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

[DragonParadox]

A Torch in Secret Kindled ​

Fourth Day of the Fifth Month 294 AC

For a long while yet you look upon the boy and consider your next words with care, for a boy he is indeed. His life had not been an easy one and the teachings of the Scholarum had prepared him for labors of the mind, for the seeking of lore. Yet for what you are bout to impart upon him there can be no true preparedness. You were not prepared in the fullness of your power when you beheld the sundered skies above what had once been the mountain of Heaven, and through ink and parchment shall not from the spirit ask as much as seeing the horror of it in the flesh it shall weigh on him all the more so.

Should you wait for the next one to call, a part of you wonders, but you dismiss the voice almost at once, now or later young Marco shall know the truth and if it is to be later than he will know you did not trust him with it and he will likely be displeased, not without cause. Still, hesitant he might be in some small things, he is here, he is attentive and he is by his own words and will yours to command and so command him you shall.

From the gilded depths of your cloak you withdraw a certain book that no mortal hand has written, the Fading Grace. "When we are done her you may read this book, but you must do so in this chamber and under guard of the Preatori. I do not trust it out of well warded chambers for the tale it tells is as dreadful as it is true."

The boy nods this time without hesitation. A command places him on firmer ground it seems. Thus in your own words you tell the tale of the Sundering and the state of the planes, carefully and without haste, answering all his questions and they are many. Better by far than simple shocked silence, better than fear and denial.

"So you see, the Imperium is a bulwark against all of these threats. Against the grasping hands of Baator, the nihilism of Abaddon, the madness of the Abyss, the taint of the Far Realm and the hunger of true oblivion itself. In this day and age, even the gods can not without fail ensure the safety of their followers souls, let alone aid them in life. This is why we have created the Imperium, with all it's institutions and it ever greater grasp. To succeed where the gods have failed. To create a safe harbor in the wasteland of this world."

This time he does not answer, no questions and no nod of understanding. "Does it sound arrogant, presumptuous perhaps?" You offer as much of a smile as you can manage after discussing such grim matters. "Then let me tell you another secret, it is only arrogance if you fail, and if this fails why any of us care what it should be called as the flame of history gutters out to black oblivion?"

"A man wearing his noose fears battle less?" The question comes like a sigh of breath kept in. You had not heard that saying before, you assume it is native to the Deep from the days before your coming, but you can guess it's meaning well enough

You nod as you offer him a cup of strong Myrish Tea, by far the best drink for talks such as this you have found for it sharpens the mind and does not dull it as wines and liquors do. "I have often spoken openly before many of the light that must be borne froth to aid those who linger in darkness, in fear and ignorance and strife. That was the truth. What you now know that few others do is that the light we all kindle here and now is the only one there is. Nobody else is coming to save us this time and only hollow skies stretch above."

"That's, uhm..." He looks paler than he did a moment ago, shaken to the core, more by being included in the 'we' than any words you had spoken before. One thing to know the world is broken, another to be told you have to help fix it. Time to explain the why of that then.

"What you have shown by grasping the power I have wrought and which these ideals give shape to is that you are worthy and capable of handling these truths. Capable of carrying these ideas out into the world to strengthen the walls against the enemies and to prepare the people for the day when the whole truth must be revealed to them. One day, they all shall know and if they all believe that the Imperium can keep them safe anyway, then nothing ill will happen on that day." You pause a long moment and in a tone willfully wry you add. "I hope that you can take my word on this."

At that Marco snaps to attention like a legionary caught slouching at his post. "Of course, Your Majesty." Not quite what you had been hoping for, but it will do.

"What I need of you and those who shall follow in your footsteps is to find like-minded people and help them to develop the convictions and belief necessary to access the same power you now wields. I do not expect them to fight or die for me and for the Imperium, but to speak. To carry these ideas to others. Some will take up arms to fight the darkness. Others will build with their power. Yet others will heal. They all will do their part in their own fashion. Will you do this for me and for the realm?"

"I already swore an oath to you and to the realm by the constitution, Your Majesty," the boy replies gravely, recovering his composure. "This seems to me an extension of that oath and nothing less. The circumstances have changed and I hope that my powers and I shall be able to bear this charge, but nothing of my convictions is different from when I walked into this room."

"Good," you smile. "I know that this is no small thing to ask of one so young, but rest assured that the load will grow less with every new pair of hands to carry it until one day it might be light as a feather."

"Feathers are... feathers are a bit too light for my liking, Your Majesty. Why, I might float away with naught but a feather on my shoulders and then where would I be?"

You let out a surprised laugh. Mayhap he is at least a bit like you were at his age. In parting you give him a small talisman of Soul Steel in the shape of the three-headed dragon and inscribed with the Mark of Greed so that it should keep his soul safe. A patchwork sort of solution, but for now the best you can manage.

What next?

[] Speak to the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch about sending an envoy to the Curia

[] Rat Clearing (interlude)

[] Write in

OOC: Some very respectable will saves rolled from the kid even given that Viserys was the best at presenting this as his own skilled allowed.

