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

Tenth Day of the Fourth Month 294 AC

It is fortunate that you brought dragons with you to this strange land, for few other beings would have been able to scout its bounds in the span of a day... and defeat or outrun the sort of beings that dwell near them, predators from the mists of Limbo and fey guardians alike. This mist-bounded land, known to its people as the Stormlands and to the spirits that whisper in the deep woods and labyrinthine ravines as the Crucible, resembles the days of the Andal Invasions only so far as one does not peer too closely at its monster-haunted depths.

The fey who wrought it knew more of the Age of Dawn, when the land was alive with spirits and song, and so it is here. The farther one goes from Bronzegate keep in the heart of the realm, the more broadly the lines are drawn like a painting where the artist had grown bored in his craft half way, only sketching the edges. To the north and east beyond Willwater Lake, where the Kingswood would be in the mortal lands, the forests fade into tangled thickets known only as the Wild Woods, where even the most daring hunters and trappers do not dare to tread. To the South lie the Barren Hills, a sun-parched wilderness of crumbling limestone, that and dying shrub land that in no way resembles the rich lands of the Reach that should be there. Finally, to the east lies the Eastern Sea, what would be later called the Narrow Sea. The further one flies that way, the more land and sea mingle until all falls to shapeless grey.

Unsurprisingly given the nature of this place, the roughly fifty thousand souls that call it home congregate mostly towards the more stable regions around Bronzegate and Haystitch Hall, stretching all the way to the southern bank of Willwater Lake. The site of Fellwood is, in the words of a myrkdreki, 'a miserable little outpost fit to fall off the edge of the world'.

From what can be seen from the air, perhaps eight in one hundred of the people here are fortunate enough to live behind the warded stone walls of the keeps, with the others prey to hunting horrors and 'raiders from the sea'.


It is the latter more than any beast of limbo that are strangest in your eye. Where are these supposed Ironborn coming from to reave, pillage, and burn, only to return to the sea like ghosts?

"There's one way to find out for sure," Dany points out thoughtfully.


It does not take long to find your target, a small longboat laden with plunder and thralls sailing back into the formless realms. You fall upon the reavers in the night, making quick work of the bolder warriors, arrow and throwing axes bouncing off your scales and the sorcerer trying to summon choking water into your lungs. Yet the rowers and sailors in the below deck fight with equal fierceness, paying no mind to Renly's calls for surrender. If anything, they fight all the fiercer to get to him, matching bloodied axes and screaming rage against the changeling's measured sword strokes.

You had been expecting something like this given the nature of the realm, a proving ground for a sacrificial king, but what you had not expected was for the dead to steam and hiss upon the deck as soon as the battle is done, returning to the mists, not for your prisoners to fall into spasms, necks snapping as the eyes stared vacantly at the false stars.

"Tulpa," Teana hisses, looking down at a dying sailor at her feet. "Shadows of men's fears. No wander these Ironborn only raid and never trade..."

"Ironborn traded?" Renly asks, seemingly more confused at this than at the the notion of foes that dissolve into the fog.

"Yes, whatever those who kept to 'the Old Way' would have told, Ironborn have traded for milenia, it is just that paying 'the gold price' was ever seen as lesser than paying 'the iron price' thanks to their unseen masters." You shake your head with a laugh. "I suppose Balon Greyjoy would appreciate this place, where Ironborn are just nightmares made flesh."

"Nightmares they may be, but their blades cut in earnest and their chains bind true," Dany said looking into the hold. She glances back at Renly. "Best not meddle in the mummery where anyone can see. Could you...?"

The changeling nods grimly. "I'm supposed to be Ser Renard, right?"

The former thralls are glad indeed to be set ashore, being all too quick to accept that the reavers had all been thrown overboard.


Eleventh Day of the Fourth Month 294 AC

The following morning you learn that the 'real' Ser Renard is currently a host of the Lord of Fellwood alongside his seven companions, skilled knights all sung throughout the land. Though all of them seem mortal, as much as anyone in this realm is, you mark well the gleam of magic in the scrying glass. It seems their adventures have borne fruit in arcane treasures, all of fey make. Breadcrumbs before pigeons...

Also of note is the easy camaraderie between them. If you read some of the japes aright, Renly Baratheon has shared a bed with at least three of them, though he slept alone last night. Nairos had given him his wish, wrapped up in all the hooks and lies, not one great love, but friends and lovers who accepted him easily, and a world that did not pay great mind to who he chooses to love. As far as you can see, none of them seem any more aware of the nature of the world they live in then their leader is, though that is hard to judge from glimpses in the scrying mirror. Fortunately, other divinations are more conclusive.

When the oracular smoke has cleared you have as good answers as you are likely to get. None of the seven know the truth, though the eldest of their number, Ser Garlos of the Fellwods, had strange dreams about the mists ever since the encounter with the Darkweaver, dreams that seem more real than the waking world.

How do you meet with Renly?

[] In the guise of a rich patron from a foreign land, test how far the bounds of this place are enforced

[] In the guise of a sorcerer seeking to impart wisdom

[] Simply as yourself, you are curious what this strange realm would make of Viserys Targaryen

[] Write in

OOC: Breadcrumbs before pigeons is the Esossi version of lambs to the slaughter, or rather the urban version, it's one of those expressions you can hear from Braavos to Volantis. Not yet edited.