Perilous Offering
Twenty First Day of the Twelfth Month 293 AC
"The Old Gods take sacrifices of sorcery just as easily as blood," you answer plainly, though you do not add that one cannot simply enchant a sword and shatter it before a Heart Tree for a blessing. A detailed account of the Brazen Throne and its forges will not aid you here, only the knowledge of how the two before you might keep their child safe. "I would offer such sacrifices as a gift if you wish..."
Ser Andrew opens his mouth to speak, though whatever he was about to say shall remain a mystery because Jeyne is swifter. "The offering can be made in Skyreach, can it not? It would reassure father to see it with his own eyes."
"Sorcerer's Deep has no small number of Heart Trees, but if you would prefer it done here in Dorne than I confess I am curious to see the tree of Skyreach," Dany says. You catch the briefest look in Ser Andrew's direction. It is not a particularly sympathetic expression. Doubtlessly she too is contemplating the prospect of the knight facing the father of the woman he left heavy with child then publicly accused of assassination.
"I do not think I would be welcome in Skyreach," the knight says stiffly. Turning back to you he adds. "I would be indebted to you, Your Grace, if you or one in your service could recount what transpires there."
Lady Fowler sighs, looking much older than her seven and ten years. "We are both going to Sorcerer's Deep when this is over.
I will tell you what happens."
The knight's expression softens slightly as he nods his head in thanks before taking his leave of you and Prince Doran and departing. "I will ensure the truth of the day's happenings will be known in the city."
"A bold man that, or a foolish one, to think he can bridle rumor," Waymar says softly in his wake.
"My agents will try to spread the truth as much as they can also, though of course those not inclined to trust me are unlikely to be swayed," the Prince of Dorne says.
***
Lord Franklyn Fowler embraces his daughter upon her return, hardly seeming to notice anyone else present until he had assured himself that she was well. He had known about the child, that you knew already, but you are glad to see he seems to genuinely care more for his daughter's well being than saving face even in the face of so many others discovering it. This
is Dorne, where the stigma of bastardy is lighter, but that does not mean there is none for doing as Daena the Defiant did and bearing a child with no father.
"Others and their wights," the lord shakes his head as though to clear away unwelcome thoughts. "Such things were easier to deal with when the demons and monsters were safely on the other side of the Narrow Sea, meaning no offense Your Grace."
"None taken my lord, ensuring that you and all others high and low have less to do with such horrors is one of my fondest hopes, but for now we must look to the gods for protection and be watchful ourselves for the works of the Enemy," you reply, clasping the Dornishman's proffered arm in greeting. "Now let us see about paying the gods their due."
A look into a scrying mirror, a swift spell of translocation sees you elsewhere, almost as far as one can get from the warm shores of Sunspear and still be counted in Dorne. Among these peaks the Houses of the First Men like the Daynes and Fowlers had resisted first the Andals and then even Nymeria of Rhoynar for a time. Here still grew over the ages weirwoods reaching out their branches to the sky even when the faith in the Old Gods faded, not that those who dreamed the Greendream cared for such devotions. As far as those distant slumbering spirits were concerned while the Heart Tree of Skyreach endured House Fowler kept to their oaths. Little wonder then they that had answered the call of blood and ritual.
"What wore those?" Jeyne asks, looking at the ten sets of rust red plate you laid out besides the tree.
"Giants," Ser Richard replies shortly. Something about his tone convinces Lord Fowler not to press, in spite of the curiosity in his eye. He must have been practicing on Saan.
Dark Sister wakes blearily as she is being drawn.
"What am I, a blacksmith's hammer?" she asks in jest.
"You should join the melee, it's been a while since I have been part of one. You could even kill some of those troublesome lords under another guise."
"I would prefer to talk to them before resorting to assassination," you reply as the blade cuts lesser steel and petty enchantments by one.
"You are as bad as Alysanne," the spirit of the sword grumbles.
Rust red sinks into the pale roots like blood. Though there is no wind the tree shakes and the eyes upon the carved face snap open.
"More," you hear Bloodraven's voice filled with terrible urgently.
"Their hand is around the babe's heart. The tree itself could wither if the sacrifice goes ill."
Lost 8 sets of Plate Armor +1
What else do you offer to complete the sacrifice?
[] Write in (Must have a CL of at least 15)
OOC: Of all the places you could have gotten a near crit-fail this is not the worst.
