Chapter 118: Daven Lannister!

Sensing his mood had darkened a little, Tyrion felt the familiar urge to visit the one place that always helped him forget his troubles.

"Damian," he said, a crooked smile forming on his lips, "all this talk of lonely trees has left me feeling uneasy. How about I take you somewhere we can lose ourselves for a while? What do you say?" There was a gleam in his eye, the kind that needed no explanation.

Damian smiled, but shook his head. "A tempting offer, Tyrion, but I'll have to decline. As much as I'd like to enjoy the company of a Westerlands girl, being Lord of the Iron Islands means I've a reputation to uphold. These things are best done in secret."

Tyrion raised an eyebrow, feigning offence. "And I, who goes openly, have no reputation to uphold?"

"That's not what I meant, Tyrion," Damian replied, amusement in his voice.

Tyrion chuckled, taking no offence. "Ah, but it's what you implied. Very well, I shan't force you to indulge in the pleasures of the West. But remember, Damian, one day you'll find that secrets are harder to keep than you think. Best enjoy life while you can."

He winked, his mood already lifting as he turned to leave. "Should you change your mind, you'll know where to find me. The night is young, and so are the girls."

Now alone, Damian continued his walk through the halls of Casterly Rock, though he wasn't entirely by himself. His two Solstark guards trailed quietly behind, along with a Lannister servant keeping a respectful distance. Far ahead, a pair of young girls giggled and glanced in his direction. They had approached him several times before, but Tyrion had always found a way to shoo them off with his clever remarks. Now that Tyrion was gone, the girls seemed to find their courage once more, edging closer as if by accident.

Damian sighed, feeling the weight of their gazes, and turned away, heading in the direction of the training grounds. He wasn't in the mood for flirtations, especially not under the watchful eyes of Casterly Rock.

But the girls were persistent. It wasn't long before they caught up to him, their soft voices calling out.

"My Lord, please wait!" one of them said. Damian recognized her—Myrielle, daughter of Ser Stafford Lannister, a knight loyal to House Lannister.

"Yes, Lady Myrielle?" Damian turned, his tone polite. "How may I help you?"

Myrielle giggled, glancing at her companions with a bright smile, clearly pleased to be remembered by the young lord. "I was hoping—" she began, but her friend nudged her playfully, cutting her off. "I mean, we were hoping, if you could tell us how you defeated seven lords of the Iron Islands."

Damian opened his mouth to respond, but before he could speak, salvation arrived in the form of Ser Stafford himself. He appeared from a side hallway, his son Daven by his side, just in time to interrupt the exchange.

"Myrielle, what are you doing here?" Ser Stafford called out, a stern note in his voice. He nodded politely to Damian as he approached. "Your mother is looking for you, girl. You're to get ready for tonight's feast."

Myrielle's smile quickly faded, replaced by a pout as she glanced at her father. Daven, meanwhile, smirked, clearly enjoying his sister's misfortune.

With a quick, annoyed glance at her brother, Myrielle stomped on his foot as she turned to leave.

"Ouch!" Daven yelped, grimacing as he rubbed his foot.

Ser Stafford shook his head, exasperated. "That girl," he muttered under his breath. Then, turning to Damian with a more cordial expression, he said, "I trust the girls weren't bothering you, Lord Solstark?"

"Not at all, Ser Stafford," Damian replied. "Are you heading toward the training grounds?"

"Aye, I am," Ser Stafford said with a nod. "I oversee the training of the men-at-arms in the evenings. Keeps them sharp."

"Do you mind if I accompany you?" Damian asked, sensing an opportunity to observe how the Westerlanders drilled their soldiers.

"Not at all, you're welcome to join," Ser Stafford said.

Damian noticed that, like his sister, Daven had been sneaking glances his way, though the young man seemed far more fascinated than anything else. It was starting to make Damian wonder if Daven had a thing for the same gender—until the young man spoke up, dispelling any misunderstandings.

"Lord Solstark," Daven began, his voice a mix of curiosity and awe, "is it true that you captured an island on your own?" His eyes were wide with admiration, the glances now making sense—this was a young man eager to hear tales of heroism. Daven was old enough to have participated in the Greyjoy rebellion but it seemed he didn't for some reason. 

Damian gave a small smile, a touch of amusement in his eyes. "I had some help in capturing Lonely Light," he said, deflecting the praise with a modest tone. "But stories tend to grow larger than the truth over time."

