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

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Goldfish said:
Age is no longer an issue for Richard. His latest Mythic rank came with the Longevity power. He is now biologically immortal.
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My point is that Richard is unlikely ever to mention his Longevity unprompted. Mythic ranks seem to be intuitive to those who posses them, so Richard isn't going to find his extended lifespan unnatural or indicative of an unknown magic at work. And without Richard saying anything, I can see just about everyone else in our inner circle, most of whom will live for many times the normal human lifespan or are functionally immortal, not questioning why Richard is similarly long lived.
 
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Adhoc vote count started by DragonParadox on Mar 29, 2020 at 6:05 AM, finished with 46 posts and 8 votes.
  • [X] Ser Richard will perform on a Warhorse trained in the Royal Stables to take well to his commands, in masterwork hardened barding to reduce the chances of injury, and he will have his usual talismans at hand to both heal himself or anyone else who gets hurt grievously by accident or otherwise as he will be closer to such an event than the fey healers will be--but he won't use any overt magic otherwise. If someone tries to accuse him of cheating it will be clear to see that he is likely even less well armed, using normal tourney lances, than some of the knights taking the field. This is a more important event and none shall say he won by trickery... well, no more trickery than the guise he bears.
    -[X] You on the other hand will be ready for anything, and hopefully delivering a masterful performance as his "squire" and as a bard.
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Part MMMCDXX: To Ride Again
  • Threadmarks
    • To Ride Again ​

    Twenty Fourth Day of the Twelfth Month 293 AC

    The last time Richard Lonmouth had donned spurs and took up a lance had been at the ill fated Tourney of Harrenhal, he'd been younger than the King was now chasing glory, a new made knight still looking to Prince Rhaegar for recognition. Fuck, I was younger than Princess Daenerys is now where it counts, the knight thought raising a hand to salute the girl as he passed. Beneath the bright smile that was half glamour half willful good cheer there was a watchfulness about her that veterans of a hundred battles would envy, and not all of it was about monsters appearing from the shadows.

    Lord Ashford aught to be very careful about what he does with the Cox girl, lord or no, the knight thought noticing that their host rode onto the tourney ground bearing a favor the same sky-blue color as the young sorceress' cloak.

    Adjusting for the now unfamiliar weight of a shield that did not float in midair one last time Richard faced his first opponent, Ser Henry Blackbar, a younger son of a lord who had made his mark on many a tourney though never quite ranking high enough to be notable and looking for that one bright moment before the march of years would steal away his chance.

    Spurring his horse, a stallion of the imperial stables of that was a mixed breed of Dornish and Stormlander, though nothing more than that Ricahrd, lowered his lance and held fast to his mount. The crash of two lances shattering echoed in his ears and for a moment he felt the familiar lurching sensation of losing his seat, but old instincts were not easily forgotten. He held his seat tightly, riding through the cloud of splinters while his opponent clung on for dear life.

    On the second pass he had the other knight's measure. Too cautious, too cautious by half... Though Richard himself was struck in the shoulder he delivered a blow into the middle of his opponent's chest sending him flying over the horse's rump and into the dirt to the cheering of the crowds and the fanciful singing of the King.

    He should have looked like his brother, lute in hand, playing from the stands, but his eyes were nothing like Rhaegar. When the Prince of Dragonstone had played his harp it had been with a strange intensity, as though the entire world melted away leaving nothing but him, his music and whatever had inspired him. An expression he had seen on King Viserys' face, Richard realized with a start, but not when playing any sort of instrument, when he worked magic.

    Not sure what he aught to do with the insight into a man more than ten years dead Richard simply rode the honor lap and turned to face his next opponent, the young Ser Leygood, looking very determined and proud indeed. Unless I am very much mistaken that is a show meant for one pair of eyes only, the knight of Skulls and Kisses thought glancing at the young woman in green cheering with far more than polite enthusiasm. A pity to toss you from your saddle at such a time as this lad, but your form is shit, Richard thought as his lance connected so strongly it actually made the boy's horse shy away, while his own lance went wide.

    The third knight he faced was as far from a callow youth as one could imagine however. Randyll Tarly stood straight and unwavering in his saddle as if he'd been poured from bronze, his armor and shield by far the finest Richard had seen on any of his opponents. Not as finely enchanted as the old dragonrider plate he was wearing, but fair enough that he should not take an easy ride for granted.

