From Gut to Heart
Thirtieth Day of the Fourth Month 294 AC
Lord Clement Piper was not, by temperament or inclination, ambitious or adventurous. Though he had been among the rebel lords of years past, that had been only when rebellion had been the order of the day, the crimes of the King Aerys and Prince Rhaegar clear for all men of good faith to see. So upon receiving a letter from Riverrun that practically dripped with resignation at the fate of the realm, that it should fall to the dragons again, he had not hurried to move one way or another.
The realm might yet resist a foreign prince who held to foreign gods, or the Lannister pull some clever weapon from their deep caves and deeper pockets. He simply did not trust the changing tides enough to travel to the east and lay his banner at the feet of King Viserys...
Imperator Viserys in the foreign tongue of the lands he now called home. He certainly did not have a mind to send his son alone to Sorcerer's Deep, no matter how much he begged. For one thing he had a suspicion, a rather informed suspicion, that Marq was at least as interested in the famed pillow Houses of Sorcerer's Deep as he was in preserving the fortunes of House Piper.
When he heard yesterday that the Freys had enthusiastically set out to support the Dragon, it had filled him with equal parts doubts for the boy's good sense and foreboding. Who knew what the Old Weasel had asked for as his price. Whatever it was, it was bound to be too steep by far and not only to the king. Much as he did not want to consider such a horrid arrangement, Clement had eyes in his head and he could count the knights of House Frey.
All hail Walder Frey, Lord Paramount of the Riverlands. It was enough to make a man queasy. Well alright, maybe it was the pike in gelatin he had for dinner. The maester was right about his stomach not being any younger than the rest of him. A splash of Arbor red should fix that right up.
Alas, his stomach would not be getting any rest tonight. As he was getting ready to retire for the evening, the horns called from the battlements, an all too familiar call, host on the horizon. Then again, twice more in a pattern less familiar. Unknown host.
The Dragon's men were moving. So much for time to consider his options.
His guess proved right and wrong all at once. Though in the eye of Myrish glass, lord Piper could pick out the banners of House Smallwood and a few more of his northern neighbors, the bulk of the host was made up of men in black plate and crimson cloaks under strange numbered banners of crimson and black. "There is no way they would be here already..."
It was only when his son answered that Clement realized he had spoken aloud. "Magic can do many things, supposedly."
"Set things on fire, heal the sick yes, but..." The lord struggled to find words as he shook his head, as though to banish the sight before his eyes. "Why the fuck are they even riding horses if they can make it from Essos to Pinkmaiden without passing through the lands between?"
"Why don't you ask them, I'm sure they will be glad to share," Marq interjected.
He did not need to sound so bloody excited about it.
Less than thirty minutes later, Clement Piper was down in the legion camp arranging to travel to Sorcerer's Deep. At least one of their healers managed to fix his stomach ache.
***
Lord Elden Deddings was a man of deep and abiding faith. In his youth he had considered taking his vows to the Faith, only stayed by the fact that he was his father's lone heir. Like many of his temperament and stature, he had taken the talk of witches, warlocks, and spirits in the woods first with skepticism, then with fear, and finally, upon hearing the proclamations of the Conclave, with weary acceptance. He did not like that he should live through such times, but he would endure if such was his lot. The Father never gave a man more than his fair burden to bear, after all. Then the letter had come from Riverun and another from...
that place. He could hardly think the name, for the very shape of it was an ill herald in his eyes.
Sorcerers under the care of the Faith to ensure they did not turn their powers to malfeasance, that he could bear, but a sorcerer-king, openly, proudly, with a sorcerer-queen just the same. How could be bend the knee to such? And yet what choice had he? The Lannisters were no less quick to turn magic to their aims, King Robert was dead and he would not put it past the queen to have had a hand in it, as the rumors told. The princes... well, at any other time the accusations would have beggared belief, but in this age the thought of King Robert being cuckolded by the Kingslayer was the least strange thing he had heard of late.
Elden prayed until his knees ached from the hard stone floor and his eyes strained from reading the admonitions of the Seven Pointed Star by candlelight deep into the night.
Ah, if only I had a son. Then I might abdicate and leave the task of leading our House through this dark time to him while I dedicate myself to the faith. But all Elden had were daughters, and what hope did they have to keep the faith and the straight path of honor in this tumultuous age?
The statue of the Mother seemed to gleam in a particular light.
The lord was strangely unsurprised to hear the booming voice from above calling him to give his oath to the Dragon. His ancestors had refused it once before to their ruin. May the Mother forgive him, he could not set them that fate again, but neither could he bow to one who spilled blood for power before heathen icons.
As though in a dream, he walked up to his eldest daughter's chambers. He found her already up and dressed, though in obvious haste. "You must go to Sorcerer's Deep to stand before the Dragon..."
"As a hostage? I did not hear anything about that," she interrupted. Really, he thought he had taught the girl better than that.
"As Lady Deddings. I cannot offer my pledge and stay true to the faith I hold in my soul."
Roslyn looked at him in utter shock, her grass-green eyes widening so much he thought they might swallow him. She nodded mutely before rushing off.
Do you accept the abdication of Lord Deddings in lieu of his house being counted among 'reluctant loyalists'?
[] Yes
[] No
[] Write in
OOC: Deddings was touch and go there. Not yet edited
