Judgment and morning light
The smell of burning still lingered on the broken walls of Seagard. Daemon stood inside the city gate, watching the dozen or so Ironborn prisoners brought in by Rayford Rosby —bound with thick hemp ropes, barefoot on the gravel, their ankles bleeding from the friction, yet they still held their necks high, cursing and swearing, their blue-gray eyes filled with disdain for the "Green Lands."
"Is this all there is?" Daemon kicked a prisoner's leg, and the prisoner suddenly looked up and spat, only to be slapped across the mouth by Rayford, causing blood to trickle from the corner of his mouth.
"Your Highness, there are still a few soldiers left at the Seagard garrison, badly wounded, and they haven't been brought over yet." Rayford gripped his sword hilt. "Those bastards are incredibly stubborn. We've been asking them all morning, and all they've said is ' Drowned God ' and ' Old Way,' they won't say anything useful."
Lymond Mallister stepped forward, his winged Earl clutched to his chest, his blue-grey eyes filled with frost. "Your Highness," he said, "This is the first time I've seen such a large-scale invasion of the Ironborn since I took over Seagard." He pointed to the scorched earth outside the city. "In the past, at most three or five longships would come to steal some food and run away. The last time it was this fierce was during my grandfather's generation; the Ironborn almost burned the inland areas of Eagle Cape."
Suddenly, a Ironborn burst into wild laughter. "You cowards! Our brothers will return with a thousand longships! The Drowned God will throw your bones to feed the fish!"
Lymond's face darkened. "Your Highness, in my opinion, we should drag them to the beach, chop them up one by one, and feed them to the seagulls. Let's see if they're still so stubborn then!"
Daemon remained silent, his gaze passing over the prisoners and landing at the end of the belated procession of attendants.
Mysaria was helping Alys Rivers straighten the hem of her skirt, which had been ruffled by the wind. Behind them, Larys Strong, wearing a black robe that was covered in dust, slowly walked up from behind his gray donkey, a faint smile on his face.
Noticing Daemon's gaze, his eyes lit up, and he quickly walked over, bowing slightly.
"Daemon Highness Damon," Larys's voice was low and sly, "You mean... how to get these iron tongues to talk back?"
Daemon raised an eyebrow but didn't speak. Larys immediately leaned close to his ear and whispered a few words very quickly.
Upon hearing this, Daemon's lips curled into a cold smile, "Lymond Earl, let my troops accompany you into the city to rest." He glanced at Larys, "These prisoners are yours."
Larys smiled, his eyes narrowing into slits. "Yes, Your Highness."
The stone streets of Seagard were darkened by the blood. Daemon had all the wounded gathered in the castle square—there were knights in armor, farmers carrying hoes, and several boys with broken arms and legs.
The scholar led the women in boiling herbs and bandaging wounds, while Mysaria held a clay pot and fed water to the wounded. Alys Rivers stood to the side, occasionally running her fingertips over the wounds with medicine, and the hideous scars visibly began to shrink.
"Hurry up!" Daemon said to Lymond Earl. "Have your men repair the city gate first, then go and fix the slowdown. The breach must be plugged before dark."
Lymond immediately agreed, turned around and summoned his soldiers to move stones and nail planks, and soon the square was filled with the clanging and banging of hammering.
Daemon leaned against a pillar, watching Gael wipe away the tears of a little girl who had lost her father, and watching Mysaria help the women dry herbs. Suddenly, he felt that the acrid smell of Seagard had gained a bit of vitality.
The evening banquet was held in the House Mallister hall, with an indigo flag with a silver eagle hanging on the wall.
Larys Strong, now dressed in a clean grey robe with delicate embroidery on the cuffs, walked in with a beaming smile, toying with an Ironborn Wolf's Tooth necklace in his hand.
"Your Highness, Lymond Earl," he bowed, "They've pried open those iron tongues."
