Author's Note: Hello again!

I'm taking the advice of several reviewers, in that I'm not going to rehash every event from Damon's POV. You'll see his reactions to most of them and certainly the big things, and what he does or does not change will be made clear, but I'm counting on you to recall most of the event on the first book for now.

Which is hypocritical, since I had to look up a lot in limited time since I've forgotten most of it myself, but I have faith in all you wonderful people.

Leave reviews about what you do or don't like and what you want to see. I'll always tell the story I wanna, but I love reading and occasionally implementing some of your preferences!

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

"Your mother knows nothing of this, does she." It wasn't a question.

"What do you think?" That wasn't a question either.

Tyrek sat his sorrel gelding back from the two identical men, eyes going back and forth between them. The Kingslayer sat a white palfrey, dressed in red and gold armor, his white cloak nowhere to be found. That's probably best, considering he broke the Kingsguard neutrality and attacked the Hand of the King and fled the city and…all of that.

The brother of the queen had met them at the edge of the camp, hundreds of men in Lannister red and gold and the trappings of Lannister vassals spread out behind him. He saw the purple unicorn of Brax, the gold coins of Payne, the sun of Lefford and dozens of others. They were somewhere near the border of the Riverlands and the Westerlands, likely already in the latter, though Tyrek wasn't sure exactly where. It was an open field amidst a smattering of forest, large beforehand and made larger by Westlander axes. Tyrek was as inexperienced at warfare as the prince he had followed days ago from the Red Keep, and thusly had no clue how many men there actually were. Lots of them. Lots and lots and lots of them.

All of that was crossing in the back of his mind though, what with the man he had followed and the man that man had followed conversing a few yards in front of them. The Kingsguard knight had ridden alone to meet them, while the Prince had eleven men behind him. Ten were scouts that had intercepted them a few miles back, while the other was the only one Damon had brought along—Tyrek, though that had been more on the prince not telling him to stay than explicitly asking him to come. It'd seemed like a good idea at the time, what with the queen's frequent commands to befriend Damon ringing in his mind, but when they'd gotten a night's ride from King's Landing, Damon had revealed that Cersei had forbade him from doing exactly what he was doing.

Tyrek had stayed with Damon, more for fear of what Cersei would do to him should he return without her son than any real desire to ride to the war the prince was hell bent on trying to stop.

Not that the prince hadn't come prepared for just that. He wore armor of his own, much like Jaime's, though instead of crimson and gold it was black and gold. The stallion beneath him was a red destrier bred for battle, one of the six horses the two squires had taken with them. A helm hung from his saddle, the same black with gold trimmings as the breastplate and accompanying steel. It was a piece of art, golden stag antlers sprouting from the helm. Most squires didn't have armor of any sort, war or not, but Damon was no normal squire. This was just the suit of armor that had fit him best, and the one he best liked—Tyrek knew for a fact that the prince had received three different suits in the last year alone, gifts from various lords. The same could be said of swords, though one stood out from the others; the lion pommeled blade the prince had chosen was brilliantly balanced and crafted, a gift from his grandfather Lord Tywin, whom Tyrek was certain was somewhere in the maze of tents beyond.

I think he is as sick of wearing it all as I am of helping him in and out of it, though. For once I'm happy all I have is a sword and horse.

The Kingslayer looked to the other men around them before trotting a few steps closer to his nephew. "All of you, return to your scout."

A chorus of 'yes m'lords' followed, and for a moment Tyrek wondered if perhaps he should find somewhere else to be as well. To his surprise and pleasure, though, Damon stopped him before the thought could get very far. "Tyrek, you remain."

"Of course Prince Damon," he answered immediately, glancing at the Kingslayer and seeing a surprise he was sure was mirrored on his own face. He and the prince had spent days in no one's company but each other's, and in all that time they had shared maybe fifty words. Most of those were about keeping away from others and staying ahead of the parties the queen was certain to have sent after them. Damon had tolerated Tyrek's presence it had seemed, nothing more.

The cousin's musings were unimportant to the nephew and uncle, however, as they started speaking again as soon as the scouts were gone. "What the hell were you thinking, riding alone. There is a war brewing, and the roads are not safe for a prince in any case."

"That fact that there is a war brewing is exactly why I'm here, and I know as well as anyone how to avoid unwanted guests."

The Kingsguard grunted, frowning deeply. "You think you know when you actually don't, which is more dangerous than not knowing."

The prince straightened in his saddle, refusing to budge an inch. Tyrek would have been surprised by it if he wasn't already shocked at hearing so many words flow effortlessly from Damon's mouth. "I made it here, didn't I?"

