Author's Note: Life, my friends. Life.

I hope you enjoy this long overdue update!


On the inside, he was a ruin. On the outside, he was a king.

He brought Widow's Wail down in a clean, two-handed stroke, separating head from shoulders with one strike. It was an old northern custom for the man who passed the sentence to swing the sword, one that a southron king like Damon wasn't expected to follow even by the northerners themselves. Damon had followed it anyway for he felt it was right considering the circumstances.

And because, if he was honest with himself, he had to let his inner turmoil out somehow before he leapt from the Wall itself.

The king of the Iron Throne stooped down, grabbing the freshly severed head in a gauntleted hand. "Mount it in no man's land," he said to Red Alex, handing it to him by its oily blonde hair. "It'll be a warning to both camps, Westerosi and wildling."

The head had once belonged to a scout from the Riverlands, some lowborn man whose name Damon did not know. He'd been caught stealing, an offense that, in normal times, would have only cost him his hand. Here, at the Wall awaiting the arrival of demons, it had cost him his very life. Not the act of theft itself, but because of what he stole.

Food. The abundance of which Damon had taken for granted his entire life until now, when the potential scarcity of it kept him up at night.

That and…other worries.

The supply trains that had tailed him north with the infantry had carried wagons and wagons of grain and flour, as well as herds of sheep and cattle and hog. It had almost been seen as too much, an overreaction to the rumors of Northern winters. The North was their ally now, after all, and those lords and ladies tended to store more than they could conceivably use. On top of that, the queen was a Tyrell; near endless supplies of food could be shipped north from Highgarden with a pen stroke, so long as they avoided the Ironborn longships of the western shores.

That had been the thinking, then. Now, though, the world had changed. An invader sat astride their main shipping port on the Narrow Sea and could harry landed supply caravans. Royalist forces under Tywin Lannister could and should be guarding those caravans, but word from the south was hard to come by. In response to the uncertainty and the risk, those same overkill herds, at the orders of the king, were being slaughtered and salted or smoked, then stored under guard. The grain was being rationed despite it not yet being a shortage, and foraging parties worked in ever-growing circles to stock the larders.

There wasn't a panic, not yet at least. Many among the common rank and file didn't even realize the future danger. But some, like the thief whose head Red Alex took from the king's hand, were smarter than the others. They knew what might be coming and knew of a way to not only ensure their own bellies remained full, but to grow rich off the hunger of others. It was a line of thought and a crime Damon could in no way afford, hence the man's sentencing of death.

"Next," Damon said brusquely as he stepped away from the headsman block and back onto the dais in the courtyard, Widow's Wail still naked and bleeding in his hand. It admittedly seemed odd to his southron sensibilities, using Valyrian steel as a butcher's tool, but he knew that was nonsense at its core. Besides, it had been used for that exact purpose by generations of Starks when it and Oathkeeper had been Ice.

A hand reached for the blade even as Damon extended his own out in anticipation of someone handing him an oiled cloth. Damon stared at it, then up to the young, nervous face it belonged to. Oh yes. My…squire.

Gods that felt weird.

Emmon Peake was the heir to Starpike, the last holding of the three once held by House Peake before their repeated associations with Blackfyres. Nine years of age, he reminded Damon of…well, himself. Tall for his age and lanky, as well as quiet and shy. He also was blonde haired and green eyed, for his mother was the lady Margot Peake, formerly of House Lannister.

And our genes do run strong, don't they.

Damon stopped himself before he spiraled down that well again, though it was difficult.

The young man, who was only a handful of years younger than the king though Damon felt decades older, took the blade, setting to work wiping it down with a ferocity despite it being taller than he was. It was one of Margaery's many machinations, placing squires hither and tither to 'bind the realm'. It made sense to Damon, though the Seven knew he felt particularly ill-suited as a mentor. Luckily—and likely completely by his wife's design—Emmon seemed bright and able to learn by observation, and seemed to care less for conversation than even Damon did.

A few other punishments were dealt out, minor in their severity, before it was through. Damon had taken to doling out justice from the dais at the edge of no man's land once a week; an army this size tended to have plenty to be dealt with in that amount of time, though this was only the second time Damon had ruled a death necessary. Law at the Wall was a tricky thing, as it was technically not part of the Seven Kingdoms; the Watch was its own entity. To prevent any confusion or doubt, Damon had taken on the mantle of judge for all the gathered Westerosi armies, with a few advising lords and maesters from each region. It was tedious and oftentimes boring, but he gave it his full attention and intent each time, if only to have something to do beside bloody wait.

Waiting made him think. Thinking made him dwell. And I can't dwell on the fact that I shouldn't have the authority to condemn anyone of or to anything, bastard that I am. Does that make me a murderer, condemning these men under a false name and unearned authority?

Maybe. But Damon had already come to peace with being a killer long before his unc…his Kingsguard Lord Commander had confirmed the truth. Maybe all of those had been murders too, but he refused to give it thought; those weren't waters he was ready to swim in. It weighed on him, waiting for him to break, but in the three weeks since that horrid night on top of the Wall—when his entire life had been dumped on its head—he'd held it at bay.

