Author's Note: Happy Thanksgiving, Merry Christmas, Happy New Year!

It was a camp full of people young and old, but it seemed as silent as the grave.

The King of the Seven Kingdoms walked through the courtyard of Castle Black alongside the King-Beyond-the-Wall, boots crunching against snow already packed by a thousand pairs of feet. The owners of those feet and eyes crowded thickly around them, a solid wall on either side of the narrow path the two kings walked. On the balconies and elevated walkways of Castle Black—those that remained after the battle anyway, and gaps where many had through one mean or another tumbled were plentiful—more eyes peered down, faces ranging from curious to impassive to downright hostile.

Damon Baratheon, First of His Name, let his eyes trail over those faces as he did his best not to limp, though he made a point of keeping his head held high and pointed forward. How do I always end up in these positions? Why do I always put myself in these positions? He'd done this before, this foolhardy action of walking into the middle of an enemy camp with only a handful of swords at his back. He hadn't died last time; in fact, the man he'd gone to see walked a mere few paces behind him. But surely that luck would run out, and while there had been some logic to the action it really had boiled down to luck last time.

A chuckle from his left turned his head. Mance Rayder was watching him as they walked, corner of his mouth raised in a small smirk. "Rethinking your decision?"

"Yes." Honesty had always been his way.

Mance nodded, looking back forward. They were rapidly approaching a line of fourteen garrons, the small and heavily coated horses favored in the upper reaches of the north. These and a handful of others had been left when the wildlings finally overwhelmed the Night's Watch, and from what Damon understood it had taken quite a bit of recompense and threats to retrieve them from the hands of their new owners; horses of any kind, garron or destrier, were treasured by those born north of the Wall. "Can't say I blame you. It was stupid of you to agree in the first place."

Damon grit his teeth at the rush of irritation and embarrassment, forcing it back down. It was only the truth anyway. "It'd be far more stupid for you to try and kill me. My uncle would slaughter you to a man and we both know it."

Mance shrugged in acknowledgement. "Perhaps. But you'd be dead, so what good does it do you?"

"The same good having your people kill me would do you; I'd kill you myself before the rest got me."

The wildling laughed at that. "Aye, you might at that. Though Jon Snow thought much the same once." Mance turned to glance over his shoulder, ostensibly at the bastard in question who walked beside Robb, then back at Damon. "It didn't work out for him."

They arrived at the line of garrons then and Damon said no more; he wasn't sure how to respond anyway, as exactly what happened with Jon Snow and the circumstances of his survival was unbeknownst to him. Robb had had his brother stay in his camp the night previous and may well know what had happened, but in the council to discuss the south it had been lost to other pressing issues.

Damon turned at the thought, looking back the direction he had come. The wildlings had closed in behind them, so all he saw was a Wall of furs and leathers, but miles behind them lay something he'd never had before.

A wife.

By the Seven, I'm married.

He doubted their union had been what Margaery envisioned, carried out after an hours long meeting about disaster in the south, officiated by a bear of a man called septon Bolson with half a dozen scars from his days as a solider in the Rebellion, and witnessed by less than a dozen nobles, most of which were related to her. It certainly was a far cry from the lavish and expensive wedding between her and his twin, though hopefully she viewed it as a greater success since her husband hadn't died before bedding her. Damon certainly did.

The animal of anxiety he had grown so used to blossomed in his gut. His fears about wedding her were still valid; he'd never admit it but he was glad he was about to traverse the snows north of the Wall, as it gave him time away from his new bride to think as he hadn't prior. Your impulsiveness will be the end of you. She'd helped him through the revelation that the capitol was not secure as he had arrogantly believed mere hours ago, and he had seen the sincerity in her actions and words. That being said, those actions and words had helped her achieve the goal she had clearly been pursuing since Joff's death. A death which, if Damon was cynical, he should have questioned the Tyrell's about intensely.

