bloodrite

xxxv.

Daemon watches his wife pace. Around in circles she goes in the receiving hall of Storm's End. Passing him every few minutes as he leans against the stone stairs of the dais.

"You're not going to change things by wearing a hole in the floor," he chides lightly. She's frowning when she pauses before him. Her pale eyes glittering with unease.

"Aerion is still not returned. None of his forces are. Does that not worry you?"

"Ser Orwell is with him. Orlys knew he would need guidance."

"I have half a mind to ride into the Stormlands myself and find them," she answers, turning back to the room. Daemon stands, reaching for her. He takes her face, pushing the dark hair that is escaping her braid back and tucking it behind her ears.

There is faint grey sneaking into the darkness of her locks. Lines like Rhaenys's that had never been there before. And yet Daemon knows she will not be slowing down anytime soon. If anything, she is more terrifying now than ever before.

"You must have faith in your sons, Leanna. You did not raise fools."

"They're your sons too." There's a bite to her words. Daemon knows why, but she does not hesitate to elaborate. "They are quick to act and slow to consider consequences. What were they thinking?"

He presses a kiss to her forehead, then releases her back to the room. "Would it comfort your heart if I rode out on Caraxes and summoned him home?"

"It would," she hesitates. "But it might make matters look worse, if the Greens are to hear word. Your arrival on Caraxes would be seen as a threat. A summons to our forces and Aerion."

"I am subtle."

"You might be, but Caraxes is now a very large dragon. He cannot go unseen."

"What are your plans, then?" Leanna's gaze travels to a spot in the windows far above their heads. An imperfection in the glass from when this castle had been sung from stone and sea. Sighing, she gestures for him to follow her.

"I will have faith. At least, for another fortnight. If he does not return by then, I will send you and Caraxes out."

They need not wait a fortnight.

Everything happens all at once. In a flurry of commotion that sets the castle ablaze in lights and action and fear.

Aerion, and his small gathering of troops for their subtle parade North, had been ambushed. It was supposed to be a quiet attack, in the dead of night. Obviously, someone had been misinformed. They had not expected Aerion Targaryen to be in the battalion. Nor did they expect the dragon Silverwing to be stationed so close.

While the surprise attack was effective, and vicious, Aerion had retaliated tenfold. The sellswords had died in dragon fire, screaming. Leaving Aerion and two other men alive. Wounded, but alive. It was a mistake.

A very fatal mistake, Daemon decides as he stares down at the body of the sellsword. The right side of his body is covered in burns, but the parchment tucked into his breast pocket was intact. So too was the pouch of coin, and the metal Hightower seal.

These were not sellswords, no matter how they looked. They were Hightower men.

And now they were dead.

Daemon looks up at Aerion. At the deep and angry red line traveling from his cheek to his throat. It would leave a brutal scar, and yet Aerion does not acknowledge it. He meets Daemon's dark gaze with fire.

"Tell me what to do." His voice is soft with rage. His hand still on the pommel of his sword. Ready to do whatever Daemon commands, no matter how difficult.

Ser Orwel is dead. The knight that had taught each of his children how to be weapons themselves. Extensions of the blade.

He fears Rhaella will take this news and fly to war herself.

Both men turn as the door to the drawing room opens. Leanna Baratheon is wearing armor. Not her light leather breastplate, but the heavy fishbone metal workings and chainmail. She bears Stormswaith at her hip, and carries a pack.

"Your father will raise our forces," she answers Aerion's plea. He turns to her fully. Waiting. "Orlys will accompany him. You and I are going to battle with the queen."

Aerion opens his mouth. Staring at Leanna with unease. Not quite knowing what she means.

"Otto Hightower will swear he knew nothing of this. That it was his brother's retaliation for Aemond's attack. If he was smart, Alicent was kept in the dark. We must appeal to our king, Aerion. You are his nephew. You cannot allow him to pass over the attack on your life as if it was nothing. Come."

Daemon follows them to the courtyard. He claps Aerion's shoulder before they pass through the gates, turning his son to him.

"Keep her safe. And yourself."

"Yes, Father," Aerion nods. Solemnly, though he now looks angry with the great wound down his face. Daemon steps back, allowing them to move for the large silver dragon beyond the gates.

He is not a man to grow nervous easily. Yet, watching Leanna's stiff posture, he begins to fear. He knows she is sensible, but there is a part of her that isn't. There is a storm of anger in the Baratheons, he has learned. It could quite easily escalate this conflict into war if she approached the capitol wrong.

He will ride Caraxes into the Stormlands after them. Raising her marcherlords as he goes. Rallying them to show that they would not take an attack like this laying down.

"Be careful," he calls after the two figures. Leanna glances back at him over her shoulder. Fierce. A fighting fire in her gaze. She will fight fire with fire, and there is absolutely nothing he can do to warn her from that. He takes her in as she pauses under the shadow of the gate. Her long braid swaying down her back. The armor oiled and ready to protect her. Stormswaith at her hip a heavy reminder of how she won her respect and how she would continue to win it.

This land respected blood and sweat. Wits could win battles, but it was blood and sweat that win wars. It was fire and brute strength. Strategy and execution. Intimidation and whispers would only go so far, and Leanna was a master of both.

Silverwing rises rapidly into the air, her wings flapping with a fervor in a reflection of her rider. He can almost swear he sees the dark hair streaming from behind Aerion, the Lady of Storm's End flying into what might just be her death. It was war, now. There was no way around it.

Things were about to change, with or without Viserys's death.