He strode from the dais as soon as the last offender was dragged away, others closing in behind him. Red Alex, now bereft of the head, fell into step behind his left shoulder. Tyrek, as was customary, fell in behind his right. A few other knights and lords, more an affiliation of veterans than any true unit, fell into the space behind them. Damon returned various greetings from lords and soldiers as he walked past them but paid little attention to their actual faces.

He was thirty feet from the horses when he stopped abruptly, slapping the empty scabbard at his hip. I haven't forgotten my blade since I was five. By all the gods, what is happening to me. He whirled around, heart leaping in his chest, to find Emmon directly behind him, blade still in his hand. The lad was white as a sheet, mouth half open as if he'd been trying to speak to the king for a while but had managed no words.

Damon relaxed, though a blush crept in beneath his golden beard. How had he not noticed he hadn't taken it back from the boy? The blade was a part of him by now, dammit, and Damon had never walked off without his arms. "Good lad, Emmon. Forgive me for leaving you with it. My mind has been…elsewhere."

The lad shrank back a bit when Damon reached for the blade, giving the king pause. The boy is scared of me, isn't he. Why in heaven's name is that?

Eyebrow raised, he looked to Tyrek even as he took Widow's Wail and sheathed it. His cousin was not surprised by Emmon's reaction, it seemed, lips a thin line as he answered Damon's raised brow with a look. "Emmon," he said, voice low and seeming to calm the jumpy lad. "The queen is supposed to be in the medical tents today with Ser Loras. Take Strongboar and find her please, inviting her to dine with the king at Queenscrown in an hour."

The short lad nodded, ever serious, then turned to Strongboar Crakehall, one of a handful of knights who had become Damon's informal retinue/guard. The big boisterous heir to Crakehall winked in understanding at Tyrek, then grinned down at the lad and hustled him away towards the horses. The king, Tyrek and Red Alex followed at a slower pace, a handful of others hanging back out of earshot. "The boy is scared of you, Damon," Tyrek said quietly, lengthening his stride to match his cousin's.

"I gathered that, but…why? Because I'm a king?" Tyrek hesitated a moment, and Damon grunted. "Speak it plain, Tyrek."

That made Tyrek scoff half a laugh. "Listen to yourself, Damon, and ask me that again. Lately you've been…"

"Intense, Your Grace," Red Alex supplied when Tyrek faltered.

"Yes," his cousin said, nodding his thanks at the broad man in white. "Emmon didn't know you before whatever happened on the Wall. You've been intense ever since."

Tyrek didn't know of course. Damon hadn't told anyone else, not Margaery or Bella or his bloody best friend. How do I even start that conversation? He didn't know, so he simply didn't. "Enemies in my home while I'm thousands of miles away, but the end of the world is marching towards me, and I can't return to drive them off. Pair that with winter setting in and potential food shortages, and there's been a lot on my mind."

"We've discussed turning south and why we can't. We also can't sally out and meet whatever is coming in the field." They had discussed both points thoroughly. Much of the logic for not turning to face Aegon was the same as not turning to face Stannis. If the dead men that had killed Garlan made it south of the Wall, it wouldn't matter who sat what pointy chair; men would die. All of them, Targaryen or Baratheon or Lannister. Having the capitol gave this Aegon legitimacy, that was a fact, but Damon's war was the true war.

The king kept telling himself that, anyway. He hoped one of these times he'd convince himself.

As for fighting the Others, doing anything other than sitting behind the literal wall between them was stupidity. But damnation was it taxing, waiting on the dead.

Damon sighed in frustration as he mounted a roan palfrey. "It'd be suicide."

"Yes," Tyrek agreed, also swinging up onto his horse. "'Use the Wall as a wall', you said."

"I remember." Damon snapped, then sighed. "Sorry, Tyrek."

His cousin shrugged from where he rode off Damon's right stirrup. "Oh, that's alright. Whenever you want me to know what's truly going on you'll tell me."

Damon knew it was an invitation to tell him.

They rode a while in silence instead.

Tyrek spoke again sometime later. "We're somewhat stuck though, aren't we. Can't go south, can't go north. Just have to wait." He gestured around. "Us and thousands of mouths to feed. I'd sure like to know when."

Damon would too. Bran Stark assured him it would happen here, at Castle Black. Apparently, the Night's King wanted Bran above all others, though the boy had been cryptic about the details as he usually was. Damon trusted him well enough but had scout patrols up and down the wall keeping an eye out for miles in both directions anyway.

"Me too."

His cousin caught his arm firmly in the stables later. It was technically improper, but Damon knew Tyrek wouldn't have grabbed him if it wasn't vital. He raised a placating hand to Red Alex, who took a step forward though doubt flared his eyes. "It's alright, Ser Alex. I'll speak with my cousin in private."

Tyrek began as soon as the big knight was clear. "Your mother is at Winterfell."

Damon gritted his teeth. "I know."

"I know you know. You've known for near a moon."

"Three weeks."

Tyrek squinted at him. "Yet you haven't allowed her to come north."

"No, I haven't."

