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

Northern Dreadlands

Again the armored fist was driven into Sammiths gut and this time it felt as if something was wrong. It felt as if he had torn something in his stomach and a warmth was spreading down his belly as if he had pissed himself again, though he had gotten that out of the way already. He dearly wanted to puke his guts out as he swung around, tied up and hanging head first down from a pale weirwood tree, but retching hurt so badly that he nearly blacked out and only had a bit of bloody bile to show for it.

"Enough," came a quiet order to the armored giant who dutifully stepped back while the well dressed man came forward. He grabbed Sammith by the hair, heedless of the grime and blood gathering in it and kept him steady enough so that his face came back into focus. The claps of his cloak depicted a flayed man and in his haze Sammith wondered when that part would start. "I'll ask you again," the whispering man began, "where are you supposed to bring it?"

The warmth began to gather in his chest as he tried as hard as he could to still his tongue. He just wanted this to be over with, but he couldn't tell this man where to find his lord. Sammith had tried to lie at first, but that southron that was with his captor just could call him on every one of them without fail. So he had tried silence, but that just made it worse. First they hung him from this tree for his silence and then the beatings by the mute soldiers started.

He saw the mans features twist in rage again. It was subtle, almost not to see, but he had not much else to watch then the other mans face and it was not the first time Sammith noticed it. Just as quickly as it was there though, it was gone again, wrested back under a cover of mere annoyance. "I did nothing wrong my lord," he tried again to pleas with his captor, not sure why he even bothered anymore. He wouldn't be believed and then it would just be the beatings again. "It was just a few kittens and a donkey foal."

Another flash of rage shot through the features of the man bearing the Boltons sigil, though this time anyone with eyes would have noticed it. It almost seemed as if the mans eye had turned red, so clear was the hatred and disgust in it. "Yes. Kittens and a donkey foal. A few piglets you mentioned earlier." Then he turned to the southron who sat on a nearby rock, carefully holding a brown bundle. "Wisdom Daeryn, is this more of a kitten or more of a piglet?"

To this, the southron lifted the toddler out of his blankets, making a show of examining it. "Well my lord, I've heard some call this long-pork for the alleged taste. Though you might have to talk with a Dothraki or a Ghiscari on that matter. Maybe one of the Wildlings from further north." Then he wrapped the kid back up and resumed staring at the hanging Sammith with that nasty smirk of his. What did they know? A blessing given for a simple kitten offered didn't last all that long.

"If you had kept it to whatever you could snatch from your neighbors barnyard we might be talking differently." The whispering man turned Sammiths head back to him as he spoke. "But that was not enough, was it? And now there is a father dearly missing his daughter, especially as he just recently became a widower. All so that you could... what is it that you wanted for it? Strength? Grace? What is the price they offered you for a childs life?"

Another warmth spread through the hanging man, not the almost painfully hot one gathering in his chest, but that of shame. Not at his actions, no, for he would never regret taking that whores spawn, or her life for that matter. But his lord had been clear that he would need to be careful not to be found. That others would envy him for the gifts he got for the warm blood he offered to cold ice. And Sammith had given plenty and received plenty in turn. But it was all over so fast. He needed something better then animal blood for his blessings to remain with him.

As his eyes focused on his captor again, something seemed changed. "Do you know what it is that separates man from beast?" There seemed to be a heat in him, a fervor beneath the cold mask he had worn all the time. A knife was suddenly in his hand and suddenly Sammith was too afraid to even shake his head at the question. "It is quite simple."

"When a dog sees a sausage, it will eat it, and when it must use the privy, it will shit into the corner. Because it is a dog. It doesn't even think about these things, it just does them. It is a mans duty to put a leash on the dog and teach it to not eat the mans sausage or shit into the mans rooms. And if the leash is not enough to teach the dog manners, the man will have to find other means to make himself understood. Do you understand?"

With a strength he didn't even knew he had left, Sammith nodded frantically. "I-I-I... I understand. I shat into the corner. I shouldn't have shat into the corner."

"Very good," came the reply, spoken as if to a misbehaving mutt. The knife was right before Sammiths face, the quiet man tipping it back and forth. "But there is more to being a man then understanding that. You see, a man should not need another mans leash around his neck to tell him what to do. He should know himself. He should be his own leash. A man should not wantonly indulge in his desires, but manage them. Tame them. Because a man is in control of his urges and not the other way around. Terrible things happen when a man has no control of his urges."

Then he pressed the knife to Sammiths neck, barely softly enough to not draw blood. "I always found bloodletting a good aid in these things. It cools the blood that has grown too hot and balances the humors. I think you too could profit from it and this talk might become much more useful for it." And then the blade dug in, opening his neck making warm blood rush down the side of his face and run into his hair. Fearfully he looked down and saw not a few droplets falling on the pale roots beneath, but great gushes.

He could feel his limbs grow colder with every beat of his heart. He could feel the life leaving him. "My lord. Please." His true lord had promised him great rewards for his faith when his time had come, but not now. Not yet. There was so many things that Sammith wanted to still do in his life. But there was no movement again in his captors face, just a cold and waiting gaze as he watched him slowly die. "I beg you my lord. Please. Have mercy."

"Mercy is no thing you should expect," was the whispered reply. "A fair judgement is all I will offer you."

Was it worth betraying his lord for the 'fairness' of this monster? There almost seemed to be voices whispering at Sammith, barely heard at the edge of his fading consciousness. They didn't offer kind reassurances either. His gaze fell back down to the ground where a small pool of his blood had grown between the pale roots and the summer snow. He could have sworn he saw the roots move. "To the Lonely Hills." His own voice sounded far away as he finally gave in. He felt so weak that it seemed impossible to even move his mouth, yet he somehow found the strength to speak loudly and clearly. "Go north until you see the stream with the oaks, then follow it upstream. You will know when you have found it."

His captor nodded once, then glanced at the southron who did the same. He hadn't lied this time. He doubted he could even think a lie right in this moment. His eyes dropped to the ground once more, the gushes of blood having become merely stray droplets falling one after another. Then he weakly lifted them back to his captor, silently pleading to be cut down, but with dread he saw the man move not a single muscle. "I never said it would be my fair judgement you would face."

The whispers grew louder in Sammiths mind. They were not kind.

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AN: And here we see man coming to regret the pacts he made and another who has risen beyond his baser CE nature to become a LE paragon of virtue.