Author's Note: How about I make up for two rather short chapters by posting them on back to back days? *don't get used to it*

Thanks again for all the support, particularly the reviews. I won't be giving out shoutouts to each reviewer this time as I did for the Dragon of Duskendale, but I still ask all of you who can to leave me your thoughts, be they praise or hate. Reading your reviews and using them to improve as a writer are the main reasons I even post to this site. Plue, leave any ideas you might have or pairings you want to see in the reviews and I might just work them in. (might :D )

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

He parried high and then struck low, only to have his opponent dance out of the way, gliding away from his blunted blade easily. "Too slow. Strike with force."

The Golden Prince gritted his teeth, molars grinding together. He swung again, putting all of his strength into the overhead blow as if it were an axe he used instead of a sword. Again his opponent moved out of the way, spinning from the strike and bringing a backhand blow towards the prince's side.

His right side, which was left wide open by the blow and unprotected by the shield strapped to Damon's left arm. The second son of Robert cursed under his breath nearly before the blade came to a calculated stop against his ribs.

His uncle, immaculate looking despite having fought in the white Kingsguard armor for nearly an hour, smirked as he held the blade against his nephew's side. "Dead. That was too much force; you need to thrust hard and fast, but with touch. You don't have to split them in two to get the job done. By the noises I hear from your chambers I'd have thought you'd have learned that by now."

Damon grunted in mild amusement at his uncle's joke, both men resetting across from each other in fighting poses without a signal between them. It was hot in the inner courtyard of the Red Keep, and felt even hotter after Damon had spent so much time recently in the bitter cold of the north. He was soaked in his own sweat despite being shirtless, his golden hair clinging to his neck and shoulders. It made the Kingslayer's unruffled appearance all the more infuriating.

The courtyard was empty save for the two of them; Damon preferred to train with his uncle in private, for he would never speak as he was about to if there were other ears present. "What do you think happened to the Stark boy?" His question was accentuated with a quick lunging strike.

Jaime deflected it with shield and struck low with his sword, Damon countering the blow. They exchanged blows a second later before simultaneously dancing away from each other, beginning to circle with their defenses raised as they had countless times before. The Kingsguard's face was blank, eyes roving his nephew/squire's stance for weaknesses. "I think he fell from a tower. Poor lad; a fall like that should have killed him, not left him a broken shell."

He struck as he finished talking, trying to catch Damon off guard. It didn't work, Damon parrying and returning the strike, nearly landing a blow on his uncle's shoulder before the Lannister twisted his body out of the way, smashing his shield against the Baratheon's and pushing them both back a few steps to recover his stance.

They circled again, two sets of emerald eyes trying to find weaknesses they might have missed in hundreds of previous bouts. "The Starks seemed shocked he had fallen, though. From what I gathered form their talk, he had never fallen before."

Jaime saw his attack coming, stepping unexpectedly away from the sudden charge and stabbing the blade forward towards Damon's side. It was his right side again but this time Damon was ready, twisting to deflect the sword with his own as he twisted his hips mid-step, buying enough time to turn his body around on the run and gather himself to repel his uncle's following blows.

The Kingsguard raised an eyebrow as they resumed circling. "Of course he hadn't fallen before; if he had, the boy wouldn't have been around to fall while we were there." Jaime gestured towards Damon's hips with his swords. "You won't be able to pull that move off in armor. Or when you're over forty, armor or not."

Damon smirked, face suddenly his uncle's when Jaime was fifteen years younger. "I thought you would appreciate it."

"Alayaya teach you that?"

The smirk deepened. "Chataya herself." They came together in a flurry of blows, matching one another's moves perfectly before separating a few moments later.

Damon loved these times; when it was just him and his uncle, he was able to speak his mind and ask the questions he had been holding onto for days on end. Whatever the reasons that Damon couldn't figure out, he always felt…panicked around others, unsure of what to say or if they were serious or joking, among other horrible variables that weren't logical from one person to another. He liked etiquette and formality, for in those situations there were accepted, polished expectations and pleasantries that could be exchanged. There were rules, and people followed those rules because if they didn't they would give insult. They were predictable, and Damon loved predictability.

But outside of formal engagements and expected pleasantries, people were complex. Damon never knew what they really meant or what he was supposed to say, and even when he did his tongue became so thick in his mouth and his mind screamed so many uncertainties at him that he could barely get a sentence out. By the end of those interactions, Damon was certain his counterparts were as ready to hang him as he was ready to hang himself.

Not so with Uncle Jaime. Around his mother's brother, Damon wasn't tongue-tied or uncertain—he was Damon. It came easily and naturally and the banter was marvelously fun, just as it was with Myrcella and Tommen and, to lesser extents, his mother.

Jaime beat him this time with a disarming move he'd never shown Damon before, and he beat the prince with it again three more times before his nephew figured out how to counter it. Damon grinned widely after doing so, backing away with his shield and blunted sword ready, looking as if he had been swimming in Blackwater Bay.

His uncle nodded approvingly, still as composed as ever. "It took you long enough to figure it out. You've died five times this session. Perhaps you're spending too much time at Chataya's." He struck again, as fast now as he had been when they started, and Damon knocked it away. "I'd try to keep you from there, but I imagine there is too much Tyrion in you to make that possible."