    Four passes they made and four times they shattered their lances on each other's shields, neither slipping from their seat, though Richard had a snicking feeling Tarly was having an easier time of it, having spent a lot more time in the saddle than him over the last few years. Have to take a chance if I'm going to win....

    At the last possible moment the stormlander knight twisted himself to the side, turning an obvious opening into a glancing shield hit, while slipping his own lance under he opponent's shield to send him slowly sliding off his mount. The Lord of Horn Hill still came within an inch of holding on even so, but it was just an inch too far.

    The cheers were not as heady as they had been at Harrenhal, but Richard would have been a liar to claim he did not drink them in just the same. As he turned to face his next opponent it was all he could do not to let out a inappropriate snort of laughter. Alfryd Fossoway couldn't win for losing it seemed.

    As the king started on his new-made song Richard could almost pity the fool who had earned himself the ire of a dragon all unknowing.

    And in Ashford upon the meadows,
    you can see a man chasing shadows.
    Ser Fossoway, the wormy apple,
    look at him and hear him prattle.

    Ser Fossoway. Ser Fossoway.
    The mouth runs fast, the mind less so.
    Ser Fossoway. Ser Fossoway.
    Knightly in body, but the character? No.

    With a bow from finest ash,
    he entered the field quite brash.
    His foe his niece, a young maid in bloom,
    but watch her shoot and know he's doomed.     ​

    Almost... "I'll strangle that bloody bard of yours, Ser," the idiot hissed when they crossed paths after the first tilt. Richard with a cracked shield after all the battering it had taken and Fossoway cradling his left arm from the way it had twisted just the wrong way.

    "You'll be finding that a lot harder to do than to say, something you shouldn't need me to tell you after today," he answered, struggling to keep back a smile as the song continued to proclaim the other knight's unworthiness for all to hear.

    Ser Fossoway. Ser Fossoway.
    No arrow flies straight, no target he hits.
    Ser Fossoway. Ser Fossoway.
    Watch him rage and have his fits.

    "It's magic! It's fey!" That's his claim,
    but it's clear as day who is to blame.
    No talent, no skill, just full of pride.
    But shouting and baying, these faults to hide.

    Ser Fossoway. Ser Fossoway.
    Demands a favor. Does not want to pay.
    Ser Fossoway. Ser Fossoway.
    Would sell his niece to the fey    .​

    Spite it seemed made for a stronger chain to keep a man in a saddle than Richard had assumed for on a second tilt and on a third he clung on cursing and spitting, though this time he knew better than to shout about magic, that unlike in the archery competition wasn't even there. The King had not even suggested trickery... well besides a glamoured face and conjured name, but that was just good sense given what they were here to do.

    But this deal won't stand.
    Not on Ashford land.
    Yet the neighbors look and what they swear?
    "No spell seen on the lass." The verdict quite clear.

    Ser Fossoway. Ser Fossoway.
    His arrows plow dirt. His honor at stake.
    Ser Fossoway. Ser Fossoway.
    His niece splits an arrow, sealing his fate.

    The lass the crowd cheers,
    For the knight they have jeers.
    But a moral we find in the tale of this brute.
    Be kind to thy neighbors and to those who own lutes.    ​

    It was on the fourth tilt that Richard won again, though this time not through clever trickery, more through his foe losing his head and lifting his lance at the last moment. The Stormlander knew he should be angry at the dishonorable conduct that risked getting splinters through the visor of his helm and killing him, but the idea of dying to bloody lance splinters of all things was too absurd to credit and there wasn't much point to trying to further drag his name through the mud.

    Ser Fossoway. Ser Fossoway.
    Red in the face when we tell his tale.
    Ser Fossoway. Ser Fossoway.
    But we'll sing it and dance it until it grows stale.

    Ser Fossoway. Ser Fossoway.
    Red in the face when we tell his tale.
    Ser Fossoway. Ser Fossoway.
    But we'll sing it and dance it until it grows stale.     ​

    Richard took his next lance from his 'squire' with a nod and a smile and headed off to face the Lord of Ashford, the last confrontation one way or the other. "I almost feel guilty to get so far up in my own tourney, father would have called me greedy," the young lord admitted when the two rode past each other for the first time, lances raised.

