Author's Note: My bad kiddos. I know nothing can make up for the wait, but I hope you enjoy and review this anyway.

Y'all rock.

Brandon Stark spoke into the night, monotone voice and the words it carried sinking into Damon Baratheon's gut like an icy blade. For once there were no cryptic statements, just untampered information. "Another Targaryen has set sail for Westeros. Daenerys, daughter of Aerys. She brings with her three dragons."

Damon Baratheon stared for a solid minute before replying. "I find that hard to believe."

Bran had yet to look at him, blank face unmoving in the flickering torchlight. Damon was the only one in earshot, Red Alex and a trio of Stark guardsmen waiting by the lift per Damon's request. There were no Black Brother's on the Wall of course, and the Wildlings who were steered clear of Brandon Stark as if he were as terrifying as the dead they had fled from. It was a blessing, that, for no one else needed to hear what Bran Stark had told him.

Damon waited for Bran to respond to his disbelief with…something, but the Stark continued sitting in silence. "I know of Daenerys Targaryen—my father raged against her often. But dragons? A ploy of her supporters, surely."

"Once the dead were a ploy of the wildlings."

The King inhaled to argue, then realized he couldn't.

Seven Hells.

Another claimant for the throne was enough of a concern. Daenerys Targaryen would make the fourth person to claim bloodright to the Iron Throne since the death of Robert, discounting the claims of his two ruling sons, and hers was perhaps the most dangerous of them all. With Aegon, whom Bran had informed Damon of only a few days ago, there was considerable doubt around his legitimacy as a Targaryen. But with Daenerys, whom all nobles knew had escaped the fall of her house, there was no such mysterious origin.

But if she truly had dragons? Creatures like Balerion the Black Dread or Vhagar or Caraxes…Damon had seen Harrenhal. He had studied the melted stone of the towers and wall, wondering at what power could have possibly done that. He'd even imagined himself flying above King's Landing on the back of one when he was a boy, as many children had. But to face one in combat? He'd fought men, animals and death itself, but a dragon was a mixture of all three.

Damon slumped in on himself, resting his hands against the icy rampart and leaning against them. "Is it truly her?"

"Yes."

"Silver hair, purple eyes, ethereal beauty?"

There was a slight pause. "Yes."

"So she is a legitimate claimant, beyond doubt?"

There was a long pause. Finally, the wheelchair bound boy looked Damon full in the face. "She is as legitimate as any other."

Damon sighed. "How do you know what you know, Bran." It wasn't a true question, or at least not one Damon expected to be answered. Others had asked, namely Jon and Robb, but Bran had never chosen to explain. He didn't now either, merely looking back north and letting the silence surround them once more.

The King did the same, not wanting to believe the mysterious claims of this once-thought-dead northerner but knowing Bran had yet to be proven wrong. Comments made by the Starkling in the weeks since his return from the dead, few as they were, gave Damon pause. He'd referenced conversations between Mance and Damon that Bran had been nowhere near. That could perhaps be explained by Summer's silent appearances to Damon; after what he had seen with Grey Wind and Robb, as well as the incident that led to the cloak he now wore, Damon knew there was more than met the eye between some northerners and their companions. But Bran had also spoken of things long past and far south, in King's Landing and the battlefields of the Riverlands. Things he shouldn't, couldn't, have known.

I pray he doesn't know this.

Damon fought back the urge to scream in frustration and worry. His decision to stay in the north despite a Targaryen claimant in the south had not been an easy one—the longer he was here, the more his allies would suffer there and the longer Aegon could build his own forces. But the evil coming at them went beyond what blood sat what throne; from what he had been told and what he had seen, it meant to kill all men everywhere, regardless of what banner they fought under.

But now, if Daenerys arrived with creatures of old…well, he wouldn't have a south to return to.

They remained in silence for minutes or hours more, each man in his own thoughts. Damon absorbed the new threat and all its implications. Bran…did whatever it was Bran did. Finally, Damon asked. "Where and how far."

Bran answered him. Damon hadn't been sure he would. "Too far south and too long from now to fight here."

"Why would I…" Damon cocked his head. "Fight against or with?"

"Either."

Damon nodded slowly. "I thank you for the warning, Lord Bran." Though Seven Hells know what I'm going to do with it.

"The world of men rely on what happens here, King Damon. All men." Bran suddenly looked at him again. "No matter their hair or eyes."

It was a quarter of an hour later, Bran and the contingent of Northmen having gone, when two statements leapt at Damon's racing mind.

As legitimate as any other.

No matter their hair or eyes.

They were odd statements. Unsurprising, because whatever the Seven Hells Bran was now, odd was a good word for it. But the way he had said them, they way he'd only looked at Damon fully on those two statements…

Damon shook his head, dismissing it. He had bigger concerns than talk of coloring. Golden or silver, the dead would claim them all the same.

