Early mornings at Storm's End always carry the scent of salty waves and the lingering anger of storms. When Daemon was awoken by the howling wind outside the stone arched window, the daylight was still struggling to pierce through the heavy clouds.
The friendly sparring match after last night's banquet had left Borros Baratheon unable to lift his arms even now. At this moment, the burly heir to the Stormlands was grimacing as he tried to tie his cloak one-handed. The black crowned stag embroidered on the silk lining looked more like a cramping gray rabbit in the dim morning light.
"Gods be good, did you dip that Valyrian steel sword in acid? Is Blackfyre supposed to be that heavy?" Borros complained through gritted teeth when he saw Daemon. "What did you grow up eating, kid? I remember you're only turning fourteen this year, right?" He then quickened his pace to walk silently beside Daemon.
But then, the brute skillfully draped his good arm around Daemon's shoulder and lamented, "You're stronger than me and my old man. I can barely lift a fork with that hand right now, let alone a battle-axe. Are you really the 'Warrior Incarnate' like the rumors say, Little Daemon?"
Daemon was bent over, fastening the dragon-scale pattern buckle of his belt. Hearing this, he raised an eyebrow and glanced sideways at Borros's bruised forearm. "Maybe you should have let your maester apply some poultice instead of downing three barrels of ale right after." He glanced out the window. "But looking at today's situation, I don't think you'll need to swing an axe anyway."
The inner courtyard of Storm's End was like a roused beast. Over twenty Stormland lords had gathered. Lord Swann of Stonehelm stood beside Lord Estermont of Greenstone, his expression still as arrogant and cold as it had been back at his castle.
Jasper Wylde of Rain House stood beside his father, meticulously organizing leather scrolls of law and instructing a man who seemed to be his scribe to record today's judgment scene, forming a stark contrast to the cowering nobles around them.
Brienne Tarth stood by her brother Bryndemere. For once, the two weren't guarding Daemon and Gael but were attending in place of their father, Lord Tarth. Brienne's six-foot frame made the ladies of House Caron beside her look like a flock of startled nightingales. The slender sword at her waist, so disproportionate to her size, kept "playfully" trying to slide out of its sheath, drawing frequent gasps from the ladies present—probably the only lighthearted sight in the plaza.
The execution platform in the center of the Storm's End plaza was built from a single block of black stone, said to be a relic from the age of the Storm Kings before the Seven Kingdoms.
At this moment, the seven criminals who had stubbornly resisted and been brought to Storm's End were kneeling at the edge of the platform. The rough hemp ropes around their necks snapped in the sea breeze.
Among them were a minor lord from a cadet branch of House Swann, a bastard from Mistwood, two soldiers in Estermont uniforms, and most conspicuously, the survivor of the Lysene slavers who had tried to traffic Johanna. He was slumped like mud, a puddle forming on the stone slab from the water seeping out of his trousers.
"He should be made to smell himself." Mysaria's voice carried a deliberately suppressed anger, making no attempt to hide her disgust for her countryman. Beside her, Johanna was gripping her linen skirt tightly, knuckles white.
The "Black Swan" had changed into a blue wool dress gifted to Gael by House Tarth earlier. Today, she seemed to be mimicking the old Mysaria, habitually hiding behind Gael. Only the fire burning in her black eyes betrayed her true emotions.
But when Duke Boremund Baratheon appeared under the archway of the Storm's End keep, the whispers in the crowd froze instantly.
The Lord Paramount of the Stormlands wasn't wearing his usual attire today. Instead, he wore the antlered half-helm left by his father, Lord Rogar Baratheon, and was clad in dark gray iron armor. The stag sigil on his chest was forged from black iron, giving off a bloody aura in the gloomy light.
However, the battle-axe in his right hand was particularly eye-catching—a double-bladed axe. The blades were as wide as door panels, the haft wrapped in black leather, and a sapphire embedded at the top glittered in the gale. It was clearly an heirloom weapon of great age.
"That axe is older than our oldest retainer," Borros whispered in Daemon's ear. "My grandfather, the Protector of the Realm Lord Rogar, apparently never liked swords even as a boy. He loved using this double-bladed axe in battle. He split countless enemies with it. My father still tells me there's Dornish blood from the Red Mountains stained on the blade."
