bloodrite

vi.

The pommel is etched in gold, with a large teardrop bloodruby embedded into the crosspiece. Elegant, but not overly ornate. He finally relinquishes it, eyes still bright.

She moves for the seat of Darriston in the morning. Her chin is held high as she passes the inhabitants of the hall, unfaltering even as the whispers fly about her fishbone armor and the longsword at her hip.

"Lord Darriston," she summons as she enters the feast hall. The arched room echoes her words, making the gathered marcher lords pause in their conversation.

"I am involved in counsel," he answers dismissively without looking up from the drawing table.

"Counsel that can be set aside for the moment."

"The business is press—" He pauses as his eyes rest on her. On her attire, and the way her hand sits casually on the pommel of the longsword. His eyes narrow slightly. "What is the meaning of this?"

"You are loyal to my father, Darriston Selmy. You stood at his side at Cape Wrath, ready to defend these lands. Your line is of storm and wrath. We are not too different, I believe. I may not have tasted war in my time, but I will not be put aside as a cowardly pretender any longer. I will have you see me as an equal, and if the only way for that to happen is by blade, then I am prepared to meet that challenge."

Darriston raises a hand, stopping his guards from stepping towards her. His face has gone dark. Not in anger, Daemon notes. Rather, in unease.

"Are you challenging me to cross swords, Lady Leanna?"

"I am."

"That is a dangerous course of action for you, my Lady."

"Do not speak to me in a condescending manner, Darriston. I have earned my blade with the same blood and broken bones as the rest of you. I understand the consequences you fear, but I can promise you sanction from any repercussions should I fall to your blade. I only ask that, if I emerge victorious, you will no longer look upon me as a foolish girl. I am here to seek your support, and you have done nothing but turn your cheek to me. If this is the way to get my recognition, I will see it through."

"You approve of this?" Darriston turns to Daemon, a sneer starting to rise to his lips. Daemon does not have to respond. Leanna's response is cold and vicious.

"The last I checked Baratheon is the blood of the Stormlands, Lord Selmy. This is not a discussion to involve my husband in."

Darriston lifts his hands defensively. "Very well. I will think of you no less if you do not win." He accepts the sword a servant brings to him from the table. "Be as it may," he adds while Leanna has turned and started for the sparring grounds, "I will go easy on you."

Despite her cold confidence, Daemon feels a trickle of unease shiver down his spine. What if this all went wrong? What if she died right here in Harvest Hall, and Daemon took the blame for allowing her to go through with this? It would mean war on the Stormlands. War that the crown could not afford.

Leanna says nothing as she unclips the scabbard and bares her sword in the training yard. The gathering crowd is completely silent as Darriston positions himself across from her. His stance is loose, relaxed. He expects this to be easy.

"The first to three touches wins," Leanna finally says into the solemn air. "Is that agreed?"

"Aye," Darriston dips his head. He gestures at the swordsmaster of the yard. "Olmy, you call them."

Looking back on the morning, Daemon realizes his fear had him paralyzed. Unable to move and unable to step in and put an end to this. It had been his idea. Her death was incredibly possible, facing down an a seasoned warrior who had fought along the narrow sea.

Except he had nothing to worry about.

Leanna attacks first, her sword spinning in an arc so fast that the blade turns into a blur. Darriston does not expect the sharp advance. His sword comes up too late.

"Point for the Lady Leanna," Olmy calls. Leanna retreats, revealing the nick in Darriston's sleeve. He has gone pale and rigid, frozen with surprise. Quicker is he to react with the next attack, though. He parries her blow. Catching it in a resounding clang that has the crowd sucking in a breath.

Leanna is not just a wielder of a sword. She is a master of the blade. A dancer of the art, whirling and twisting and jabbing and swinging.

Darriston makes no hits to her before she taps him a second time. So effective that she raps the flat of her blade against his shins. Harsh enough to bruise, as the older man winces.

"Point," Olmy calls.

Daemon's hands are clenched into a fist. They do not uncurl as Leanna's hold switches and she moves the blade to her right hand. Single-handed, she points the blade at her opponent. They circle each other. Cat and mouse. Master and the fumbling lord.

"This is Stormswaith, my Lord," Leanna speaks. "Perhaps you have heard of it. Perhaps not. It belonged to Durran Godsgrief and was passed into my hands from the line of Orlys Baratheon. This sword belongs to the Lord Guardian of the Stormlands."

She drives. Fast, like a viper. Powerful, as if she has been holding back. Even under her armor, Daemon can see muscles coiling along her back, down her arms. There are years upon years of grueling, relentless training dancing before them. Effort that Daemon understands, and respects. She is the raging storm, coming for Darriston Selmy.

She is unstoppable.

She is a tempest.

Darriston drops to one knee before her, his sword flung away and the point of Stormswaith directed at his throat. He stares up at the woman before him, mouth agape slightly.

"Now," Leanna bites, "I think we will finally see eye to eye."

She draws back, sheathing Iron Solace and offering Darriston a hand. He accepts it after a moment. On his feet, he cannot pull his eyes from her.

"My Lady, what is it you would ask of me?"

"There will come a time when your loyalty to my claim will be questioned. You will be asked to swear yourself to the rightful ruler of the Stormlands. When that time comes, I expect you to make the right choice."

"My Lady," Darriston dips his head.

Leanna, her eyes burning and chest still heaving from exertion, turns from the crowd. Sword in hand, she moves for the hall. Daemon follows her, the crowd parting silently before them like water.

They will not overstay their welcome here.