bloodrite

xvi.

The lady-wives of the various nobles bore Leanna quickly. She finds that her ruse from the very beginning has long since run its course. They are less inclined to include her in the conversation, and are particularly aware of her suddenly elevated position. Leanna does not mind. She cannot find the slightest bit of patience to actually tolerate their small talk. The past year entrenched in the meetings that were usually left to men had turned her into an awful critic. Then again, Boremund had raised her on battle plans and siege patterns. However, when she excuses herself from the gossiping group, she is not alone.

The Lady Aemma follows her, the blonde woman appearing just as grateful to escape the noble ladies as Leanna is.

"I'm glad you left before I. I was trying to find the right time," the woman sighs, smoothing her skirts. "So dull that my head has begun to ache."

"Mine as well," Leanna winces. "I don't know how you can maintain such composure in Court year-round. I would find some excuse to flee."

"I have been trying, but my husband is not quick to leave his home. He will not even take me to Dragonstone."

Leanna studies her subtly. Originally an Arryn, but her mother had been a Targaryen. White-blonde, like Daemon and Viserys. Her eyes were a paler shade than Daemon's, though. A sweet shade of lavender with crinkles at the corners that were accentuated as Aemma smiles tensely.

Leanna has not had the chance to speak with her often since her marriage. Perhaps that was something she should regret.

"You should tell him you want your child to see it. He dotes over her enough that I think he might fold to that. How old is she now?"

"Nearly two."

"Does the worrying ever stop?"

"I thought it would. But I find myself afraid of everything she does. Every step that she falls back down, every time Viserys takes her to the Dragonpit. But," Aemma adds, catching Leanna's unease, "you must not let it hinder you. There will be fear, but you must overcome it."

Beyond them, the horns of the returning hunt flood through the array of tents and cook fires. Leanna steps outside the tent, Aemma following her. She grins at Daemon as he approaches on the sleek black horse, but her expression quickly fades.

Baelon stumbles heavily as he dismounts his horse before them. He groans, holding his side. Leanna moves forward, extending a steadying hand.

"Are you alright, my Prince?" His forehead is prickled with sweat. Baelon waves her off lightly, though. Quickly concealing his discomfort.

"Fine, fine. Just a bad mug of ale, I'm sure. It will pass."

It does not pass. Not that night, around the tents. And not the next, as the ailing prince is transported back to King's Landing. Not on the fifth night, when Daemon is pacing outside Baelon's room in the Tower of the Hand. She stands beside the window in the hall, looking into the Great Yard far below, partially ignoring his pacing.

"That's not going to help him," Aemma sighs, pushing up from the bench. Viserys is currently inside, but the maester is keeping the rest of them out. The work is too intense. Or rather, Daemon is too intense. "You know it."

"What do you want me to do instead?" Daemon snaps. Leanna's head turns quickly. She grumbles a warning in his direction, but Aemma doesn't seem bothered by his tone.

"Go rest. Both of you. You have done nothing but stand vigil over him."

"I will not leave," Daemon answers, his voice hoarse. Leanna meets Aemma's gaze. There is unease and understanding there. She knows it's too much to ask of them. She will not leave either. There is another hour of uncomfortable silence before anything happens.

All three turn as the doors to Baelon's chambers open. Grand Maester Allar's face is grim. Too dark. Leanna feels the breath freeze in her throat.

"The Prince is dead."

Daemon curses. He lunges past Allar, to the bed within. Viserys is already standing vigil. Aemma looks down, clearing her throat. Leanna goes to her side, taking her hand. She, too, curses. Quietly, under her breath.

"What now?" Aemma whispers.

"I don't know," Leanna answers, equally as soft.

For, as she looks at Daemon, she knows what this could mean.

There is no heir.

There will be a war.

Quietly, she slides her hand from Aemma's and turns. The woman calls after her, but Leanna does not stop moving. She retreats to her chambers, to where Aerys is sleeping under the watchful eye of his nurses.

She has not had this conversation with Daemon before, but she certainly had it with Boremund. Leanna had been a young girl when Daemon's uncle Aemon, heir to the throne, had died. She remembered the unease in the Baratheon House as Jaehaerys favored Baelon over Aemon's daughter, Rhaenys.

Once, in their youth, Leanna had promised her cousin her unending support. Had sworn that she would support her in whatever she did. Boremund had supported her, and Leanna would follow in his footsteps. At least, she would have.

Now, there is more to consider. By marriage, Leanna should support Viserys. He is her brother-in-law, and without a male heir she should be considering how Aerys might benefit from this. Yet there is a worm of doubt in her mind. Unease.

She writes the letter swiftly. Knowing it could mean war, and knowing that she would not falter even under Daemon's scrutiny. Even if Rhaenys did not become the heir, she deserved to know.

Daemon enters the room as she is preparing to visit the raven roost. He pauses in the doorway, eyes narrowing. "What are you doing?"

Leanna turns to him only after the letter is curled into a scroll and tucked into the pocket of her overcoat. She knows what it looks like. It looks like she is preparing to leave.

"If I tell you, you're not going to like it." Daemon bars the door as she approaches. There are shadows beneath his eyes, a harrowed look about him. The past few days have been hard. They knew this was coming, and yet none of them had dared to believe it true.

"Don't," he warns. His voice is low, deep. Rasping with his lack of sleep.

"I have to," she answers. "Rhaenys supported me when I needed it. I will not overlook her now because of your brother. It's her right."

"She's a woman. She will not be the heir."

"I am a woman, and yet here I am. Head of House Baratheon. Is it so different?" She presses, daring him to upset her now.

"Leanna," he breathes. "Clear your head first. Do not cause a quarrel because the hour is late and the days have been long."

"My head is perfectly clear, Daemon. As the Head of House Baratheon, and Lady Paramount of the Stormlands, I am enacting my support of my blood cousin Rhaenys as heir of the Iron Throne. Perhaps tomorrow I may talk to you as your wife, but right now I must handle this."

"You're going to cause a war," he hisses, "if you send that raven."

"We'll see," she answers, pushing past him.