    "Enjoy the day riding in the sun while you can," Richard replied with a shake of the head. There was a bit too much of the Red Viper about this one, but he was a likely lad just the same.

    The first pass almost threw Richard from his seat while his own lance did not seem to trouble his opponent in the slightest. Teach me of all people not to underestimate a young face.

    On the second, the last pass Richard's lance twisted the Lord of Ashford about by the shoulder and saw him fall while Richard managed to stay solidly in the saddle.

    He'd won. It wasn't like his boyhood dreams, but it was good to know he could still bear a lance and ride a horse fairly enough to impress the knights of the Reach.

    "And now, good Ser, you have only to name a Queen of Love and Beauty. I'm certain there are many a maidens with hearts a flutter over so grand and so mysterious a knight," Lord Owen Ashford said slyly as Richard helped him to his feet.

    Richard hoped the King had some ideas, for he hadn't been paying enough attention to the ladies in the stands to tell one from the other.

    Who do you suggest Ser Richard name Queen of Love and Beauty?

    [] Ellara Meadows, elder sister of the young Lord of Grassy Vale

    [] Rella Mullendore, granddaughter of the Lord of Uplands

    [] Megga Tyrell, distant cousin of the main branch

    [] Rina Cox (disguised Companion)

    [] Write in

    OOC: Sorry this took so long guys, the tilts are take some time to build up and roll even with simplified stats.
     
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  • Threadmarks
    • Ashford had his eyes set on Rina, right?

    It eould be bad form to name her... on the other hand she deserves these things. We are basically fulfilling the dreams of every feudal nobleperson without much effort
     
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    DragonParadox said:
    Lord Ashford aught to be very careful what he does with the Cox girl, duke or no, the knight thought noticing that their host rode into the tourney ground bearing a favor the same color sky-blue as the young sorceress' cloak.
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    Spurning the rising queen of the true winter fey would be bad for his health. He better not Cox this up.

    [X] Rina Cox (disguised Companion)

    Pretty sure that part of our disguise was that Rina and Richard were together right? At the very least she's the only woman he knows in the stands that it'd be appropriate to give it to. As Geralt it could imply some Reaching above his station, and for the few people who know (or will know) who he really is it could imply royal favor in the way that makes Westerosi nobles go strange.
     
    Artemis1992 said:
    No, or she wouldn't have given Ashford her favor?
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    Oops. Must have mixed it up with one of the proposed plans we didn't go with then. Rest of my points still stand though.

    edit: though that does make me wonder what the Westerosi think she is. We didn't specify relative, and they don't look much alike.

    Given how Westeros is kind of a pit of sexism and nonsense, what else would they assume about an woman traveling unattended with a landless knight?
     
    Last edited:
    DragonParadox said:
    To Ride Again ​

    Twenty Fourth Day of the Twelfth Month 293 AC

    The last time Richard Lonmouth had donned spurs and taken up a lance had been at the ill-fated Tourney of Harenhell. He'd been younger than the king was now, a new made knight chasing glory and still looking to Prince Rhaegar for recognition. Fuck, I was younger than Princess Daenerys is now, at least where it counts, the knight thought, raising a hand to salute the girl as he passed. Beneath the bright smile, hall-glamor half willful good cheer, there was a watchfulness about her that veterans of a hundred battles would envy, and not all of it was about monsters appearing from the shadows.

    Lord Ashford aught to be very careful what he does with the Cox girl, duke or no, the knight thought, noticing that their host rode into the tourney ground bearing a favor the same color sky-blue as the young sorceress' cloak.

    Adjusting for the now unfamiliar weight of a shield that did not float in mid air one last time, Richard faced his first opponent, Ser Henry Blackbar, a younger son of a younger son who had made his mark on many a tourney, though never quite ranking high enough to be notable and looking for that one bright moment before the march of years would steal away his chance.

    Spurring his horse, a stallion of the Imperial stables of mixed Dornish and Stormlander breed, though nothing more than that, Richard lowered his lance and held fast to his mount. The crash of two lances shattering echoed in his ears and for a moment he felt the familiar lurching sensation of losing his seat, but old instincts were not easily forgotten. He held his seat tightly, riding through the cloud of splinters while his opponent clung on for dear life.