"You ordered her to remain there, and the Starks to ensure she did not find another way here. Despite them having to hate her, you know they must."

Damon pulled his arm from Tyrek's grip, jaw tightening and nostrils flaring in anger. So much anger. Nothing but anger these days, for all the good it does. "Why are you telling me things I already know?"

Tyrek took a step back. "Why didn't I know them until now?"

"Are you my keeper now, Tyrek?"

For the first time in three weeks, Tyrek let his own temper flare. "To hell with those answers. A moon of them has been enough. You're my king, I'm not forgetting that, but you aren't yourself. Answer me straight, Damon." He lowered his head like a bull. "You've been spoiling for a fight. I've seen it, Bella has seen it, Margaery certainly has seen it. Jaime hasn't, because you haven't spoken to him. For the record, he's as nasty now as you are." Tyrek took a breath. "I've overstepped my boundaries as a knight in your service, and I am sorry for it, but I'm not asking as a vassal. I'm asking as your friend, Damon. What in the name of the Seven has happened?"

Damon wanted to strike him.

He wanted to drive his fist into Tyrek's teeth.

He wanted to sob on his shoulder.

You are a king, whether you should be or not. Act like it.

Damon took a long breath in, then let it out. He was a king, and Tyrek was his friend. Even kings could act like fools, and even kings could apologize for it. "I don't know how to say what I want on good days, cousin. Do you truly expect me to know how to say them on days like these?" He laid a hand on Tyrek's shoulder. "There is much to talk about. I don't know how to say most of it."

Tyrek nodded slowly, taking another step back and clearing his throat as his anger ebbed. "I apologize for…well, I shouldn't have said or done half of that."

Damon shook his head, smiling smally. "No, but I won't tell if you won't."

Tyrek didn't smile at the joke. "You do need to tell someone, Damon. Not my impropriety, but whatever it is that's about to rip you apart."

Damon went to tell him that he would, in time. Instead, he started talking. And for once, he could not stop.


The king was late for their meal.

His wife, dressed in Tyrell green and her chair as close to the fire as was proper, forgave him.

They ate in silence, Damon finally realizing the stoniness he'd implemented in their relationship over the last weeks. Speaking with Tyrek had opened his eyes to several things, though his cousin hadn't directly enlightened him on any of them. No, Tyrek hadn't said much of anything, merely listening as Damon said more in a few minutes than he had in entire years. At the end, though, his cousin had gripped his shoulder sympathetically and called him "Still my king." He'd promised to think it over and speak with Damon again.

The king didn't feel better, necessarily. Those had been placating words from an equally shocked man who, understandably, needed time to absorb it all. He still felt betrayal and hurt like a weight, waiting to crush him. But he felt…different. No, not better, but different. And he could see how thoroughly unpleasant he had been the past few weeks.

It took him several tries of bringing it up before he finally just blurted it out. "It isn't you."

Margaery jerked at the outburst, startled. "Your Grace?"

Damon swallowed, then bulled ahead. "The reason I've been…intense lately. It isn't because of anything you did."

She had too much grace and etiquette to slump in relief outwardly, but Damon sensed her do it internally anyway. "I had thought…"

Yes, and who can blame you, Damon thought. She'd tried near daily since he'd returned from the north to engage him in conversation. She wasn't shy about it, didn't try to trick him into anything. Margaery would just start talking, and Damon had found that, sometimes, he would talk back. Sometimes he even enjoyed it.

But that had been before the Wall. Looking back now, Damon realized that he'd been…less than delicate with his wife of late.

"I see how you might. But it isn't you, Margaery. I've just had…much on my mind. I am…sorry."

She smiled at him, a radiant thing that twisted his insides in knots for reasons he still didn't understand. Maybe I shoulder tell her, too. She needs to know. She wouldn't betray the secret, as I'm her only key to Tyrell power, would she? Tywin Lannister would say no. But Tywin Lannister didn't know this, and hopefully never would.

Still, it was a hefty secret. Common sense told him to keep it to himself.

The king opened his mouth to ignore that sense, but she spoke first.

"I cannot overstate how relieved I am, Your Grace."

Taking it as a sign, he merely corrected her name for him. He hated 'Your Grace' when it came from her. "Damon."

She smiled all the brighter. "Damon." She rose from her own seat and came to his, the king twisting in it and allowing her to step between his legs. She gently took his bearded face in her hands, in a way she'd realized early on that he enjoyed, as he instinctually placed his hands on her hips. "For I have some news. It's early, but maester Kerwin is confident, and so am I."

He furled his brow, confused, until she lowered one hand from his face and placed it on her flat belly.

For the second time in a moon's turn, his world upended.

"My king, I'm carrying the heir to the Iron Throne."


A/N: *tease* Sparrows and Dragons and Suns (of the human variety)

I recently learned this fic was voted the "Category No.11 : Best OC fic" winner by the folks on TheCitadel reddit and discord. Massive thanks to them, learning of it not all that long ago is what really drove me to pick this up and get something written for you folks.

I am sorry for the wait, by the way. I am beyond giving promises of a shorter one next time, but I hope you'll forgive me and enjoy this anyway. You guys rock.

-Kerjack