Stormbringer, judgment by battle-axe

The mornings at Storm's End are always filled with the salty smell of the sea and the fury of the Storm. When Daemon is awakened by the howling wind outside the stone arched windows, the light is struggling to penetrate the thick clouds.

The friendly duel following last night's banquet left Borros Baratheon unable to lift his arm. At this moment, the burly heir to the Stormlands was grimacing as he tied his cloak with one hand, the black Crowned Stag embroidered on the silk lining looking like a convulsing gray rabbit in the morning light.

"Gods above, was your Valyrian steel sword quenched with acid? Is the Blackfyre really that heavy?" Borros complained, baring his teeth as he saw Daemon. "What did you eat to grow up like this? I remember you're only fourteen even if you're over this year, right?" Then he quickened his pace and silently walked to Daemon's side.

But then, with his other intact arm, he expertly put his arm around Daemon's shoulder and remarked, "You're stronger than me and my dad. I can barely lift a fork with that hand, let alone a battle axe. Little Daemon, are you really a 'warrior descended to earth' like the rumors say?"

Daemon, bent over fastening his dragon-scale-patterned belt, raised an eyebrow and glanced sideways at the other man's bruised forearm. "Perhaps you should have had your maester apply some herbal medicine instead of downing three barrels of ale afterwards." He glanced out the window. "But it seems it's not your turn to swing the axe today."

The inner courtyard of Storm's End was like a colossal beast awakened. More than twenty lords of Stormlands had gathered here, with Lord Swann of Stonehelm standing beside Earl Estermont of Greenstone, his expression as arrogant and aloof as it had been in Stonehelm that day.

Jasper Will of Rain House stood beside his father, meticulously organizing the leather code scrolls, while a man who appeared to be a servant beside him recorded the scene of today's trial, a stark contrast to the trembling nobles around them;

Brienne of Tarth stood beside her brother, Budimir. It was unusual for the two not to be by Daemon and Gael's side, but to be attending in place of their father, Earl Tarth. Brienne's six-foot-tall figure made the ladies of the Caron family look like a flock of startled nightingales. The rapier at her waist, so disproportionate to her size, kept "playfully" trying to slip from its scabbard, eliciting frequent gasps from the ladies present—but this was probably the only scene in the square that could be described as relaxed.

The execution platform in the center of the square in Storm's End is made of a single piece of black stone and is said to be a relic from the time of the Storm King during the Seven Kingdoms period.

At this moment, the seven criminals who had resisted and were escorted to Storm's End were kneeling on the edge of the execution platform in the square, the thick hemp ropes around their necks snapping loudly in the sea breeze.

Among them were a minor lord from a distant branch of Stonehelm, a bastard from Mistwood, and two soldiers dressed in Estermont's uniform. But the most conspicuous of them all was the survivor of the Lys traffickers who had tried to sell Johanna. He was now limp as a rag doll, and the water seeping from his trousers had formed small puddles on the stone slabs.

"He should smell it himself." Mysaria's voice was filled with deliberately suppressed anger, making no attempt to hide her disgust for her fellow countrywoman. Johanna, standing beside her, was also clutching the hem of her linen skirt tightly, her knuckles turning white.

This "Black Swan" changed into the blue wool dress that the Tarth family had given to Gael this morning, but today she seemed to have learned from Little Mei's old habit of hiding behind Gael. Only the flames burning in her black eyes betrayed her true emotions.

But when Duke Boremund Baratheon appeared at the archway of Storm's End, the whispers in the room froze instantly.

The Lord of Stormlands was not dressed in his usual attire today. Instead, he wore a half-helmet of stag antlers left to him by his father, Duke Roga Baratheon, and was clad in dark gray iron armor. The stag emblem on his chest was made of black iron and gleamed with a bloody stench in the gloomy light.

However, the battle axe he held in his right hand was particularly eye-catching—a double-bladed battle axe with two blades as wide as door panels, a handle wrapped in black leather, and a sapphire inlaid at the top that glittered in the gale; it was clearly a legendary weapon with a long history.

"That axe is bigger than our oldest squire," Borros whispered to Daemon. "My grandfather, the Warden of the Realm, Duke Roga, according to our old squire, never liked wielding a sword as a child. He preferred this double-edged axe to the battlefield, and used it to cleave countless enemies in two. My father still tells me that the blade is still stained with the blood of the Dornish from the Red Mountains."

