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

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[X] Azel

Voting for this since it would be nice to see, but I do admit to a curiosity towards the Jon Arryn interlude that was mentioned. It would be an interesting to see what went on in his head before his passing.
 
Trevor23 said:
[X] Azel

Voting for this since it would be nice to see, but I do admit to a curiosity towards the Jon Arryn interlude that was mentioned. It would be an interesting to see what went on in his head before his passing.
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I'm pretty sure that Bloodraven arranged for him to have a hunting accident, so even Jon Arryn himself wouldn't have suspected foul play. Even setting that aside, he died so quickly I doubt he had time to think much of interest.
 
DragonParadox said:
Snake in the path, perfectly normal and natural snake.
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Rizz'neth: "Ah, yesss. Perfectly normal. Thisss ssspecimen did not even have innate Chrono-Entanglement with which to perform its assssassssinationssss with."

Viserys: "Why are you ennunciating your 'S's through mind speech?"

Rizz'neth: "Were... were we not doing a bit?"

Viserys: "No--I mean, yes?"

Rizz'neth: "Ah, yes. The cat paradox."

Viserys: "Don't you mean the DragonParadox?"

Rizz'neth: "Yessss."
 
Vote closed.
Adhoc vote count started by DragonParadox on Apr 18, 2021 at 3:07 AM, finished with 38 posts and 15 votes.
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Interlude MLXIII: An Arm Mended
  • Threadmarks
    • An Arm Mended ​

    Sixteenth Day of the Fifth Month 294 AC

    The plans to build a bridge across the last remaining span of open water that separated Essos from Westeros had been in place for years, and the builders were already shaping stone and setting up the anchoring points in the westernmost section of the Stepstones almost as soon as word reached the Deep of the fall of King's Landing to the Imperator. It was in many ways more a matter of prestige rather than any great and urgent need that it should be done before the month was out, a symbol of the power of the Imperium, not just to rule and to dominate, but to build and bring together. Mirror-boxes flashed in the clear southern sun held aloft by tiny winged fey drinking in the tale of the moment like bees supping from the morning dew.

    Their more hard working kindred, the pech, bulabar, and an odd mingling of both that did not yet have a name unto themselves worked among the mortals, though you would need to have a very sharp eye indeed to catch them among the hundreds of purely human builders. Now these were not what one might usually think of when the term 'construction crew' passed the mind. They were not the slave gangs of Essos of dark and all too recent memory, nor were they the gatherings of the ragged and all too often desperate smallfolk who filled that role west of the Narrow Sea. No, the bridge crews, even more than the road crews that cut across the continent eastwards, were all highly trained in a craft that did not exist before the tide of magic waxed once more, before the gate to the realm of stone opened, and they were also in their own way perhaps as bold as the legionaries.

    Jeorg could have chosen to work on the new roads out past the Rhoynar lands. He could have been a thousand miles and more away from the dark sea that crashed into the legs of the bridge in angry foaming temper. He knew, as did they all, what peril lurked in the depths.

    All of them had been at the presentation the man from the Inquisition had done about the Deep Ones and their monsters. He knew how to signal for aid from the passing airforce vessels, just break one of the silver flares or use one of the brass horns enchanted for a single mighty blow. He knew how to spot a spy or an infiltrator by way they spoke and moved or by the questions they might ask. He also knew most of all that if the Deep Ones wanted to come roaring out of the depths to topple the bridge, there would be slim odds of him and his fellow workers actually making it out alive, though they would be avenged with the full fire and fury of the Imperium.

    So why then was he here, why were any of them?

    Some were in it for love of land and lord, moved by the words from the throne and the dream of the Imperium. Some were in it for the silver, for the job paid well indeed, for the skill it took and the risks that were taken, but Jeorg was not in it for either... well, not wholly, at least.

    He had been born to the high jagged cliffs of the Broken Arm, the sound of the sea in his ears had been his lullaby in infancy and the sight of it off in the distance, wild and free, had been the yearning of his heart in childhood spent under those who would rather his eyes had been turned to the dirt at his feet. He had taken to sea as a lad amidst the curses of his father.

    Even after all these years, he could still remember it. "Damned be the ship that brings you back. I hope the sea you love so much drowns you."

    He had never come back to Dorne by ship, but he would come by bridge, one leg at a time plunged into the depths and from the churning waters to make a passage by which all may cross.