But all that aside—it was the only truly viable political move he could have made considering how much the crown was relying on the Tyrells for their food and soldiers, his personal concerns be damned—was the fear around what had become of his family. He hadn't minded or, to his shame, noticed the lack of communication from King's Landing and the south. His grandfather was there, and while Tywin wasn't king, he didn't exactly need Damon holding his hand. Whatever his faults, Tywin Lannister was efficient and effective as a ruler, and Damon had gladly ceded the day-to-day running of the kingdom to him while Damon rode out to do what he did best.

Robb had theorized the Ironborn, whose menace had receded for a time at the death of Balon Greyjoy but had never fully disappeared, were at fault. Jaime, who had been as disturbed as Damon at the danger to their family, had agreed and put forth the idea of Balon having struck a deal with Stannis. Margaery, having taken to her role as expectant Queen with unsurprising aplomb, had alongside her brother Garlan questioned whether Stannis even had that sort of compromise in him; Damon doubted it. Whatever the case, four of Declan Lake's best men had been sent with letters, sealed by Damon, to bring the royal family to Winterfell until it could be sorted. A band of four hundred freeriders had also been sent south under Ser Addam Marbrand and Lady Dacey Mormont for that purpose, though they would of course move slower than the scouts.

"Damon."

The king jerked from his thoughts to find Tyrek had stepped close in front of him. His cousin, like the King having traded plate for mail, leathers and furs both to keep warm and offset the strength they were trading for survivability by taking garrons in place of their warhorses, grinned despite the tension in his shoulders. "Was the Queen that good?"

It took him a moment to realize that now meant Margaery Tyrell. Damon grinned at his friend, then turned to the mount he had chosen, a stout black gelding. "My mind was elsewhere, yes." Though not there, sadly. Plenty of time for that on this ride...I hope. "It's where it needs to be now though."

Tyrek patted his shoulder gently. "You still sure about this?"

Damon snorted in amusement as he swung into the saddle, feeling…short. "I never was, but I'm still confident it is the best option available to us."

His cousin looked up at him a moment, then nodded, turning to mount the garron to the king's left, Damon watching as the others did the same. Of the fourteen going, six were of Damon's party; Damon himself, Tyrek Lannister, Robb Stark, Garlan Tyrell, Declan Lake and Ser Borros Blount of the Kingsguard. He still didn't trust the knight, but Jaime had insisted one of the Kingsguard accompany him. He'd clearly meant himself, but Damon had talked him out of that after nearly an hour of argument, and between Borros and Loras Tyrell, Damon had opted for former simply because he didn't trust the latter anymore than the former in light of that night in King's Landing. Jaime had agreed on all accounts.

Six others were of the wildlings, their names given when the two groups had met on the outskirts of Mance's camp earlier that morning: Mance, Tormund Giantsbane, Rattleshirt, Howd Wanderer, Harle the Huntsman and Harle the Handsome. The latter two, despite having the same name, could well be twins; brothers at the very least. Giantsbane and Rattleshirt had been at the original meeting. And Howd…Howd. Eyes pale blue and all knowing, wizened face framed by snow white hair, the man quite simply disturbed him.

And I'm about to be outnumbered in a land they know better than I for the foreseeable future. Brilliant tactical planning, Baratheon.

The final two of the party were neutral, though if it came to blow at least one would fight for Damon. Bedwyck the Giant, gruff as the little man was, had earned Damon's trust in a way even his own Kingsguard had not. The verdict was out on Jon Snow, but Robb was keeping close to his brother's side, and Damon had a faith in the Lord of the North that had yet to be betrayed.

Bedwyck says, albeit grudgingly, that Jon is brilliant with a blade. If I one day find out, I hope it isn't to see which of us is better.

The fact that he even had the thought spoke volumes of where the king's thoughts strayed these days.

There were no speeches, no pageantry as there would have been farther south. Mance Rayder simply reined his white garron around and entered the tunnel for the other side of the Wall. With one last glance towards the south and his wife, Damon Baratheon turned and followed.

Her first morning as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms felt a lot like her last few months as the king's unofficial betrothed; vexing.

She had awoken that morning in a man's chambers. It had been disconcerting at first, these unfamiliar surroundings and the unfamiliar scent clinging to the sheets. It had clarified in a wave of near euphoria a moment later when the events of the previous twelve hours had came back to her, then into a confusion as she rolled onto her back and found the other half of the small bed empty.

