The Hidden Blades
Eleventh Day of the Twelfth Month 292 AC
Though the impulse to step aside and let Ser Richard make a humiliating end of this is no small thing, you resist. A lord's duty is to see to it that his vassal's honor is not besmirched by slander, even if it is spoken by one who might be a particularly vociferous gnat. So you speak clear and cutting words, "I take a dim view of men who insult one of the most honest and loyal men I've ever known in such a crass fashion. During parley at that. Say your piece, ser knight, but I warn you that I will not stand for slander born of spite and guesswork."
Even as you glare at the man you watch the changeling from the corner of your eye, should he speak against your judgement now things could go ill, perhaps enough to make an end of the negotiations entirely. He speaks in a clear commanding tone: "I must add my own voice to this call, Ser Criston. I will not continence a duel during what
I pledged to be a parley without knowing the cause and weighing the
truth of the matter."
The knight in the purple surcoat takes half a step back as though he had been struck, perhaps shocked from the force of a vendetta that had blinded him to all else. However he is not slow to rally, nor does his wrath cool. "Loyal," he spits. "The only thing the craven was loyal to was his own skin, knowing the king would kill him for a traitor. My brother Yohn, all of two-and-ten, died of a gut wound while he fled..."
"Would you had rather he slit the boy's throat?" Tyene asks, her voice deceptively calm. "A gut wound is a slow and ugly death, that much is known to all healers and most fighting men of sense, and known also is the fact that there is nothing a maester or other common healer can do against such a thing." She catches the eye of several of the Stormlander knights and even the lord of Tarth, all of whom give some silent sign of agreement however grudging.
Then she rounds on the cretin who had begun this farce and asks, "Tell me, ser, would you had rather a knight abandon his honor and his lords for the chance to play
nursemaid to a dying boy?"
From the way the others in the Baratheon entourage and even the 'lord' himself begin to look upon the knight in question, you suspect Tyene had struck upon just the right note and silently applaud her for it.
Ser Criston is nothing if not dogged in his purpose. "Honor, is it?" he asks. "A sellsword in the east he was for years. What honor does a such a man have?" Looking directly at Tyene he adds, "No more than a whore."
Without thought your hands tense, the words of sorcery in your thoughts, almost upon your lips, to chastise this wretch...
"Enough!" the lord of Storm's End shouts over the gathering din, saving the fool from a most unfortunate fate. "End your quarrel with steel if you must, but by the Father I swear that if you would make new ones than
I shall be among that number." Angry as you are, the oath invoking one of the Seven strikes an odd cord. The fey would never speak of gods thus.
"With your permission, your grace," Ser Richard speaks for the first time, voice tight with anger, though you know with utter surety that should you not give it he will step back.
"Granted..." you hesitate a moment, thinking of asking him not to kill the idiot, but considering the insults given you cannot justify it.
Oathkeeper hisses from his scabbard, flames all-but leaping from the spell-steel in eagerness.
"Will you besmirch the duel with witchery" Ser Criston calls, fear clear beneath disdain now.
You let out a laugh then, both honest and meant to draw the attention of the others witnessing before they can agree to the notion. "Should a hedge knight challenge a great lord or a knight of the Kingsguard, aught he have the right to demand that the latter fight in rusty chain armed with a sharpened piece of kettle-iron to match? Should the Daynes forever lay down Dawn because it is more than common steel?"
"Do I have your pledge that you will
work no magic in this duel, Ser Knight?" Renly asks after a moment, a request to which he receives curt agreement. "Then let this be ended here, then spoken of no more."
The remainder of the Stormlander delegation as well as you and Tyene form a rough oval around the nearest patch of even ground, where you find yourself standing with the Dornishwoman on the right the changeling on the left. "I hope this does not make you think less of us," he whispers. "Even the best of knights can be made rash by losing kin."
"I cannot forget or forgive the slander leveled against my sworn sword, but neither do I blame you not any other in this company for them," you allow, before turning your eyes back to the fight.
The two commandants turn to face each other, Criston looking wrathful, though still following Oathkeeper's flaming trail warily, where Ser Richard merely seems resolute, disdain for his foe only reflected in his eyes, the same expression he had borne when facing fiends, spirits, and nameless horrors that might drive lesser men mad.
Just as castle forged steel descends to meet flame kissed blade forged of Valyria's legacy you hear a scream not from the fight before you... but from beside you... to your
left. You turn just in time to see the lord of Storm's End collapse bleeding... though not red but
silver looking at his own wound in shock.
"Treachery!" Lord Tarth shouts.
Before any other can take up the call, and truthfully before you can gather your wits, Garin manifests from the shadows behind you and cuts at something unseen. Three of the lightning quick blows whistle harmlessly through the air, but the fourth lands. Black devil ichor mixes with the silver, smoking and hissing on the grass. "Some kind of shadow thing!" your friend shouts as he fights.
Dogai, the word is a hiss from the vaults of memory, one of Hell's own assassins. You know you have the merest instant to kill the thing before it vanishes into the ether, leaving you with a company of knights only too willing to place the blame on you.
What do you do?
[] Write in battle plan
OOC: You didn't think the devils had forgotten you, did you?