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

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Arriving back in Chicago a few minutes later, you're met by an almost immediate phone call which you choose to take outside of Ser Harry's home whilst he sees to the Archive, Ivy's, comfort. She and her bodyguard head indoors without complain, highlighting again the strange familiarity of the two. Kincaid moves with a nearly feline grace, putting you in mind of Mereth and her sisters, yet that you expect. Ivy…Harry explained a little of what she is, but the utter surety in her manner makes for an almost painful reminder of you sister. And, just like Dany, she knows far more than anyone who didn't know her would think. Questions for later, you tell yourself, directing your attention back to the phone at your ear.

"…he's willing to meet with you this afternoon to discuss the nature of your contract," John tells you. "Accorded neutral territory, three o'clock. If you're not there by quarter past, he won't linger." His tone makes it clear that this is Marcone passing his own knowledge of how his contact does business on.

You stop yourself from nodding, still a bad habit you're trying to break with cell phones. "And Lady Raith?" Your actions against the Fomor had acquired a considerable balance of credit with the White Court's true ruler, and you'd instructed John to be generous in the amount you'd be willing to write off.

"Two strike teams," he says, his tone clipped, "and any support in the mortal world as you might require it in the strike zone, wherever it is." You haven't told him. The Denarians are the main reason that Harry agreed to your offer of warding against divination in your first real conversation about yourself, and you can't risk them realising that you know. At least the next place on your list to visit should be secure, though you'll want to watch your step. You're already considering a possible safety measure you'll offer to him and Harry, for the children in the line of fire that they each care about.

"Thank you, John," the indrawn breath makes it clear he wants to ask, but you know him well enough now to know he won't, either. You want to tell him, but it's too dangerous over the phone. "We'll need to talk tonight," you say instead.

"I'll keep my schedule open." You exchange farewells and hang up just as Harry starts to make his way down the paved path to the street. You turn off your phone before he exits the wards, and nod towards his car.

"You sure you're ok not taking that? From what you've said, the question will come up," Harry follows you gaze, then shakes his head.

"No time, Viserys," he says levelly. "Even if the Council is going to need a day to get everything ready, we can move faster thanks to you." He places a hand on your shoulder, and you will the veil of a minor glamour into being around you as he does so, ensuring that passers-by won't be troubled by your sudden disappearance or appearance. You speak that familiar word in High Valyrian, and the world blurs before reforming into another street in front of a white picket fence.

Harry looks up at the place as you look around before dismissing the glamour again. The look on his face is…complex, but the biggest parts of the mix are trepidation and guilt. He doesn't want to take one his oldest friends into danger again, not when he holds himself responsible for his injuries. And yet he knows he has to let you make the offer. With all the Denarians on the field against you, a more fitting fight for the Swords of the Cross was impossible for Harry to describe. But there was only one person he would trust to wield the Sword that had been entrusted to him. Which was what brought you here.

It strikes you in that moment, as Harry opens the gate and walks up to the house, leaving you there alone for now, the harsh differences between the capabilities of this realm's mages and your own. Harry and those like him can wield incredible power, but it's terribly limited in some ways compared to what you can do. Your own capabilities lie more in the realms of a Power; emerging victorious over a High Noble of the Fomor had certainly cemented your position in that regard. Yet what you're offering now is apparently just as impressive, if not more so.

"Harry," the deep voice of the man you've come to see brings your head around, breaking you're your thoughts. He's a tall man, as tall as Harry, with smile lines to match those brought by age or pain. His voice is initially jovial, but it drains into steady seriousness as he recognises the expression on his friend's face. "What is it? And who is your friend?"

"Not out here, Michael," Harry shakes his head. "May we come in?" The older man's grey eyes focus on you, and you give a small nod of greeting, but say nothing. Given the protections around the place, Harry had thought it better to get an invitation before you stepped onto the property.

"Of course," Michael gives you both a small smile, and you step through the gate, feeling something prickle against your skin for a moment as you do so. It fades swiftly, but you can tell that something is aware of your presence…and watching. You almost miss the statement that follows from your host. "I was wondering if you'd be coming around, actually."

"What do you mean?" Harry starts to ask, but only gets the first few words out before he's cut off by another tall, but dark skinned, man appearing at the door, carrying a heavy gym bag over one shoulder.

"Harry!" The greeting is deeply accented, like nothing you've heard before, but there are so many nations and accents to this world that it's hard to keep track of them all. "It is good to see you again, my friend." There's something beneath the outward demeanour of the man, his own appearance suspiciously similar to Harry's description of…

"Sanya." Harry nods ruefully. "Let me guess, on your way somewhere?"

"It is good work," Sanya replies with a grin of his own, though there's strain hiding beneath it. "But it never ends. Perhaps that is why I like it. Job security." He pronounces the last two words as if they're the punchline to a particularly good joke. The three share a comradely smile, then the dark face turns to you, white teeth flashing in a smile. "Ah, but I have interrupted introductions, haven't I. Usually that is a good thing, you know."

"Not in this case," Harry says, a touch of impatience in his voice that draws the attention of former and current Knights both. He shakes his head. "But inside, not here," he adds firmly.

Moments later you're inside, the door shut behind you, and Michael turns to Harry, a quizzical look on his face, clearly intended for you. "His name is Viserys Targaryen, Michael. He's-"

"I know who he is," Michael says, turning towards you with the sort of steady peace in his eyes you have witnessed on only a handful of occasions. His expression shifts into one of deeply felt joy as he crosses the room, surprisingly quickly for one relying on a cane, and before you fully realise his intention he's pulled you off-balance and into a short, but very sincere embrace. It is distinctly odd, but what he says as he steps back explains it.

"Thank you, Viserys," there's nothing formal to the words, but they're heartfelt in a way you've rarely heard. That peace in his eyes, perhaps? "For what you did for my daughter." You realise then that Lady Carpenter must have come here since you gave her the ring she now bears, which grants her control over her Mantle. Had she even told her family? The question would seem ridiculous to most, but you've seen how power can drive someone to secrecy. Fear is a powerful motivator, even if it's unfounded.

"It was the right thing to do," you find yourself saying in reply. There was more to it than that, of course, but Michael only nods.

"It was," he agrees, the words as natural as breathing. "Now please, come through to kitchen and tell us what peril has brought you to my home."