March of Empire
Thirtieth Day of the Fourth Month 294 AC
The small leather bound book thumped on the table, unheard by either Lord Selmy or his daughter. Her voice was as cold as her anger at Blackhaven had been hot. This keep would damn well be fit under Imperial Law one way or another. "My lord, unless you are able to truthfully try the young man for a crime recognized by Imperial Jurisprudence, I suggest you release him at once. Unlawful imprisonment is on the books."
Lord Arstan looked between the slim book, a summary only of the law code but a good one signed off on by the Lord Justice himself, and the grim-faced dragonrider looking him right in the eye. He rather abruptly found his inside voice, as Valaena's mother would call it whenever her daughter was too loud at the table. "He seduced my daughter with the intent to usurp my legacy."
"I shall spare you the search," Valaena said dryly. "Seduction is not a crime recognized by the law, and intent to usurp while a serious accusation must be proved to a higher standard than..."
He had already turned to Amrelath. "Come now, you see why I imprisoned the scoundrel? He deflowered my daughter, made a fool of me and a mockery of her, taking advantage of her tender years." The dragon did not react, at least until the incensed lord walked towards him.
With an almost idle seeming motion of his gloved hand and a single whispered word the wyrm
ripped the air from the room around him, leaving Lord Selmy gasping and reeling back and Mertha looking on in wide-eyed shock. Enunciating carefully, as though to a particularly slow toddler, the dragon explained. "I do not care one whit who or what your daughter lays with. I do not care who inherits this particular pile of stones and the patch of dirt it sits upon. You will kneel,
properly, or you will burn."
Arstan Selmy was on his knees before the dragon had even finished, never mind that the words had been meant metaphorically.
"There is no need for that," Valaena sighed, throwing the Ash-Risen a dirty look.
Honestly, he could have just waited in the air if he was not going to help.
***
At Podfield not far from Harvest Hall as the crow, or the Moonchaser, flew another Marcher lord was considering his options, and he had rather more of them than the captain of the good ship Duskrunner knew for Lord Robin Peasebury was deeper in with the Lannisters than anyone knew, deep in their pockets that is. He had taken on heavy debt with little to show for it, his support bought and paid for, but he was not quite Tywin Lannister's creature it his entirety. No geas bound him, no enchantment chained him, and so as he considered a reply from the diminutive air elemental he had freed from its bottle at the sight of the skyship he eventually deduced the same as many debtors had across the ages. Better to keep the gold and let the debt go...
The moment the resolve passed his mind searing pain lanced across his forehead as though an unseen knife
carved into his flesh, and with it an overwhelming self-destructive rage.
Lord Bryce Caron, who had been trying to reason with him for the past twenty minutes, jumped to his feet at the sight of the spell. He only just managed to get out of the way in time to avoid being wrestled to the ground and strangled by his enraged neighbor.
Thankfully the captain was a suspicious sort, and the wings of Three-Eyed Ravens sharp. The sole erinyes aboard the ship made quick work of binding the bespelled lord who was quickly taken into the infirmary and from thence to Sorcerer's Deep by means of a translocation token. By the end of the night Robin Peasebury was all too glad to describe his experiences to a scribe for the Imperial Times and to describe himself as a Dragon's Man, prevented from taking his place at his lord's side only by foul Lannister magic.
What next?
[] Write in
OOC: That should be the last of the Marchers.
