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

[DragonParadox]

Taller Than Tales ​

Twenty Third Day of the Twelfth Month 293 AC

"Do you think we may be having a bit too much fun with this?" Dany asks as she straightens her jaunty feathered hat pinned with a long golden feather worthy of Salladhor Saan's accouterments. She had chosen to disguise herself not as a any sort of girl but as the young apprentice of the 'famed bard Buttercup', which is to say yourself.

Ser Richard chooses courteous silence, marred only slightly by a twitch of his lips. Rina looks like she can't quite believe what she has fallen in with but she is bright eyed and trying to bite back a laugh just the same.

"Fun?" you scoff. "Nonsense, we are on the most grave of treks, ensuring that Ser Geralt here is given his due for his many famed deeds immortalized in song by myself of course."

"He can't carry a tune in a bucket," Dany 'whispers' loudly enough that were it not for the wards on the room door people would probably be able to hear her in the tavern's common room downstairs.

"Oh?" You tilt your head in askance before launching yourself into an improvised performance of 'Ser Geralt and the Slavering Skinchangers'. There is some magic to it, in truth rather a lot of magic, including a spell that still bears the faint echo of its maker, an ancient dragon singer who could not bear the notion that there was any skill in all the wide worlds for which he lacked talent. He would have made and excellent Butercup. A pity he would not have appreciated the jest.

Spoiler: Loresong

LORESONG
Divination Level: Brd 1, Sor/Wiz 1
Components: V, S
Casting Time: 1 minute
Range: Personal
Target: You
Duration: 1 round/level
You gain temporary mastery in a skill, even one that you have never studied before. When you complete this spell, select a single skill (other than Speak Language). You gain a +4 competence bonus on all checks with it, with an additional +1 bonus for every 2 caster levels, and you may use it untrained.

"So, er... where is Ser Geralt from exactly?" Rina asks as she brushes nonexistent dust off her own dress. She had chosen a light blue dress, the skirt splitting neatly to allow her to ride astride. A lady's garb though not precisely 'respectable', but then neither is arriving in town in the company of such as Ser Geralt and Buttercup. It does not seem to bother her one whit. Even the chill that always lingers in her presence is more a welcome breeze against the summer sun beating down over Ashford.

"He's a man of the road, seen every sight, fought every monster thrice over for good measure and some journeys too far for even bard's tales to make known," you reply, keeping to the part and telling nothing but the truth at the same time. You would certainly struggle to have some of Ser Richard's more extraordinary deeds believed in any tavern.

Thus the four of you strode down into the common room of the Grouse and Green where wine flowed freely and with it questions for the tall knight in his plain but obviously masterfully crafted plate. Where did he come from, how came he by such fair arms and armor but no lord to call his own?

Which tale of Ser Geralt's grand deeds do you sing before the joust on the morrow?

[] Ser Geralt and the Slaying of the Ice Fey at the Edge of the World

[] Ser Geralt and the Slavering Skinchangers

[] Ser Geralt and the Dark Maid

[] Write in

OOC: Very short, but I figured I would give Viserys a chance to show off his magically enhanced bardic skills before the contests since how that comes out will directly figure into how seriously the various knights present will take his newly arrived hedge knight.

 

[DragonParadox]

Knowing Songs and Waking Dreams ​

Twenty Third Day of the Twelfth Month 293 AC

You have never held a lute before in your life and all protests aside your singing voice is naturally no better than Dany implied. Here and now none of that matters, your fingers find the chords unerringly, your voice strikes just the right notes as you recount the tale of the bold Ser Geralt passing under the shadow of death's woods where winter lingers under the eves.

With verse and melody you paint a picture not far from the truth of cold and lonely places where men huddle 'round their fires while in the woods dark things walk and to this place you add that figure dearest to a Reacher's heart. The knight errant bold and true off to hunt not common beasts but monsters, seeking neither glory, nor gold, nor even land to call his own but keeping safe the lives and souls of those who cannot protect themselves.

Rare is the day the good folk of Ashford wait with baited breath to hear of the fate of Free Folk in their haunted vales. Still, the whispering grows hushed, even tankards and cups furtively raised as you describe the glimpses the knight catches of the monster in the woods, a wolf's head, stag's antlers or hawk's wings only to be revealed at last to be all smashed together in a horror, ready to snatch the hearts of their victims and feast upon them.

Was that a scream in the back? Perhaps you have been a little too skilled in describing monsters. The song flows on, accounting for how the bold knight bested the beasts with wit and cunning, nets and snares before he could face them with cold steel. Thus you sing to mark the battle's end:

"Yet that is not the tale's end for these were but the hunting hounds
And in those dreadful woods their masters' darkness yet abounds
What then, I ask you gentles all, did bold Ser Geralt choose to do?"​

And thus the crowd sang back the now familiar refrain:

"He hunted foes, day into night passing, the cursed dark to hack and hew!"​

Feet stomp and tankards are slammed into tables, a goodly bit of their contents spilled, unintended libations to your song while you carried the story ever onward from slavering beasts to evil more sublime. You sing of the cold notes high and pitiless and winter's chill embrace winding in the wind and sinking through steel that had guarded the knight so well and then to your surprise Rina begins to sing alone. Her voice is fair, her words are measured with some skill she had learned in girlhood, but it is the knowledge heavy in those words that seems to steal the breath from listeners' lips. A chill falls upon the common room, an echo of the deadly cold.