The hour was late. The king turned, taking a step towards Red Alex Bulwer. He's too short and his belly is too small, but in the right light he would almost remind me of father. Not the white cloak of course, that never was Robert Baratheon's color, but with the black hair—

He froze. Black hair. Like Robert's. Like Stannis' and Renly's and Shireen's.

A hand came up to wipe ice from his golden beard. Not like mine.

Years of comments and accusations suddenly came to mind, from tipsy lords and ladies to grooms or maids who didn't realize the quiet prince was nearby. Actions too, of his uncles and of his mother, things large and small that hadn't really made sense, but he'd never given much thought to.

He gave it thought now.

And the more he did, the quicker everything he had ever known fell apart.

He was not surprised by the slap on the canvas of his tent in the middle of the night. Jaime Lannister was a Kingsguard and a veteran commander; neither duty nor war cared for the time of day. The owner of the slap, however, did take him by surprise. Instead of the expected soldier or courier, Bella of Wayfarer's Rest stood in his doorway, bundled in a heavy cloak embroidered with the Tyrell golden rose. Margaery does not try to hide her role in your new profession, despite the common knowledge of your old one. That will score her points with Damon, and with me as well. "Bella? Is everything alright?"

The former whore hesitated, and that slight hesitation chased all traces of sleep from his mind and had him on full alert in an instant. He instinctually glanced around the dark behind Bella, right hand going towards his left hip. With an internal curse he stopped it, for it was only a stump and there was no sword there. Seven help Bella and I both if there is true danger. I'd wager she'd do a better job of protecting me than I could do protecting her.

She spoke, dousing the sharp bite of anticipation in Jaime's stomach though her tone prevented it from quenching entirely. "I believe so, Ser Jaime. But I can't find Damon."

He gave her a crooked smile. "I believe you'd be better off asking the queen. Though if you're trying to meet him for a dalliance, that may not be wise." Jaime cocked an eyebrow at her. "I had thought you both done with that side of your arrangement?"

Bella gave him a nasty look, slapping his arm familiarly. "You know we are. Now is not the time, Jaime. It was Queen Margaery who sent me looking for him." She gestured around. "It is three hours past. You and I both know that's not like him, not without a word of warning beforehand."

"And you came to me? I've known Damon longer, yes, but truth be told I'd have come to you as well if I needed to find him these days."

"That's just it, I can't. I've looked throughout the tower and the inner camp—he's nowhere within it. He's been going to the Wall more and more of late, and Red Alex and Tyrek are also missing…"

Jaime nodded knowingly. Bella could search through the inner camp around Queenscrown, where lords and knights loyal to Damon camped in heavy numbers and the guards/pickets were well trained and disciplined. The camp of regular soldiers beyond the roundtower however was not safe for a woman alone no matter her birth or station, and the no man's land between Queenscrown and the wildling camps south of the Wall was even less so. "I'll be out in a moment."

He woke Edmund Blackwood and Andrus Buckler with difficulty, both still in their blankets in the corner of his tent, dead to the world as only young lads could be. Blackwood, fourth son of Lord Tytos in the Riverlands, was tall and lanky, a lad of three and ten. Buckler, heir to the heir of Lord Ralph Buckler of Bronzegate in the Stormlands, was a year younger and half a foot shorter, with broad shoulders and features. The two, though groggy, jumped to their tasks, Blackwood helping him into his armor much more quickly than he could have managed on his own while Buckler dashed out to ready his stallion and rouse a handful of men.

Taking them as his squires had been Margaery's idea. She has a lot of them, that one, but to her credit they are often sound. The Blackwoods had fought for Tully and therefore Stark, the Bucklers for Renly then Stannis before coming over to Joffrey during the Battle of the Blackwater. Accepting two boys of former rebel houses as the squires of Jaime Lannister, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard and uncle of the king, helped 'heal the wounds' of their rebellion.

Jaime couldn't care less about the flowery words Margaery had placed upon it, but he did need a squire for tasks made difficult by the loss of his hand, and both lads seemed eager to learn any and everything he could show them. Right now that's mostly how to care for horses and a chance to train with Tyrek and the King, but that seems like a good trade for not having to wrestle armor on one handed. A win, even.

Within half an hour both lads were snoring in their blankets and Jaime was dressed in armor and white cloak, his horse saddled and galloping north with four companions. Bella was not among them, sent back to her own quarters, but Lymond Crakehall and Talman Jast were with him. Both had been among the number who had helped Damon escape the Whispering Woods before being themselves captured, and both had been held at Riverrun until the peace had been struck. Josmyn Peckledon, youngest among them at seven and ten and newly knighted after Last Lake, rode along as well, as did Margaery's distant cousin Arlan Tyrell. A small contingent all told, but all were good swordsmen and quick of thought and action. Jaime had become known enough to the wildlings that he was unlikely to be imperiled, but if he were they gave him a fighting chance.