Daemon noticed that the edge of the axe blade was indeed tinged with a dark red, like a rust stain that could never be washed away.

The scholars of the Citadel and the monks of the Church began to read the indictment in loud voices, the verses of the law written in Common Tongue breaking into scattered syllables in the wind.

But when he read the phrase "trading people with the Kingdom of the Three Daughters," Boremund's fingers began to gently rub the handle of his axe, a subtle gesture that caused the lords standing in the first row to collectively hold their breath.

Daemon suddenly recalled a legend he had heard in his previous life about House Baratheon: the House Baratheon' Storm, a storm and fire from their bloodline, was not only expressed on their faces, but also in the sharpness of the weapons they wielded on the battlefield.

The first to step onto the platform was a soldier from House Estermont. As Boremund raised his battle axe, the soldier suddenly screamed and begged for mercy, struggling to climb down the stone steps, but was held down firmly by two House Baratheon knights beside him.

The moment the battle axe fell, Daemon heard a noblewoman's cry of alarm behind him, which was then drowned out by the louder sound of the axe blade cleaving through bone. Blood splattered on the black stone platform, immediately whipped into tiny droplets by the gale, some even landing on the cloaks of the nobles in the front row.

"What a sacrifice for the Storm," Alys Rivers, appearing beside Daemon at some point. Today she wore a dark green cloak, the shadow of the hood obscuring half her face. "Compared to the Citadel's parchment scrolls, this is the most direct and vivid record of history."

Daemon ignored her teasing and focused his light on Johanna, who was standing next to Gael. The girl was staring intently at the platform, her nails digging deeply into her palms, but this time not a single tear fell.

When the executions were halfway through, and the third criminal—the bastard son of "Storm" from Mistwood— was being executed, she suddenly turned to Daemon's direction and softly said, "Thank you, my lord." But her voice was so soft that it was immediately carried away by the wind.

When it was the seventh person to speak, a distant relative of the Swann family, Boremund suddenly lowered his battle axe. In the ensuing silence, his voice boomed like thunder across the square. "So, your name is Ewood Swann?"

The limp man could only nod erratically, drool dripping from the corner of his mouth.

"Do you know why your Stonehelm Swann has been able to establish itself in the Stormlands and Dornish Marches for thousands of years?" Boremund's voice was terrifyingly calm. "Because your ancestors never sold their people and clansmen for the silver coins of the Lys, but rather protected every person and every inch of reef in Cape Wrath with their own longswords!"

He abruptly kicked Ewood, who was trying to grab his boots, to the ground. "You don't deserve the name Swann, and you certainly don't deserve to die under the Stormbringer!"

As the battle axe rose again, Daemon saw Lord Swann suddenly close his eyes, his knuckles digging deep marks into the family crest.

When the last drop of blood splattered onto Boremund's bracers, the Duke did not wipe the blood from his face. Instead, he picked up his blood-dripping battle axe and walked toward the center of the platform.

A sudden gust of wind arose, and the cloak draped over him by the church monks revealed Seven-Pointed Star embroidered in silver thread on the back—the very seven- Seven-Pointed Star symbolizing the faith of the Seven of Westeros. The Seven protect their believers, but they alone do not forgive those who sell their faith in the Seven.

Meanwhile, the maester on the other side handed him a Laws of the Seven Kingdoms established by the Iron Throne, which forbade the existence of slavery in Westeros.

"Lords of the Stormlands!" His voice pierced the wind, "What you are witnessing today is not slaughter, but judgment!"

Daemon noticed that Jasper Will immediately opened the scroll to record, while Earl Estermont's hand was unconsciously stroking the hilt of his sword.

"These scoundrels exchanged the flesh and blood of their own people for the gold coins of slave traders," Boremund pointed his battle axe eastward, "They thought the mists of Shipbreaker Bay could conceal their crimes, and that the fleet of the Kingdoms of the Three Daughters could protect them!"

But they forgot that the Iron Throne and the laws of our Stormlands are written on the execution platform of Storm's End, and engraved on the battleaxe of House Baratheon!

He suddenly turned towards Daemon, and though he didn't name him directly, all eyes were drawn to him. "Recently, some have said that true dragons tread the Stormlands to wield their Dragonfire. But you have all seen it; this young Targaryen dragon burned not castles with his Dragonfire, but shackles; he severed not alliances with his sword, but evil!"

Gael quietly grasped Daemon's wrist, the warmth of her palm seeping through the leather glove. Daemon saw Johanna's eyes well up with tears once again, a rare sight, but this time it wasn't tears of sadness.

