bloodrite

x.

"My father," she gasps. "Borros—"

"Borros is in irons. Lay down, you lost a good deal of blood." He eases her back. Leanna's face is pale as she looks at him.

"What happened?"

"Borros shot you and Boremund from a hidden passage. It's a good thing Darriston was there, or else he would have been able to slip away and no one would know who fired the crossbow."

"Darriston saw him?"

"Everyone saw him. Borros has sealed his fate as a kinslayer. His trial will be in King's Landing, before my father."

"You have already communicated?"

"Maester Owen encouraged me to act swiftly to seal your claim."

"Smart man."

"My father supports your claim wholly."

Leanna squeezes her eyes shut. Her mouth twists. "He's gone, isn't he?" Daemon looks down, confirming it. "I knew it would come. It was all we had been preparing for. But—"

"You are not obligated to move forward quickly. You are allowed to mourn him. Boremund was a respected man, and a good father to you. They will be feeling his loss throughout the Stormlands this day."

"I cannot mourn any longer than I already have. Already, Borros will have people moving in the shadows for him." Daemon lifts his hand as she tries to sit up again, but she stops him with a single look. Instead, he moves to help her up.

Leanna moves towards the bureau, parting the wooden doors and tugging at a dress within.

"Would you like me to call your maids?" He had not stayed in the room as the septa changed her bloody dress into the night shift, but now there was no septa, no maids. All were sleeping at this hour.

"Will you help me?" She mutters. Reluctant to look at him. Her cheeks going red as Daemon takes a step.

"I don't wish to make you uncomfortable."

"You are my husband, are you not?"

"This is not the way you would have chosen for me to see you."

"No, but things have transpired this way. The ties of a corset are not so different from those of armor, you'll find."

Daemon has no chance to respond before she is shrugging out of the night dress. It drops to the floor around her ankles, leaving her utterly bare before him. He does his best to keep his jaw from slackening. Trying, so hard, not to react. He takes the dress from her, dropping his eyes.

"Daemon," she murmurs as he drops to one knee, allowing her to step into it. He looks up at her, and almost immediately wishes he hadn't. "You are allowed to look," she teases, but her smile is watery.

He stands, bringing the dress with him. Oh, look he does. As he settles it around her hips, his hand brushes the skin of her lower back. She is more muscle than he would initially think, her back and shoulders rolling with power. The ability to wield a sword did not come from nothing. She had built these muscles, had obviously trained long and hard to be able to lift Stormswaith with such poise and grace.

Gently, he eases her injured arm into the sleeve. She gasps as it jostles the wound, beginning to sway slightly. He settles the neckline over the bandage, using his other hand to steady her against him.

She is right, in a sense. The ties are not so hard to figure out, though much finer than those of armor. His handiwork is likely shoddy, for he doesn't dare to cinch the weavings tight for fear of hurting her more. That matters not as she pulls on an overcoat over herself, blocking out the chill of the night.