For a moment you worry that it might pain her to recount such grim matters in this game of wit and song, but the smile is still upon her lips, her expression one of relief. To sing of the Others not as a looming threat or ancient peril, but as a foe that can be vanquished with courage in one's heart and a sword in hand... Not hard to see how that might be.

For his part Ser Richard waits patently, as you extol his virtues and his skills against 'the ice fey at the world's edge', drawing from the memory of a score duels and more. Faints and prairies, leaps and clever dodges, the crowd hangs upon your every word and at the last verse when your proclaim the ice fey fallen the cheers shake the rafters.

***​

Twenty Fourth Day of the Twelfth Month 293 AC

The day the joust is to begin dawns warm and clear, though not as quiet as you might have hoped. You are startled from reading the preliminary inquisitorial report on Lord Dayne and his favored septon by the sound of angry voices downstairs. On their own angry voices in a tavern are hardly of note even at this hour of the morning, but your hearing is sharp enough to catch some of the words.

"Fey..."

"Beast... he's one of them stag monsters that tear your heart out..."

"Fetch Ser Geralt quick, it must've followed him here..."

You have been entangled in quite a few odd situations over the years, but sometimes you doubt a peryton would be considerate enough to let a tavern's patrons argue over its nature rather than simply ripping their hearts out. Which is not to say it couldn't be dangerous if they antagonize the wrong spirit, you know, recalling Lord Owen's supposed penchant for fey friends.

Ser Richard is predictably already outside the door waiting for Dany and you to come down and Rina is not far behind. "I can't feel anything... cold," she assures you as the four of your rush down the stairs.

You nod, expecting the answer, though before you can reply aloud you see the cause of the commotion, all three hundred pounds of him garbed in gleaming armor, his cloak red as autumn leaves rippling in some unfelt breeze. He might have been confused for nothing more than a knight, if an exceptionally well armed and armored one, if he did not have the head of a stag crowned with delicate back-swept antlers.

Spoiler: Fey Knight

The warrior's eyes sweep over the head of the frightened and stuttering innkeeper to meet Ser Richard's. "Ser Geralt I presume, for I see nothing of you or your companions but what the eyes of flesh can tell," turning to you he nods a second greeting. "And you are the bard who sang with such knowing skill of those Fallen to Night. Tell me, oh Buttercup, how did you know to sing the tale you did?" From the way his gaze lingers on Rina it is clear he has some suspicion already.

As he speaks you notice that several more knights have entered the tavern after him, all mortal or seeming thus, bearing the arms of House Ashford, House Leygood and a red-apple Fossoway.

What do you reply?

[] Write in

OOC: I struggled a bit with getting the feel of the song across. Hopefully it worked out even with only a few verses proper included.

 

[DragonParadox]

Of Lords and Ladies ​

Twenty Fourth Day of the Twelfth Month 293 AC

What the hell is he expecting you to say? you scoff inwardly. Admit to lying in front of not only the audience that cheered you yesterday, but the knights he had brought with you besides? Keeping your tone cheerful you proclaim aloud: "It almost seems you wish to call me a liar, but I assure you that I witnessed these events and the good Ser Geralt's valor in facing the monsters of the cold with my own eyes. Granted, there might have been a little something about their nature slipped in that I picked up from the Thenn skalds, but why should not the bard learn from his peers as the scholar does?"

One of the knights, the one Fossoway with hair almost as bright as his heraldry, shakes his head disbelievingly at 'scholar' and turns to his fellows. "The singers think they are scholars now. Has some satyr stolen this one's wits with spelled wine? It would account for the name at least."

One might almost wish for one of those Thenn skalds you mentioned, they are after all trained at war like all their kin and just as quick to defend their honor as any of them, but you swallow your irritation at least until you know who you are addressing and get their measure. Instead you keep your gaze upon the fey knight: "Has the song not pleased you, good Ser?"

"Your song has made me curious, young one," the fey replies with far more caution than his mortal fellows. "But let us not be ill mannered beneath the good innkeep's roof. You may call me Dregaire, knight of the High Hunt, Crimson is my color, but to the Star Crowned my fealty. In terms more familiar to this land you might call me a household knight, for I hold no fealty in my own name." He pauses, looking back at his companions, obviously waiting for their own introductions.

The Fossoway knight looks mutinous, but the slightly older man wearing the three thunderbolts of House Leygood inclines his head readily enough. "Ser Cerin Leygood, third-born and second spare to my father Lord Rikard. I would make a poor maester and worse septon I'm told."

Next to speak is the Ashford knight, though he proves to bear a loftier title than that: "Ser Owen Ashford, at your service good bard."

"My lord I... I beg pardon... I didn't recognize you," the innkeeper stutters while a ripple of surprise and similar excuses goes through the crowd.

The young lord waves them off. "Well of course you didn't, I had a 'notice-me-not' enchantment placed upon me so I could see how the tourney was shaping up without all the bowing and the scraping." he sighs dramatically. "Alas that also warded off the gazes of lovely ladies, but that was a burden I had to bear." The younger of the innkeeper's daughters blushes under his gaze, though from the look she returns you suspect this is not the first time they have met.

