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

Twenty-Eight Day of the Eighth Month 293 AC

You leave Sunspear with the taste of Dornish Red still on your lips, though thoughts of politics are swift to fade from your thoughts... mortal politics at least. There is still the matter of the fey lord Lya had bound. His blood could feed the elder heart tree, but there might yet be better use for him. The fey are not fiends to be banished, nor are they all monsters to be slain, but they can be changed, they can be made to dwell in peace with mortals, not as master and servant but hand in hand as those fey already sworn to you do. An easy thing to say, but hard to sell to one as proud as Crimson Lotus who was lord since the Days of Dawn.

A shroud of magic you weave about yourself of will and wishcraft spun, a thousand thousand whispers speaking in your ear, each one distinct, each heavy with the wisdom of wyrms long past, drops in the ocean of lore. So do you step upon a darkened stage of the prison to play out a part written in the moment.

His face is saturnine, proud even in defeat, no smudge of dirt upon his crimson cloak, the chains upon his wrists seeming absurdly mismatched with his gilded finery. Eyes dark as smoldering coals meet yours, yet not a word is spoken.

In the stiflingly silence the guards shift uneasily. They are all brave of course, chosen from among the legionnaires with the most experience with the odd and uncanny, but ultimately they like the chains are only here to play the briefest part. You ask them to leave and so they do, though not without worried looks. The officer in charge looks like he is about to object to you putting yourself in danger. Ser Richard would likely buy that man a drink.

You motion towards the chains... they fall with a rattle, offering freedom within the boundaries given. True they are wrought of stone and steel, but still the stage is set.

"Do you know why you are here, my lord?" you ask, only the thinnest veneer of politeness over the question.

"Because I was defeated," he replies, the word like bitter poison on his lips. "Because I did not wrap the mortals in silk and goose down, because I allowed them to be burned when they reached their heads towards the fire."

Slowly you take a list from your cloak and begin reading "Red Raevon, One-Ear Orvin, Poxed Paxton, Jonella the Younger..." One by one you read all three-and-twenty names of the mortals compelled into servitude. "Dealing with Baator is part of the reason you are here, the other part is enslaving mortals."

"They could have taken their chances with the hounds," the fey lord shrugged, though there is nervousness behind his polished facade, likely fearing being bound and compelled. "I used no whips and set no chains..."

"What else would you call it then, if not slavery? They were made to swear oaths they never wanted, forced upon them by capricious fate and no fault of their own. Forever bound to the whims of another, no say in their own path, their wants and needs an afterthought at best. This may seem strange to you, but this is what we call slavery."

"And what care would I for mortal words, whose tongues change from one year to the next, like the chattering of squirrels in the woods?" He scoffs, amused, or at least feigning it. "You come here draped in power as the Lord of the Orange, bright in haze and phantasm, and call yourself mortal. If thou art mortal then I am a sprite."

"Odd that you should mention sprites..." you trail off, pondering how best to set the hook. "There is one among my vassals, a threshold sprite once of the shadow court, the victor in the mage duel, far-traveler known on many shores, soon to be a lady in her own right. Tell me true, why did you step upon the crumbling precipice?"

"For power, that I might ascent the shining steps to greatness, that I might be more than nursemaid to the schemes of the queen. As mortals walked into the flame so I have gathered the ashes, for much can grow upon such soil." Eyes flare like fire while the cloak as blood flows around his shoulders, the rage one constrained but whose nature that binds a thousand times tighter than chains of iron ever could. He would be the rebel who casts off the chains of oppression boldly stepping forth, but that is not a path easily found among the tales of faerie. Those greater than he guard it well.

And so you speak of trails. In words clear and stark as steel you warn that he will be judged for this, either by you or by those he sought to betray, his fate is set. But, you add he need not only suffer punishment. A chance you offer, a lifeline like a silvered thread in the dark: "For seven years, thou will serve. Thou will swear then be freed of all oaths, to join whatever court you please or none at all as is your wish."

"A wanderer upon the lonely paths, Wyldfae thou wouldst make of me." The words are spoken more thoughtfully than with resentment as though the moment's pride and greater purpose war within him.

"There needs be no strife between mortal and deathless fey, but peace and understanding," you offer earnestly, for truth and crafted script converge. "The mortals I can reach, or for those madmen and fanatics who will not be moved remove them from the board entirely, but it is harder by far to reach the fey. Many more are there in the Court of Stars I would wager who chaff under the chains binding them, willing to take out their frustrations on mortals, or hurting them not from malice, but simple obliviousness. I ask that you bring them to my side in shadow and in secret, the lords and princes none the wiser..."

"That would be war thou would pledge me to, a battle by stealth and trickery," he counters, suddenly seeming such surer of his footing.

"So then I am at war with every being to whom I do not proclaim my intentions from the rooftops?" you scoff. "Tis peace not war I seek, and any blood will be on the hands of those who shed it." It is not the fey alone who live by their tale. Your own hangs like a shadow upon your every word, a feather upon the scales of fate. Sometimes a feather is enough.

"Thou tempts sweeter than devils. oh dragon, with thy serpent's tongue, but I would have from you an oath before my own is spoken, that should I be captured you would ride a rescue, should I be slain to flesh return me as soon as you are able so long as my service endures. A bargain?"

What do you reply?

[] Accept, it is as much as you would to for any sworn to you

[] Refuse, to follow such a path could well precipitate to war when you are least ready
-[] Counter proposal

OOC: Pretty good rolls on top of good arguments and over 100 in buffs so his request is relatively modest, but it could still be troublesome under certain circumstances, hence the vote.