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

Twenty Eighth Day of the Eleventh Month 293 AC

Street of Spices, King's Landing

Jaedar Dorennis was a wealthy well do to Essosi merchant of the sort that was growing ever more common on the Street of Spices, trading not just in spice, but silk and polished gems, even in more arcane things for custom with deep pockets and tight lips. He paid his dues to the Crown, his bribes to the Goldcloaks were always on time and even donated to the Faith to keep the Begging Brothers from his door, he was not involved in whoring or gambling and only had enough to get a whiff of smuggling as not to stand out among that crowd.

Three knocks rang through the shop... then two... then one loudest of all, a pattern long familiar.

Yet above all else Jaedar Dorennis was a lie. There was only Jon Draper, inquisitor of His Grace Viserys Targaryen Third of his name, a man who had come to Sorcerer's Deep a year and a half ago with six silver stars in his pocket, hoping the crash of the waves would drown out the echoes of a broken life. He'd taken to the book and sword not from any great love of dragons, for though it may have been Lannister men who looted his shop and killed his younger brother in the sack it had been by the Old King's will that the gates had been opened and by prince Rhaegar's folly that the whole war started. It was enough to take one long breath of the piss reek of King's Landing compared to the clean salt smell of the Deep to remember why he served the Dragon... to the bottom of his lungs.

Smiling faintly at the thought, Jon's left hand sought out the latch in his ring that turned the clear enchanted stone towards it and within its facets he saw the two figures waiting outside in the rain. Laedar, finally and not alone. With him was a figure draped in black, cloaked and hooded. The agent's warding amulet still shone around his throat.

Slowly, Jon nodded to the two 'sellswords' that watched the front of the shop. They had certainly been swords for hire in their day and maybe even turned their hand to some even less honorable things, but like Jon they had found their place in the Inquisition, one drawn by a deep faith in the Lord of Light and the quiet certainty that the King was Azor Ahai, the other by his healing at the hands of the little princess of rock-liver.

The agent entered quickly, but not so much as to seem furtive, a smile flashing through his patchy beard. "Well boss, you said you wanted to meet one of the warren-folk. Djir here agreed to it, so long as you're willing to cut him in on some of the fine goods, not the shit we sell to keep the Goldcloaks off our back."

Most people might have been a touch discomfited to see Laedar's companion throw back his hood to reveal a being halfway between a man and a giant black rat, but inquisitors were made of sterner stuff, and even more so Jon had been waiting for this meeting for weeks. Still, the bright blue gem he held between the clawed fingers of one hand drew the eye just as he his guest had not doubt intended.


"Good evening to you, goodman, I'm glad we can finally meet face to face," the Commissar of the King's Landing inquisitorial branch said graciously. "I will, of course, be more than happy to talk trade, but first let us exchange that most sublime of gifts beyond gold or silver, knowledge."

Though Jon certainly was not used to reading thoughts upon a furred face, nor in the twitch of whiskers, he guessed his manner must have surprised Djir a bit. A touch more formal than he would have normally used, but seeing as the warren-folk were used to eking out a life among the worst parts of Flea Bottom, keeping away from the sight of even the most wretched beggar and retreating into the noxious sewers each night, he reasoned that a bit of consideration would go a long way. It had for me after all....

"Hmm... yes, knowledge, where we come from, what we seek?" The words came in quick bursts, syllables tumbling over each other, yet from the rhythm of them Jon guessed Djir was actually forcing himself to speak more slowly than in his own tongue. Impressive that he had such mastery of the Common tongue to begin with. Jon had known folks who could barely string three words of it together in spite of working with and living besides Westerosi for months or years.

"Precisely, I do not ask for secrets nor answers that may delve into the mysteries of magic for I am no sorcerer, but I like to get the measure of all those I deal with particularly for more esoteric things."

Djir tossed the glowing gemstone in the air, caught it and made it vanish with as skillful a bit of legerdemain as Jon had ever seen. "We to not remember the First Days well, only through a haze as between dreaming and waking, but it is clear that our beginnings are entwined with those called the Most Ancient Order of Pyromancers, though it was not in their halls we were born, nor even with their intent. Much that is forgotten drains into the old sewers..."

OOC: The full tale in a later interlude since I prefer to tell it from Djir's PoV.