    On the second pass he had the other knight's measure. Too cautious, too cautious by half... Though Richard himself was struck in the shoulder, he delivered a blow into the middle of his opponent's chest, sending him flying over the horse's rump and into the dirt accompanied by the cheering of the crowds and the fanciful singing of the king.

    He should have looked like his brother, lute in hand, playing from the stands, but his eyes were nothing like Rhaegar. When the Prince of Dragonstone had played his harp, it had been with a strange intensity, as though the entire world melted away leaving nothing but him his music and whatever had inspired him. An expression he had seen on King Viserys' face, Richard realized with a start, not when playing any sort of instrument, but rather when he worked magic.

    Not sure what he aught to do with the insight into a man more than ten years dead, Richard simply rode the honor lap and turned to face his next opponent, the young Ser Leygood, looking very determined and proud indeed. Unless I am very much mistaken, that is a show meant for one pair of eyes only, the knight of Skulls and Kisses thought, glancing at the young woman in green cheering with far more than polite enthusiasm. A pity to toss you from your saddle at such a time as this, lad, but your form is shit, Richard thought as his lance connected so strongly it actually made the boy's horse shy away, while his own lance went wide.

    The third knight he faced, however, was as far from a callow youth as one could imagine. Randyl Tarly stood straight and unwavering in his saddle, as if he'd been poured from bronze, his armor and shield by far the finest Richard had seen on any of his opponents. Not as finely enchanted as the old dragon rider plate he was wearing, but fair enough that he should not take an easy ride for granted.

    Four passes they made, and four times they shattered their lances on one another's shields, neither slipping from their seat, though Richard had a sinking feeling Tarly was having an easier time of it, having spent a lot more time in the saddle than him over the last few years. Have to take a chance if I'm going to win....

    At the last possible moment, the Stormlander knight twisted himself to the side, turning an obvious opening into a glancing shield hit, while slipping his own lance under he opponent's shield to send him slowly sliding off his mount. The Lord of Horn Hill came within an inch of holding on even so, but it was just an inch too far.

    The cheers were not as heady as they had been at Harenhall, but Richard would have been a liar to claim he did not drink them in just the same. As he turned to face his next opponent, it was all he could do not to let out an inappropriate snort of laughter. Alfryd Fossoway couldn't win for loosing it seemed.

    As the king started on his new-made song, Richard could almost pity the fool who had earned himself the ire of a dragon all unknowing.

    And in Ashford upon the meadows,
    you can see a man chasing shadows.
    Ser Fossoway, the wormy apple,
    look at him and hear him prattle.

    Ser Fossoway. Ser Fossoway.
    The mouth runs fast, the mind less so.
    Ser Fossoway. Ser Fossoway.
    Knightly in body, but the character? No.

    With a bow from finest ash,
    he entered the field quite brash.
    His foe his niece, a young maid in bloom,
    but watch her shoot and know he's doomed.     ​

    Almost... "I'll strangle that bloody bard of yours, Ser," the idiot hissed when they crossed paths after the first tilt, Richard with a cracked shield after all the battering it had taken and Fossoway cradling his left arm from the way it had twisted just the wrong way.

    "You'll be finding that a lot harder to do than to say, something you shouldn't need me to tell you after today," he answered, struggling to keep back a smile as the song continued to proclaim the other knight's unworthiness for all to hear.

    Ser Fossoway. Ser Fossoway.
    No arrow flies straight, no target he hits.
    Ser Fossoway. Ser Fossoway.
    Watch him rage and have his fits.

    "It's magic! It's Fey!" That's his claim,
    but it's clear as day who is to blame.
    No talent, no skill, just full of pride.
    But shouting and baying, these faults to hide.

    Ser Fossoway. Ser Fossoway.
    Demands a favor. Does not want to pay.
    Ser Fossoway. Ser Fossoway.
    Would sell his niece to the Fey    .​

    Spite, it seemed, made for a stronger chain to keep a man in a saddle than Richard had assumed, for on a second tilt and on a third he clung on, cursing and spitting, though this time he knew better than to shout about magic that, unlike in the archery competition, wasn't even there. The king had not even suggested trickery... well, besides a glamored face and conjured name, but that was just good sense given what they were here to do.