"How did your mother not send parties after you?"

"I'm sure she did, but they didn't find me." He gestured towards Tyrek without looking back at him, ostensibly towards the four horses the son of Tygett held strung out loosely behind him. "We rode hard and fast, and kept to the straightest path save for when we camped."

"The straightest path is a lot of back trails."

"Back trails I remember or have since learned. I've hunted with father enough to know the land passing well, and the rest Tyrek and I figured out. It's not hard finding an army when they aren't fighting yet."

"And what of the king? Does he know you're missing?"

"I'm sure he does by now."

There was silence for a long moment, nephew and uncle eyeing each other. Jaime spoke first. "Your mother commanded you to stay, didn't she."

"She did. The king didn't."

"Did you ask him?"

Damon squirmed in his saddle for a moment, and his voice came out much more guiltily when he spoke again. "No. He probably would have agreed with mother…for once. I couldn't have that."

Jaime half glared at his nephew for a moment, the prince having gone from stubborn to chagrined quite quickly. Tyrek understood the wince in his shoulders when the Kingslayer whirled that glare on him. "And you, you just followed along without a word to anyone?"

It was good that Damon spoke for him, for Tyrek was at a loss. "Don't blame Tyrek. He came because I asked him."

Well, more because I happened across you in the stables in the middle of the night when I couldn't sleep and sort of just tagged along, but I certainly won't contradict you.

Not that Jaime truly believed it, judging by his face. He nudged his horse forward a few more steps, leaning over and talking so lowly that Tyrek, who hadn't gotten closer but certainly wasn't far away, couldn't hear him. Damon responded in turn, the two conversing for a few moments longer before the sound of hooves approaching from the maze of tents drew them out of it.

Ser Kevan Lannister, Tyrek's uncle, led another party of horsemen towards them, most of those behind him lords. Tyrek recognized Lord Jast and Foote, as well as Brax and Prester, and a handful of others. Ser Daven Lannister, another of the infinite cousins, carried the crimson and gold banner of Lannister to Kevan's right. There was a lack of Baratheon stags, but he supposed that was fitting, since this was shaping up to be an internalized conflict.

"Your Grace," he heard Kevan call as he reigned a mare up close to the two emerald and gold men. "Lord Tywin sends his regards, and welcomes you to his camp."

Damon responded instantly, voice clear in the midmorning light, and Tyrek absently noted that the prince was back in his element; formal greetings with set responses. "Ser Kevan, it is good to see you again, though I must say I disapprove of the reasoning."

Kevan nodded only once, unflustered by the response. "Your grandfather invites you his tent, to discuss just that." Kevan's eyes flitted to Tyrek, then Jaime, then Tyrek and back. "All of you."

Tyrek gulped. His uncle Tywin scared him half to death, he had no qualms in admitting. Judging by the slight sag in Damon's shoulders, he scared the prince as well.

Though you couldn't tell it from his voice. "Of course. I'd be delighted."

When Damon started his destrier forward, he cast one fleeting look back over his shoulder to Tyrek, the first time he'd so much as glanced at his companion since they'd encountered the scouts. Tyrek could see in the his face that Damon most assuredly wouldn't be.

Days and days of planning had come to naught.

Damon didn't know what had come over him in his flight from the capital. He'd been so wrapped up in concern over where the stupidity going on around him might lead that it had seemed a brilliant idea; and, while he didn't put much stock in stories, he thought the tale of a prince riding alone to beg combatants to stop a war would be excellent fodder for the bards. He'd slipped out of his chambers and to the stables through a variety of passages and secret tunnels that he'd often smuggled whores through, taking Tyrek along on a whim. It had seemed a brilliant plan.

That had lasted until the night of the next day, when an exhausted Damon and Tyrek had camped somewhere in the Crownlands. It had dawned on him then, when it was far too late to turn back, that this was the first time he'd ever been anywhere without some elder in charge in all his life.

Before he had left the idea appealed to him greatly. Once it had happened, though, and he and Tyrek had been left alone to eat their rations and try to figure out how in the Seven Hells to keep a fire going, all he'd been was scared.

He'd remained scared the rest of trip west, though he'd tried to keep Tyrek from seeing it.

The only substantial contact Damon had had with Robert Baratheon was when they hunted, and while Damon didn't share the zeal for killing animals that his father did, he went on every hunt his mother would permit him to join. While he and his father never got on well, there conversations short and oftentimes awkward, it'd felt brilliant to share something with the man who had fathered him.

