When the blood of the dragon meets the soul of the dragon, the continent begins to burn.
The Baratheons are steadfast, strong, and formidable. Leanna Baratheon is no different. She is the storm, and no one, Targaryen or other, will bring her down.
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Daemon rubs his face as he enters the quiet room. Their stop at Fawnton had been an easy few days. House Cafferen had received them warmly, and the nights had been marked with feasts and celebration of the new Cafferen heir and Leanna's recent marriage.
Their arrival in Harvest Hall, however, was much darker. Darriston Selmy was a seasoned warrior. Wise, and almost too-aware of the the power struggle occurring in the Stormlands. He was not a fan of Daemon, and Leanna's tenseness told him just how aware of that she was. There was no feast to mark their arrival. No fanfare to welcome the former Baratheon.
Darriston would be hard to win over. He would take no bribes, accept no offers. His loyalty was more barbaric. He respected warriors, battle-hardened and bloody. He would not treat with a tourney knight and his wife.
Leanna is pacing in the room when he enters. One hand is pressed to her hip, the other curved against her chin as she walks. Deep in thought, dark eyebrows drawn.
"Show him the blade."
"What?" She snaps without looking at him. Daemon eases himself into a chair beside the fireplace.
"I have just spent a good amount of coin treating his soldiers to ale. They know their lord, even more than you think you do. There is an opportunity to be taken here, and you must seize it."
"I cannot just appear before him hoisting a blade. Not as a woman, certainly."
"Don't look to me," Daemon shrugs. "He has already told me he finds no interest in crossing blades with a mere tourney knight. He finds stock in the ones who can wield a blade but do not flaunt it in such pompous manners. Challenge him to cross blades with you. If you win, he must take you as an equal."
"And when word reaches King's Landing that weak, feeble Leanna Baratheon challenged a lord to a sword duel? What then, when my image is undermined?"
Leanna has stopped pacing. Daemon stands, moving towards her. Her chin lifts, as if in warning. He ignores it, moving through her defenses and looking deep into her eyes.
"The only undermining done to your name has been done by you," Daemon answers. "Perhaps it served in your favor for a time, but if you wish to rise as Lady of Storm's End you must become ferocious. You must be ready to fight, and weakness does not win battles."
"Are you confident in my skills? You have not yet seen me in combat."
"Boremund would not allow any pupil of his to be a bad swordsman. And bad in Baratheon standards is tenfold the skill of anyone in King's Landing. You will do just fine."
"Very well," Leanna nods slightly. Daemon is the one to retrieve her sword from her trunk. Even in its leather scabbard, the blade is formidable. A very relic of legends gone by. Before he passes it to her, his pale eyes study the engraved leather.
The dark brown material is worn smooth by hundreds of years of hands passing over it. Not enough to hide the images, but enough to remind him of the age of the metal beneath. It was very well possible the leather had been remade after the blade, else he cannot fully believe the scabbard was older than the Targaryen Dynasty itself. The scabbard depicts a man bent beneath the rage of a storm, hand lifted to retrieve a lightning bolt from the very air. A Storm King. Perhaps a previous owner of the blade, in some ancient age gone by.