    When the last stone was fused to stone upon the far shore it was night under the bright stars, and soon the night was filled with cheers, with music, and wine also, for a party had come down from Ghost Hill to welcome the Bridge Makers. Around them had formed a great host of smallfolk eager to see the wonders of the Dragon, but preferring to do it in the company of the high lady of the land just in case the magic was more unchancy than advertised. When it became clear that all the crews were men just as they were men, as eager for drink and tale while the mighty and the highborn said their parts, the festival atmosphere only grew louder and more bright by starlight, and by torchlight shadowed only by the passage of guarding airforce ships.

    OOC: I decided to do this as more of a ground level interlude, but if you guys want Viserys to do a speech for the occasion you can of course vote for it.
     
    Last edited:
  • Threadmarks
    • Canon Omake: The Quiet One
  • Threadmarks
    • The Quiet One​
    Fifteenth Day of the Fifth Month 294 AC

    When the clouds finally parted, Tita closed her eyes and soaked in the warmth. Neither being a Frey at the Twins, nor a Bolton at the Dreadfort meant there was much sunshine in your life and while she never minded it, she still was resolved to soak in the warm southern sun as long as she could. Sadly, the warmth lasted only a moment before another cloud moved in the way. She opened here eyes again, a small sigh escaping her lips, but immediately dying in the roar of the crowds.

    Being married to a duke of the realm brought some benefits, such as private seating in the great arena of Sorcerers Deep just a few steps away from the Imperial box. They even had fine, silken banners of a flayed man ready to hang onto the balustrades to show everyone how very important the people sitting there were. She could have done with a book and a bench in the park, but her new family had other ideas. That was fine though. She would have plenty of time to enjoy some quiet in the coming days.

    "So, it is like a tourney, but it happens every day?" came the wondering voice of her new son, and was that not a strange thought for all involved. He carefully skipped over her with his gaze, still unsure how to address this new 'mother' of his that was just a few years older than him.

    Her husband didn't wrench his eyes from the gruesome spectacle beneath them, that strange gleam in his eyes that Tita hoped would never rest on her. "A Boltons blood does not easily find warmth and joy and when it does, it might be of an ill sort," he had told her on that day in the Twins. A clear warning, even though she did not quite understand then. She did not care though. A man who did not care for another child was a chance worth taking lest she overstay her welcome at home and be badgered into a more onerous match.

    "I think few would call it a tourney, Domeric," she finally replied in his stead. "There is plenty of melee, but rarely a joust."

    "Northern tourneys are still tourneys though and there is almost never a joust," the answer came with a timbre of practice and a hint of annoyance.

    Tita opened her mouth to speak, only to have her voice drowned out by the cheers as barbed chain finally found purchase and snared the towering shield of the golden giant, silver blood dripping onto the red sand. It was an odd shade that sand and its colour so unlike the grey beaches that likely played a role when the islands old name was coined. Did it mean something?

    When her brothers and nephews told of tourneys, it was rare and dramatic when any blood was drawn at all, but her it flowed freely. Not as the false rumours told, but flow it did all the same. No bout in the arena ended without at least one side bleeding so badly that they were at deaths door by the time the healer arrived, and they all did so gladly. For gold. For fame. For glory. How many had bleed on the red sand? How many hopes and dreams made real in victory or shattered in defeat under the eyes of thousands upon thousands shouting wordless prayers for their favourites?

    What was so different about blood shed in a circle of salt than that which was shed in a circle of marble?

    She startled slightly when she noticed Domerics gaze on her, sheepishly smiling as she tried to recall what he had just said and coming up short. "I was wondering if you think it would be proper for me to try my hand," he repeated himself with a light smile of his own.

    "Black Walder earned himself a duchy on these very sands," she said with a quick glance to her husband.

    Roose still did not deign to look at them, engrossed in the battle beneath, just like Ramsay next to him. The boy might have looked nothing like his father, but right now, his parentage could not have been more obvious. "Do you feel yourself up to fighting the likes of a Shield Archon?" her husband replied unusually loudly to be heard over the din.

    "Did you already forget that Wisdom Daeryn complained that I broke another boneface all the way to our quarters?"

    A rare smile crept onto her husband's lips at his smug reply. "I did not."

