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

Fifteenth Day of the Eighth Month 294 AC

When most men think of alchemy they always seem to think of gold first, of wealth beyond measure. Or if they are inclined to suspicion before greed, they think of blood, that crimson mark that shows both the proof of life and the peril of death. For yourself, placed into a position to judge, if asked what mundane material that is the most remarkable in its transformations, you would say glass without hesitation. The lens in a Myrish Eye can bring close up that which was far away, the shine of a mirror can reflect the watcher's face back clearer than the stillest pond, marbled calcedonio can imitate the treasures of the deep earth and fine filigree that flows like streams of gold and silver frozen in time.

For all you see arrayed before you, masters from as far east as Mantarys and as far west as Lannisport, there is no real question as to who holds mastery in this. Fame more than four centuries in the making does not lie.

A dragon rampant stands defiantly on the table prepared for the Grandmaster of the Glassmakers of Myr, its scales of glittering aventurine, or goldstone as it is at times called, though it is more crimson than gold. The actual craftsman who made the dragon is a tall dark-haired fellow, almost broad shouldered enough to be mistakenly thought a smith. He offers a brilliant white smile. "What better substance, after all, to make the dragon out of, eh?"


"I prefer the older name to be honest, goodman," you reply, returning the man's bow with a nod of your own. "It sounds more interesting. One can with only a bit of luck simply dig gold out of the ground. Yet discovering an entirely new substance made by purely mundane means when seeking alchemical reagents is rarer by far. It would be much more common to find something you would rather have not."

"Aye," the man chuckles, deep and rumbling. "More often than not, your apprentices find just enough of you to bury in a jewelry box. But that is not all I made for the day. That dragon is looking mighty lonely, if you do not mind me saying so, Your Majesty..."

"I do not." Though it is not hard to guess what the Myrman had planned, you are still surprised to see the figure of Lya in her starry robes with filigree of gold and silver wrought, a mage's staff in her hand. You had expected something more themed to the wedding, but this makes her seem as ready to go to war as the dragon wrought in your image.

Someone had put in a great deal of heart into the making of this, likely more than had gone into the dragon, for that was easy enough to find models of in all manner of forms, but so far Lya has been less of a public figure, not to mention the skills it took to get the astral patterns on her robes right, the precise celestial configuration for the day of your wedding.

As your eyes again dart from the work to the craftsman, you move from surprise to shock, seeing sadness, longing there, poorly veiled. There is nothing of the good cheer that had been there before. What Lya will say at having inspired an infatuation from afar, you cannot guess at. It seems almost cruel irony to grant him first prize now, but he has earned it without question, and you are not about to insult the city of Myr by refusing it. You say the right words and clinking marks change hands, crafts for crafts.

Next up are the smiths. Many had come with weapons fit for war, bearded axes engraved with scenes of valor and battle, swords heavy upon the foe yet light and balanced in the hand...

"For mundane work, at least," Dark Sister grumbles.

You rather agree, if not quite for the same reason. Thus you pass by stands with fanciful Tyroshi helms wrought in the forms of beasts and birds and those of Westerlander smiths who cannot quite meet your eye as readily for all their craft of steel is no less fair. Thus, you come upon the stand of an elderly man with only a few hints of red left in the grey of his beard like sparks in a dying hearth, Donnal by name. Rather then weapons, the smith, one of the most skilled in Runestone, forges tools and in this case surgical instruments. Fair and gleaming they are in the noonday sun, their edges fine as anything that can be wrought without sorcery.

"Good for any sort of healer's work as you can't do with magic alone, Your Majesty..." the man trails off for a moment. "Well, not you particularly, just you know regular wizards like."

Regular wizards, especially after the news from Oldtown, the words are music to your ears. You might almost hand him a prize for that alone, though your reasoning is rather more twisty than that. Surgery had grown a good bit more commonplace now that one could use simple magic in place of crude stitches when you did not have the skill to simply mend the ailment with sorcery. Yet there were still plenty of places that looked poorly on cutting into living flesh, so in offering your prize you could offer your blessing.

Yet just as you open your mouth to speak, you notice a familiar boy, dark-haired and blue-eyed. Gendry Waters had made a showing, and not just in Mott's shadow, not just as an apprentice. He had reforged a small necklace of dragonsteel, each link like coils of fire locking around the throat. It is only when you look more closely that you realize he had run threads of true silver and cold iron through it, bane of many a perilous being. As fair a warding talisman as one could make, without magic that is.

Rewarding the son of Robert Baratheon would show once and for all in the most public of ways that you bear no grudge, while at the same time marking what you expect of those who had by their will or not been associated with the last king of Westeros. Build a better future.

Who do you give first prize for smithing?

[] Donal of Runestone

[] Gendry Waters

OOC: I really wanted to fit in the clocks too, but this is already past a thousand words and more to the point it is almost midnight for me.