By the time she had summoned Megga and Elinor to help her prepare for the day—they had entered the chambers with giggles and waggled eyebrows that normally Margaery would have played along with but was too perturbed to that morning—she had pieced it together. After their talk and the council meeting, she had been unceremoniously wed to the most powerful man in the world. No pomp or circumstance, not even really a question; the septon had stepped forward and asked the king if he wished to begin, Damon had nodded once, and next thing Margaery knew she was once again a queen. By the time she drifted to sleep against Damon's chest some hazy amount of time later, she had more legitimacy in that title than she had the last two combined.

But there had been talk of going north prior to that whirlwind. Apparently, to her most recent husband—and may the seven make it my last or so help me—that constituted a goodbye. In hindsight she didn't know why she expected any different; she didn't know the king as well as she one day intended to, but this was quite fitting to his character.

Still. I've spent two nights with the man, and both times he was gone before midmorning the next day.

As her cousins helped her dress, Margaery considered what her next moves would be. She usually was several moves ahead, a way of thinking her grandmother had instilled in her from a young age, but twice in two nights she found she had corralled her goal and wasn't certain what to do with it. She'd had a good grip on how to handle court when she was in King's Landing—she'd also had her grandmother to lean back upon in times she didn't. Here, though, where she had had to traverse to run down the man to give her the power she wanted, she was in a particularly poor position to use any of it.

She took her breakfast in the small dining hall where so recently plans had been made for wars both north and south of the Neck, joined by her cousins. Simple fare as was to be expected in a warcamp, even the warcamp of a king. It filled her as she thought. Pouted, actually, if she was honest with herself, but she allowed herself that small indulgence for the length of breakfast only. Once finished, she pushed the thoughts aside and focused on her cousins, as well as the next moves she'd been formulating throughout her sulk.

"Megga, there are by my count four other noble women in camp. Two Mormonts, Elinor Prestor and Lady Kyndall. I would like them all to lunch with me." Remembering she was now in a war camp, not the capitol, she amended her statement with a raised hand. "If that seems viable with their current occupations. If it does not, give them an out before you extend the invitation. I refuse to seem demanding. Take Sers Garris and Garth as your escorts. And Megga; no flirting with every lord you come across until we have a firmer grip on the politics of the camp." Her boisterous cousin grinned, then turned to fetch the knights from the communal bunks Damon had granted her 'personal guard' in one of the storerooms.

She turned to Elinor. "Elinor, I have many a letter to write this morning. As your handwriting is better than Megga's, that means we have many letters to write, though firstly I would like you to recruit some of the Tyrell men. I myself will oversee moving permanently into the king's quarters." She hadn't asked permission, but then again, Damon hadn't given her time to ask permission…or anything else, really. She had to be careful with assumptions, both assumptions of what Damon would be comfortable with and assumptions of power of any kind until she was more firmly entrenched, but this one didn't seem too far a stretch. Besides, they are barren. I know it is a warcamp, but surely a touch of color could not hurt.

She was arranging that touch of color, an assortment of fresh-cut holly around the stone and wood interior as a pair of Tyrell knights brought in one of her clothing chests, when a voice spoke from the doorway. "Wasting no time, I see." Margaery turned to see her husband. Or, at least, what her husband might be in two decades. Ser Jaime Lannister, Kingslayer, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, stood in the doorway to his nephew's chamber, lips a lazy smile that didn't quite reach emerald green eyes. He bowed, handless right arm at his waist. "My Queen."

Margaery curtsied out of respect. "Ser Jaime, it is my pleasure." She gestured to the small changes she had made so far. "Do you think His Grace wouldn't approve?"

Jaime took a casual step forward, reaching his remaining hand out to gently prod a leaf. "I dare say he'll genuinely like it, actually." Jaime looked up to meet her eyes again and smiled a knowing smile. "Though chances are you won't be able to tell."