    Something passed between father and son in that moment and for the life of her, Tita could not decipher what. The Boltons were a strange family, especially when you were used to rambunctious siblings and assorted kin at the Twins, but whatever bond father and son shared seemed not to have diminished over the years of separation. Curiously, even Ramsay was showing this weird bond, sharing the strange moods with his father, but also being welcomed as a brother by Domeric as if they had grown up as such. She had more kind than she could easily count, yet she never had felt something alike among them.

    She had nearly missed the servant entering the box as she thought. "Your grace," he bowed deeply before Roose, "the Lady Strycos is inquiring if she can join you."

    Her husband curtly nodded without hesitation while Tita still puzzled over where to place that name. She had barely paid attention when the houses of Westeros were hammered into her head and she didn't take well to recalling the new nobility raised in these days.

    "The headmistress?" Domeric got a wolfish grin as he looked at the suddenly startled Ramsay. "Has my little brother gotten into trouble?"

    "Ain't no proof? Didn't happen," she repeated the truism handed down from one Frey kid to the next generation. True to form, Domeric chocked back a laugh while Roose only smirked, but for once even Ramsay snickered quietly. The boy was still as awkward around Domeric as the older boy was around her.

    The moment faded while the servants brought another chair and shortly thereafter a woman stepped to them. "A good day to you, Duke," the Essosi lady spoke without the slightest accent. She had an easy grace to her, her robe somehow reminding Tita of a mourning dress.

    "And to you," her husband hesitated the tiniest moment, "Excelsus Praeceptrix, if I am not mistaken."

    "Indeed," she almost sighed while sinking into her seat. "Though I still answer to headmistress until the new titles have sunken in. Quite a bit of confusion among some of the Old Blood if they should be offended since they sound Ghiscari to them."

    "Are they? Why would the Imperator use Ghiscari titles in the first place?" Domeric asked no one in particular.

    Before the Essosi woman could say a word, Ramsay spoke up. "They are not. They are Celestial. That's where the Ghiscari got them from in the first place. I think…" As he noticed that he had just cut her off and that all eyes were on him, he nearly froze again, so Tita motioned him to go on, blissfully unaware of how much she looked like her father as she did. "I think the Imperator wants to invoke the Dawn Empire, not the Ghiscari."

    The headmistress nodded with a thoughtful look. "It seems that pass for the library was not wasted after all."

    "Qyburn said I should apply myself so that I am not stuck for years being thought the basics together with self-important morons and talentless hacks." Again, there was silence, though this time Ramsay carried on by himself. "He also said that the quickest way to make myself a name would be by proving that I stood above them."

    Tita just shared a bewildered look with Domeric. They both had heard of this Qyburn, but apparently, he was dreadfully busy and had not visited the Dreadfort in the last months. The stories by the servants were wild enough already, but now Ramsay too? And neither her husband nor the Lady Strycos seemed the least bit surprised.

    "Yes," the Essosi woman finally spoke. "That sounds like him alright." She shook her head, staring out towards the arena and making Tita wonder even more just what that Qyburn was like in person. "As it is, he is the reason I came here."

    "I'm afraid that he no longer serves my house, but the Imperator directly." Roose's tone was guarded, which was not a good sign for whatever was to come.

    In contrast, the Lady Strycos sounded like a hound that had smelled blood, making Tita skirt back a bit with a chair and motioning for Domeric to do the same. "Barring the odd favour you ask of him, am I correct?"

    Silence was the response, so she pressed on. "He requested files of various graduates 'for review' and the list of people who could make him spend time on something that is not his research is rather short. And through some very strange coincidence, some of those people approached me with odd questions about curricula or bureaucratic minutia."

    "I am merely acting upon the agreement that I had reached with the Imperator," Roose whispered back. For some reason, the sounds of the arena could no longer drone his voice out.

    If she was honest with herself, Tita did not like people. She liked books. She liked quiet. She liked things that did not rush her or acted erratically. As a child, her siblings called her dumb for it, but when she noticed that nobody bothered the dullard, she embraced that label to get her peace.

    She had married Roose because he was quiet, measured and all but promised her to not bother her overmuch if she did not wish it. So, she very much did not want to interject herself into the slowly escalating argument between the rather sharp tongued Essosi and the bundle of repressed something that she had married. Having never been good with words or people, it was definitely the smart thing to keep out of this.

