As the sails of the Redwyne fleet sliced through the morning mists of Shipbreaker Bay, the silhouette of Storm's End rose before them.
This massive fortress, its walls woven with spells according to history, loomed like a great beast slumbering on the cliffs. The thick, gray stone walls formed a smooth, seamless curve—forty feet thick at their widest, and rising over a hundred and fifty feet on the seaward side. Atop the colossal drum tower, the banner of the crowned stag—black on gold—snapped in the wind like a giant fist shaking at the world, blocking the salty gales of Shipbreaker Bay.
The Cannibal was the first to let out a low rumble. His black scales glinted dully in the morning light, as if sensing the ancient magic within the walls—legend said that when Durran Godsgrief built it, the Children of the Forest wove spells into the stones to make it withstand thousands of years of storms and war.
Dreamfyre followed closely, her pale blue wings skimming the sea surface. The spray she kicked up hit the reefs below the walls, instantly turned into fine mist by the wind.
"Now this is a castle!" Myles River hefted his Northern battle-axe, awe written all over his dark face as he pointed at the curved walls. "Look at those stones—not even the wind can find a crack! More imposing than the gray walls of Winterfell!"
Rupert Crabb, with his silver spoon half-exposed again, nudged Corwyn Celtigar with his white pauldron. "I heard there are spells in these walls that block magic? A maester at Highgarden said King Maegor's wizards tried to curse Storm's End, but the spells bounced right off!"
Corwyn nodded with a smile, his gaze sweeping over the iron gate at the base of the cliff. Several Stormlands longships were docked there, their crowned stag sails echoing the banner above. "My uncle said Storm's End is the root of the Stormlanders. Sometimes, it's more reliable than Casterly Rock's gold."
As the fleet docked, the sound of hoofbeats approached from the distance. A squad of knights in black armor galloped toward them, flanking two figures. The young man in the lead was burly, his black hair flying in the wind. The black and gold crowned stag on his chest was striking in the sun—it was Borros Baratheon, eldest son and heir of Duke Boremund Baratheon.
The woman beside him wore a gown of yellow and black, the nightingale sigil of House Caron embroidered on the hem. Her capable demeanor suggested she was his fiancée, Elenda Caron.
"Little brother Daemon! You're finally here!" Borros shouted from a distance. Before Daemon could even dismount, Borros strode over and pulled him into a bear hug so strong Daemon stumbled slightly. "Last year at the King's Landing tourney, you promised to visit us in the Stormlands. And look at you—took a big detour around the Seven Kingdoms before finally coming here! Do you think our ale isn't as good as the rest?"
Daemon laughed and swatted his hand away, his violet eyes full of helpless amusement. "Saving the Stormlands for last shows it's the most important. Surely our Ser Borros understands that logic?"
"Hah! You rascal!" Borros laughed heartily, hooking an arm around Daemon's shoulder and pointing to the hunting party behind him. Several knights were carrying a freshly killed stag, blood still dripping. "Perfect timing! Your big brother here just bagged this stag today. The meat is tenderest now. Tonight, the cooks will roast it, and with our Stormlands ale, I guarantee you'll drink your fill!"
Elenda Caron approached and curtsied to Daemon and Gael, her yellow and black gown sweeping the gravel. "Prince Daemon, Princess Gael. Borros has been looking forward to your arrival since last month, asking every day if there was news from the ravens." Her gaze passed over Mysaria, Johanna, and Bethany beside Gael, then rested on Alys Rivers with a warm smile. "Ladies, the journey must have been tiring. Guest rooms are ready at Storm's End. Shall I have someone show you to rest?"
Gael nodded with a smile, taking Mysaria's hand. "Thank you, Lady Caron. I'd love to chat about Storm's End. I heard the gardens here overlook all of Shipbreaker Bay?" Mysaria nodded too, sea mist clinging to her platinum curls. "I also want to see the stones Durran supposedly used to build the castle."