Daven stepped forward, eagerness clear in his voice. "Lord Solstark," he began, "they say you're skilled with the blade. Would it be possible… if I could spar with you?"

Damian raised an eyebrow, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "A spar, you say?" His voice was measured, but he could see the determination in Daven's eyes. This wasn't just about a friendly match—the young man wanted to prove himself, to test his mettle against someone with a reputation.

"Yes, my lord," Daven said, his confidence growing. "If you'd honour me with the chance." Daven had heard the tales of Damian's victories, of how he had bested Lord Drumm and others in duels. Damian was younger than him, yet his feats were already the stuff of legend. Daven wanted to see for himself just how skilled this young lord truly was.

Ser Stafford stood to the side, clearly amused but also proud of his son's bravery. "Daven's been eager to put his training to the test, Lord Solstark. I daresay he'd relish the opportunity for a challenge."

"Very well," Damian said, his tone steady. "I'll spar with you, Daven. Let's see what you've learned."

A flicker of excitement crossed Daven's face, and Ser Stafford smiled approvingly. As they made their way to the training grounds, the clatter of swords from the soldiers already drilling filled the air. 

Damian watched the soldiers closely, noting their discipline and form. The Westerlanders were well-trained, certainly more polished than the soldiers he had seen in the North. 

When the drills concluded, Ser Stafford gave a nod to his men, and the soldiers parted, clearing the space as their gazes turned toward Damian. They had heard whispers of the young lord's reputation, and some had even witnessed with their own eyes.

Damian smiled, stepping into the center of the clearing. Daven approached him with two blunted steel swords in hand, offering one to Damian. The weight of the blade was familiar in his grip, and after a few test swings, he felt the balance settle into his hand.

Across from him, Daven stood ready, the eagerness fading from his face, replaced with a more serious, focused expression. Gone was the young man hungry for a challenge; now he stood as a Lannister, determined to prove his worth.

Ser Stafford raised his hand, signaling the start of the duel.

Damian moved first, his sword slicing through the air with swift precision, but Daven was quick, meeting the strike with a practised parry. The young Lannister had skill, that much was clear, but Damian could already sense the slight hesitation in his footwork—small openings, the kind only an experienced fighter or someone like him with enhanced senses would notice.

They exchanged a flurry of strikes, the clash of steel ringing out across the yard. Daven fought with determination, his strikes strong and his movements sharp, but Damian was calm, focused, his steps measured. Each blow that came, he deflected with ease, testing Daven's resolve.

For a moment, Daven's eyes flashed with frustration. He lunged forward, hoping to catch Damian off-guard, but Damian sidestepped smoothly, his movement fluid, turning the momentum against him. Before Daven could recover, Damian's sword tapped his side, a light touch, but a clear mark of a successful strike.

"Well done," Damian said, stepping back, offering a nod of respect.

Daven exhaled heavily, wiping the sweat from his brow. He couldn't shake the feeling that he had been toyed with. Each of his swings had been met with ease, Damian dodging them with the smallest, most efficient movements. It felt like Damian could read him, as though Daven's attacks were slow, too predictable. Even when sparring with his cousin, Ser Jaime, he had never felt this outmatched.

The reality of Damian's skill hit him like a hammer. Daven had been feeling low ever since Lord Tywin hadn't chosen him to join the effort to suppress the Greyjoy Rebellion. When he'd heard the tales of Damian's feats from the soldiers returning from the Iron Islands, Daven had wondered if he could have achieved enough merit to earn his own title, perhaps even rise to become a lord or a knight. But now, standing before Damian, he understood how naïve that had been. Damian was operating on a level far beyond his own.

The weight of that realization settled on Daven, but it wasn't bitterness that followed—it was respect. He glanced at Damian, nodding with newfound humility. "Thank you, Lord Solstark. I'll do better next time."

Damian smiled faintly, handing the sword back to him. "You did well, Daven. You've already got the skills of a knight. All you need now is to train your body—to build your agility and improve your response. With time, you'll be a force to reckon with."

The soldiers standing nearby murmured amongst themselves, clearly impressed by what they had just witnessed.

"Alright, let's end here." Ser Stafford said as he came over and patted his son's shoulder, "The feast would start in another hour or so. We need to become presentable."

Damian nodded and said he would be going to his room to wipe the sweat off. 

"I will shortly come back, Father. I need to ask Lord Solstark something." Daven said before quickly catching up to Damian.