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

Twenty First Day of the Twelfth Month 293 AC

Though you had told Doran months ago that you would enact a public trial for Teora, and nothing of what you had heard inclines you to leniency, that certainly is not possible now for you are not her overlord and Doran does not have as strong a hand as you against his lords, nor for that matter would it send the same message you had intended. Likely as not it would play directly into Dayne's hands.

"Here is what is going to happen," you say, tone hard enough Stannis Baratheon would likely approve, though the Lord of Storm's End would most certainly not approve of your next words. "You will stay here for an afternoon. Upon returning to Sunspear you will admit to dabbling in magic and having found a willing and skilled teacher, and you will ask your mother to remain with them for training. You will be traveling at once to Draconys at the edge of my lands."

"Mother would never allow it," her voice shakes with relief and trepidation all at once you suspect. You wonder if she even know where Draconys is. Better than the headsman's blade in any case.

"She will allow it and you will be going. The political consequences of your scheme being revealed are too grave to allow, lest you will be tried for them." You do not mention execution, but the notion hangs in the air just the same. Half the Lords of Dorne and no small number in the other kingdoms would demand it. To strike against kin is a hated enough a deed, but to do so with the intent to usurp an inheritance is among the greatest fears of all the lords of Westeros. "Thus you will instead be watched and I will never hear of one misdeed from you again, no troubles, no questionable dealings. Is that clear?"

For all her sins Teora Toland is an intelligent young woman. She nods jerkily. "Yes, Your Grace."


"I'd have seen her head roll," Ser Richard says quietly later as you move through the echoing corridors of the Inquisition Headquarters looking for Vaela's assigned minder so you can find the Toland heir. "I'd also make a shit king." he says a moment later, the corners of his mouth twitching into an expression too brief to be called a smile.

"You would make a better king than most, Ser, if that was where your duty lay, but I am glad indeed to have you at my side instead." You reply gravely.

Looking over the file on Vaela Toland you find about what you had expected, a few tangles with the Lawmen over drinking, brawls or both, along two instances of trying to use her rank to get out of her punishment even though she was supposed to be here in secret, thankfully covered up adequately by the Inquisition. You can see what Arianne meant about her being aimless, she had tried to enlist in the Academy, but failed the entrance examination, had herself tested for the Scholarum 'on a lark' and given up three days later.

Part of you wonders how much of this is her natural inclination and how much the magical compulsions, but it is not as though you can justify experimenting to find out. Instead you resolve to give her back the direction she had lost and deal with her later when and how it is necessary.

By evening, having drank more beer than in the last half year and listened to stories of Vaela's months of 'freedom', you managed to persuade her that Dorne would be changing more than enough to satisfy her desire for adventure. Thankfully she did not seem any more suggestible than one might expect. The heir to a Dornish countess being inclined to credulity would have been one more headache for Prince Doran.


Lady Nymella embraces her elder daughter fondly, her chiding gentle indeed compared to the supposed transgression of running away from hearth and House. Unfortunately her pleasant mood evaporates when you mention that Teora had been studying magic and the 'opportunity' she had found in Sorcerer's Deep.

"Were you fucking him?" the Lady of Ghost Hill asks her younger daughter sharply.

"I do not know who you mean mother," Teora said softly, gaze dropping to the floor.

"Uron, the bent-legged son of a swineherd, is that how you got him to teach you magic?" Nymella asks, taking feigned meekness for weakness.

Vaela laughs nastily.

It is a pity you can never reveal what went on at Ghost Hill, mostly because you cannot punish Teora fully under the law, but also because her mother will never know just what her parenting had helped foster. The idea of encouraging formal education for the sons and daughters of the nobility seems more appealing by the moment.

"No mother, I..." Teora begins uncertainly, but before she can decide how to defend herself you interject smoothly.

"I believe this is a unique opportunity for Teora personally and for your House..." Words you had said many times before follow, arguments that swayed firmer opinions and indeed it does not take long to obtain her assent, ironically at least in part due to the same disdain for her younger daughter that had started the whole mess.


It is clear even before either of them speak that Waymar and Tyene have had a better time dealing with Lord Fowler than you did with the tangles of House Toland. "Imagine if Salladhor Saan had been born a lord's son rather than a pirate's and there you have Franklyn Fowler," Tyene explains over dinner, gesturing with a piece of spice-bread.

"No need to sound so admiring about it," Waymar laughs.

"As a Sand Snake, I'm obligated to like scoundrels from filial piety," she replies loftily. In a more serious tone she explains. "He was amenable to the reasons for not sacrificing bandits to the Heart Tree under the laws you made. Agreed to stop almost at once, spent the rest of the visit arranging discreet investments for the Earths Bounty Jewelry Manufactory."

Alas, the pleasant mood was not to last. Dany's voice echoes in your thoughts. "Someone just shot Andrew Dayne with an arrow while I was watching. I think it was poisoned. They vanished into the crowds. He hasn't gotten up. Should I heal him?"

What do you do?

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OOC: This feels a little unfocused, but I'm trying not to get bogged down in minutia.