"Ladies you say?" the last knight scoffs again. "Call a wench a wench will you. There's no lady to be seen about..."

"And did the lord of these lands not seem nothing but a common knight to most until he announced himself?" Dregaire interjects softly. "You might be surprised, my friend, where lords and ladies might be found." Turning to you he adds. "I would be intrigued, good Buttercup, to hear more of your tales after I have seen Ser Geralt's prowess for myself."

With that the horned fey sweeps out, leaving the inn patrons sheepishly backing out of his way and even two of his companions bemused. Only the Lord of Ashford shakes his head tolerantly. "I suppose this makes for an interesting chapter in the tale of our lives. Tell me, Ser Knight, aught I call your companions lords and ladies in honor of my friend's cautioning?"

"I wouldn't presume to offer a lord counsel on what courtesies to use," Ser Richard replies, still staring after the fey.

"Excellent," the lord laughs. "I always felt it unfair that only knights could mantle mystery and not ladies when they are far more invested of that quality, at least in my experience."

Offering his arm to Rina he adds: "Come then, you can watch the joust from the high box."

Rina glances towards you, unsure if she should take the cheerful offer, and likely even more so for the air of flirtation it is delivered in. Dany catches her eyes and you can feel the faint ripple of a whisper-spell through the air. You can guess the gist of it if not the precise words from Rina's relieved smile and quick acceptance.

What do you do next?

[] Speak to one of the knights
-[] Owen Ashford
-[] Ser Cerin Leygood
-[] The willfully unmanned Fossoway knight

[] Walk around the tourney in the run-up to the joust to see what other fey or personages of import are present

[] Write in

OOC: Dany will keep an eye on Rina whatever you guys do, that is what she promised Rina.

 

[DragonParadox]

Apples Green and Rotten ​

Twenty Fourth Day of the Twelfth Month 293 AC

As you walk across the green of Ashford, ears filled with the din of merchants calling out their wares, knights and squires arguing about their chances in the joust or the melee, and coin clinking as it changes hands you are struck again by the fact that the only tourney you have ever participated in was that which you organized yourself and the 'Traitor's Tourney' was anything but ordinary. It was grand and magical, a display of feats undreamt of your realm could achieve. It was also a great deal of work to keep the wheels spinning as they should, but here... here you are not King Viserys, only Buttercup the bard and teller of fanciful tales. You can afford to linger by a smith's stand and watch as he forges a copper rose with petals that seem fine enough to pluck in moments, you can buy a piece of flatbread and some of the local cheese, sharp flavored and crumbly, to eat as you go.

Granted not everything goes smoothly. You almost earn the eternal ire of a pair of local shepherds when their flock nearly panics at the sight of you, or more likely the smell. Something in their woolly heads must have told the beasts not trust your human guise. Thankfully music makes for an excellent means to soothe the flock, or at least an excellent cover for the sorcery you actually use to calm them. One can now add 'sheep whisperer' to the many skills of Buttercup the bard you suppose. As your feat begins to draw a crowd you wonder if this is the right place to sing of 'Ser Geralt and the Landsharks' or if you aught to hurry to enlist yourself in the melee first, but before you can decide you hear the sound of someone shouting in anger nearby and another shouting cruses followed by the dull thud of flesh on flesh.

No lawmen here, you think grimacing at the sight of the red-haired knight from the tavern, currently red-faced also, standing over a boy he had obviously just struck. "The hells do you think you are doing, Wenyld, prancing around here dressed like that, with a green apple on your shield too?!"

It's only when you hear this that you realize the child currently scrambling to get up among the roots of the linden tree is a girl, though obviously intentionally disguised as a boy, a squire to be exact, bearing the green apple of the House Fossoway of New Barrel rather than the red of Cider Hall, though you gather from the unpleasant fellow whose name you still do not know that the girl is his niece.

"It's a green apple 'cause I'm not ripe yet like in the story," she finally manages to get a word in edgewise. It takes you a moment to remember which story. It had been here on Ashford Meadow that Duncan the Tall had faced Prince Aerion Brightflame in a Trial of the Seven to ultimately triumph, though costing the life of Prince Baelor Targaryen who had taken the hedge knight's side over his brother. For House Fossoway that day had marked an even more important moment. Raymun Fossoway, still a squire, had sided against his cousin Ser Steffon after the latter had betrayed Ser Duncan and from that day taken for his seal the green apple over the red.

"I know you're not ripe or I would have seen to it your father would've married you off by now!" the knight shouts. You begin to wonder what beast would best suit him to be cursed into.

"Lord Owen said ladies can shoot in the archery competition so I'll go do that then," Wenyld says, the set of her jaw making it clear she was far from cowed. Before her uncle can react she darts away and into the crowd.

"I'll not have you behave like a Dornish whore!" the fool and soon to be jest of half the town calls after her. The only way it could be anymore humiliating for him would be if the girl actually won the contest. Perhaps with a bit of magic that can be arranged.