"From this day forward," Boremund's voice suddenly turned stern, his battle axe slamming heavily onto the black stone, sparks flying, "Anyone who trades with the Kingdom of the Three Daughters is tantamount to a traitor to Dorne!"

These words struck like a thunderbolt. Lord Swann looked up abruptly, while Earl Estermont's face turned ashen. In Stormlands, their sworn enemy of Dorne, the words "treason against Dorne" could mean the loss of their fiefdom and exile of their family—a punishment worse than death.

"Do you think I'm old? But let me tell you, I'm only in my forties, still in my prime, and I can still wield my battle axe and personally execute those who defy me!" The forty-six-year-old Duke Boremund surveyed the entire room, his gaze as sharp as a hawk's.

"Perhaps you still believe that the walls of Storm's End are no longer able to withstand the storms of the Narrow Sea? But Storm's End has stood firm against the Storm for millennia. How could a mere breeze from the other side of the Narrow Sea possibly shake us? Warriors of the Stormlands!" Duke Boremund raised his battle axe, pointing it straight to the sky. "Let me tell you, as long as one of us from House Baratheon and one of you stands atop Storm's End, the Stormlands will not tolerate the dirty money of slave traders! Whoever dares to cross this line—"

Just as the Duke paused, a dragon's roar suddenly echoed from afar.

Daemon waved his hand lightly, drawing his Blackfyre and raising it high above his head. Storm swept through, causing his crimson cloak to billow, making him appear like a god descending to earth, the Conqueror reborn.

The clouds rolled in the sky, Glutton had somehow circled above Storm's End, its huge shadow shrouding half of the plaza in darkness.

"Then either face the double-edged battleaxe passed down from my father," after a moment of contemplation, looking at the Glutton in the air and the triumphant Daemon before the crowd, Boremund's voice intertwined with the dragon's roar, "Or face the fiery judgment of the Targaryen Lineage dragons!"

Just as the last word fell, the clouds parted, and sunlight pierced through the gloom like a sword, illuminating the bloodstains on the platform and the stag badge on Boremund's chest.

Daemon naturally understood the true purpose of this execution—it was not merely to punish the criminal, but also for Boremund to declare to all the lords that the alliance between Stormlands and the Targaryen was stronger than the rocks of Storm's End, and that the Laws of the Seven Kingdoms on the Iron Throne would not be allowed to be trampled upon by later generations.

After the ceremony, the princes dispersed like a tide, each bowing respectfully as they passed Daemon, even the most arrogant Lord Swann.

Johanna approached Boremund and curtsied deeply. "My lord, thank you for bringing justice into the fog of Shipbreaker Bay."

The Duke, unusually gentle, helped her up with his unblemished left hand. "Child, justice in Stormlands is never absent. You should thank our Little Daemon. Of course, I can probably read your mind. Keep going, child. Our daughters of Stormlands are no less than anyone else."

Before Johanna could even react and blush, he laughed and turned to Daemon, the sapphire on his battle axe gleaming in the sunlight. "Now, it's time to taste the fine wines of our Stormlands once more."

In the banquet hall of Storm's End, the fireplace flickered. Borros was pestering Daemon to demonstrate the moves from yesterday's duel, but his father stopped him with a sharp look.

As the ale was poured into the silver goblet, Boremund suddenly tapped it. "There's something I haven't said yet," he said. "Jocelyn wrote from King's Landing's Landing yesterday, and she was very direct this time—" He glanced at Daemon, "She said she hopes you'll call her 'Mother' when you go back."

Daemon's fingers tightened slightly around his wine glass. The fierce wind outside had stopped sometime earlier, and moonlight streamed through the arched window onto the stone floor like a silver river.

"I will," he heard himself say, his voice calmer than he expected, "When we return to King's Landing."

A hint of warmth flashed in Boremund's eyes as he raised his glass. "To the dragon and the stag!"

"For justice and for the Storm!" the crowd responded in unison, the clinking of silver glasses echoing through the hall.

When Daemon drank the ale, he tasted a subtle, almost imperceptible sweetness.

He looked out the window; the Glutton perched atop the highest tower of Storm's End, their scales gleaming a deep blue in the moonlight. Alys Rivers ' words suddenly echoed in his ears, "After the Storm, new traces always remain."

He knew that the bloodstains and oaths of Storm's End today would become a mark that rewrites history in the flames of war to come.