Alys Rivers walked behind them, her green dress clinging to her body in the wind. She looked at the walls of Storm's End, a flicker of curiosity in her green eyes. "The spells in these walls might be even older than the weirwoods on the Isle of Faces." Larys Strong followed on his gray donkey, the hem of his black robe brushing the rocks, a faint smile on his lips. "House Durrandon held the Stormlands for thousands of years before the Conquest. They relied on more than just fists."
Borros ignored the women's chatter, dragging Daemon along while chattering about recent events. "You really showed them on this tour! Taking back Whispers for House Crabb, leading the Vale lords to beat the mountain clans, making the Brackens and Blackwoods behave in the Riverlands, burning the Ironborn at Seagard and Lannisport until they cried for their mothers, and crushing the plot of those bastards at Highgarden—bards sing about these things in our taverns every day!"
He paused, lowering his voice excitedly. "By the way! Most of the slaves you saved in the Stepstones were our people from the Stormlands. They're all at Storm's End now. My father said if you're interested, I can take you to see the execution of those traffickers—show you our laws aren't just for show!"
Daemon nodded, the dragon brand on his shoulder warming as he thought of Johanna's ordeal. "They deserve it. But I'm mostly here to keep my promise from last year—to have a good drink with you."
"A drink?" Borros raised an eyebrow and slapped Daemon on the back. "More than just a drink! I have to fight you! We didn't settle it at the tourney. This time, in the yard at Storm's End, we'll joust, fence—hell, use warhammers and axes if you want! But whoever loses drinks three barrels of ale!"
As they spoke, they reached the outer gate of Storm's End. The massive oak doors were studded with iron, and the lintel bore reliefs of Durran and Elenei. The guards pushed the doors open with a creak that seemed to speak of millennia of history.
Inside, the sight was even more impressive. The colossal drum tower rose from the ground, housing granaries, barracks, armories, and the great hall within its walls. Torches lit the stone path like day. Armor stands displayed suits worn by generations of Baratheon knights. In the center stood the silver armor Orys Baratheon wore when he slew the last Storm King, the sigil on the breastplate still gleaming cold.
"Big enough tower for you?" Borros jutted his chin proudly. "It can house five hundred knights, and the granaries hold enough for half a year! When the Dornish bugs and the pirates attacked before, we just sat inside while they froze outside for three days. They left with their tails between their legs!"
Elenda laughed. "But the most interesting part is the lookout on top. You can see every ship in Shipbreaker Bay. Borros loved climbing up there as a boy—the Duke scolded him so many times. The first time we met as children, he was up there peeking at me."
Borros blushed instantly and tried to mess up Elenda's hair. "Was not! I was practicing spotting enemy movements!" The surrounding knights roared with laughter, and even Daemon's followers chuckled.
---
The banquet was held in the great hall of Storm's End. Long tables groaned under Stormlands specialties: roast stag legs, wild boar with rosemary, fish soup from Shipbreaker Bay, and fresh oatcakes. The aroma mixed with the richness of the ale, filling the hall.
Duke Boremund Baratheon sat at the head table. He wore a deep black robe embroidered with the crowned stag. His face was stern, but his eyes were warm. Seeing Daemon enter, he beckoned him to sit by his side immediately. "Little Daemon, it's been a long journey. I've written to King's Landing about your rescue of the slaves in the Stepstones. Your grandfather, King Jaehaerys, will be pleased."
Daemon bowed. "You flatter me, my Lord. I only did what needed to be done."
Boremund raised his cup, his voice booming through the hall. "Everyone! Our Little Prince Daemon has done so much for the peace of the Seven Kingdoms on his tour—saving the Vale, mediating in the Riverlands, repelling Ironborn twice, crushing conspiracies at Highgarden, and saving our people from slavery! Such deeds deserve a toast from every man in the Stormlands!"
Everyone raised their cups, the clinking echoing in the hall. Borros downed a huge gulp of ale, letting it drip down his chin. "Father's right! Little Daemon is worth ten of those nobles who only know how to enjoy themselves in King's Landing!"
