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

Twenty-Second Day of the Sixth Month 293 AC

"I think it may be time for Dywen to step upon the stage once more," you muse, looking up at Sparr Keep and the large fishing village at its foot from the dark.

"He moves quite quickly, doesn't he?" Tyene interjects half in jest, though the point is no less well made for it. "Most people wouldn't understand the significance, but if say Tywin's pet witch looked over the sightings she might realize most priests blessed of their gods cannot so lightly step across hundreds of leagues."

"Unless they have the right shoes," Bronn counters, motioning to the Dornishwoman's boots inscribed in shimmering golden scales. His habit of keeping mostly quiet in matters of 'snarks and grumpkins' can make it all too easy to forget how sharp his eyes and wits can be.

"True," you agree. "Moreover, magic can far more easily shroud one's features in a glamour. 'Dywen' might just as easily be a common mask used by Green Men out and about in the world speaking for their gods, or even an entire cabal of erstwhile septons lured into apostasy." Something to suggest to Bloodraven when next you meet him...

Thus, satisfied with the substance of your ruse, you enter the village, walking briskly along the rutted path with only Xor at your side, for too large a company would invite suspicion. The spectator's sharp eyes and knowledge of the Far Realm and its influence should hopefully allow you to spot any influence of the Deep Ones, old or new.

The village thankfully looks quite ordinary as the sun rises from the waves, long low houses huddled together around smoking huts already breathing out a stream of grey, the clang of the smith's hammer ringing out from the village forge as fishermen call out to one another in preparation for setting sail. These too are ironborn. Though some of these fishermen might be raiders given the chance and the smith has likely made arrow-heads as often as he has nails, you cannot bring yourself to hate them for it. How many of your own trusted sailors and captains were not once pirates and raiders themselves?

Your musings are interrupted rather abruptly by a group of men blocking the path ahead. They have more the look of ordinary sailors becalmed on land than armsmen, though one of them wears an old slightly dented kettle helm. "Wandering far from your flock, ain't ye, Greenlander?" he challenges.

"Flock?" you tit your head as though bemused. "Do you perhaps mistake me for a shepherd? Men are not sheep, no more are they fish or fowl. I come to speak to the old lord of the keep, perhaps to offer aid..."

"I heard old man Sparr used to get in bed with Greenlanders often, and I don't mean salt wives," a younger man, barely more than a boy from the way his voice still wobbles, announces. "Come to get one last ass kissing before he dies off?"

Nervous laughter mingles with the odd reproving look, but soon the man with the helm returns his attention to you. "Yer kind ain't welcome here, old man..."

"Be not too swift to judge the nature of things," you warn, and with that you strike your staff into the earth with a carefully spoken wish. Weeds and grasses burst forth from the rocky earth, some even beginning to climb up the sides of building as a soft but soaring melody the likes of which has not been heard in these lands since the Children of the Forest passed from the South. "There are other gods than those the Andals brought, not Seven beyond count, not wearing the faces of man, but those carved into the weirwoods at the dawn of ages."

The men reel back, fear and wonder writ clear upon their features at the show of magic. Before the first can win over the other you announce again: "I have business with the lord, but my companion would be more than happy to sing you their tale."

Xor smiles, catching on. "Mind you, singing's thirsty business. How about we all step into the tavern and let Dywen go about his business?"

"You paying?" the boy blurts out.

"Certainly," your friend agrees. That earns him a cheer from both the men and the onlookers who had gathered to watch the confrontation. No matter the doings of gods and sorcerers, free ale is not something to be cast lightly aside.

By the time you reach the gates of the keep the guards, trailing whispers and speculation, and the Sparr armsmen are far less inclined to bar your way... until, that is, a man steps up from behind them. The fine woolen cloak fastened with a silver serpent clasp and the sword at his side all mark him for a lord, but none more than his imperious tone: "Away with you! We've no need for tricksters and wizards at our door, and neither does father."

For their part the guards look rather dubious about their lord's words, but their hands tighten on the hafts of their spears just the same.

What do you reply?

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OOC: This is less a vote about how you will get through, because with Viserys' social skills that is almost guaranteed, and more about how you want to present Dywen servant of the Old Gods.