Valor of the Damned
Thirteenth Day of the Twelfth Month 293 AC
The ritual, the priests, all of them matter little if you can capture Aegon, lesser mages and lesser in the mind of the mother of Dragons than the boy who would be king. You spin an unraveling seeking to strip them of wards and blessings, but to your surprise you feel magic slipping between your fingers, siphoned off by some inescapable pull. Aegon's expression shifts into a cold smile.
An enchantment like that upon your ring...
Lya's attempt to conjure tendrils of shadow to engulf the whole temple is met with the same guard, this time from Ashara, to judge from the way the tip of her sword sweeps out of perfect form for an instant as she charges with a cry of, "For the
true King!" Bolt upon bolt of twisting arcane acid arcs out from Teana's hands and Soallae's twisting barbed tail, but upon her cloak shine jewels of every color like stars in the night sky, and she seems to
flicker from existence just as the drakes had one, only it seems a reflex that in no way blunts her charge towards Lya... or at least it would have been towards Lya, if Ser Richard did not step into her path.
Dragon steel rings against dragon steel, the voice of blood and battle, though its voice is lost as as you fill the air with a
roar to strike fear into foes and embolden allies. Even so, neither of the two is able able to over come the other's guard. The Dornish woman seems more surpised than worried despite the trickle of blood flowing from her ear and down the side of her face from the force of the spell. Ser Richard gives away nothing but a small grunt of effort and motions to Sandor to help.
A knight might have hesitated in striking a noblewoman, particularly one who had once been so celebrated as Ashara Dayne. Sandor Clegane is no knight, however, taking advantage of her distraction with sword in one hand and a handful of dust in the other to cast into her eyes.
"Ashara!" Aegon calls out in denial, reaching out to the power in his blood to the dark godless whose presence is so near. Motioning with Blackfyre itself, its tip pointed squarely at Ser Richard, he seeks to
draw the knight's soul into the blade, but Dany was ready for him, slipping her own words amid the spell until it shatters stillborn.
You could do with more time, and so as you had done so many times before, you
grip the roiling currents of time expecting the world to slow around you.
Pain stabs behind your eyes as though someone had driven a ghostly dagger though your skull. There is is no blood, no lasting harm, but you cannot quite remember the spell. It is only then that you see the shard of dragonglass floating in Old Griff's hand, beautiful and deadly,
magic without spellcraft, only will and skill built layer upon careful layer. Then Jon Connington, your brother's dearest friend whose indulgent absentminded smiles you dimly recall from childhood, attacks. "I won't let you take his throne, Rhaegar's throne, you bastard! I won't let you have him!"
While his words may be feverish and barely coherent, there is nothing wrong with the man's swordsmanship. Your cloak flares around you, seeking to snatch the sword from his grip with each blow, but he holds it fast, the steel drawing hot blood across the side of your head.
So it would bleed into your eyes, some small analytical part of you notes.
You take 44 Damage
The Seeker moves with dreadful insect-like grace, a fused blade carving between the plates of Connington's armor under his left arm. The man barely seems to notice or care, save for how it throws one of his own swings off balance so intent upon killing you.
What do you do next?
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OOC: And here we are at last, a serious fight against opponents just as well equipped and almost as high level on their home ground. Not yet edited.