 

[DragonParadox]

Inquiring Minds ​

Fifth Day of the Fifth Month 294 AC

Out of all the people you wish to see seated upon the Curia's crimson and black, none are as likely to refuse the honor if it is ill-asked as the Night's Watch. It is a point of pride for them that they do not meddle in the affairs of the South, and in exchange expect no meddling in their ancient charge. Of course, like many matters of honor and tradition, this is more façade than truth. You had done more to empower the Watch, raise up their fallen castles, and give them again the prestige they had of old than any king that had ever sat upon the Iron Throne, even as you were technically a claimant to that throne and foe of all the Seven Kingdoms. In the end, the Lord Commander had taken the gifts you offered with both hands and glad was he for the bargain.

Yet there is a difference of kind and not just of degree between giving aid, even so generous and so varied as you have done, in the way of willing fighting hands, and asking that the Watch take up a voice in your council and vote in the affairs of the realm beside lords and burghers, governors and envoys of strange lands.

"So how do you think the Lord Commander is likely to take this?" you ask the man who had once borne that very mantle, before he had laid it down on the bare stone to take his place on the pale throne of the Greenseer.

"Better from you than from any other, Your Majesty, but I would not expect him to accept without strong argument given," replied Brynden, now the Lord Inquisitor. He wears the garb and mantle of his office with the silver pin glinting upon his breast, 'the better to get used to it as I will not oft have cause to wear it outwardly' he had said. "It will gnaw at Mormont most fiercely to be seen meddling in southern councils as he would see it as a trespass upon the power of princes he has sworn to leave behind. Graver by far than accepting aid that binds the Watch to the South for that sets tradition against oath and oath must perforce triumph. Perhaps you might give the Watch a seat, a voice, and not a vote with which others might be compelled to speak or to be silent."

"And then whatever envoy they send shall be discounted and mocked behind his back, his council mocked, his wisdom discounted," you scoff. "The Curia has little enough power already. I do not want to set the precedent that some of its members have even less than others."

"As you speak of wisdom, I would assume you have your uncle in mind for the posting?" he only half asks, for he knows you well enough to guess your heart in this, not to mention Dany's who had grumbled about Aemon 'freezing without purpose on that old pile of stones' more times than you can count.

"If he should wish it," you agree. "The Citadel shall soon be no more and the Watch has no need to keep a maester for form or for practicality. While Maester Aemon is certainly useful on the Wall, looking through the tomes and inscriptions they have kept, how much more so would he be in Sorcerer's Deep with access to the Palace Library and the brazier to see to it that any lore he gathers will reach the Lord Commander's ear at once?"

"It will seem like unduly favoring your own kin to many lords, particularly of the North," Bloodraven warns after a moment's thought and a sip of his wine. "While he is in the North his name and his tale are oft discounted, but back at court they will be turned this way and that within the hour." A thin smile marks his features. "Given that sorcery may cure the bite of age and he will be known for having the favor of the throne, I would not be surprised if some of the more adventurous or more desperate ladies do not try to tempt him into bed."

By the Endless Dream, they would at that, you realize. An incredulous laugh bubbles to your lips, but then it too settles into a smile. "Ah, but my lord, I am certain with the form you wear they shall start looking to you with such eyes first."

"Worry not for my virtue, Your Majesty," he answers dryly. "I think I still have the skill for fending off such advances."

How do you present your argument to the Lord Commander?

[] Write in

OOC: Brought to you by 'updates for writers in a hurry', here is a bit more Brynden characterization and some foreshadowing for how the less formal side of the court life is likely to manifest.

 

[DragonParadox]

Of Bear and Dragon True ​

Fifth Day of the Fifth Month 294 AC

Jeor Mormont is far indeed from a fool, even in those matters he does not oft concern himself with by choice and oath both he sees with a keen and unclouded eye. "I see why you would wish to know the Northern Border is guarded and the needs of the Watch and the Wall fulfilled, but surely there are enough of those who hold their oaths to the Imperium to give a proper report before the council without calling on us to vote besides nobles and merchants? We have left that long behind us, the better to keep our eyes to the North. If an envoy is needed one shall be sent."

"And that envoy shall be heard before the Throne, but there is worth in having council always to call and not just when need presses closest," you counter. Tapping your fingers along the table in thought you consider how to approach this. In the end you motion to the window. "Look outside, what do you see? Men who have dedicated themselves to the Black, yes? They know this place and here they are oathbound to stay where others can return to the south. That perspective is valuable to have in the Curia not to remind me of the stakes and the perils, my memory is quite good enough, but to remind their fellows, Vox and Princpes both. I have found to my sorrow that some men can grow complacent of even the most dreadful of threats if there is no mark of it under their eye, no voice to call them to mind. That and no more I ask for, a black cloak and the wisdom it brings, the voice raised in warning when the watchfulness of others might be sleeping."