    "I'm certain that Qyburn and by extension my husband meant no offense, Headmisstress," she interjected herself like an idiot. "Your title is new, is it not? Things move so fast, these days…" Tita trailed off, having no bloody idea how to finish that sentence without offending someone in the process. She did however recall quiet clearly why she kept as far away from her fathers politicking as she could.

    "I asked Qyburn to look at some candidates for me. After the issues with Daeryn, the mage sent to me by the Mysterium, I felt I should take a more active role in these matters." Her husband paused and Tita gave his chair the slightest nudge with her foot, quietly wondering at which point she had become the most socially capable person in the family. "I apologize if I intruded into your area of responsibility by doing so," he finished, managing to sound somewhat truthful at least.

    For her part, the Lady Strycos nodded quietly after a moment, though Tita could see full well that Roose saw nothing wrong in what he had done. "My apologies if I sounded accusatory, Lord Bolton. Half the realm is nipping at my heels to be sent mages for the most frivolous of reasons, while my graduates are not so quietly feuding over the best appointments. There was quite some chaos in the wake of Qyburns inquiry."

    She too did not sound very sorry at all and made not much effort to hide it, but after a brief staring contest, the two of them still seemed content to bury the matter. "If you could send me in writing what you need, I will see what can be done. What is the problem with Daeryn though? I would prefer not to have to replace him too."

    "He is a spy," Roose replied bluntly, making the headmistress blink in surprise. "He quietly reports to a group of Red Priests in Volantis, though he concerns himself solely with that beyond the Wall, not any worldly matters, so I kept him around for the time being." Domeric and Ramsay had already quietly moved over to the other side of the box as the talk had grown tense, and Tita was feeling that she too should quietly extricate herself.

    "He is from the Mysterium, isn't he?" The woman asked quietly as if expecting to be overheard all of the sudden, leaning closer to Roose. "It sounds to me as if Lord Naethyreon knew and wanted to get rid of him. Why did you want to keep a known spy in your keep?" Her chair was moved a few inches closer to the Duke of the Dreadlands.

    "He still did decent work and I intended to notify the Inquisition once I had a replacement for him. Until then, he is sadly indispensable for me. However, if you have a suggestion on how to solve this…" With this, Titas husband likewise moved his chair closer, the conspiracy already fully formed to her trained eye.

    So, she too moved to sit on her husbands other side, seating herself between the whispers of plotting and the arguing of two half-brothers over which knight would win the current melee. It was an oddly homely feeling. As the last stubborn cloud moved out of the way, leaving a bright blue window in the sky, she closed her eyes again. The sun was a nice change though.


    AN: Never had a scene with the whole Bolton family so far, so I decided to give Tita a chance to be more than a side-note.
     
  • Threadmarks
    • The Mending Arm of Dorne has to be a new world wonder and maybe even a legend for the Imperium itself!

    Also, Bolton doesn't like anyone in his service that isn't directly loyal to him it seems.

    @Azel you still have that map of the rebuilt arm?
     
    Azel said:
    I wouldn't rely on the signal being only visible by allies, as this is just a 1st level spell, but overall it seems pretty useful as a flare.
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    It would propably show up to someone with magesight as an unspecified mass of Evocation magic, but at least for anyone without specific magical enhancements it seems like it should stay invisible.

    Due to the name I would have fluffed it as a trick the Lhazareen use to better avoid raiders.
     
    Mending of the arm is damn good symbol for the start of the new era led by the Imperium.

    Also, damn House Bolton is both a cool and exceedingly stressing house to be a part of... then again, most noble houses that deal with intrigue and politics are likely the same with having to deal with everything from assassins to spy's to rivals is not for the faint hearted.
     
    Azel said:
    If she was honest with herself, Tita did not like people. She liked books. She liked quiet. She liked things that did not rush her or acted erratically. As a child, her siblings called her dumb for it, but when she noticed that nobody bothered the dullard, she embraced that label to get her peace.
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    Well, well. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

    She has a good head around herself. Just a few more polished interaction and socializing with others and she could rival Daddy dearest.
     
    DragonParadox said:
    An Arm Mended ​

    Sixteenth Day of the Fifth Month 294 AC

    The plans to build a bridge across the last remaining span of open water that separated Essos from Westeros had been in place for years, and the builders were already shaping stone and setting up the anchoring points in the westernmost section of the Stepstones almost as soon as word reached the Deep of the fall of King's Landing to the Imperator. It was in many ways more a matter of prestige rather than any great and urgent need that it should be done before the month was out, a symbol of the power of the Imperium, not just to rule and to dominate, but to build and bring together. Mirror-boxes flashed in the clear southern sun held aloft by tiny winged fey drinking in the tale of the moment like bees supping from the morning dew.