Her two knights, both cousins, had settled her chest against the foot of the bed but now hesitated in the center of the room, unsure if they were to leave their lady with a stranger amid the sudden, undefinable tension that had permeated the room. That stranger is the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, whose duty now also includes me. He's also the person Damon trusts most in the world, even more than Tyrek. The tension, however, I can't identify.

She waved them away with a flick of her hand anyway. "Yes, His Grace can be a difficult man to read."

Jaime nodded, turning to inspect another sprig. "Don't be discouraged; I've known the boy his entire life and even I have trouble reading him sometimes. Like that move last night; I was as surprised as you."

Margaery wasn't entirely certain why Lord Jaime was here; they had had a few interactions in King's Landing, each formal though the Lannister knight had a way of making even the strictest ceremony seem no more than game. Is he as distrustful of me as his nephew? Or worse, does he view me as Cersei did, as a threat to be intimidated?

Jaime, having again glanced at her, quelled those thoughts; or at least shoved them farther back in her mind, as only a fool believed everything they were told. "Peace, Lady Margaery. I'm not here on Damon's orders. I'm not even here on my sister's orders." He took a conciliatory step back, leaving the door, which his form had blocked for a moment, pointedly open.

Bluntness is not just a Damon trait, then. She'd known Jaime Lannister gave little creed to ceremony, but the ease and honesty with which he spoke still surprised her. Whatever his relation to Damon, and Margaery was not certain which she believed to be true, he'd apparently passed along something to her husband. And, as she had started trying to do with Damon, Margaery answered with equal candor. "And why are you here, Ser Jaime?"

He grinned again, utterly at ease. "Damon didn't speak to you before leaving, did he."

It wasn't a question, and Margaery saw no point in denying it. "No," she said evenly, face impassive.

"I ask you not to take that to heart. He rode well before dawn to meet with the wildlings, against my advice as you well know."

She nodded. "Yes, I remember that much."

"But not much after, I'd wager?" He raised an eyebrow, then laughed aloud as a blush at the implication—and the impropriety! —of the statement turned her Lannister red. He raised a hand before she could rebuke him. "My apologies, Queen Margaery."

She swallowed, then smiled a small grin of her own. "I imagine you aren't unfamiliar with this."

He grinned again before speaking. His tone was always playfully dismissive. Margaery found she almost liked him despite his teasing. "Speaking to a woman who has been involved with my nephew? No, I am not. Part of that is why I am here. I want to help you understand Damon. Or at least as much as one can understand the King; that's honestly not that much, I'm afraid."

Her heart soared. She'd intended on building allies in the warcamp, as one had to do. She'd start with the women later today, as the women of a group—be they ladies in court or whores in a warcamp—always knew the true sides and where men stood on them. But she had discounted having such an ally as this. The man Damon loved more than any other? It was almost too good to be true.

Which made Jaime's next sentence more palatable. "Don't get me wrong, Margaery Tyrell. We are not what you'd call friends." His smile never disappeared, but he lowered his head slightly like a lion sizing up a rival, staring down at her with intensity. She had seen Damon adopt the same posture many times while watching him spar in King's Landing. "If I think you mean harm to Damon the way your family meant harm to Joffrey, I will kill you, consequences be damned."

Margaery froze, blinking at the blatant accusation. Jaime hadn't spoken with any malice, his tone unchanged from the cordiality of before. He all but accuses us of killing Joffrey. And didn't we? Margaery had never been told outright, nor had she been included in any plans beforehand, but she was as certain of it as Jaime Lannister seemed to be. Or at least as certain as he wants me to believe he is.

She straightened and met his eyes, hoping he hadn't noticed the half second she took to compose herself though she already knew he had. "I do not know what you mean, Ser Jaime."

His grin became sardonic, clearly disbelieving, but to her surprise he didn't press the issue the way she thought he would. "I thought I was clear. We aren't allies."

She swallowed as subtly as she could. "Then what are you offering? More importantly, why are you offering it?"

