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

Thirtieth Day of the Fourth Month 294 AC

The Riverlands had seen many an army pass across its borders, from primordial battles of Fey and Giants, the war songs of the True Tongue ringing through the trees, to the banners of the First Men fluttering in the storm-touched sky, to the Andals in armor of crude iron to the raider folk of the western sea, the Ironborn sailing up the rivers that carved though the land. But never, not even in the days when magic flowed free as the waters, had they seen armies pour forth from empty air as though from wounds in reality.

In Harrenhal an old lady, last of her line, watched on from her window with a smile as the banners of the Sixth fluttered in the evening breeze. Lady Shella Whent had been a touch hesitant at first on hearing that she would have to quarter troops. She did not even speak their tongue much less know their customs, and she knew from her father and brothers, Stranger keep their souls, that fighting men of any sorts could be a handful even if you could understand them perfectly, but when she had heard that they would be doing repairs of all things well it was nice to see them build something not just tear it down. A good beginning for a new reign.

Granted it would not be her home much longer. She did not want or need this ancient pile of stones, not even now with its curse lifted and the shade of its maker banished to the hells it belonged in, but she was well content that it would be put to good use guarding a troubled land.


In Riverrun the sentiments were both darker and more fearful. The folk there had not seen great works of magic before, arches of magic that hung in the air and disgorged multitudes, and the people of Riverrun had cause beside to be fearful of the sort of folk who stepped through beyond the blackened armor and billowing crimson cloaks.

These were the soldiers of a house they had rebelled a little over ten years past. The scars of the Rebellion ran deeper in these lands than in almost any other place, and anyone who paid the least attention to the doings of lords would be able to tell that Lord Hoster had taken advantage of the change of kings to try to shore up his own rule over the Riverlands. Now that rule was over, heralded by the call of strange steel trumpets and drums that sounded in step to the sounds of steel boots and iron-shod horses.

The lancers rode with an easy skill upon steeds more than a match for a destrier, the Household knights had to agree at least in the silence of their own thoughts, but it was the men-at-arms who were the most concerned. They knew what a battle line looked like, the spine of every battle around which the cavalry arced and charged, and they knew with utter certainty that if any army the Riverlands could raise met these men in anything akin to equal number, they would not merely lose, they would be shattered.

Yet for the servants and the craftsmen, the humbler castle folk, it was the men and women in crimson robes, bright as fire against the night that drew the most attention—wizards, sorcerers, witches... everyone had a different name for it and yet the same fear of powers they did not and it seemed could never understand. That fear had been lessened to some measure at the notion that those who called upon magic would be commanded by the Faith, but now with no rule save a strange king from the east himself a sorcerer.

A few of the watchers clutched old printings of the Imperial Times, proscribed propaganda mere weeks ago, now the voice of the powers that be, but they seemed feeble comfort compared to the strange reality.

In the days to come no one would know for certain which mage threw the first wave of sparks from their lantern, or which conjured the first colorful figment, but it seemed as though everyone noticed the little girl who set to giggling when a fire bird passed by her window leaving a corona of sparks. The child sneezed, then giggled even harder, and it seemed as though the whole keep took a steadying breath then slowly the cheers started.

It was the Fourth Legion, however, who would be seeing the least pleased reaction tonight, for they would be appearing outside the unprepared walls of Seaguard.

The only remaining question was would they march alone, or in the company of the Imperator's oldest supporters in the Riverlands?

[] Yes, bring the Lads, they deserve their day in the sun after all their work in the shadows

[] No, the risk of making Ser Jason refuse to surrender when the sees 'bandits' outside his gate is too great

[] Write in

OOC: I could have pushed this past the decision, but it is late and I don't feel up to writing interesting battle scenes if it should roll that way right now.