Words on the Wind
Twenty-Sixth Day of the Fifth Month 293 AC
Had she lost someone to the inferno? you wonder, the sting of guilt nor far behind the thought.
Perhaps if you had waited longer... You push the thought away, instead turning your attention to the mage's posture and what little you can glimpse of her face in the fel radiance. She is clearly horrified by the macabre spectacle before her, but without the numb horror you would expect of one who has lost kith or kin. Perhaps she will hear your account then, particularly if she does not know its source.
Thus you wish upon the air and sky, a grand decree not just to her but all the people of King's Landing. The truth you speak if not the whole of it: "Treachery had grown among those tasked to protect this city. In the very shadows of the Seven, darkness grew, yet those gods did nothing." By the scores and hundreds some stop even in their panicked flight looking all about in awe and terror.
Not so Lanna, as you are ever more certain it is she. Her hands move swiftly in gestures of arcane import, the echo of magic clear to your ears: a spell to
know the truth of things, to see though any glamour, though thankfully you and your companions are still too far by half to be revealed.
Another wish, another verse of warning do you offer: "But we saw the Guild cavort with the Pit, and now they and they alone have paid the price, so that the innocent will not."
"Who speaks..." Lanna, for you are almost certain it is her, begins to call in a voice booming even over the roar of the flames, through a
spell you have oft used yourself.
The knight beside her places a gauntleted hand on her shoulder, the gesture almost intimate for its familiarity. Gerion then, more likely than not, for all you can see nothing of the Laughing Lion's face behind the gilded helm, heavy with gold and enchantment in equal measure.
"Who would make this pyre and call it justice?" she continues, though not in Common or any of the tongues of men, but in the tongue of dragons known to angel and fiend both. "Who would weigh guilt by the cut of a man's robes or the instruments of his craft?"
The words cut deeper than you might like, for they recall too closely your father's doings. He too was fond of making pyres in the name of justice. Though resolved to your course you are not blind to its evils. Something of that dull pain awakened anew must have rippled across the link for you feel Dany's fingers twine with yours:
"Sometimes the best option is not good or just, yet still it must be taken lest through inaction we make things worse."
She is right, you know, though bittier is that knowledge. Your father saw plots and curses and in his folly he made them both true,a bane on kith and kin, where you must contend with all too real monsters and ageless, sleepless evils. Yet can you give that answer to a Lannister of Lannisport, a good-sister to the Butcher of Casterly Rock?
What do you do?
[] Answer
-[] Write in
[] Try to arrange a later meeting
-[] Write in
[] Leave, you've done your part and said what needed to be said
[] Write in
OOC: I know this is a little short but given the nature of the vote there's no way to continue without a decision at this point.