    But this deal won't stand.
    Not on Ashford land.
    Yet the neighbours look and what they swear?
    "No spell seen on the lass." The verdict quite clear.

    Ser Fossoway. Ser Fossoway.
    His arrows plow dirt. His honor at stake.
    Ser Fossoway. Ser Fossoway.
    His niece splits an arrow, sealing his fate.

    The lass the crowd cheers,
    For the knight they have jeers.
    But a moral we find in the tale of this brute.
    Be kind to thy neighbours and to those who own lutes.    ​

    It was on the fourth tilt that Richard won again, though this time not through clever trickery, but more through his foe losing his head and lifting his lance at the last moment. The Stormlander knew he should be angry at the dishonorable conduct that risked getting splinters though the visor of his helm and killing him, but the idea of dying to bloody lance splinters of all things was too absurd to credit and there wasn't much point to trying to further drag his name through the mud.

    Ser Fossoway. Ser Fossoway.
    Red in the face when we tell his tale.
    Ser Fossoway. Ser Fossoway.
    But we'll sing it and dance it until it grows stale.

    Ser Fossoway. Ser Fossoway.
    Red in the face when we tell his tale.
    Ser Fossoway. Ser Fossoway.
    But we'll sing it and dance it until it grows stale.     ​

    Richard took his next lance from his 'squire' with a nod and a smile, and headed off to face the Lord of Ashford, the last confrontation one way or the other. "I almost feel guilty to get so far up in my own tourney. Father would have called me greedy," the young lord admitted when the two rode past each other for the first time, lances raised.

    "Enjoy the day riding in the sun while you can," Richard replied with a shake of the head. There was a bit too much of the Red Viper about this one, but he was a likely lad just the same.

    The first pass almost threw Richard from his seat while his own lance did not seem to trouble his opponent in the slightest. Teach me of all people not to underestimate a young face.

    On the second, the last pass, his lance twisted the Lord of Ashford about by the shoulder and saw him fall while Richard managed to stay solidly in the saddle.

    He'd won. It wasn't like his boyhood dreams, but it was good to know he could still bear a lance and ride a horse fairly enough to impress the knights of the Reach.

    "And now, good Ser, you have only to name a Queen of Love and Beauty. I'm certain there are many a maidens with hearts aflutter over so grand and so mysterious a knight," Lord Owen Ashford said slyly as Richard helped him to his feet.

    Richard hoped the king had some ideas, for he hadn't been paying enough attention to the ladies in the stands to tell one from the other.

    Who do you suggest Ser Richard name Queen of Love and Beauty?

    [] Ellara Meadows, elder sister of the young lord of Grassy Vale

    [] Rella Mullendore, granddaughter of the Lord of Uplands

    [] Megga Tyrell, distant cousin of the main branch

    [] Rina Cox (disguised Companion)

    [] Write in

    OOC: Sorry this took so long guys, the tilts take some time to build up and roll even with simplified stats. Not yet edited.
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    Here's an edited version of the chapter, DP.
     
    Since 'See Geralt' is a mystery knight who arrived in the company of Buttercup the Bars and two female associates, one of them apparently a young child, the least bothersome or disappointing outcome for all involved would be for him to choose Rina, IMO.

    [X] Rina Cox (disguised Companion)
     
    Artemis1992 said:
    Go all in.
    Propose to his Bard.
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    Tomcost said:
    How much lf a troll would that be of we actually pulled that off?

    Big heterosexual male dominant society gets this whole badass guy who defeated everyone to openly declare he is homesexual
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    Ser Richard would probably find doing so awkward. He is looking for an out, not to make even more of a spectacle of himself.

    Goldfish said:
    Since 'See Geralt' is a mystery knight who arrived in the company of Buttercup the Bars and two female associates, one of them apparently a young child, the least bothersome or disappointing outcome for all involved would be for him to choose Rina, IMO.

    [X] Rina Cox (disguised Companion)
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    Small note, Dany is pretending to be a boy.
     
    I don't like choosing Rina here.
    She seems to like Ashford and Geralt making her his queen would likely put a stop to that flirt from Ashford's side.

    [X] Any of the present girls, his choice.
     
    [X] Buttercup with the most dry and sarcastic humor


    We are going to have to prance around in a dress later to truly take advantage of this comedy
     
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