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

Elsewhen, Elsewhere

"How... curious," Zherys' words are soft, almost hesitant, and not merely from being his first foray into the Dreamlands. Not that one can honestly deny his words. You are not entirely certain what you had expected of Meraxes' shattered Dream but this is not it. Stretching out in all directions around you is a maze in three dimensions hedged in with sharp corners and edges that seemed to make the very air bleed. Was there air here or something else, the fumes of long extinguished votary flames, the cold ashes of ancient sacrifices hung forever in midair?

"I was expecting something a touch more lively given everything she's done for Volantis," Dany says, using a petty spell to send some of the ash rippling in the hopes of calling forth some reaction from whatever presence still lingered here. Somehow even Father Sky, all but forgotten by mortal men, had seemed more alive than this.

"She was slain, she did not fade, Meraxes," you muse, adding the name at the end for good measure in the hopes that the godless would hear.

Nothing answers, and the maze looks as strange and twisted as it had a moment ago, seemingly spanning infinity. You could always ask Syrax to lead you. Her you have no doubt you could find by the power of your blood and the power of sight would allow her to fight the proper path. And yet you hesitate, not out of any lingering animosity, though your last meeting was not the most cordial, but due to the very purpose of your visit. Two of the Fourteen together might draw the eye of one you wished to remain in torpor.

It is Zherys who speaks next, his words carrying the careful cadence of ritual formula, though not one he had spoken in a long time. "I come as a son of Volantis, a shield upon the Wall, I come as a child of Dragons, clear-eyed and wise with the lessons of long ages. Never have turned my sword upon my brother and never sowed salt and blood upon the fields of my neighbor."

The oath of a minor freeholder, of Valyria's petty aristocracy, the provincial landowners without sorcery or dragons to call their own you recognize, not something you would have expected on the lips of the Archon of Volantis and by the slight tightening of his lips you suspect Zherys Naethyreon is less than pleased to be speaking them, but they do seem to have some effect. Slowly, with the distant sound of iron against stone, a rusted gate opens where once there had been nothing but grey ash.

As the four of you float in, Ser Richard gives the gate a dubious look, with a grumble of: "I hate it when things just change without even a bloody spell to blame," but even he swears in surprise when he sees the guards that wait within. Black knights, Qyburn's black knights, down to the designs of their armor, scores of them standing silent vigil along the walls of what looks like a training field, if that is one were minded to train giants or full grown dragons.

"What better than dead soldiers to stand in vigil over the tomb of a fallen watcher?" a soft voice echoes from everywhere and nowhere. It sounds oddly like your own and from the looks on the others' faces you suspect they are experiencing the same 'echo'.

"I am not truly here, Lord of the Watchful City, only a memory of duty," the words are obviously meant for Zherys, given the use of one of Volantis' oldest epithets. "I could be, in time perhaps, but He is watching too."

As fair an introduction as any you could have hoped for. "My lady, I wish for nothing more than that the One you speak of remain dead and forgotten, I wish for peace in Essos and the corruption that poisoned Valyria remain in its tomb. The Freehold is dead, but I would offer you and any others among your brothers and sisters a chance to be restored as I have others from those times," you speak plainly.

"You would compare us to mortals who endured through the Doom and the passage of centuries?" There is no censure to the words, only something that might be amusing. "Truly Syrax' blood."

"Are not all souls wrought of the same substance, do not all wings upon the same wind fly?" you ask, feeling unaccountably melancholy for all that this being had lost in a way simply seeing the Black Wall or even the ruins of Valyria itself never could. This had been a mortal sorceress once, a vanquisher of Tiamat, a state-builder and in the end she had failed. It had been easier with Syrax somehow, she had a plan and a vision still. Meraxes had only her duty. For a moment you are reminded of Stannis, little as he might fit in this realm of dreams and shades.

"You wish for me to slumber, but I cannot choose do so, for I am dust and ash and it is mortal hands that gather it and wet it with sweat and blood, who mold it into life again. The strength of their devotion, the light of their faith must not be squandered in vain. Tell me then, you who have grown into your wings as I have long ago, what use would you put to that strength for I know little of the world that is and how the legacy of our dreams might be preserved?" Had this been Syrax you might have suspected a test of character or purpose. Meraxes is simply asking for advice, though you have no doubt that she will take it or not as it suits her.

What do you reply?

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OOC: Zherys swallowing his pride put Meraxes in a very good mood, and she was pretty favorable to your position beforehand as well.