For now, however, you you sing one more song for all to hear and marvel at. The notion of sharks that swim in earth not water draws quite the crowd, and whether they believed in the beasts or not you have certainly carried 'Ser Geralt's' fame further. After that getting yourself signed up for the melee is as easy as a wink and a nudge to the herald handling the lists. Lord Owen had clearly told him to help you on your way to 'making a good story'.

Do you interfere in the archery competition?

[] Yes
-[] Write in how

[] No, move on straight to the melee

OOC: My encounter table really wants you to hate that knight it seems.

 

[DragonParadox]

Uncanny Fortune ​

Twenty Fourth Day of the Twelfth Month 293 AC

Wenyld Fossoway ran her fingers along the polished curve of her hickory bow as she drew it from its hiding place under the loose floorboard the brownies had showed her. She frowned at a smudge only to blink twice and see it vanish before her eyes. I should've slept more last night, the girl admitted to herself with a sigh.

It had seemed like such a good idea to get some more practice in, especially with the moon almost full in the sky. It was not like she could take a turn at the bales without risking her secret getting out. Her mother would never let her hear the end of it if she publicly enlisted in an archery competition like a... a Dornishwoman, and truth be told Wenyld herself had not been too keen on her future suitors looking at her in askance for it, but she would be damned if she backed down now after uncle Alfryd had hit her over it.

Dress like a boy, get treated like one, a rather nasty voice inside her noted, but Wenyld was in no mood to listen as she drew out her bow, arrows and quiver one after another. She was pretty sure her lord father knew she had taken these with her from home, though he probably imagined she was off shooting tree stumps not targets in front of all of Ashford and the guests besides. He especially wouldn't like her pretending to be a New Barrel mystery archer, but hopefully Wenlyd would be able to make a good enough showing to make him forget that little indiscretion. It's not like she'd been caught with the collar of her dress unbuttoned in the company of a bastard hedge knight the way her elder sister Lysa had.

Later, Wenlyd would wonder if some puckish spirit had been listening in on her thoughts then for no sooner had the thought of her sister's folly crossed her mind that she heard a discreet knock sounded at the window of her room. There was a bird so fantastical it must surely be some fey creation, deep almost shimmering blue brighter than the clearest summer sky. But it was what it carried in its beak that sent Wenlyd's heart thumping in her throat, a letter.

Spoiler: Strange Messenger

The girl practically tore the message from the bird's talons and read with increasing bemusement, that slowly gave way to a wondering smile:

Begging pardons for addressing you without an introduction, my lady, it has come to my attention that we share certain interests in common, particularly in regards to your uncle who has acted churlishly towards me and even more so towards you. Being a singer by trade I have no interest in claiming a tithe of blood, though I would puncture his pride if I can. In the hopes that yours can be the arrow to puncture that most engorged of attributes I wish to gift you with certain blessings and magics that have come into my possession through varied means too complex to lay down here.

-Buttercup the Bard ​

As she ran her hand over the looping ornate B of the signature Wenlyd considered all the ways in which accepting this offer could go wrong. The sender could be lying, ill disposed towards her, meaning to ruin her reputation or worse her family's. She could get caught with some spell or trinket and thrown out of the competition in shame, mayhap even cursed by one of the fey if certain stories she had heard about them were true. And well... perhaps it was rather petty, but she could place badly even with whatever help her mysterious benefactor might offer. Wenlyd was honest enough with herself to know her pride would sting quite badly then.

On the other hand it was not like she was going to get a chance like this again. A few years ago she had heard her grandmother say that one should do all the silly things while young, the better to be sober and responsible upon growing into the full responsibilities of one's rank. Granted Wenlyd did not think Grandmother Elora meant entering an archery competition counting upon the magic offered in mysterious messages, but that was all 'a maybe down the Mander' as the saying went.

***​

Buttercup the Bard turned out to the the sort of fellow morality plays warned careless maidens about, with dark wavy hair, a pleasant face unmarked by scar or pox and a glint of mischief in his eye. Fortunately Wenyld was at least four years too young to fall for his charms... well alright, maybe two years to judge from the fluttering in her stomach. Maybe I should apologize to Lysa for being so hard on her about the hedge knight, she thought absently.

Such thoughts promptly faded from her mind as he began producing potions, philters and magical seals from his seemingly endless pockets. Wenlyd felt lighter and surer than she ever had in her life, like she could dance on a cliff laughing and spinning, like she could shoot arrows blind and will them to land where they should. When the sorcerer had started producing a magical feast she had actually giggled aloud. She had already eaten something like this when she arrived at Ashford Keep, courtesy of Lord Owen's fey servants...

A sudden suspicion came upon Wenyld Fossoway, passing her lips almost without thought: "Are you a fey?"

What does Buttercup reply?

[] Write in

OOC: This is longer than I expected, but given how fey-like Viserys is behaving here I felt I would be doing the girl's intelligence a disfavor if she did not ask the obvious question. I've also tried to make Wenyld feel like more than just 'the rebellious lady who wants to have adventurers', giving her a more nuanced characterization and even some internalized prejudices. Hopefully this is not too much for a character in a fun little aside like this, but the way I write these sort of details just spontaneously generate if I'm narrating from a character's PoV.