Daemon noticed a dark red hue on the edge of the blade, like rust that could never be washed away.
Maesters from the Citadel and septons from the Faith began reading the crimes in booming voices. The legal articles written in the Common Tongue shattered into scattered syllables in the wind.
But when they read "trading people with the Triarchy," Boremund's fingers began to stroke the haft of his axe gently. This subtle movement caused the lords in the front row to hold their breath collectively.
Daemon suddenly remembered a rumor about House Baratheon from his past life: the stormy fury in their blood didn't just show on their faces, but in the sharpness of their weapons on the battlefield.
The first to be brought onto the platform was the Estermont soldier. When Boremund raised the axe, the soldier suddenly screamed for mercy, struggling to crawl down the stone steps, but was pinned firmly by two Baratheon knights.
The moment the axe fell, Daemon heard a gasp from the noble ladies behind him, immediately drowned out by the louder sound of bone splitting. Blood splattered on the black stone platform, instantly whipped into fine red droplets by the gale, some even landing on the cloaks of the nobles in the front row.
"Truly a sacrifice to the storm," Alys Rivers said, appearing beside Daemon unnoticed. She wore a deep green cloak today, the hood shading half her face. "Compared to the parchment scrolls of the Citadel, this is the most direct writing of history."
Daemon ignored her quip, his gaze falling on Johanna beside Gael. The girl was staring intently at the platform, nails digging deep into her palms, but this time, there wasn't a single tear.
When the execution was halfway through to the third criminal—the "Storm" bastard from Mistwood—she suddenly turned her head toward Daemon and whispered, "Thank you, my Prince." But her voice was so light it was instantly carried away by the wind.
When the seventh turn came to the distant cousin of House Swann, Boremund suddenly lowered his axe. In the silence, his voice rolled across the plaza like thunder. "You're the one called Elwood Swann?"
The limp man could only nod messily, drool running from the corner of his mouth.
"Do you know why House Swann of Stonehelm has stood in the Stormlands and the Marches for thousands of years?" Boremund's voice was terrifyingly steady. "Because your ancestors never relied on selling their subjects and kin for Lysene silver coins, but on the swords in their hands to guard every subject and every inch of reef on Cape Wrath!"
He suddenly kicked out, knocking Elwood, who was trying to hug his boot, to the ground. "You are not worthy of the name Swann, and you are simply unworthy to die under Stormbringer!"
As the axe rose again, Daemon saw Lord Swann squeeze his eyes shut, his knuckles turning white as he gripped his family sigil.
When the last spray of blood hit Boremund's bracer, the Duke didn't wipe the speck of blood from his face. Instead, carrying the dripping axe, he walked to the center of the platform.
The wind picked up suddenly, revealing the seven-pointed star embroidered in silver thread on the back of the cloak the septon draped over him—symbolizing the Faith of the Seven in Westeros. The Seven protected believers, but they offered no forgiveness to the depraved who sold fellow believers.
On the other side, a maester handed him a copy of the Laws of the Seven Kingdoms established by the Iron Throne. Slavery was forbidden in Westeros.
"Lords of the Stormlands!" His voice pierced the wind. "What you see today is not a massacre, but a judgment!"
Daemon noticed Jasper Wylde immediately opening a scroll to record, while Lord Estermont's hand was unconsciously rubbing the hilt of his sword.
"These scumbags traded the flesh and blood of our kin for the slavers' gold," Boremund's axe pointed east. "They thought the fog of Shipbreaker Bay could hide their crimes, thought the fleets of the Three Whores could protect them! But they forgot that the laws of the Iron Throne and the Stormlands are written on the execution block of Storm's End, carved on the battle-axes of House Baratheon!"
He suddenly turned toward Daemon. Though he didn't name him directly, all eyes focused there. "Recently, some said the true dragon stepped into the Stormlands to unleash dragonfire wantonly. But you all saw it. What this young Targaryen dragon burned with his fire was not castles, but shackles; what he cut with his sword was not alliances, but sin!"
Gael quietly held Daemon's wrist, the warmth of her palm seeping through his leather glove. Daemon saw tears welling up in Johanna's eyes again, but this time, it wasn't from sadness.
