The day was gray and overcast, with a brisk wind that made the bitter cold all but unbearable. The lords were clad in heavy fur cloaks and thick winter boots, yet all shivered in the deep winter chill. All save Uther Pendragon. Uther stood like a statue, impervious, it seemed, to cold or discomfort, clad all in black save for the blue and silver Pendragon arms emblazoned on his tunic. Under his mail shirt, hidden from view, was a silver ring with a blue sapphire, hung from a chain about his neck. His gray eyes were cold and emotionless, and the features of his face were as chiseled marble. "We march tomorrow. Have your contingents ready, for we set out at dawn." His tone was cold, imperious. A low mumbling sound arose from the assembled lords, not so much a reply as a ripple of discontent. Uther paid it no heed and turned to leave when one of the lords mustered the courage to speak. "Lord Uther," - for though he commanded as regent, his father still lived and he was not yet king - "always shall House Pendragon command our loyalty, yet I must ask you to reconsider this command.