Those trips had also served as reasons for Damon to self-justify his flight, what with his time spent travelling the roads to hunts making him believe he could find the army of his grandfather easily enough. He had been wrong; Damon had been horribly lost more than once, and the sight of the Lannister scouts had given him relief like none other.

But here, standing across the table from where his grandfather expertly skinned a stag, he almost wished he had remained lost.

Lord Tywin Lannister of the Westerlands was feared by friend and foe alike. Damon was neither, but he was terrified all the same. I'd love to say it's because I'm tired—we haven't slept much, Tyrek or me, what with the searching parties behind us—but I know better. He was an inch or so taller than Uncle Jaime, his hair gone white and balding in his advancing age, but he was lean and stood as straight as a blade. Eyes, pale green, had cut through Damon when they'd exchanged formal pleasantries as easily as the knife in Tywin's hand sliced through the stag.

Jaime stood to Damon's right, Tyrek his left. Silence descended on the tent.

The Baratheon prince had finally gathered enough wits to speak when Tywin did it for him. "Why are you here, Your Grace."

It was a question although it sounded like some sort of command from his grandfather's lips. Damon tried his best to go into his planned spiel. "Lord Tywin, I must ask you to disband these men."

Tywin didn't turn to face him. He didn't even stop skinning the animal. "Do you carry commands from the King, Prince Damon?"

"Well…no."

"Then why are you here?"

Three sentences. Three sentences and he's already got me on my back foot. "I'm here to stop a war." Even as Damon said them he knew how pitiful they sounded.

"With all due respect, Your Grace," Tywin said, somehow managing to sound like he meant that respect, "Eddard Stark started that war when his wife took Tyrion."

"She believes Tyrion tried to murder their son."

"Absurdity."

"I agree, which is why—"

"And stupidity, to take a Lannister on the road. That, Your Grace, is an act of war, especially with such nonsense reasoning." Tywin turned to face him, hands bloody and brow fierce. "I am only responding in kind to Lord Stark's actions."

Damon gulped once underneath the gaze, but he drove on, trying to salvage something from the speech for peace he had been preparing for days. "Lord Stark believes a Lannister tried to kill his son. If we cease acts of aggression and reason with him, he will see the error of his actions I am sure."

Tywin raised a brow, and Damon inexplicably felt a blush rising to his cheeks. "Is that so? Jaime, give him the letter." Damon looked to his uncle, whose eyes held a mixture of sympathy and exasperation as he grabbed a curled raven's scroll from the table and handed it to his squire. "While you were riding towards us, your father has gone on a hunt, leaving Stark as regent. We received this, amidst requests from your mother to bring you back immediately. I will follow neither idea."

Damon quickly unfolded the scroll in his hand, reading the words of Lord Stark quickly. By the time he was done, his heart had frozen in fear. "This is madness."

Tywin returned to his flaying with a nod of approval. "It is."

"He refers to the Mountain…"

"Clegane is burning the Riverlands in response to Catelyn Tully's refusal to release Tyrion. This war you have ridden so fast and hard to stop has already begun."

"But—"

Tywin turned again, and Damon shut his mouth. There was nothing physically threatening in the gesture, but Damon couldn't find words beneath the gaze. "The Riverlands have called their own banners. I assure you, were you to have come across a Tully party rather than a Lannister one, you would be a prisoner of the war you seem to think hasn't started."

Damon tried to intercede, but Tywin was relentless. "Your family has been insulted. Your name may be Baratheon, but you are as much if not more of a Lannister. I will not return either you or Tygett's son to King's Landing, for your place is here, where your family fights a war against an enemy that provoked them unnecessarily."

It took the prince a moment to respond. "But, grandfather, I can't possibly—"

"You can, and you will. Lord Stark may wear the badge of Hand of the King, but he is acting against the realm. That may be a stag on your breastplate, but it's a lion on the pommel of your sword. I see no wolf or trout."

"I am not the king."

"No, you are not. You are a prince, and a Lannister, acting when your father will not." Tywin gestured towards Jaime. "You squire for a Lannister. You look like a Lannister. You're smart like a Lannister. It is time to be a Lannister."

The Lord of the Westerlands looked to his son then, so confident and commanding in his manner that Damon couldn't dislodge any of the arguments in his throat. "You will take both of them with you." His grandfather looked back to Damon once again. "If that is suitable to the prince, of course."

No, it isn't. I came to stop a war, not join one. Lord Stark is acting brashly, I agree, but there must be a diplomatic answer.

Damon opened his mouth to say that. What came out was "Of course, Lord Tywin."

He walked out of the tent unsure of what the Seven Hells had just happened, but knowing without a doubt that he didn't like it one bit.