He finally looked away, but only to direct her attention to the stand in the corner of the room. Damon's breastplate hung there, a few other assorted pieces of his armor stacked or hanging alongside. That hadn't surprised her this morning; it had been discussed that the garrons, much better suited to the temperatures and terrain of the north, were too small to carry men in full plate the distances needed. Chainmail and a few key pieces—helm and vambraces chiefly—were all the knights were wearing north. It had been a point of hot contention, but Damon and Garlan had won out against Tyrek and Blackfish Tully. It was somewhat unsettling to add that risk to the overwhelming one the king was already taking, but what was done was done.

Margaery looked back to Jaime from the armor. "Your point, Ser?"

"Damon's happiness is important to me. Whatever my thoughts on it, you are a key piece to his happiness now. The reasons he married you are obvious, food, men, and yes, beauty. But my nephew is still my nephew. I love him, but by virtue of being himself, he will have difficulty adjusting to you as his wife. You can make that easier."

Margaery didn't say anything for a moment, contemplating what her husband's…blood had said. The rumors around Jaime would not make one assume him as overly feeling, and it was unheard of for men to admit love for anything beyond a wife. But he seemed sincere by her estimation, and rumor did claim among other things that Jaime had a soft spot for Damon.

Besides, she had made the statement earlier that she would need all the help she could get.

"I suppose you have some suggestions on how I could go about that?"

His smirk became a full smile. "I do indeed." He leaned in just a fraction. "I'd start with Bella."

It'd been three days and no one was dead yet.

There had been a few moments where it seemed a small war would break out to be certain, closest among them on the first night, one in which no one from either side slept very well. Harle the Huntsman had slammed a big fist into his garrons side when the creature would not hold still to be unloaded. He had gotten a kick to the thigh for it, not solid enough to hurt him but enough to make the large man shout in pain.

Declan Lake had laughed at the sequence, causing Harle's already angry demeanor to boil into a rage. He had started towards the heir to Last Lake, the southerners all grabbing for weapons in defense. Only Harle the Handsome, who was in fact the Huntsman brother and didn't seem all that handsome, had unwittingly saved the situation.

Handsome had laughed at his brother too.

As the two hated each other—Damon had pieced together that a woman was involved—the Huntsman had forgotten all about Declan Lake and instead tore into his brother in a flurry of fists. By the time the two wildling men were finished, Rayder and Giantsbane having to break them apart after they drew daggers, the tension between the sides had dissipated somewhat.

Though not entirely.

Damon glanced across the small camp of sleeping men. On the other side, somewhere in the darkness, Howd the Wanderer stood watch. Damon did the same on this side, neither faction comfortable with their lives only being in the hands of someone from the other. But watches were needed, as Mance and the wildlings insisted that what they were fighting used the darkness in a way no man could.

The farther he went north the more Damon believed them.

Damon had seen men both brave and craven, and when one had been around both enough, he knew how to tell the difference. The wildlings were savages of a sort, but they were not cowards. Yet their eyes were always shifting, always looking—apprehensive, worried. Here in this land that had been their home they now felt afraid.

That was enough to scare Damon too.

Something made Damon snap his head back to the front. There had been no sound, nothing beyond the chilling winds that made Damon question whether his manhood would shrivel and freeze, but something drew his attention out ahead.

A direwolf stared at him from the darkness.

For a moment he was unconcerned, assuming it to be either Grey Wind or Jon Snow's great beast Ghost. But after a second contemplation Damon froze, hand on the hilt of his sword, realizing this creature was neither of those.

He did not shout a warning, not yet. Something was…off. It was a direwolf, there was no doubt of that even in the darkness, twin spots of reflected moonlight in its eyes. But the other two wolves, the ones ostensibly on 'his side', had raised no alarm. Damon found himself staring intently at the creature, hand on sword, shout barely contained behind his frozen lips.

As quickly as it had appeared, the direwolf turned and melted into the night.

A/N: *tease* "Alexa, play Zombie by Bad Wolves."

Now who could that be? What's Jaime got in mind? Where the fuck is Tyrion!? We might find out next time, might not. Either way I hope you enjoyed the update. Let me know your thoughts!

P.S. There's sword stuff coming soon I promise. And Jon. And Stannis the Mannis. Patience, young ones, patience.

Y'all rock.