 

[DragonParadox]

Of Skill and Honor ​

Twenty Fourth Day of the Twelfth Month 293 AC

"My lady, I'm insulted!" The singer, if singer he be, proclaimed grandly. "A fey lord would dance about and call this fate or destiny or some such claptrap. They'd spin a tale and claim moral superiority by helping you in your worthwhile endeavor." The sly gleam in his eye only grows brighter as he concludes. "Why, I'd wager my favorite lute they'd even go so far as to cheat. I am far better than some fey. I am an extremely petty man who just so happens to be both extremely bored and somewhat wealthy for the immediate future. We're much more dangerous."

Wenyld couldn't help herself, she giggled, then promptly scowled at sounding like a child. "You realize this is cheating right, the magic?"

"I won't tell if you don't," the improbably named man said conspiratorially.

The girl nodded, a feeling a slow smile drawing on her own lips at the thought of facing her uncle like this. An uncharitable observer might have even called it a smirk.

***​

Arrow after arrow cuts the air, humming almost like a song. Every movement of the hand, every tilt of the shoulders easy as breathing. She didn't have to think about the wind or consider the arc of the shot, Wenyld simply knew, as if she had seen it all before a thousand and one times or as if she could see the shots land before the arrow even left the bow. Was this what it was like to be a fey? she wondered and almost laughed aloud as her shot beat out Ser Bors Costayne's by a good two fingers even though the targets had been moved back five times and she would normally be worrying about the draw of her bow and her arrow dropping too much by now.

I'd have probably shot the dirt three times over by now, the girl admitted to herself as for the first time in her life she seriously considered what it would take to actually learn magic for herself. If someone as... well, silly as Buttercup could learn to grant such blessings on a whim what else might sorcery achieve?

So caught up in her thoughts was Wenyld that she almost did not notice when the herald called out her uncle's name as the next one she was to shoot against, though she certainly could not miss his looming furious presence when he walked up to her. "What sort of mad bargain did you make you little fool? Will I have to tell my bother you sold yourself into service to some fey lord so you can play at being an archer for a day?"

That was when Wenyld discovered that not all the blessings she had been given had to be used to judge a target or loose an arrow. The words came to her almost unbidden, but unwavering. "If you think I am using magic to cheat, uncle, than surely you must count me a great sorceress indeed to be able to fool the eyes of all attending," she motioned to the lord's box where five of the great fey gathered to watch, carefully avoiding even the merest glance at the bard who was her actual benefactor. "Or do you wish to impugn upon the honor and truthfulness of the Kindly Neighbors?"

The silence that followed was deafening. There was no one attending, highborn or low, who had not heard a tale of the fey avenging themselves dreadfully for such an insult. Feeling guilty, Wenyld was about to try to offer some apology or deflection when her uncle went from pale to red in the cheeks in the snap of an instant before he called out to Lord Owen Ashford and his guests. "I ask that all magic be removed from our presence, even that which is most cunningly hidden!"

"That is no simple boon you ask for, my friend," Ser Dregaire interjected, his grave voice carrying far in the still air. "What price would you pay for it?"

"Why should I have to pay any price when I am not the one making use of sorcery to cheat?" the knight asked coldly. "Let the onus fall on whichever one of us should lose and thereby prove their cause unjust." Turning to Wenyld with a smile that made her wish she could return this morning's slap he added. "Unless of course you would like to forfeit and return to more appropriate endeavors, girl?"

He expects me to give up, just slink off and admit I'm not worth anything without magic. Wenyld's hand tightened painfully on her bow. "I..."

"I will not allow any such thing in my tourney upon my lands," Lord Ashford practically shouted. "Have you taken leave of your senses, Alfryd? The girl is your kin and under your protection."

"Not for lack of trying to get out from under it to judge from this morning's foolishness with wearing New Barrel colors," Uncle Alfryd practically spat.

Murmurs started around the range, some of them at least faintly approving, but Lord Ashford's usually cheerful face was dark with anger. "You will not press the girl into a pact on my land."

"I..." Wenyld hesitated, not sure what she could say. She did not enjoy being thought of as helpless, but her uncle's hash words which she had goaded him into could harm House Fossoway for years to come. Should she just admit to cheating with magic? "I never wished for my presence to be such trouble for you, my lord. I think it would be wiser for both of us to withdraw so as not to mar this joyous occasion." There, that felt right.

Does 'Buttercup' intervene to help diffuse the situation somehow or does he leave it up to Alfryd Fossoway good sense?

[] Intervene
-[] Write in

[] Do not intervene

[] Write in

OOC: Welp... that happened. I had not thought about Wenyld using her skill buffs on social rolls until she actually got there, but once I started rolling things took on a life of their own.

 

[DragonParadox]

Arrows of Fortune ​

Twenty Fourth Day of the Twelfth Month 293 AC

It speaks well to Lord Ashford's character that he is angry now, whether the fool currently trying to humiliate a young girl had once been his friend or no. You make a mental note of the matter but do not linger upon it for there is work yet to be done by Buttercup the Bard. "My lady fair, I'm afraid the joyous occasion has already been marred by most vile accusations from a man who clearly fears your prowess," you interject cheerfully, ignoring the shocked looks of Lord Ashford's other mortal guests and the measuring glances of the fey.

