On the ship returning from Fair Isle, Daemon silently watched the sunset on the sea. The Cannibal and Dreamfyre soared freely in the sky. The pitch-black and pale blue giant dragons wove an epic over this sea with their dragonfire. Daemon's fingers unconsciously rubbed the hilt of Blackfyre.
He recalled Earl Humfrey Lefford's words at Golden Tooth: "Casterly Rock managed by young lords and an old good man." He remembered the slackness of Lannisport's garrison and the face of Duke Tymond Lannister, Warden of the West. Upon this return, this Duke probably wouldn't let things go easily.
Sure enough, the morning after Daemon's group returned from Fair Isle to Casterly Rock, Tymond Lannister's retinue arrived.
This old Duke personally rode a pure white steed at the front of the procession. He wore a bright red formal coat embroidered with gold thread; the golden lion on his chest roared lifelike, and even the saddle pommel was gold.
But his face was iron-green. Skipping even the entry ceremony, he charged directly into Casterly Rock's main keep with attendants, running head-on into Ser Rollam Lannister, who was showing armor to the twins Jason and Tyland.
"Uncle Rollam!" Tymond's roar shook the candlelight in the keep. He grabbed his cousin by the collar; the shoulder decoration of his red coat knocked Rollam back repeatedly. "I entrusted Casterly Rock to you, and this is how you guard it? Lannisport burned; the face of the entire Westerlands and House Lannister has been completely lost by you, old man!"
Rollam's face turned pale instantly; gold threads on his coat trembled. "Tymond, I—I already ordered reconstruction, garrison training strengthened too—"
"Reconstruction? Training?" Tymond threw him off, pointing out the window toward rebuilding Lannisport. "Those Ironborn hit our doorstep, and you still talk of this? Serving as Master of Ships in King's Landing, people mocked me daily about Lannisport! Now I resigned and returned to let everyone know House Lannister's debts must be paid!"
Just as he finished, several guards stepped forward to seize Rollam. Tymond looked at this cousin's pale face, tone cold as Westerlands wind: "You are old, unsuitable to manage Casterly Rock affairs anymore. Pack your things, go to the manor at Cornfield to retire. Don't step foot in Casterly Rock again."
Rollam opened his mouth but finally lowered his head, taken away by guards.
This scapegoat, jointly pushed out by House Lannister and Westerlands nobles for the Burning of Lannisport, finally couldn't escape his fate, driven out of Casterly Rock where he served half his life.
The twins Jason and Tyland hid behind attendants in fear. Eight or nine-year-old children rubbed sleepy eyes, clearly not understanding what happened—yesterday they were trying on new formal wear for Daemon's farewell banquet, now watching Great-Uncle Rollam, usually so gentle to them, taken away on Grandfather's order, eyes full of ignorance.
After dealing with Rollam, Tymond straightened his coat and took attendants to find Daemon.
At this moment, Daemon stood in the "Hall of Heroes," looking at hundreds of armor sets displayed on both sides—some gem-encrusted, some carved with battle deeds. The center set belonged to the last King of the Rock, Loren Lannister, from Aegon's Conquest; the golden lion-head helm gleamed coldly in candlelight.
"Prince Daemon." Tymond's voice lost the rage from earlier, gaining solemnity. He walked to Daemon, gaze on the King's armor. "About Lannisport, thank you. If not for you and Princess Gael's dragons, I fear House Lannister's face would have been trampled into the sea by those Ironborn."
Daemon turned, seeing the fatigue in the Warden of the West's eyes—no matter how gorgeous the red coat, it couldn't hide bloodshot eyes, clearly from staying up late during the journey.
"Duke need not be polite; I only did what should be done." Daemon paused, pointing to the King's armor. "After all, House Lannister's glory shouldn't rely solely on others to maintain."
Tymond nodded, tone carrying self-mockery. "I used to think gold could guard everything. Now I know slackness is more terrible than Ironborn fleets." He patted Daemon's shoulder. "Heard you plan to take the Ocean Road via Crakehall to the Reach? I've prepared a farewell banquet in the Golden Gallery. Also, House Lannister owes you a favor—if you need anything across the Narrow Sea in future, Westerlands armies and gold are at your disposal."
It seemed news of Daemon planning to build a career across the Narrow Sea had reached this former Master of Ships on the sea breeze. But this was good; rumors mixed with truth painted a protective color for this Black Dragon's Blackfyre cause.
The farewell banquet that night was exceptionally grand. The Golden Gallery was filled with Westerlands delicacies: roast boar, stewed venison, honey-coated bread, and cakes decorated with gold leaf.
Attendants carried gold-rimmed cups filled with strongest Lannisport red wine. Guests wore ornate formal wear, including many Westerlands nobles—Lord of Sarsfield, Knight of Clegane's Keep, Earl of Cornfield. Their eyes watching Daemon were full of awe, no longer doubting or slighting the young Dragonlord's past records. A dragon is a dragon, true dragon even if young.
Gael sat beside Daemon holding a piece of gold leaf cake, amusement in pale violet eyes: "Didn't expect Duke Tymond to look serious but host banquets quite well."
Leowyn Corbray held his cup, looking at treasures displayed in the gallery, whispering: "Is this the Lannister way—either don't do it, or do it most decently?"
Larys Strong somehow snuck in his "Mr. Longlegs," slipping to a gallery corner unnoticed. He stared at a piece of red gold ore in a glass cabinet, thoughtful light in brownish-black eyes—probably calculating how much intelligence this ore could buy.
Rupert followed Corlin looking at armor in the Hall of Heroes. Two young men argued over a ruby-encrusted knight armor, making nearby nobles chuckle.
Halfway through the banquet, Tymond raised his cup, voice reaching across the gallery: "Everyone! I, Tymond Lannister, swear in the name of Warden of the West—Prince Daemon is House Lannister's benefactor and friend of the Westerlands! Anyone daring disrespect to the Prince in future is enemy of House Lannister!"
Everyone raised cups; clinking sounds echoed in the gallery. Daemon watched the liveliness, then looked out the window at Casterly Rock's night view—lights on the giant rock like stars, sound of Sunset Sea waves faintly audible. The Cannibal and Dreamfyre rested in the clearing outside; dragon breath glowed faintly in the night.
He knew the Westerlands journey was ending. Next, at the end of the Ocean Road, Crakehall forests awaited. Lannisport wind had blown past. But at this moment, gripping the cup, feeling the coolness of gold leaf, listening to Tymond's "Lannister pays debts," he suddenly felt—this Westerlands trip might influence the future chessboard more than he imagined.
Night deepened; Golden Gallery lights remained bright. Daemon put down his cup silently, looking toward Gael and Mysaria. The girls were chatting with Lord Farman's daughter, also visiting Casterly Rock, about Fair Isle anecdotes, eyes full of smiles.
He looked at distant Rupert and Corlin, still arguing about armor. Larys and Jarmen had disappeared unnoticed—probably exploring Casterly Rock mines again.
Westerlands wind passed through the Lion's Mouth, carrying sea breath and parting scent. Daemon knew when the sun rose tomorrow, they would step on the road to the Reach. And Casterly Rock's giant rock, Lannisport's gold, Fair Isle's silver ships, and Tymond's solemn promise would become the most distinct footnotes of the Westerlands in his memory.
---