The smell of burnt flesh still wafted over the broken walls of Seagard. Daemon stood inside the gate, watching the dozen Ironborn captives escorted by Rayford Rosby—bound with rough hemp ropes, barefoot on gravel, ankles rubbed raw and bloody, yet still craning their necks, cursing, blue-grey eyes full of contempt for the "Green Lands."
"Only these left?" Daemon kicked a captive's leg. The man jerked his head up to spit, only to be slapped by Rayford until blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.
"Replying to the Prince, there are a few more with the Seagard garrison, heavily wounded, not brought over." Rayford pressed his sword hilt. "These bastards are tough-mouthed. Questioned all morning, apart from 'Drowned God' and 'Old Way,' they said nothing useful."
Lord Jason Mallister walked up, winged helm in his arms, frost condensing in his blue-grey eyes. "Prince, since I took over Seagard, this is the first time I've seen such a large-scale Ironborn invasion." He pointed to the scorched earth outside the city. "Usually it's three or five longships sneaking around, grabbing some grain and running. The last time it was this fierce was in my grandfather's time; Ironborn nearly burned to the interior of the Cape of Eagles."
A bearded Ironborn suddenly laughed wildly: "You soft eggs! Our brothers will return with a thousand longships! The Drowned God will throw your bones to feed the fish!"
Jason's face darkened. "Prince, in my view, drag them to the seaside, chop them one by one to feed seagulls, see if they're still tough-mouthed!"
Daemon didn't speak, gaze passing over the captives to the end of the belated squire procession.
Mysaria was helping Alys Rivers arrange her wind-blown skirt hem. Behind them, Larys Strong, wearing a slightly dusty black robe, walked leisurely from behind his grey donkey, wearing his usual faint smile.
Sensing Daemon's gaze, his eyes lit up, walking over quickly and bowing slightly.
"Prince Daemon." Larys's voice was very low, carrying a hint of cunning. "Do you wish to ask... how to make these iron tongues loose?"
Daemon raised an eyebrow, silent. Larys immediately leaned close to his ear, whispering a few sentences very quickly.
Listening, the corner of Daemon's mouth curled into a cold smile. "Lord Mallister, let my retinue enter the city to rest with you." He glanced at Larys. "These captives are yours."
Larys smiled until his eyes became slits. "As you command, Prince."
The stone streets of Seagard were darkened by bloodwash. Daemon had all the wounded gathered in the castle square—knights in armor, farmers carrying hoes, and several boys with missing limbs.
The Maester led women to boil herbs and wrap bandages. Mysaria held a pottery jar, feeding water to the wounded. Alys Rivers stood aside, fingertips occasionally brushing wounds with medicine; hideous scars closed up visibly.
"Please be quick!" Daemon told Lord Jason. "Have your men repair the gate first, then patch the walls. Fill the breach before dark at least."
Jason agreed immediately, turning to summon soldiers to move stones and nail planks. Clanging sounds soon rang out in the square.
Daemon leaned against a pillar, watching Gael wipe tears for a little girl who lost her father, watching Mysaria help women dry herbs, suddenly feeling a bit more life in the burnt smell of Seagard.
The evening banquet was set in the Mallister great hall, indigo banner with silver eagle hanging on the wall.
Larys Strong had changed into a clean grey robe at some point, cuffs embroidered with tiny patterns, walking in smiling, playing with an Ironborn wolf-tooth necklace.
"Prince, Lord Mallister." He bowed. "Pried open those iron tongues."
Everyone stopped eating. Larys sat down slowly, pouring himself a cup of wine. "King Alton Greyjoy of the Iron Islands is critically ill. He set a test for his three sons—each lead a fleet to raid; whoever grabs the most is the heir." He picked up a piece of roast venison. "The ones we met belong to his second son, Urrigon Greyjoy."
Lord Jason slammed the table heavily. "Truly Greyjoy spawn! Using raiding to determine heirs is one thing, but daring to blatantly invade Westeros, they must be mad!"
Daemon didn't speak, just rubbing the hilt of Blackfyre. The "Old Way" of the Iron Islands was indeed carved in their bones; even succession relied on snatching. No wonder they couldn't change their raiding nature for a thousand years.
At dawn the next day, the coastline of Seagard was filled with people. The tide receded, exposing a large stretch of wet beach. Dozens of Ironborn captives knelt on the sand, backed by the surging grey-blue sea.
Lord Jason invited Daemon: "Prince, time to send them to meet the Drowned God."
Daemon drew Blackfyre, the blade gleaming coldly in the morning light.
"In the name of the true dragon of Targaryen and King Jaehaerys the Conciliator, you are sentenced to pay blood with blood! Those who plunder the lands of the Iron Throne and harm innocent subjects of the Iron Throne shall have their necks severed by Blackfyre and bones burned by dragonfire—this oath is witnessed by the New Gods, Old Gods, and the gods of Old Valyria!"
He walked behind the first captive, who was still screaming "I am the chosen of the Drowned God." Sword light fell, and the head rolled into the receding waves.
One by one, blood dyed the beach red, mixing with seawater into an eerie painting.
When only the last captive remained, Daemon stopped.
Daemon Targaryen limped over with his cane, silver-white hair dancing wildly in the sea breeze.
The girl he held last night stood behind the crowd now, eyes swollen red like walnuts—her father and brother were hacked to death by Ironborn, mother's throat pierced by a hook protecting her.
"Borrow your Blackfyre. Dark Sister is too light; treating these scum with it is too cheap for them." Daemon Targaryen's voice was hoarse but carried unquestionable firmness.
Daemon handed him Blackfyre. The Rogue Prince took the sword. His limping movement swayed on the beach, but he chopped off the last head with abnormal steadiness.
The blade dripped blood in the morning light. He handed the sword back without speaking, just turning to walk into the city, his back straighter than usual.
When the retinue departed, Daemon looked back at Gael and Mysaria.
Gael was leading Mysaria onto Dreamfyre's back. The pale blue giant dragon lowed. The girl's silver hair was blown by the wind, landing in Mysaria's hair.
"Are you... okay?" Daemon couldn't help asking.
Gael turned back, pale violet eyes shining like gems in the morning light. "They can't be called human; killing them doesn't matter." She paused, reaching out to tidy Mysaria's cloak, voice light as sea breeze. "Compared to them, I'm more worried if you were hurt last night."
Mysaria also nodded, whispering: "The Maester said your arm was scratched by an Ironborn stray arrow. Did you change the dressing?"
Daemon froze. The black three-headed dragon brand on his right shoulder seemed to grow slightly hot again.
Watching the two girls on Dreamfyre's back, seeing the concern in Gael's eyes, he suddenly felt the bloody smell of Seagard seemed diluted much by the morning light.
"Let's go." Daemon vaulted onto The Cannibal's back. The black dragon let out a low moan, spreading wings.
Caraxes and Dreamfyre followed. The shadows of three dragons swept over Seagard's silver eagle banner, over the blood-stained beach, flying upstream along the Blue Fork.
The distant Cape of Eagles stretched in the morning light like a spreading silver eagle, guarding this coast just baptized by blood and fire.
Daemon watched Gael's back, the girl's words still echoing in his ears.
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