And… the cheers go to Oberon Sexton who faithfully reviews almost each chapter of almost all my Targaryen stories. Thank you, Oberon Sexton, and thank you, Soso-lack-imagination, for following me and reviewing this new story.
Blood of Dragons, Grass of Red
Daemon
The fat septon's droning had been lasting for so long that Daemon could hardly keep his eyes open. To achieve it, he deliberately looked from the statue of the Father to the oak carving of the Maiden inlaid with gold, from the Warrior to the Stranger and then back. Couldn't the man speed it up or simply shut up?
It seemed he couldn't. Daemon almost regretted that he had agreed to attend the naming of the lord's infant grandson but well, he could have not exactly not attended. King or not, he was a guest in Lord Costayne's castle. That was what one did.
Still, he could not remember ever having witnessed such a long ceremony, even at King's Landing. Even the High Septon had known to keep it short, although now Daemon did not doubt that had he been given a chance, he would have prolonged it as much as the fat fool here was doing now. Grudgingly, Daemon admitted to himself that Daeron had done something right – he had obviously taught the Faith to keep it bearable.
Through the anointing with the seven oils the little boy woke up and gave a mighty cry. Alas, that did not daunt the Septon's resolve to bore everyone to tears. Daemon looked at the wooden carving of the Warrior, the only god he truly revered. He would never admit it to anyone but there was a Dornish way he quite liked – some of Myriah Martell's companions said their prayers to the Warrior in front of a sword driven in a tree. Short and efficient. He silently prayed that he won, that he'd be able to fix the injustices that Daeron had done him.
Finally, it was over. One by one, the guests assembled in a column, waiting for their turn to grant gifts to the newborn. The King was first, of course. The small golden dragon with jewels for eyes and claws elicited a small cry of wonder by anyone that soon turned to alarm when Daemon suddenly dropped it mere moments before leaving it next to the boy. A simple mishap… or a sinister omen? Daemon heard the murmur rushing through the crowd and knew which explanation seemed more likely to them. If this was the fate of the gifts the King wanted to bestow upon someone… Angry and disappointed, Daemon tried to keep it in. If they were so sure that the dropping of an item was such an ill omen, what did it say for their true faith in their destiny? Daemon knew without the shadow of a doubt that he was meant to win. He thought they knew it, too.
Once the ceremony was over, everyone was only too happy to leave the closed sept cloyed with oils, perfumes, and sweat. Daemon needed a good sleep, so that in the morning he could start making his plans with a clear head. The flooded river would not keep Baelor at bay forever, this much was clear. Still, they had a week or more before the enemies came the other way.
The enemies… Daemon shook his head. How had it come that Baelor had become an enemy? He had been a childhood friend of Daemon's. They had gotten along pretty well, for most part. He respected Baelor and wished that there was another way for it to end. Alas, there wasn't. Still, he had been secretly relieved for the flooded river not only because it suited their purpose in having time for gathering more of their people but because it prolonged the day when he'd wield Blackfyre against those who had been his friends once – Baelor, Ser Carral, the Knight of Ninestars. For Maekar and Bloodraven, he had no qualms.
He was headed for his chambers, followed by an array of drunken lords who were being insistent on discussing their battle tactics – right now! Daemon scrambled for any excuse for sending them away politely and came with none. And then, he was no longer listening, for Lord Strickland strode through the courtyard toward them. To their host's anger and Daemon's secret envy, he had flat out refused to "lose his time with septons", so instead of attending the boring event Daemon had been forced to endure, he had ridden off to check how things with Baelor's army were going. He looked as if he knew it now – and disliked it profoundly.
"Battle tactics," he said grimly. "A good topic right now. We'll need them sooner than we expected, for we have no time to lose. The flooded river that everyone was so sure could not be crossed? Well, I guess we all forgot to tell Maekar it was impassable."
At that, a stunned silence followed. It was soon broken by exclamations that made Daemon shake his head in fury. Unlike the others, he did not doubt Lord Strickland… and he did not doubt Maekar either. As unpleasant as the younger man was, he was also quite capable and in Daemon's opinion, he had inherited the worst traits of both his parents. He had Myriah's way of seeing the impossible as 'maybe risky' and Daeron's sense of moral certainty. He was just the man who would enter the bloody river without knowing whether he'd ever go out because it was the right thing to do. Daemon tried to collect his thoughts.
"So, it is Maekar," he said. "He would just do it, right. But where is Baelor? Don't tell me that he drowned."
"I don't know," Lord Strickland said. "Personally, I doubt we're in so much luck."
Daemon grimaced and then reminded himself that the other man was right. Baelor's death would be to their greatest advantage. He could hardly blame his men for willing it. And really, did he believe that Baelor could survive after the Black Dragon won? He was too dangerous to be left alive. Daemon regretted it but this was the way of life. The way of victory. The way of kings.
"I got into the woods before they came into view." Lord Strickland said. "They did not see me and passed right by. It was Prince Maekar. I recognized him straight away."
"He is no prince," Bittersteel cut in sharply. Lord Strickland, however, was not intimidated.
"I saw his banner, saw his face. It was Maekar, Your Grace, I'd stake my life on it. But Baelor was nowhere to be seen. They did not look like grieving men, though, so I guess whatever happened to him, the wet death was not it."
Among the clamouring of the others, Daemon frowned. Baelor had gotten away before the battle? Why? A quarrel with Maekar? No way. Those two were constantly fighting but they did have each other's back when needed and now, it was needed more than ever. Besides, if such were the case, Baelor should have been the one to lead the army and Maekar the one to run away with his tail between his legs. It made no sense.
They had a plan of some sort and Daemon had no idea what it was. He'd think about it later. Now, he needed to think about his own plans, his own preparations… and he had to start them with rousing the drunken ones among his commanders. He sighed and gave orders for the servants in the kitchen to start working and cold water to be brought.