Before the girl can reply, if indeed that is what she intends to do, you turn to the crowd with a broad smile. "What say you, good people? Shall this fine young woman be forced to forfeit just because her uncle is afraid of her? Shall she have to endure such slander of her honor and virtue?"

The onlookers, which had moments before been at least willing to entertain the notion that Ser Alfryd had some just reason in speaking out, particularly when faced with past accounts of young Wenyld's 'transgressions', turn on him in a heartbeat. It would, after all, be just as entertaining to see him humiliated and that you have every intention of delivering.

"Bloody hells and damantion, it's an archery competition not even the joust," you hear Ser Cerin Leygood mutter with a shake of the head. "Just let them get on with it."

"An excellent idea," you nod cheerfully. "Even if it is a less grand competition than the joust would it not make a better ending to the tale to see the bout through?"

The fey all seem agreeable also, though how much of that is your argument and how much is wariness over guessing you are more than you appear you could not say. Turning then to the lord you add: "I for one look forward to singing about it, so what say you, my lord?"

"About the song? Well I could hardly stop you." The jest is spoken more for form's sake, a reflex of sorts. "I believe it is common knowledge to all here that those of the faerie cannot speak untruths." The words are met with enough nods and calls of ascent for him to continue. "My Lords, my ladies, do any of you see magic upon with your eyes sharp enough to witness secrets beyond the light of common day?"

One by one they answer no, though careful in their wording. "We see no magic," say the fey, not 'we suspect no magic'.

That is more than enough for Lord Ashford who is not particularly inclined to indulge the Fossoway knight. "The good bard makes a fair point, however impertinent the telling. Ser Knight, my lady, you may continue at your leisure."

Alfryd Fossoway shoots first, biting back whatever else he might have been inclined to tell his niece. To his credit he is a fair archer, managing to put two arrows in the innermost circle and one strike to the bullseye.

Guided by sorcery and the whisper of dragon dreams Wenyld is far more than fair, putting two arrows into the bullseye so close you do not think a third would fit and then solving the conundrum by splitting one of those arrows in half with her third. The crowd cheers wildly, though after that display you doubt many accept that there was no sorcery involved. In the end however everyone loves a winner and that is what the girl proves to be. She goes on to sweep right past her three remaining opponents, including a Marcher archer you recall from your own tourney, to claim the prize, a respectable though not extravagant seven hundred golden dragons. Flush with success she does not even give her uncle a second look, seeming to enrage the man all the more.

The song you are about to sing is unlikely to make him any less angry, that is certain.

What do you do next?

[] Speak to one of the notables
-[] Write in

[] Wait for the inevitable confrontation and then on to the melee

[] Write in

OOC: I liked the spellbane plan, but given Lord Ashford's state of mind it was not very likely to happen. He views cheating at archery to be downright insignificant besides publicly humiliating a lady under one's protection and trying to get her entangled in a fey bargain.

 

[DragonParadox]

Sour Apple ​

Twenty Fourth Day of the Twelfth Month 293 AC

Predictably you do not have long to wait until the ill favored Ser Alfryd finds you, still in the company of Ser Leygood and a few other knights of lesser Houses, though Lord Ashford himself had departed, perhaps either to seek answers from the fey, a drink to dull his frustrations or both.

"Still licking the scraps of your betters are you?" the knight practically hisses in rage. "Trying to find someone who'll pay you better to kiss their asses than a ragged hedge knight?"

"That's a mighty strong shade of red you've turned," you point out with mock-gravity. "I wonder if that means you've finally matured enough to put up a fight or if thine callow words mark you unripe?"

"A fight?" he sneers. "What do you know of fights you sniveling little shit. I should have you beaten for your impudence and tossed out on your ear or else put in the stocks so you can finally put on a show worth seeing."

"As it happens, someone did put down my name for the melee, doubtless as a jest, but if you would cross blades with me while I record good Ser Geralt's deeds I would welcome the... diversion," you proclaim before sweeping away into the crowds. You would have liked to taunt him more, but the look on Ser Richard's face makes you worry the idiot might find himself missing half his teeth if the confrontation continues any longer.

From the sounds of it the fool's friends manage to restrain him before he can follow you, though you can feel his murderous look burning in the back of your neck. No doubt he is consoling himself with fond images of the melee to come. Alas for him they will not last long in the harsh light of reality.

***​

The melee of Ashford does not resemble the structured fighting of the Circle of Battle and not without cause. The knights and squires gathered around the field weapons and shields in hand are doing more than competing for gold an glory, they are preparing for battle. You wonder how many of them realize it is the sort of battle that is ever more unlikely to be fought in this age of sorcery and skirmishes in the sky as the legions prepare to march across the face of Westeros. You shake off the thought. Buttercup the bard would not be pondering the changing nature of war.

"So do you think I should compete?" Dany asks silently, glancing over the assembled growing crowd of warriors with a considering eye. "I look almost old enough to be a squire, right?"

"You look old enough to be a page, barely," you counter. "I realize we haven't been very circumspect today, but having you trounce half the knights in attendance is a step too far even so."

"You're no fun..." she begins pouting. The thought cuts off as something behind draws her attention. "Is that Randyl Tarly? I didn't know he was even here, much less that he was on the list for the melee."

