Chapter 113: Heading South!

The night had stretched on, their bodies entwined in the heat of desire, sweat glistening on their skin as they moved together in a timeless rhythm. 

They had pushed each other to the edge, lost in the intensity of the night, until exhaustion claimed Dacey. The Mormont lady finally fell into a deep sleep, her heart racing, her body spent, but her mind at peace. It wasn't until the sun stood high in the sky that she stirred, her body still heavy with the remnants of their passion.

When she finally awoke, the bed beside her was empty. She hurried to the courtyard, her heart racing as she spotted Damian. He was preparing to leave.

"I'll probably be back in a month or two," Damian said, his voice low "The peace of Pyke rests in your hands, Jory."

"I won't let you down, my Lord," Jory said, his voice low, steady as the sea wind that swept through Pyke's courtyard. He bowed his head, dark hair falling across his brow, but his eyes remained fixed on Damian.

Damian nodded, his eyes hard as iron. "I know you won't." His gaze lingered on Jory for a heartbeat, then shifted to Dacey. Her lips were pressed into a thin line, but her eyes—those told another story. They had spoken without words the night before, and now, in the pale light of morning, that unspoken promise still hung between them like the distant rumble of thunder before a storm.

"Keep a watch on the priests of the Drowned God," Damian said, his voice sharp now, meant for Jory but still fixed on Dacey. "Don't let them raise more than saltwater."

Jory nodded solemnly, his brow furrowed. "Aye, my Lord."

Dacey stood silent, her body still thrumming with echoes of their night together, aching in places she hadn't known could ache. A part of her still wished to ride with him, to feel the sea wind in her face at his side, but the soreness tethered her to Pyke, grounding her in the here and now. She told herself that was enough—for now. 

Just then Adolf came bounding towards Damian, his tail wagging with unrestrained enthusiasm. The wolf, was introduced to Jory, Dacey, and others yesterday so everyone knew a wolf followed him along with a huge falcon wherever he went. 

"It's late," Damian muttered, more to himself than to anyone else. He swung up onto his horse, the leather of his saddle creaking as he took the reins. "I'll try to return before the moon turns thrice."

He offered a final nod to the men and women gathered, then spurred his horse forward. Twenty Solstark guards and Adolf followed in his wake, their hooves pounding against the stone.

The sea's salty tang filled the air as they pushed on, the cliffs and crags of Pyke giving way to the road ahead. Three hours later, as the sun sank low on the horizon, Lordsport rose up before them, the waves crashing against the docks like an old, familiar song.

At the harbour, Leobald awaited him. The three ships lay anchored at the port, their hulls heavy with iron ingots and manned by fifty sailors. 

Damian boarded his vessel once more, the ship's creaking timbers and the rush of the sea marking the beginning of his journey south. With Ace flying ahead as vanguard, the Longships cut through the waves, as he left Pyke behind.

Days passed in relentless succession, and at last, the Solstark longships drew into the bustling harbor of Lannisport.

Lannisport, a grand walled city of the Westerlands, lay less than a mile south of the formidable Casterly Rock, the storied seat of House Lannister. Perched along the coast of the Sunset Sea, it was a nexus where the river road, the Gold Road, and the Ocean Road converged. As one of the Seven Kingdoms' most vital ports, it stood as a beacon of commerce and power—its expanse dwarfing even the bustling harbours of Gulltown or White Harbor, though still not rivalling the scale of King's Landing or Oldtown. Lordsport, by comparison, seemed nothing compared to its size and bustle.

As Damian disembarked from his vessel, the keen eyes of a Lannister officer fell upon him. The officer, Gavin Lannys, approached Damian as if he recognised him. He had borne witness to Damian's fight on the shores of Pyke, where the Ironborn Lords had been defeated and killed.

As Damian disembarked from his vessel, the sharp gaze of a Lannister officer fell upon him. Ser Gavin Lannys, having witnessed Damian's valor on the shores of Pyke where the Ironborn Lords had been defeated, approached with an air of recognition.

“Lord Damian, it truly is you. Welcome to Lannisport,” Ser Gavin greeted with a nod, his voice carrying the weight of respect.

Damian met his gaze steadily. “And you are?”

“Ser Gavin Lannys, my Lord. I oversee security here at the pier,” the officer replied. “May I inquire the purpose of your visit? Are you here to meet Lord Tywin?”

“More or less,” Damian confirmed. “I’ve come to sell some iron and other metals mined at Pyke. Is Lord Tywin at home?”

“I shall dispatch a messenger to Casterly Rock to inform them of your arrival,” Ser Gavin said. “In the meantime, Lord Jeron Lannister, who governs Lannisport, would be honored to host you.”

Damian nodded his thanks and followed Ser Gavin to Lord Jeron’s keep, with ten of his guards trailing behind. As they rode through the streets, Damian observed the ongoing recovery efforts from the Ironborn raids. New houses and shops were springing up, their construction marred by visible scars of recent damage.

His attention was abruptly drawn to a figure emerging from a nearby tavern, swaying precariously. A grin tugged at Damian’s lips as he steered his horse toward the inebriated man.

The drunkard, having difficulty maintaining his balance, was making an uneven progress toward a carriage parked by the roadside. As he approached, a horse—Damian’s—suddenly blocked his path. With a disgruntled hiccup, the man glared up and, in his stupor, lost his footing, collapsing onto his backside.

Damian dismounted with a bemused expression. His amusement was evident; witnessing someone so thoroughly inebriated in the morning was rare, though he mused that if it were Tyrion Lannister, it might seem less unusual.

He approached the fallen man with deliberate steps, his gaze steady as he surveyed the figure sprawled on the cobblestones. With a firm hand, he grabbed Tyrion by the shoulder and helped him to his feet.

As their eyes met—Damian’s grey ones and Tyrion’s green-black—Damian was caught off guard by the dwarf's words.

"Tysha, is that you?" Tyrion slurred, his voice thick with the remnants of his drunken stupor.