"From this day forth," Boremund's voice turned severe, and he slammed the axe onto the black stone, sending sparks flying. "Anyone who trades subjects with the Triarchy will be treated as colluding with Dorne!"
The sentence exploded like thunder. Lord Swann jerked his head up, and Lord Estermont's face went white as paper. In the Stormlands, with their ancient feud against Dorne, "colluding with Dorne" meant lands stripped and families exiled—a punishment worse than death.
"Do you think I've grown old? But let me tell you, I am only in my forties, in the prime of my life, still able to swing this axe and personally execute traitors!" The forty-six-year-old Duke Boremund scanned the crowd, his gaze sharp as a falcon.
"Or maybe you think the walls of Storm's End can no longer hold back the waves of the Narrow Sea? But Storm's End has stood in the storm for thousands of years. How could a mere breeze from across the Narrow Sea shake us? Warriors of the Stormlands!" Duke Boremund raised his axe to the sky. "I tell you, as long as one Baratheon and one of you stands on Storm's End, the Stormlands will not tolerate the dirty money of slavers! Whoever dares touch this bottom line—"
In the moment the Duke paused, a dragon roar suddenly came from the distance.
Daemon waved his hand lightly. Blackfyre was unsheathed and held high. The storm swirled, billowing his red cloak like a god descending, like the Conqueror reborn.
Clouds rolled in the sky. The Cannibal had circled over Storm's End unnoticed, his massive shadow casting half the plaza into darkness.
"—then either face the double-bladed axe handed down from my father," Boremund paused, looking at the Cannibal in the sky and the spirited Daemon before the crowd, his voice intertwining with the dragon's roar, "or face the fiery judgment of the true dragon of House Targaryen!"
As the last word fell, the clouds split open. A beam of sunlight pierced the gloom like a sword, illuminating the bloodstains on the platform and the stag sigil on Boremund's chest.
Daemon naturally understood the true intent of this execution—it wasn't just to punish criminals, but Boremund's declaration to all the lords: The alliance between the Stormlands and the Targaryens was stronger than the stones of Storm's End. The laws of the Iron Throne would not be trampled upon.
After the ceremony, the lords receded like the tide. Everyone bowed respectfully as they passed Daemon, even the most arrogant Lord Swann.
Johanna walked up to Boremund and curtsied deeply. "My Lord, thank you for letting justice shine into the fog of Shipbreaker Bay."
The old Duke showed a rare gentle expression, helping her up with his unbloodied left hand. "Child, justice in the Stormlands is never absent. You should thank our Little Prince Daemon more. Of course... I think I can see what you're thinking. Keep at it, child. Our daughters of the Stormlands are second to none."
Before Johanna could blush in reaction, he laughed and turned to Daemon, the sapphire on his axe glittering in the sun. "Now, time to taste the fine ale of the Stormlands again."
In the banquet hall of Storm's End, the hearth fire danced. Borros was pestering Daemon to demonstrate the moves from yesterday's sparring but was stopped by a sharp glare from his father.
As ale was poured into silver cups, Boremund suddenly tapped his goblet. "There's something I haven't mentioned. Jocelyn wrote from King's Landing yesterday. She was very direct this time—" He glanced at Daemon. "She said she hopes you can call her 'Mother' when you return."
Daemon's fingers tightened slightly around his cup. The gale outside had stopped at some point. Moonlight spilled through the arched windows onto the stone floor like a river of silver.
"I will," he heard himself say, his voice calmer than he expected. "When I return to King's Landing."
A warmth flashed in Boremund's eyes as he raised his cup. "To the True Dragon and the Stag!"
"To Justice and the Storm!" everyone responded in unison, the clink of silver cups echoing in the hall.
As Daemon drank the ale, he tasted an almost imperceptible sweetness.
He looked out the window. The Cannibal was perched atop the highest tower of Storm's End, his scales gleaming with a ghostly blue sheen in the moonlight. Alys Rivers' words suddenly rang in his ears: "After the storm, new traces are always left behind."
He knew that the blood and oaths at Storm's End today would eventually become a mark that rewrote history in the fires of the future.