"Trying to forge connections in these trying times, I imagine," you can feel a smile tugging at your lips. "Somehow I do not think he will enjoy my company or jests." The idea of trouncing the Lord of Horn Hill does not have the same appeal as the idiot you humiliated earlier, but recalling Samwell accounts of his father you can't say you'd regret the chance to meet him out on the field.

You notice a few more notable shields among the knights preparing for the melee, you see the seals of Blackbar, Costayne, Merryweather and Rowan. All but the last are reasonably removed from the succession, uncles and cousins, but the Rowan heir is upon the field this day. Before you can ponder the matter any deeper, the horns sound clear and sharp over the din of the field. The time had come to face the melee.

"Good luck Ser," you call to Ser Richard. "I hope you will not sweep me from the field ere I can attest to your deeds."

"Good fortune be with you," the knight replies, the briefest smile flashing upon his lips for he knows as well as you do that fortune has little to do with your success upon the field this day, not with all the spells you you have woven unseen but not unfelt around you.

"A melee?" Dark Sister sounds amused as you draw her, though not displeased. She tastes the air with senses beyond flesh a wave of anticipation singing though you as your own. "I know this place, I know this dance well indeed."

To his credit Alfryd Fossoway finds you quickly once again, thinking to avenge himself upon the singer covered in naught but light chain, before moving on to more difficult fare. "No one to hide behind now, little weasel!" He shouts as his sword comes sweeping down left to right in a blow that might have taken your arm at the shoulder... if it was there, at least.

Twisting aide you call: "Come now Ser, no one likes a sour apple." Seeing as he has overextended himself that badly, you may as well take advantage of it. Dark Sister presses his blade further along its path until it is buried in the dirt, then you sweep it out to cut a thin line of blood along his cheek. "You should not worry so about your loss, I've heard told that many men fail to perform the first time with a woman!"

The last taunt sets a Blackbar knight close at hand laughing so hard he ends up disarmed by Lord Ashford, not that anger seems to improve your opponent's blade form any. He probably shouldn't be trying to decapitate you either. Ser Richard might notice and take it amiss.

"Tsk, Tsk... Still wormed by today's events I see," you call out, earning a sort of mental grating from Dark Sister you only later realize is a groan. "You're definitely his kin." The flash of a smiling silver haired man in your mind makes you pause and it takes you only a moment to realize it's prince Daemon. You are not sure if you aught to be insulted or offended.

Ser Alfryd attempts to toss dust in your eyes, though without any more luck and in one more clang of steel against steel you twist the blade out of his hand. "I've got you over a barrel now Ser!" you laugh "Yield, there will be chances apple-nty after this!"

Perhaps you shouldn't have ended on a pun, you think as the enraged knight charges you as though to grapple you to the ground. With strength born of sorcery and skill half dreamed, half drilled by Ser Richard's sparring, you strike him about the head with the flat of the blade, once, twice, thrice, until he collapses in the dirt.

You have certainly made Buttercup's reputation today and from the looks of things Ser Richard is well on his way to winning the melee, having already dispatched three fey knights and currently fighting his way to Lord Tarly.

What do you do next?

[] Earn a few more victories for Buttercup

[] Stay close to Ser Richard to watch his progress, only engaging anyone who gets close

[] Fight a particular opponent
-[] Write in

OOC: I couldn't work in all the puns, but hopefully the ones I did flow well enough. Like I said I'm not very experienced with them. Not yet edited.

 

[DragonParadox]

A Triumph of Steel ​

Twenty Fourth Day of the Twelfth Month 293 AC

Ser Richard fight in the midst of the melee is certainly impressive enough to warrant the narrating during it. You had seen him fight horrors from beyond the world, do battle in the depths of the sea, the ruins of an elder world, under the fiery skies of Valyria and in scores of other places that would break other men, but at those times you had been rather busy with the monster in front of you to fully appreciate how the knight fought. There was not a hairsbreadth of wasted motion, not a step too far taken and not a single moment's hesitation in battle. In a word it is unfair.

As he fights his way towards the Lord of Horn Hill with yourself only a step behind you find yourself barely being able to keep up naming the vanquished falling left and right, but then stag-horned Dregaire makes himself known with a charge that that pushes the knight a step back for the first time since the battle had begun. "I am not one to count upon magics and subtle feints, good Ser, and I can see neither are you," the fey proclaims, silvered blade sparking against Oathkeeper's glamour shrouded edge. "Come, let us see by what prowess you faced the Court of Night Eternal."

Meeting the challenge with a small nod Ser Richard unleashes blow after blow until with impossible swiftness, until it almost seems as though he is welding half a dozen swords not one, but the fey lord, for surely no lesser spirit could fight thus, catches three blows on his shield and twists aside from three others such that his armor takes the brunt of it, bending but not breaking. That is when you discover that his horns are not just for show, but weapons in their own right to match the sword he bears, forcing Ser Richard on the back foot such that the silvered sword can just slice into his leg through the gap just above the knee.

Alas for him that Ser Richard is quite used to opponents who use horns in battle. Moving in a more deliberate stance than the one he had taken a moment before he catches the fey's horns on the next attempted strike and pulls his head painfully down before kicking out to send him tumbling back. If this had been true battle to the death the fey would have likely lost his head to Oathkeeper's next swing, but the strictures of the melee mean the fey knight has the chance to twist just fast enough to bring his shield smashing into the knight from below, seeking to toss him to the ground instead.