Damon laughed, even though he didn't really like the comparison. The prince could tell that his mother's other brother did his best to make Damon comfortable, but Tyrion was sharp-witted and sharp-tongued, and while Damon wanted to laugh at his jokes and have a merry time with the dwarf he simply wasn't comfortable enough to.

It makes no sense, even I must admit that. Uncle Tyrion and I share a love of whores and unchaste kitchen maids, while Uncle Jaime never seems to partake. On the surface one would think the second son of Tywin would be closer to Damon, but they differed even in their similarities. Damon was discreet about his amoral activities, and had the decency to keep them hidden from anyone not named Baratheon or Lannister—and even some who were named Baratheon or Lannister. Tyrion flaunted them to the world, along with his fondness for excessive amounts of wine. It wasn't proper or noble of him, and Damon had difficulties turning a blind eye to it.

But he didn't let himself dip into an inner pondering of his family or his sins or his shortcomings. Instead he focused on what he did do well, and lasted so long in the bout that the Kingsguard called an end to it himself. Damon was pleased to finally see a drop of sweat on his uncle's brow as they both took a seat on the edge of the private courtyard.

Damon was halfway through oiling the training sword—it was meant to be battered, but Jaime insisted his squire care for every piece of weaponry he ever touched—when he blurted out something that had been gnawing at him for days. "Do you think Joff lied?"

His uncle, seated across from him and oiling his own training blade—Jaime was nothing if not fair with his squire—raised an eyebrow. "I think your brother makes a habit of lying."

The second son nodded his head in acknowledgement, but returned to his point. "I mean about Lady Arya and her wolf."

Damon had been with Jaime searching for Lady Arya on a different part of the Trident when she had been found, and had missed the hastily assembled court and trial that ended with the death of Lady Sansa's wolf by Lord Eddard's hand. He was thankful for that last bit, as he found the Lady Sansa as courteous and proper as he was and therefore easier than others to interact with; he'd have hated to see her distraught after the condemnation and death of her wolf in place of her sister's.

Jaime shrugged. "Does it matter if he did?"

Damon furled his brow. "Of course it does."

His uncle met the emerald eyes mirrored in his own face. "Why?"

"Because if Joff lied and he did as Lady Arya claimed, then the direwolf didn't need to die. It shouldn't have died."

"Joffrey said the other wolf attacked him. Lady Arya said he invoked it. Honestly, I imagine the she-wolf was telling the truth, but it doesn't matter."

Damon stared at his uncle, shocked. "Of course it matters! If Joffrey had Lady Sansa's wolf killed because it did as any good beast should, then—"

"Then what? Will you go and bring the beast back to life?"

"Well...no."

"Will you call Joffrey a liar to his face or for all the court to hear?"

"Of course not."

"Then what will you do, Prince Damon?"

The Golden Prince opened his mouth to answer, the oiling of the sword forgotten, but he found no words to say. His mouth worked open and closed three times before he grunted. "I don't know."

Jaime nodded, then pointedly looked at the blunted sword until Damon started working again. "Exactly. The past in the past; you can't bring that wolf back to life any more than I can King Aerys, and just like me you shouldn't want to. Joffrey is a prince, and a prince's word will always be considered truth. You should remember that, Damon." His uncle's usual smirk returned. "As well as remember what I taught you today, because I expect you to use it tomorrow. I need to keep you sharper with the sword in your hand than the sword in your pants."

Damon slowly nodded, trying to digest what his uncle had just said. "Thank you, Uncle Jaime."

"Damon," came a voice from the door of the Red Keep. Damon twisted to look that direction, and saw his mother in the doorway to the castle. He rose to his feet as he saw several handmaidens and ladies-in-waiting with her, including the Lady Sansa. He was both amused and embarrassed by the red blush to the northern girl's cheeks as she unconsciously eyed his bare chest.

His mother didn't share the amusement. Cersei was watching Damon and Jaime, her eyes shadowed and face carefully blank. His mother the queen had never been truly comfortable with his attachment to her twin, for reasons Damon wasn't certain of. Perhaps she feared he showed too much favor to those related to him through blood, though that didn't make very much sense to Damon. He supposed it was more likely her desire for him to become close to someone his own age such as Tyrek, a motherly concern that Damon imagined all boys must counter. Even princes.

"Yes, mother?"

Cersei smiled at him, though her eyes remained shadowed. "Clean yourself up and meet us in the dining hall, sweetling. It is Lady Jocelyn's nameday, and you need not be late. She considers you a friend."

Damon barely withheld his snort of amusement. Jocelyn Swyft and I have never said more than two words to one another. It's been…other noises. But Damon wasn't about to disobey, and nodded. "Of course, mother."

Jaime took the sword, gesturing towards Cersei who hadn't moved. "I'll finish this up, Your Grace." He leaned in closely. "And I'll do my best to smuggle 'Lady' Jocelyn into your chambers tonight."

Damon didn't let his face give the last part away, but he gripped his uncle's shoulder in thanks. "Thank you for your time, Ser Jaime."

As he walked towards the group of ladies, pulling his golden and black shirt down over his shoulders, he absently noted his mother's uncomfortable gaze.