There was a day when I would need nothing but my own blade. But those days were past, something Jaime was growing more and more at peace with. Damon had been right; he couldn't grow the hand back. It served him best to live with the new truth than to lament the old.

As the Kingsguard knight had expected, the few wildlings on watch waved him through with nary a challenge. While tensions between the sides had not abated, Jaime had been seen often enough in the company of Val that the wildlings left him be.

Tyrek was waiting near the gate, face exhausted and brow furrowed. "Before you ask, I don't know what he is doing. I went up two hours ago to check on him, and he ordered me back down without an explanation."

Jaime cocked a brow. "And you went?"

Tyrek met the look with one of his own. "He's in one of those frames of mind."

The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard nodded once, then waved his good hand at his compatriots. "Remain here."

The ride up the Wall was always somewhat exhilarating to Jaime, though that enjoyment was tempered this time by concern for Damon. Castle Black spread out below him, torches and wall sconces lighting up the enveloping dark below. Those were soon left below and other lights, those of villages and holdings miles and miles away, came into view. He didn't particularly like the North nor the few memories he had there, but he could not deny its rugged beauty. A stark land for the Stark family. I wonder if that was intentional or if the Old Gods just liked to laugh.

Red Alex Bulwer met him as he stepped off the lift, certainly as exhausted as Tyrek but not showing it. Damon had affirmed both he and Blue Alex to the Kingsguard, and both men had taken to their respective nicknames; Blue Alex kept a wrap of Rollingford-blue silk around the hilt of his blade, and Red Alex has received permission to paint a thin Bulwer-red stripe on the top quarter of his white shield. "Lord Commander," the brawny man greeted, voice a deep rumble as thick as his neck.

"Red Alex." Farther up the Wall Jaime could see the King, shadowskin cloak to the wind, peering north, a common enough pose these days. But he could tell even at this distance that Damon was tense, even more so than usual. Jaime nodded questioningly in the direction of the king. "Did he say anything?"

The Reachman knight glanced in that direction, then turned back to Jaime. "The King says little, Lord Commander." He lowered his chin slightly. "But he has said even less since a conversation with Brandon Stark."

Apprehension gripped Jaime's middle. Did Brandon tell him how he fell from that window? Jaime had been waiting for the lad to tell…anyone, really, since his return from the dead. He and Stark had bumped into each other only once, a tense locking of the eyes the day he arrived, but Robb had yet to call for Jaime's head, meaning the Lord of the North did not know the truth of Bran's condition. Jaime had once thought that Brandon did not remember, and perhaps—before he became this Three Eyed Raven—he hadn't. But there was little doubt in the Kingslayer's mind now; though Bran the Raven was always infuriatingly impassive, Jaime knew he remembered. What he didn't know is what Bran had been waiting for.

It all crossed his mind in a second. Outwardly Jaime nodded, then gestured toward the lift. "You are relieved, Ser. I advise a meal and sleep. One of my squires will rouse you tomorrow when needed."

The knight bowed his head, then left the two golden men alone atop the Wall.

Damon didn't move as Jaime approached. His beard was icy and his face as hard as stone in the light of the torches, completely unmoving. Until Jaime was within ten feet anyway, when Damon whirled on him so fast Jaime faltered mid-step and nearly went down. "Is it true?" The king's words were as harsh and cold as the very north itself.

The feeling in his guts sank lower. Past sins, finally coming to call. Jaime titled his head. "Is what true exactly?"

Damon all but snarled at him. "Don't patronize me. I need the truth, Jaime, from you of all people. Is it true?"

Jaime contained his own temper, keeping his voice calm. "I have done many things, Damon, and not done many others. What is it you are asking?"

The king responded with silence, staring at Jaime as if he were seeing him for the first time. Jaime waited him out as he had a thousand times before, though he knew all too well that this was unlike any discussion they had ever had in the past. When Damon spoke again, his voice was soft. The very life seemed to leave with the words, the king slumping down into himself. "It is, isn't it."

"What is—"

"It's why she was never comfortable with how close we were."

The world stopped.

Whatever fear Jaime had felt before nearly became all consuming. He'd known this day was a possibility since the twins had come into the world, Joffrey screaming and Damon as quiet then as he was now. Cersei, though a loving mother, had been instantly enamored with the elder; she'd had such hopes for him, dreaming even there in the childbed of the great king she would mold him into. When that oaf Robert entered the chamber later, all eyes had been on Joffrey, all the coos and the compliments and boisterous claims of the buffoon who thought he was the father.