Halfway through the banquet, Boremund put down his cup, his tone turning serious. "Daemon, there's something I must tell you. My sister, Jocelyn, sent a letter recently." He paused, looking at Daemon. "She hopes you can come home early. I can tell from her words... she has accepted you. I hope you won't run away."
Daemon's hand tightened on his cup, nearly spilling the wine. He remembered asking Rhaenys about her at High Tide.
Back then, Rhaenys said Meleys had fished him out of the sea near Dragonstone first. She noticed something odd about the dragon and found him, but Corlys had him thrown into the dungeon.
When he escaped and jumped into the sea, only to be saved by Rhaenys and Meleys again, he had used a mix of truth and lies about dying in battle and crossing a century to explain away his strange circumstances. He hadn't expected those half-truths to cause such ripples.
"I know your situation," Boremund said gently. "Rhaenys told me. Your father Aemon was assassinated, your mother died soon after. You lived alone for a long time, wandering without family, losing many memories of the past. But, Little Daemon... my mother died giving birth to Jocelyn. I practically raised her. As her brother, I can see... she really wants you to call her Mother. And I hope you can call me Uncle."
The hall fell silent. All eyes were on Daemon. Mysaria quietly handed him a handkerchief, worry in her eyes. Gael held his hand, her violet eyes encouraging. Johanna watched him with a hint of envy. Vaegon sat nearby, a complicated look in his eyes. Larys leaned by the hearth with his father, his dark eyes calm, devoid of their usual cunning.
Daemon opened his mouth but found his throat tight. Since arriving in this world, he had considered his Targaryen ancestors his bloodline, viewing any misunderstandings as family entanglements. But the affection from the Baratheons came so suddenly, so sincerely, that he was caught off guard.
Jocelyn's complicated, sorrowful gazes, her hidden expectations; Boremund's acceptance; Borros's constant warmth—it all shone like a warm light into his tightly guarded heart.
"I..." Daemon's voice was hoarse. He looked at Boremund, then at Borros. "Thank you, my Lord. It's just... I need a little time."
Boremund smiled and patted his shoulder. "No rush. Between family, the one thing we don't fear is waiting. That you are willing to come to Storm's End, willing to treat us as kin, is enough."
Borros chimed in immediately. "Exactly! Whenever you're ready, call me Cousin! From now on, in the Stormlands, I've got your back!" He poured Daemon another cup of ale. "Enough of this! Drink! Tomorrow we fight in the yard. Loser drinks three barrels!"
The banquet livened up again. Knights began singing Stormlands battle songs. Borros dragged Daemon into the singing, their voices shaking the candles.
Drinking the ale, feeling the warmth around him, Daemon suddenly felt that the ale of Storm's End was warmer than Highgarden's wine, stronger than Lannisport's red, and more reassuring than the fruit wine of King's Landing.
---
Late at night, Daemon stood on the terrace of Storm's End, looking out at Shipbreaker Bay.
The sound of waves crashing against the cliffs was clear in the night. The Cannibal and Dreamfyre were curled up in the castle grounds, their breath forming white mist in the cold air, reflecting the lights of the fortress.
Boremund's words echoed in his ears. Jocelyn's expectation, Borros's warmth, the worry of Gael and Mysaria—it all flowed into his heart like warm currents.
He touched the brand on his shoulder. It wasn't hot anymore, but it left a strange warmth. Perhaps family wasn't just about blood. Those who were willing to accept you, wait for you, and open their arms to you—they could be family too.
The wind of Storm's End blew, salty but no longer biting. Daemon knew he might need more time, but he began to look forward to it. Just as he had called out "Sister," "Uncle," "Brother," "Grandfather," and "Grandmother" in this life, he looked forward to the day he could truly say "Mother" and "Uncle," and call Storm's End home.
In the distant hall, Borros's laughter still rang out, mixing with the waves—a warm nocturne, placing a gentle comma on this journey to Storm's End.