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

Thirtieth Day of the Fourth Month 294 AC

When you were a boy the Iron Throne, your father's throne, had a sort of majesty around it, a frightful presence. It was the closest thing to magic you had ever touched before that day in Braavos when your life had turned a new heeding. The thing coils in the back of the chamber like a beast of a thousand thousand blades ready to tear at your flesh at the slightest misstep. Yet looking upon it with the eyes of a child you had somehow missed the all the scars it had left upon your father's father's flesh and you had missed moreover that it was something of a prideful conceit.

After all, if you had a dragon or were one the lords of Westeros were unlikely to forget the fact just because you sat on the melted ruin of a pile of swords that dragons made useless, and if you did not have one, as could be said of every king since Aegon Dragonbane, it was just a salient reminder of that fact at every moment of every court function. A sharp reminder if ever there was one of why so many lost so much trying to raise the dragons from the dead.


Yet you had raised the dragons, you had flown upon your own wings and breathed a fire far hotter than what had forged this throne. Thus you walk down the length of the hall, ignoring the whispers of the courtiers and minor functionaries. It is admittedly a bit of a struggle not to smile when you hear a legion colonel place a bet with one of his fellow officers on what you are about to do next.

Ordinarily the king does not take this path, they sweep in from the left where the passage to the royal apartments is. These are not ordinary times and you are not merely a king. As you reach the foot of the throne you run a hand over the sharpest blade you can see, the edge barely felt against your skin.

"Hmm... not as sharp as it used to be, is it?" you note with seeming idleness as you show your unmarked hand. Then in a single sudden movement you sweep your cloak forward, gold running over iron, seeming to devour it in twists of space and matter the eye of man was not meant to see. "Not to worry," you assure the crowd, "it will be reforged to better fit its purpose. For now..." you motion to the stone and it flows like water, a still wave coiling into a simpler but still finely made throne.

Taking a seat before the quiet hall you note that the colonel had not won his bet, but his does not look too disappointed in the fact as moments later two Golden Shield mages still in tattered uniforms are brought up to be judged. One was struggling all the while against their guards and trying to speak through his gag, still trying to satisfy his geas while the other had seemingly given up, barely even shuffling along to his fate.

"It is not my custom to punish the slave for the actions of a perfidious master and know ye that this is what you have walking before you, here upon the shores of Westeros, slaves of Tywin Lannister, by enchantment and compulsion. Be free!"

And so they are, amid effusive thanks from one and tears from the other that confirm your words. Rather than hide the fact that they shall have to be looked over by the Inquisition for any lingering effects, you make it public. At the end of the day an inquisitor is a servant of the realm just as much as a lawman. You do not want honest and loyal citizens to be afraid of them.

After that bringing in the two Westerlander knights and such junior officers among the Red Cloaks as could be found goes smoothly, until that is you mention the Wall. Most of the men looked relieved to be given the choice, but one of the knights, a certain Hugh of the Blue Hills, takes it... poorly.

"You want me to fight Them, the Cold Ones, the Others, for you?!" he gives a hysterical laugh, the sound echoing strangely through the high arched hall. "You are as crazy as your father if you think I'll take that! I'll take the noose and gladly."

"As you will," you shrug, letting the words slide past you. As Ser Hugh is escorted from the room you turn to the others and note. "Should you choose the Black I expect you to fight for the sake of all who dwell south of the Wall, the Shield that guards the realms of men, no more and no less. If you wish to curse me in the doing than that is no concern of mine."

Into the silence that follows you consider the next step in the plan for the night.

What do you no next?

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OOC: I have been planning to write this scene ever since you guys mentioned getting rid of or reforging the Iron Throne, which is probably years now.