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

Seventh Day of the Twelfth Month 293 AC

Sea Dragon Point, the North

Leila Goldenhammer shivered against the cold drizzle blowing off the Sunset Sea, drawing her cloak tighter around herself as the stony outline of the shore grew closer with every pull of the oars. She wondered if anyone could see them if there was even anyone out on the mostly deserted shore, or if the old blind weaver would be the only witness to the boat journey with sorcerers and spirits. A conjured black-furred ape 'manned' the oars at Mia's command while a witchlight affixed to the prow cast a thin silvery light over the murky waters.

"Hope the snake didn't mistake the tower," Lord Umber, Mors Umber she corrected mentally, grumbled.

"How many white stone towers do you imagine there are on this stretch of coast?" Anya asked wryly. "I figure if this place wasn't haunted they would've taken it apart for building stones long ago."

"This isn't the city, lass, most folk who want to built 'round here cut down a tree," the Northern warrior countered. "Trees probably grow faster than smallfolk can raise new houses anyway. Damn Ironborn."

Damn Ironborn indeed, Leila agreed, gritting her teeth against memories of blood and screams, pitch black holds and clanking chains. It had been here the reavers had taken her whole life away, same sea, different shore. You could have just taken a different task, she reminded herself, sinking her hand into Flicker's golden fur. But Leila had not demurred, part of her wanted to be here, wanted to meet those longboats with their prows carved into the shape of monster heads with real monsters in their bellies. She wanted to prove that she had power now and people at her back.

Daydreams aside she also had a job here to do, Leila reminded herself, looking up from her familiar's questioning gaze and once more to the shore. The wind blew over sharp stones, almost whistling as the pale tower finally became more than a hoped-for outline in the mist. But that was not all that showed itself...

"Is that a fire?" Anya asked wearily. "I thought you said no one comes here," she said to the old net weaver.

"I haven't been here in longer than you've been alive, girl," their guide replied with a chuckle. "Mayhap some brave fisherman decided to dare the ghosts in the tower, or maybe some other wizards got here first and cleared them out, eh?" She gave a cackling laugh, soon lost over the waves.

But as they neared the shore even more it became clear that this wasn't anything as simple as fishermen come ashore to camp while the looming storm passed. There were seven men gathered around the fire, pale and wide eyed, paying no mind to the approaching boat, nor even to Mors' hailing loud enough to wake the dead, hopefully not literally. Was there an eighth one lying on the ground there? Leila realized with mounting horror that the man was not moving at all, face down on the stony shore...

She locked down at Flicker, her spirit-step would let her scout even better than a raven, but Leila always felt guilty sending her into the unknown. Reading her thoughts, or more likely her face, her familiar replied tartly. "I did not make that bargain with you just to sit back and eat meat pies, you know. I'd be rolling around if that's all I did."

With a nod and a rueful smile she sent her off. A moment later she returned. "Not a mark on them, even the dead man, but they are all sort of sunken-cheeked. I think they might have died of hunger."

"What sort of sailors are they?" Mia asked urgently.

Flickr hesitated a moment looking at Leila. "Ironborn, from the weapons and shields they might be reavers."

"If they have just been sitting there starving, then who's kept the fire lit?" Anya asked after a moment.

OOC: Not a combat encounter yet due to background rolls, but that might well change soon.