Everyone put down their chopsticks. Larys slowly sat down, poured himself a glass of wine, and said, "King Alton Greyjoy of the Iron Islands is gravely ill and on his deathbed. He's set a test for his three sons—each must lead a fleet out to plunder, and whoever plunders the most will be the heir." He picked up a piece of roasted venison. "These men we've encountered are from his second son, Uragon Greyjoy."
Lymond Earl slammed his fist on the table. "So they really are of the House Greyjoy! Using abduction to determine their heir is one thing, but daring to openly defy Westeros? They're insane!"
Daemon didn't speak, but simply stroked the hilt of the Blackfyre. The Iron Islands ' "Old Way" were indeed ingrained in their very bones; even succession required a fight. No wonder they hadn't changed their plundering nature even after a thousand years.
At Dawn the next day, the coastline of Seagard was filled with people. The tide had receded, revealing a large expanse of wet sand, where a dozen or so Ironborn prisoners knelt on the sand, with the surging gray-blue seawater behind them.
Lymond Earl invited Daemon, "Your Highness, it's time to send them to meet the Drowned God."
Daemon drew his Blackfyre, its blade gleaming coldly in the morning light.
"In the name of the Targaryen dragons and His Majesty Jaehaerys, the ' the Conciliator,' I swear that you shall pay for your crimes in blood! Those who have plundered my Iron Throne Iron Throne territory, those who have harmed my innocent people, shall have their necks severed by the Blackfyre and their bones burned by Dragonfire —this oath is witnessed by all the Old and New Gods, and by all the gods of Old Valyria!"
He walked up behind the first prisoner, who was still roaring, "I am the chosen one of the Drowned God." The sword flashed, and his head rolled into the receding waves.
One after another, blood stained the beach, mingling with the seawater, creating a bizarre scene.
When only one prisoner remained, Daemon stopped.
Daemon Targaryen walked over, leaning on his cane, his silver hair whipping wildly in the sea breeze.
The girl he had been holding last night was now standing at the back of the crowd, her eyes swollen and red like walnuts—her father and brothers had been hacked to death by Ironborn, and her mother had been pierced through the throat by an iron hook while protecting her.
"Borrow your Blackfyre. The Dark Sister are too lenient; treating these scum is too easy on them." Daemon Targaryen's voice was hoarse, yet carried an undeniable firmness.
Daemon handed him the Blackfyre. The Rogue Prince took the sword, his limping movements causing him to stagger on the beach, yet he still managed to decapitate the last head with remarkable precision.
Blood dripped from the sword in the morning light. He handed the sword back without a word, simply turning and walking into the city, his back straighter than usual.
As the group set off, Daemon glanced back at Gael and Mysaria.
Gael was carrying Mysaria as they climbed onto the back of Dreamfyre. The pale blue dragon roared, and the girl's silver hair was blown by the wind, falling into Mysaria's hair.
"Are you... all right?" Daemon couldn't help but ask.
Gael turned around, her pale purple eyes shining like jewels in the morning light. "They can't really be called human, it doesn't matter if we kill them." She paused, then reached out to straighten Mysaria's cloak, her voice as soft as the sea breeze, "More than them, I'm worried about whether you were injured last night."
Mysaria nodded and whispered, "The maester said your arm was scratched by the Ironborn's blood. Did you change the dressing?"
Daemon paused, the black three-headed dragon brand on his right shoulder seeming to heat up slightly again.
Looking at the two girls on Dreamfyre's back, and at the concern in Gael's eyes, he suddenly felt that the bloody smell of Seagard seemed to have been diluted by the morning light.
"Let's go." Daemon climbed onto the Glutton's back, and the Black Dragon let out a low growl and spread its wings.
Caraxes and Dreamfyre followed closely behind. The shadow of the three-headed dragon swept past the silver eagle banner of the Seagard, across the blood-stained beach, and flew towards the upper reaches of the Blue Fork.
In the distance, the majestic Eagle Cape stretches out in the morning light, like a silver eagle spreading its wings, guarding this coast that has just been baptized by blood and fire.
Daemon watched Gael's retreating figure, the girl's words still echoing in his ears.