Ser Richard does not loose his footing and instead reverses Oathkeeper to smash the pummel into his surprised opponent's face. Blood brighter crimson than that of any mortal stains the grass, but the fey seems to find it all great fun, his laughter ringing over all the sounds of battle. "You carry your tale in you as few mortal men do, Ser. I would feel no shame losing to such as you... but I would still rather win."

That is when you notice that Randyll Tarly, having dispatched his last opponent, decided that 'Ser Geralt' is the more dangerous opponent and tries to strike him from the side, obvious enough as not to be accused of being dishonorable while cunning enough to show the experience of the battlefield more than the tourney ground.

It is not quite cunning enough. Ser Richard manages to strike lord and fey both with a single sweeping attack. Tarly's armor is, you suspect, magical. It is not magical enough as Oathkeeper cuts through it with a screech of tearing steel. As his opponents try to time their blows to get through his guard, your sworn sword feints and parries the fey lord's strike just so as to land upon the shoulder of the Lord of Horn Hill. He could have probably avoided Tarly's own blade if he had tried something less elaborate, but you appreciate the showmanship to sing songs of. He certainly seems to be enjoying himself.

Out of the corner of your eye you spy a pair of lesser knights moving to try an actual strike from behind on Ser Richard and promptly disarm one while Lord Ashford starts smashing the other as a particularly irate blacksmith would do to poor iron.

You return your gaze to Ser Richard just in time to see him smash Randyll Tarly's sword arm hard enough to force the sword from his hand as the fey lord bruised, but still cheerful, yields.

From there Ser Richard's victory is assured with Lord Owen Ashford himself being the last to fall after you had yielded with an elaborate bow.

As you are partaking of celebratory wine at the edge of the field while fey healers work their magic Oathkeeper whispers unexpected news from Ser Richard in your thoughts: "Tarly suspects who we are."

What do you do?

[] Speak to Lord Ashford as planned

[] Speak to Lord Tarly
-[] Write in

[] Write in

OOC: Old Randyll did see Ser Richard on the training field a few times when he was in Sorcerer's Deep.

 

[DragonParadox]

Archer's Accounting ​

Twenty Fourth Day of the Twelfth Month 293 AC

Whatever his sins Randyll Tarly is a man who takes his responsibilities seriously, a lord who had sworn himself to you and given his elder son into your fostering. It is thus perhaps unsurprising that he does not at first believe that you are behind the mask of Buttercup the bard and does not much appreciate it when you do reveal yourself in the relative privacy of his tent, made more secure by spellcraft.

"What... what is the meaning of this?" he does not sound quite angry, by the bemusement in his words could all too easily curdle into it.

"Less meaning than you might assume, my lord," Dany interjects dropping her own guise. "This tourney holds no great perils or heavy stakes. We are all here to enjoy a moment's levity and if that should come at the expense of someone like Ser Alfryd, deserving of his fellows' scorn..." she shrugs, wearing a smile that would not look out of place on Glyra's face. "Well that seems fair enough to me."

"Not that we are here for entertainment and festivities alone," you assure him. "As you yourself proved during the Usurper's War this is an important fief, well worth securing the fealty of its lord."

The reminder of his victory, the only one of its kind anyone had won over Robert Baratheon in the war that gained him the Iron Throne, mollifies the Lord of Horn Hill somewhat. He looks from you to Dany then finally to Ser Richard and Rina, whom you suspect he does not recognize. "Sometimes I forget how young you all are."

With rueful shake of his head, which you suspect is as close to showing amusement at your antics as he is likely to get, he adds. "Still, it's not a bad thought to secure Ashford for your cause, Your Grace. That's why I'm here at any rate, though I'd not say no to crossing swords and I hope lances with worthy opponents."

"I'll be joining the joust, yes, though I make no claim to being as skilled ahorse as on foot," Ser Richard replies plainly.

"I should hope not or there wouldn't be much point for the rest of us competing," Lord Tarly snorts, the compliment clear despite the gruff words.

"How have you found Lord Ashford, my lord?" you ask, curious as to how someone as blunt as Randyll Tarly conducts surreptitious diplomacy.

"In bed with the fey, not literally thank the Crone's wisdom, but near enough," he replies. "He would probably find the business with the... bard charming, though Fossoway was a freind of his until he made an ass of himself." He pauses a moment before asking. "Was there really magic to the girl winning?"

Dany replies before you can, having obviously reached the same conclusion about the feasibility of lying given Wenlyd's extraordinary performance. "Yes, he deserved it for striking and trying to humiliate the girl in public."

It's clear Lord Tarly does not agree with your sister's assessment and just as clear he isn't going to argue with her over it. "Hope she has the good sense to put that gold into something lasting, not useless fripperies," is all he says.

As you leave the tent your thoughts turn to the joust Ser Richard will ride in soon and how much magic, whether bound enchantment or spell blessing, Ser Richard should wear for it.

How will Ser Richard ride in the joust?

[] Write in

OOC: A bit it of a short update, but I do need to know this before I roll the joust up.