spoke calmly and cordially, but that seemed only to agitate the Riverman further.

Edmure Tully, he who had so recently been a prisoner, spoke sharply. "I command it, Roland, and I do speak for Riverrun."

Lord Karl Vance, the Lord of Wayfarer's Rest and Roland's elder brother, spoke from his seat two down from Catelyn Stark. "And I speak for the Wayfarer's Rest branch of House Vance, Roland. Our men will go where Lord Tully and King Damon command."

Roland Vance, however, was not to be warned off by his brother's icy tone. "Our father fought them, Karl. He died fighting for House Stark, at the hands of that golden-haired bastard there whom you call king." Tyrek heard the clank of armor as Jaime and Balon Swann each gripped their sword pommels, and found himself unconsciously rising to his feet with a protest fighting its way from his throat. Damon's sharply uplifted hand stalled all three.

Vance continued on, turning to look at the gathered lords around them. "Many of you lot lost relatives as well, fighting for the King in the North. There may not be a King in the North anymore, but our reasons for making one in the first place remains." He pointed an accusing hand at Damon. "This abomination is no king. He is a monster, born of incest. His brother killed Eddard Stark, and he himself kills my father and others trying to keep a crown on his Lannister head, yet you lot want to forget that the moment a few squids make themselves nuisances? What fools are we to follow him? What right does he have to be called King!?"

Damon suddenly rose to his feet. Half the lords did the same, the others keeping their seats and watching events unfold with intense eyes. "Ser Roland, I will say this once, and then never again." Perhaps to his detriment, Damon looked nothing like a stag in that moment. He looked like a lion. Predatory, head lowered in a vicious stare. "If any man here or anywhere speaks that filth, I will kill him. I will forget you have said it this once, but be careful I never hear it from you again."

Roland Vance was either brave or foolish enough to laugh. "Threats? You respond with threats?"

"Yes." Damon was ice. "You have fallen for filth spread by my father's brothers in attempts to claim a crown that belonged to my brother. Through his misfortune and mine, he is dead. Do not end up the same way in your anger."

"You mean the same way as my father, who died fighting to keep you and your inbred siblings off of a throne you don't deserve."

Icy blue and hard emerald met for a breath of a moment, then Damon spoke. "Step outside and draw your steel, Ser Roland."

The Vance of Wayfarer's Rest glanced down at the lion pommeled blade at Damon's side, the first bit of doubt creeping into his angry eyes. Tyrek didn't blame him; facing Damon with words was one thing, facing him with drawn blades another. His brother, face carefully blank, tried to intervene on behalf of his brother's life. "King Damon, forgive my brother. He speaks in grief, not—"

"No." Damon's head was still lowered, hand still on his blade. "I will not forgive your brother, Lord Vance. I warned him I will not tolerate that filth from his lips again. Outside, Ser Roland. Bring your steel."

Edmure Tully and Robb had both stood. "Your Grace—"

"A pleasure. With you dead, perhaps this lot of cowards will see sense." Roland Vance turned, stomping out the flap of the tent. Damon followed closely behind.

Tyrek followed his king out of the tent's flap, voice low and urgent. "What the fuck are you doing?"

Damon did not answer. Nor did he answer Sers Balon or Jaime when they asked the same. He said nothing, answered no one, only marched to his horse and took his helm, lowering it over his head as a young man in House Vance livery armored Ser Roland.

Jaime was fierce and angry. "He baited you and you took it. Your going to restart the war you've tried so hard to stop."

Garlan Tyrell's was calmer. "This may not be wise, Your Grace."

Ser Balon's was pleading. "Let me fight him in your stead, Your Grace.

Damon heard none of them. His emerald eyes only strayed from his opponent's once, to glance at Tyrek. "If the war starts again, save Bella."

In the chaos following the challenge and acceptance, a ring of lords had formed around the King and riverlands knight. It was quiet, so quiet considering a mini war was about to erupt at what was supposed to have been peace talks, and that hundreds were gathered with others rushing to the press of bodies. Tyrek eyed everyone and everything, noticing many eyeing him with the same question in their eyes.

Am I about to have to fight them to the death? My death, considering the number differences?

As soon as Ser Roland was armored, Damon stepped towards him. Robb Stark, however, stopped him.

"You didn't bring a shield." To the astonishment of all, Damon the foremost, the Stark lord handed his own to Damon. Solidly made Tyrek could tell, painted white with the grey direwolf on it. Robb stepped close to Damon's side, and Tyrek managed to hear the former king's words to the current one. "If you die, I'll look a weak fool. Don't."

Damon didn't.

Tyrek hadn't seen a live duel before. He'd been in many on the chaotic fields of battle, but never had he stood and watched two men fight to the death with dozens of onlookers.

It was terrifying, Damon most of all.

Ser Roland Vance was not unskilled. In truth he was good with a blade, agile on his feet with a strong backhand. Damon fought like a demon from the Seven Hells, though, and he made the Vance knight look like a child.

The king drew first blood, opening a cut on Vance's sword arm within the first five blows as the two came together in a flurry of steel. Damon lashed forward with his helm, ramming the crest of his into Vance's visor and sending the riverlander reeling back, the circle of shouting men surrounding them shifting to give room behind Roland while it closed in at the back of the advancing Damon.

A vicious sideways strike with Robb Stark's shield struck Vance right where Damon's helm had, crumpling the knight to the ground. When Roland lived long enough to gain his feet, it came together in Tyrek's mind. Damon is toying with him.

And so he was.

Ser Roland Vance hit the ground four more times, each time bleeding from somewhere new. The fifth and final time he crumpled he remained on the ground, bleeding from a dozen places with his shield hacked to splinters and that arm broken.

Damon loomed over him, removing his helm and tossing it to the side. The king looked unruffled underneath, eyes of emerald hard and cold. With what had once been an enemy army watching on, Damon gestured contemptuously at the prone Ser Roland with the brilliant black and red blade of Widow's Wail. "This is the last man I will hear that filth from. The next who speaks it, be he Stark, Tully, Lannister or Baratheon, I will kill."

Damon turned away then, sheathing his sword as he walked towards his stallion. "Lord Stark, Lord Tully, I expect to see you in my command tent atop the hill at midday tomorrow. If I don't, I'll assume some of your bannermen revolted, and thusly bring my entire force over the hill to kill them."

Damon mounted, reined his stallion towards the mentioned hill, and galloped off, leaving Tyrek and the others gaping after him, a whimpering, broken man at their feet.

A/N: *tease* Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

Til next time my friends. Y'all rock!

-Kerjack