    Their more hard working kindred, the pech, bulabar, and an odd mingling of both that did not yet have a name unto themselves worked among the mortals, though you would need to have a very sharp eye indeed to catch them among the hundreds of purely human builders. Now these were not what one might usually think of when the term 'construction crew' passed the mind. They were not the slave gangs of Essos of dark and all too recent memory, nor were they the gatherings of the ragged and all too often desperate smallfolk who filled that role west of the Narrow Sea. No, the bridge crews, even more than the road crews that cut across the continent eastwards, were all highly trained in a craft that did not exist before the tide of magic waxed once more, before the gate to the realm of stone opened, and they were also in their own way perhaps as bold as the legionaries.

    Jeorg could have chosen to work on the new roads out past the Rhoynar lands. He could have been a thousand miles and more away from the dark sea that crashed into the legs of the bridge in angry foaming temper. He knew, as did they all, what peril lurked in the depths.

    All of them had been at the presentation the man from the Inquisition had done about the Deep Ones and their monsters. He knew how to signal for aid from the passing airforce vessels, just break one of the silver flares or use one of the brass horns enchanted for a single mighty blow. He knew how to spot a spy or an infiltrator by way they spoke and moved or by the questions they might ask. He also knew most of all that if the Deep Ones wanted to come roaring out of the depths to topple the bridge, there would be slim odds of him and his fellow workers actually making it out alive, though they would be avenged with the full fire and fury of the Imperium.

    So why then was he here, why were any of them?

    Some were in it for love of land and lord, moved by the words from the throne and the dream of the Imperium. Some were in it for the silver, for the job paid well indeed, for the skill it took and the risks that were taken, but Jeorg was not in it for either... well, not wholly, at least.

    He had been born to the high jagged cliffs of the Broken Arm, the sound of the sea in his ears had been his lullaby in infancy and the sight of it off in the distance, wild and free, had been the yearning of his heart in childhood spent under those who would rather his eyes had been turned to the dirt at his feet. He had taken to sea as a lad amidst the curses of his father.

    Even after all these years, he could still remember it. "Damned be the ship that brings you back. I hope the sea you love so much drowns you."

    He had never come back to Dorne by ship, but he would come by bridge, one leg at a time plunged into the depths and from the churning waters to make a passage by which all may cross.

    When the last stone was fused to stone upon the far shore it was night under the bright stars, and soon the night was filled with cheers, with music, and wine also, for a party had come down from Ghost Hill to welcome the Bridge Makers. Around them had formed a great host of smallfolk eager to see the wonders of the Dragon, but preferring to do it in the company of the high lady of the land just in case the magic was more unchancy than advertised. When it became clear that all the crews were men just as they were men, as eager for drink and tale while the mighty and the highborn said their parts, the festival atmosphere only grew louder and more bright by starlight, and by torchlight shadowed only by the passage of guarding airforce ships.

    OOC: I decided to do this as more of a ground level interlude, but if you guys want Viserys to do a speech for the occasion you can of course vote for it.
    Click to expand...
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    Made a few minor edits to the chapter, DP.

    Could we have a followup interlude from one of the waystation island towns we planned to build along the bridge to service travelers? That would be a neat POV, IMO.
     
    Artemis1992 said:
    @Goldfish
    Very minor note, but could we use a cheap, mass-producible silent alarm?

    Calling the Flock Home – d20PFSRD

    www.d20pfsrd.com www.d20pfsrd.com

    A light spell that can be seen from afar, but only by allies.
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    Azel said:
    I wouldn't rely on the signal being only visible by allies, as this is just a 1st level spell, but overall it seems pretty useful as a flare.
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    Yeah, that could by useful in all sorts of situations. Like Azel said, I wouldn't expect it to be foolproof, but the effect is simple and straight forward so even if others could see it somehow, for many situations that wouldn't even matter.

    The question is how to best implement it? 1st level scrolls are cheap and plentiful, and we have thousands of mages who can use them, along with plenty of folks who probably have UMD by now. Alternatively, single-use charms would be very cheap to produce (5 IM each), so we could make a load of them for emergencies.
     
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