A Sword Without a Hilt: A Song of Ice and Fire/D&D 3.5 Crossover

Twentieth Day of the Fifth Month 293 AC

Garin Drekelis had known slavery as an abomination since earliest childhood. True, he had later been taught restraint, learning the sad state of the world as any son and daughter of Braavos must. Even so, he knew that had he been asked three years ago if he could find a man more loathsome than a slaver who still practiced his foul institution past the time when law and custom allowed, he would have responded with a resounding no. Alas that time had a way to show youthful folly for what it was. The world indeed held worse depravities, such as the men currently gathered in around the banked campfires just past the edge of the forest where he watched still and silent as a grave.

Bandits and worse than bandits... they did not merely take their lives into their hands as outlaws, knowing and accepting that every man's hand would be turned against them. No, from their drunken words it was clear these men thought themselves to be enforcing a higher law, that slaves should kneel before their betters.

In the darkness Garin Drekelis smiled, the glint of fangs unseen even by the legionary scout hidden not six feet from him in a half-dead mulberry thicket. "I found out everything we need to know about their patrons from their leader. Tell the lieutenant we won't be needing any prisoners."

"Aye, milord," the man replied, not quite able to keep an edge of satisfaction from his tone. Like many in the Legion he bore the brand of a former slave upon his cheek with a quiet dignity the 'Flower of Valyria' could never hope to match.

That night death moved unseen among the outlaws, reaping a grim harvest, and in its wake came men garbed in black and crimson.

A boy scarce twelve years of age, garbed in a dusty traveler's cloak, looked down on the head of the Averi family with a sort of distant contempt, seeming more tired than angry. He hated this part, not for the sake of the thrice-be-dammed fools who would deny the dawn with the sun in their eyes, but for their families. Maelor of Mantarys had never known his parents, and considering his heritage that was just as well, but in his heart of hearts he still hated making more orphans.

It would be so convenient if monsters showed their colors in all things, if a man who would lock disobedient slaves in dank barracks until they died or went mad was not also a doting father, if he didn't have to order children dragged from their parents' sides.

The Legions' drums beat and the hangman rope snapped taut...

"A clean death's more than those bastards give their slaves," the knight standing quietly by his side offered.

"I was that obvious, was I?" the boy asked, looking away from the swinging corpses. It was easy to forget how much sense the older man could speak with his habit of fading into the stonework given half the chance. He did not render verdicts and rarely voiced opinions in investigations, but when he did they were always well thought out, so Maelor shared the deeper fear gnawing at the pit of his stomach: "They have the same blood as me, you know, those children we are teaching to hate. How easy it would be for them to walk a dark path in the name of vengeance..."

"So have 'em taken into the king's orphanage," Ser Richard replied. "I doubt any relatives they might have still want them with the land going to the crown as punishment for treason."

"One of Malarys' finer moments, that..." Maelor snorted. "'Armed men raised in defiance of the king's law, brutalizing his subjects to enforce edicts that have been struck from the books, can be called nothing less than rebellion'," he finished in what he was proud to say was a rather good impression of the elder dragonlord.


Several dozen leagues away the aforementioned mage lay down a slip of parchment stained with what looked like three distinct substances with a sigh. Could a gremlin actually be taught decent hand writing? he wondered. Perhaps if they were first chained to the seat...

Alas a messenger running into the pavilion interrupted his pleasant imaginings: "Lord Dornaris is not at home, my lord. The steward admitted he and his family made for Greenwater Cove almost a week ago, with all their valuables in tow."

"Sit," Malarys commanded. "Catch your breath and recount things properly and in order. I assure you the fugitive magister will not make it to Qarth in the time it takes you to do so." With a wave of his hand he sent a cup of wine cut three quarters with fresh spring water into the legionary's hand.

Thankfully the captain who had been assigned to work with Malarys, one of the Legion's original Ghiscari trainers from his accent, was as skilled in reading maps as he was in fighting and soon narrowed down the possible paths the fleeing magister took enough that Malarys was able to divine the true one with but a single spell.

"Wisdom...?" the man trailed off, obviously still a touch uncertain around magic, or perhaps only around Malarys himself. "Why are we chasing Dornaris down? Isn't he only tangentially linked to that band down south?"

"Fleeing is a mark of either guilt or cowardice. If it is the former we owe him a noose, and if it is merely the latter then he should be reassured," came the firm reply.

"Reassured?" the officer asked, confused.

"The difference between us and those bandits captain is that we are not in the business of terrifying people into compliance off some whim or caprice," the magelord spoke flatly though without heat. "Our task is to see to it that the law is being followed. Cowardice alone is not sufficient reason to see someone driven off their land, though rest assured it will certainly see them stripped of all power to render legal judgement."

The man nodded thoughtfully, then turned on his heel to gather his some legionaries to serve as Malarys' honor guard while he tracked down the wayward magister.

OOC: The action is going very well, but you might need to continue it next month. There are a lot of abuses to set right.