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

Eighteenth Day of the Eighth Month 294 AC

The roar of the crowd filled the arena like the crashing of waves upon the shore and banners waved madly in the hands of the thousand upon thousand seated in the tiered steps. Children climbed onto the shoulders of their parents for a better look while hawkers of hood and drink called out to one and all:

"Get your glazed corn on the cob! Glazed corn on the cob here!" Sugar, once a luxury of the elite, was growing more affordable in Sorcerer's Deep, ferried over on ships from the east.

"Small beer! Small beer! Who wants some small beer to tide them over for the fight?!" It was only 'small' beer ever since one unfortunate instance when word had come in from the House of Mirrors, shutting the whole arena down to prevent a riot later in the day, which had been later concluded would have been caused by the prevalence of spirits.

"Authentic steel figures! Polished, painted and thrice-forged! Get them for your children to play with! Get them to show to your grandchildren!"

You could not hear the clink of copper schillings, but you could still see the flash in the bright evening sunlight. Thus it was that a man of the North met a dragon on the hot sands of the Circle, though he wasn't quite what one might expect from the look of him.

"He looks like a bear that just saw a snake in the grass," Ser Richard affords himself a small laugh as he looks down upon the Greatjon meeting his opponent for the first time, his second opponent that was. Edmure Tully had not lasted more than half a minute in the fight, much to the misfortune of those spectators who had been willing to bet on long odds for the underdog. The odds were much more balanced for this fight. After all, the last time warriors from the western lands faced a dragon it went ill indeed for them.

Still, this was not Amrelath, red in tooth, claw and scale, his breath as a furnace and his voice echoing like thunder. Osryx tipped his head back and waved to the crowd, his guise as fair as any son of Valyria, his doublet grey and fringed with silver as though he had just come from a ball. Though as Tyene notes, it would have to be one not overly concerned with propriety. The myrkdreki does not wear anything under the unbuttoned doublet, giving the audience a good look at the bare chest underneath. "He shall not lack for company after this if he wants it..." your friend trails off. At Waymar's look she bats her eyes with faux innocence. "What? I'm only admiring his skill with shape-shifting."

The young knight snorts. "I'll have to remember that one."


Greatjon Umber could not have made more of a contrast to his opponent's courtly elegance or fencer's grace if he had tried. Garbed in heavy steel scale blackened by the soot of another world and hefting a sword near as long as Osryx is tall he strides boldly forth. Though a bristling black beard obscures hia face his words are courteous enough as the bows to his opponent and his eyes are wary.


That weariness is almost enough to spare him from his the dragon's first blow, but as his eyes are fixed upon the lines of his body and the twitch of his wrist his experience betrays him for Osryx is not bound to what mortal bone and sinew can bear. He flings himself forward, half charge, half running jump, slipping under the arc of the heavy blade and slipping his own true silver rapier between the finer scales of the Greatjon's mail just beneath the collar bone.

Then he twists as you suck in a deep gulp of air between your teeth. He had almost carved right into the tendons of the shoulder which would have left the Northener the option of fighting left-handed or fighting with ever growing pain. Luckily for Greatjon and in no small measure for the audience who wants to see a grand show after a yesterday's less than stellar performance he manages to get his shoulder out of the way just in time, taking the blow on the upper arm instead.

Another man might have been staggered, he might at least have been startled out of his own charge by the pain, but the lord of Last Hearth was made of sterner stuff. He brought his own sword arching in an undercut that struck Osryx in the chest and practically threw the dragon back by sheer force of the blow.

Twisting in the air quicksilver-swift, such that the beads of blood hung like dewdrops, the dragon laughed then. "Well, well, the bull has sharp horns then, all the better to... " he huffed as the sword came in for the next strike and grabbed onto it with his left hand, propelling himself upwards. "Hang on to."

The next exchange left the Greatjon without his helm and bleeding from the side of his face as he cursed a slightly limping Osrys. They seemed evenly matched in skill for all they had come to it by such different paths.

"By the Gods, stand still! Stand still so I can can stick you!" What might have at another time have been a roar of anger was now merely frustration bubbling over into the bloodlust for which the Umbers were famed.

As soon ask the wind to be still as Osryx. Though the dragon soon added what looked like a broken rib to his collection of wounds, his blade was always faster, as were his words. There are entire schools of dueling centered along not giving any sign to one's opponents as to one's next move, but by contrast he seems to delight in it. You can only hope he had fun because he would have likely won without it.

The sound of a spine snapping is very loud indeed, enough to cover the cursing of half-blinded Greatjon still trying to clear a handful of sand out of his face as he tries to strike his opponent.

"Good show," the myrkdreki proclaims, spitting out a mouthful of dust as the healers rush forward. "Want to try again when I'm in my own skin sometime?"

"Are you any easier to hit for being bigger?" the lord of Last Hearth asks, swaying on his feet slightly, bleeding from more than a dozen different wounds himself.

"Not so you'd notice," comes the sly reply.

"Then I'll have to pass for now," came the wary reply, followed by a reluctant laugh.

What next?

[] See more from the joust

[] Finish with the results from this category of the melee and then move on to the others

[] Write

OOC: And that is the power of crits and very high STR modifiers as well as the HP to tank death by a thousand cuts.