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

Twenty-First Day of the Eighth Month 293 AC

"A good thought," you nod to Mors. "We will visit Last Hearth... in the morning. I do not imagine your nephew will thank us for waking him up this late." Particularly if he drinks as deeply as you do, you think but do not say. Truth be told you are startled at how Mors can still sit upright and talk freely with as much mead as he has put away. You had to purge your blood three times to keep up with feast-time appearances among the Thenns.

The matter settled, you present the Magnar with your final gift to the Thenns, a Whispering Brazier by which they can share any sightings of the Others in their lands and call for aid at need. Though they may not have yet formally sworn to you, you will protect them no less here than in the South.

Styr takes the instrument gingerly in hand, marveling at the magic, not so much for itself you suspect but for what it represents, the promise of aid from allies, for ones who have for so long dwelt alone and surrounded by foes.

Besides such a gift even a blade of dragonsteel pales, though of course it is accepted with a warrior's deep satisfaction in the tools of his craft.

Lost 1 Valyrian Steel Greatsword


None of your passengers seem particularly disturbed at the sight of another daemon servant dying to buy passage, though Velwen is leery of the safety of 'shoving folk in bottles', having apparently heard one too many tales of bodies being sundered and minds being lost when one tries to turn one thing into another. Lya would be curious to hear those stories for what they might tell of the Thenn's arcane traditions and Xor for their own sake, you suspect.

Sacrificed 1 Daemon Cultist

Still, it is simple enough to set her mind at ease by sealing and unsealing Dany before her eyes.

At the sight of Sorcerer's Deep all your new guests look on in bewildered wonder as much at the sheer number of people living close together as the signs of obvious sorcery, from festival lights to griffins doing laps overhead.

"How do you keep sickness away with so many so close?" the healer asks pragmatically while the two warriors decide that late though it may be it is not quite so late that they cannot go out to see the duels and other contests still taking place in town, with Waymar along to translate. On the morrow they will have the chance to observe the Legion to their heart's content.

You had not precisely expected to end the day explaining aqueducts and sewers to a member of a hidden tribe dating back to the Age of Dawn, but that can be said of many of your days.


Twenty-Second Day of the Eighth Month 293 AC

Together with Mors, Elda, Dany, and Ser Richard, who had insisted on accompanying you after discovering what you had fought in his absence, you arrive at the gates of Last Hearth in the grey hours before dawn, the better for Mors to be able to slip in to speak with the Greatjon quietly. As isolated as the keep here is, you do not have much fear that any rumors will make it as far south as King's Landing, but you would rather Lord Stark not be too well-informed about you speaking to his bannermen, one of his principal bannermen, you realize, and not just from Mors' boasting of Umber strength.

The keep is hardly one of the largest you have seen, but its walls are tall mortared stone with a dry moat around them. Its square lines have a sort of brutal practicality to it, not a single stroke of the chisel wasted on decorations of architectural fancies, a fortress that had once been the seat of Umber Kings now serving their descendants no less as lords. Already golden lights spark in the windows, kitchen workers readying for the the morning meal, armsmen about to relieve the night shift, and soon to be one daughter of the House returned from her long exile.


Rather than enter by the gate and play the part of thoroughly improbable merchants, you simply wait until the light in the Greatjon's solar flashes as you had arranged, then fly through it unseen. For one whimsical moment you imagine what it would look like if one of the watchers in the courtyard could see you: a sorcerer in crimson robes, a girl not quite nine in gleaming plate, and a knight armed and armored in dragonsteel, flying through a window like ravens come to roost.

The Lord of Last Hearth is a man who lives up to the giant on his banner, almost seven feet tall and wide enough to almost be stout in spite of that with a bristling black mane and a roughly-trimmed beard only beginning to be threaded through with grey. From the shape of his face you would judge he is a man as inclined to laughter as rage, though neither are in evidence now. Instead he is scowling fiercely.


"Well out with it, then," he says without preamble. "Where's this wight you fought?" At least he did not say 'supposedly fought,' probably out of respect for his uncle as well as the undeniable fact that you had found his cousin, even if she was married to a wildling.

You allow your cloak to flare behind you, spilling out the amber coffin of the Ancient Wight Lord, his eyes still shining blue with dreadful hunger. "You will have to excuse me for not freeing him, my lord, as he would do his damnedest to kill all of us just as all his kind would. Something they do not unfortunately lack for skill in, either," you say in dust dry tones.

"Fuck me." Lord Umber takes a long drink from the flask at his belt, then gives if a disgruntled look. "I was wondering if the wine was bad and this was all a nightmare, but the damn thing's fine."

Rather than point out the gaps in that reasoning, you only reply: "Alas, my lord, none of us have the luxury of blaming the wine. The world is what it is, and we may only choose what to do about it."

"Like sending gold and weapons to the Wall, Mors told me..." he trails off a moment before thrusting one hand forward. "Good to meet you, for all you have done for my family and for the Wall."

"Viserys Targaryen," you answer, accepting the hand at once. The grip that greets you might have broken fingers once. Now you only smile over it.

Over the next few hours you explain the growing of godswoods, rumors of blood magic, giving an accounting of your dragons, and altogether laying to rest a thousand-and-one rumors from the horrid to the merely absurd. Dany had even started giggling at the one about how she was some sort of imp or fiend in disguise.

"Alright, I trust you, You've done my House a good turn and the world's about to go to hell. What do you need from me and mine?"

What do you reply?

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OOC: The rolls were pretty good this time, though under the circumstances you could have rolled only 1s and 2s and still make a good impression.