Light from the morning sun spilled through the curtains, casting a warm, golden glow across the room. The light traced the contours of Dacey's body, wrapped in nothing but the rumpled sheets that clung to her skin, highlighting her form that lay soft and exposed. The soft murmur of the sea breeze, carrying the salt and whispers of the Iron Islands, fluttered through the window, mixing with the faint sounds of life awakening within the castle walls.
Maege Mormont stood framed in the doorway, her formidable silhouette cast long across the aged wooden floor. Her keen eyes roamed over the peaceful chaos of the room—the disordered sheets, the faint scent of the previous night's fervor still lingering in the air—with a blend of nostalgia and mirth. A smirk played at the edges of her lips as she observed her daughter, the remnants of passion evident in the disarray.
"Mornings thus spent? Scandalous even for a Mormont," Maege Mormont stood at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, a playful yet disapproving smirk on her face. Her eyes scanned over Dacey's naked form and dishevelled hair with mock horror.
Dacey's eyes snapped open, and she bolted upright, clutching the blanket to her chest.
"Mother? What... how long have you been there?" she stammered, her hands tightening on the sheets drawn up to her chin.
"Long enough," Maege responded, settling on the edge of the bed with the ease of a seasoned matriarch. Her hand reached out, tenderly brushing a wayward strand of hair from Dacey's brow. "It seems you've inherited more than my stubbornness."
As consciousness fully returned, Dacey wrapped the sheet around herself and sat up, still processing her mother's teasing tone. "Damian?" she asked urgency lacing her voice, her mind spinning with thoughts of the night before and the dawn now upon them. her body was aching, and her quim was sore, and why would it not hurt. She didn't count but Damian should have at least made her cum five times.
"He's already on the grounds, waiting for King Robert and the lords. They gather for his duel against the Iron Lords. Seems you've missed quite the start of the day," Maege said, her tone light but her eyes conveying a depth of concern for her daughter's sudden dismay.
A flicker of panic crossed Dacey's features. "Why didn't you wake me sooner?" Her voice held a crack of worry, the weight of missed moments pressing down upon her.
Maege's chuckle was soft yet filled with understanding. "And miss the sight of you leaping from bed like a startled hare? I think not." She extended a pile of neatly folded clothes towards Dacey. "Here, get dressed. I brought you your clothes. There's no need to give the warriors a show."
Dacey quickly slipped into her garments, each piece a reminder of the shift from private abandon to the public persona she must now resume.
"As I jest, know this—your happiness is my priority," Maege's tone softened, drawing Dacey's gaze. A twinkle of complicity in her eyes hinted at her own escapades. "Arsen kept me quite entertained last night as well."
"Mother! Please, I don't want to hear about that." Dacey said, knowing full well of her mother's character.
"Alright, alright, now go watch your warrior compete. No matter the outcome, remember who you are—a Mormont," Maege declared, rising to adjust her attire, the matriarchal authority resuming its full poise. "And we Mormonts meet our challenges head-on."
Dacey nodded in agreement. Together, mother and daughter made their way toward the arena. Yet, as they walked, Maege couldn't resist prodding her daughter for the spicy details of her evening, her voice low but insistent in the brisk morning air.
. . . .
The cold sea wind whipped against the stone walls of Pyke, carrying the salty promise of a storm. Across the grey skies, banners whipped furiously, each sigil clashing with the roaring sea below. Today, the ancient seat of the Iron Islands would witness a trial not seen since the days of the old Kings—the trial by combat of Damian Stark, who would become the High Lord of the Iron Islands upon winning.
Damian stood on the wind-swept grounds of the castle, his figure solitary against the backdrop of the gathering lords. His cloak billowed behind him, grey eyes steely as the ocean during a tempest. To one side, a steadfast group stood firmly: his loyal friend Jory, his new lover and comrade-in-arms Dacey Mormont, his trusted summons Raymond, Arsen, Selena, and Sirius, alongside soldiers sworn to his service.
The lords of the Iron Islands, a rugged and defiant assembly, stood opposing him, their faces a mixture of contempt, intimidation and curiosity. Among them stood Gorold Goodbrother of Hammerhorn, Dunstan Drumm of Old Wyk, Qohrin Volmark, Sawane Botley, Waldon Wynch, Donnor Saltcliffe, Gilbert Farwynd of Lonely Light and Triston Farwynd of Sealskin Point. These were Lords of Iron Islands, yet bound by defeat to the will of King Robert Baratheon.
To their right, a formidable assembly marked another group of Lords from different parts of Westeros: King Robert Baratheon himself stood broad and commanding, flanked by Lord Lannister and his brothers. Close by, Eddard Stark and his bannermen from houses like Mormont, Flint, Bolton, and others from the North. Most of them did not know Damian personally, but they still gathered there in support, or they acted so.
The last of the Greyjoys were on the grounds as well, except for three brothers of Balon, of which two were prisoners and one whose whereabouts remained unknown.
King Robert's voice boomed over the crowd, "I will ask again, who opposes my appointment of Damian Stark as your Lord?" Silence followed, thick and tense.
"I do," said Lord Dunstan Drumm, holding his Valyrian Steel sword, Red Rain. "The only ones who can replace the Greyjoys are the houses of the Iron Island."
"Aye,"
"He's right,"
It was soon followed by several other Iron Lords. Unexpectedly, two Lords kept mum and didn't say a word. They were Gilbert Farwynd of Lonely Light and Gorold Goodbrother. The former didn't say anything even yesterday, but now even Lord Gorold Goodbrother, who opposed yesterday, seemed to have changed his behaviour.
This was noticed by many Westerosi Lords in the audience, as well as the King.
"What about you Lord Gilbert, and Lord Gorold?"
"I'm ready to accept Damian Stark as my Lord, Your Grace," Lord Gilbert's declaration came, unexpected and unwavering, inciting a fury among his peers that erupted in vehement curses and accusations of betrayal.
"Silence!" thundered Robert, his threat resonating with the severity of royal authority. "Not another word, or I will have you all hanged, strip your descendants of their titles, and reduce them to commoners, I swear by the Seven."
The tumult subsided into a simmering hostility, eyes seething with unspoken vows of vengeance upon Lord Gilbert, who surprisingly stood unfazed by the tempest around him.
Damian observed Gilbert, his interest piqued by the lord's calm amidst the storm. What drove the Lord of Lonely Light to such a stance? Confidence in an inevitable victory, or perhaps it was something else?
Damian then turned to look at Gorold Goodbrother, whose house was in Hammerhorn on the biggest Island, Great Wyk. The man was well in his late forties, and half of his hair had turned white already. Still, he seemed in good shape, physique-wise.
Gorold's voice carried a gravitas that resonated with the gathered crowd, his words echoing against the stone and sea. "Truthfully, till yesterday, I did not support an outsider ruling our lands. But I thought long through the night and have come to a decision. Since we have already knelt to the Iron Throne, your grace, it didn't matter who you appointed to govern these islands. The only thing I require—and what would gain the support of the smallfolk in Iron Island—is that our new Lord does not act like an outsider, keeps our interest as his, and accepts our religion. That is the only thing I require," Gorold declared, his gaze locked on Damian, expecting a commitment.
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