Quiet Damon had been off to the side, unknowingly foreshadowing how much of his future would go. One of the birthing crones silently rocked him alone at the edge of the chamber, as his mother and supposed father fawned over his loud and bawling brother. Despite Cersei's many warnings about not showing too much interest in any of "her" children, Jaime had walked over to the crone and taken the boy from her arms with nary a word or thought.

Damon had been a small, fragile thing in Jaime's calloused hands, a tuft of golden hair topping his tiny head. He didn't cry, didn't shift in his grip; the baby simply opened green eyes and looked up at the golden haired, green-eyed man holding him. They'd stared at one another for a long while, as some emotions Jaime knew and some he couldn't name threatened to tear out of his chest. After a second or a lifetime, the child seemed to settle into Jaime's hands, closed his eyes, and fell asleep.

It was not a small baby before him now, though the golden hair and green eyes remained. Damon was a man, as tall as Jaime, quick and powerful. He was a king who looked the part, even without the gold and emerald crown atop his head. He was a killer, a damnably good killer, made so in no small part by Jaime himself. But in all the years since that moment in King's Landing, through the training and the war, even while watching him grow from child to man and from quiet second son to the King of the Iron Throne…through all of that, part of Jaime had always still seen that tiny newborn behind the face that mirrored his own.

Those days are gone for good, now. My fault, for loving his mother.

It took him a long moment to decide how to respond. Damon didn't rush him, eyes flaming in the torchlight as he stared and waited. "What did the Stark boy tell you."

"Many things I did not want to hear. About you, though? Nothing directly. He made a comment, just a simple comment. It stuck in my head, though, and that led to me finally sitting back and looking at things. That in turn made me finally actually think about those things, of the claims of Stannis. The more I looked and the more I thought, the more I finally saw the obvious things that have been in front of me my Entire. Life." He accentuated the last two words by bringing the bottom of his right fist into the palm of his left hand. Damon scoffed, a bitter, ugly sound, turning to face the far north again in a movement so quick Jaime momentarily thought he was going to swing at him. "Damon the Dumb. Damon the Simpleton. Who knew just how accurate those names were." Jaime took a step towards Damon, left hand raising. His king's harsh command stopped him in his tracks. "Touch me and you'll lose the other hand."

Jaime rocked back on his heels, then lowered his hand. "You would believe him over your own family."

It was the wrong thing to say, Jaime knew that at once. Damon's cruel laugh confirmed it. "Ah yes, my family. I suppose some of their betrayals weren't betrayals at all. Stannis and Renly had the right of it, didn't they? I cursed them in my mind, wondering how family could betray one another so egregiously, when in truth they never betrayed their blood, save for each other. The only traitors of my blood were the ones I loved most in the world."

Jaime was tipping over the edge, scrambling to grab any argument he could. "Their claims—"

"ARE TRUE!" Damon had bellowed it, suddenly in Jaime's face, his own a mask of sheer rage and hysteria and pain. "It all makes too much sense. Father's bastards? Black hair, blue eyes. His brothers? Black hair, blue eyes. Everyone of Baratheon blood I've ever met or heard of, black hair, blue fucking eyes." The King jammed his thumb into his own chest. "Except me. Me and my siblings. I look nothing like Robert Baratheon. Not in coloring, not in build, not in feature. Do you know who I do look like, Lord Commander?" He stabbed his finger towards Jaime's middle like the point of a blade. "I look like you."

Jaime heard Damon's heart break with that word. He felt his own do the same.

"Don't," Damon snapped when Jaime opened his mouth again. "Not a word. I will hear no more of your lies." The king took a deep breath, and the hysteria and pain on his face suddenly disappeared as if he had put on a mask. Damon had been hunched forward, but suddenly he stood up straight, head high and shoulders back, a king looking like a king. "Do not speak to me again, Lord Commander. Not unless I ask you directly. Not one word." Damon strode forward and around him. Jaime, for once in his life not knowing what to do or say, reached out and placed his good hand on Damon's shoulder.

The king hit him. Hard, a vicious blow to Jaime's jaw that sent the Kingsguard knight slamming into the ice parapet, crashing to the ground in a heap of three good limbs and one golden one. Stars leapt through his vision as Damon spoke, standing imperiously above him. "I'll let you keep the hand, Lord Commander. It will make a liar of me, but I come by that naturally. Family trait."

Jaime dizzily watched his son stride away into the snow, enter the elevator, and leave him alone atop the world.

A/N: *tease* "Stick to writing battles, GRRM wannabe!"

Hope you enjoyed. Let me know what you think, even if it's something like the above haha.