"Still, such an honor weighs heavy upon me to receive in the name of any of our brothers," the Lord Commander confesses. "We are bid to seek no glories as surely as to sire no children, and while the latter might be given a measure of blindness to cover the weakness of men the former is far graver a matter."

"Then do not call for names, a name is not needed," you shrug. "A mask of black might be worn with as much honor as a cloak and thus no titles or laurels are to be given to any one name, but only to the Watch itself to which honor is rightly due."

He opens his mouth, looking not best pleased by the thought of mummery, closes it and chews on his mustache in thought. This is far from the first time when you had asked of him to thread the proverbial needle, if never with thread too gaudy in seeming to the straightforward Mormont's gaze. "Who do you have in mind for this? Your Uncle?"

"Yes, he shall more gainfully search the Palace Library with all lore gathered from across the world and beyond than just the documents the Watch now holds..." And it will help preserve his privacy from courtiers who might otherwise seek to curry favor, you think but do not add. Not that you are not proud of the notion, quite the opposite, but this is not the sort of cleverness the Lord Commander would appreciate, especially as the other part of it would be keeping the Northern Lords from calling undue royal favor.

For a long moment the elder lord is quiet, but from the very fact it you know what he will say. A 'no' would have been swifter on the tongue. "That seems as good an answer as we are likely to get in this, Your Majesty."

***​

Thus you lay it all out before your great uncle, the reasons and the assurances, the guards upon his person and his privacy both, allowing him the company of his family while still fulfilling his vows not just in form but substance. "You craft circumstance with a skill exceedingly fine, Your Majesty," he confesses at last, the merest edge of laughter over longing and some emotion you cannot name in his voice.

"That I do not deny, particularly when heart as much as mind calls for it uncle." You pause and consider your next words with care. "If you had not sent that letter to Braavos more than four years ago I might not be here today with a crown upon my head, yet it is not mere gratitude that moves to wish for your company, but the same emotion that drove you to write it. Come to Sorcerer's Deep uncle, there are few of us already and the troubles of the world, deep as they may be, do not require that you endure chill and aches to help in the mending of them."

"The world, not the realm alone?" he asks, you suspect stalling for time before he must say yeah or nay.

Motioning to the walls of the keep you note. "This place was not meant to guard any single realm, how could it have been when the realms of men have so changed over the long ages?"

Aemon nods gravely and for a moment you struggle to read what is behind the gaze so like your own, but then then spark of affection glitters bright in them like a star from behind a cloud. "Well and good then I shall be the envoy of the Watch in thine council, and glad indeed for the company."

What next?

[] The Raven and the Dragon (Interlude)

[] Rat Hunting (Interlude)

[] Finding new lords for the seats and lands left vacant that you do not wish to keep

[] Write in

OOC: Sorry this took so long, it was not enough that I was busy most of today, I also had an internet outage when I finally had the time to write.

 

[DragonParadox]

Taking Responsibility ​

Sixth Day of the Fifth Month 294 AC

Many a military campaigns had been masterminded in Sorcerer's Deep, striking fear and dread into the boldest of hearts east and west of the Narrow Sea, magisters and lords, pirates and deathless spirits of the fey had all known strife and they had known ruin from the workings of the City at the Crossroads of the Worlds. Yet never had there been a campaign fought in the city itself, not since the days of Damphair, from whom it had been taken with flame and storm on dragon's wing. That changed today.

A foe had infiltrated the city, as was often the case treachery was the cause, though this time without malice, so that she who was responsible was not banished nor put to some other punishment, but to unmake her work. "So uhm... we are here to clear out the rats and we have cats and stitched undead... the lesser sort I mean, and a pair of gaavs to command, but maybe we shouldn't trouble them."

Jon felt pity for the girl, Lydia, truly he did. To hear her floundering like that, not least because she was obviously not the sort to flounder usually, you could tell that from the way her hair lay in intricate braids, not a single hair out of place, as though it dared not disobey and be in some untidiness. She reminded him a bit of Sansa, if Sansa was a sorceress at least, but she was clearly out of her depth with her new 'title', much less given command of hundreds of literal cats, man-smart and as prone to talk back as you would imagine cats to be if they had voice to speak like men. In Jon's eyes, the dead things that called 'spitters' were worse even than the devils she did not wish to bother, not least because though they were dead and the power of death was in them they had never been alive.

He looked around at the rest of his companions for the task. The pale twins sat silent, their hands folded in their laps, alone of all of them unteased by the cats for they were supposed to be Greenseers in the making. That Jon could believe, all the more from watching their stillness, their chests barely seeming to move with breath as they looked not at the narrow confines of the conference room, which they had borrowed from the new-made Ministry of Magic, but at some distant thing the light of common day did not shine upon.

"Psst... What are you waiting for, go bail her out," Ysilla Royce delivered what Jon thought was a very unladylike elbow to his ribs with the words, or at least a more painful one than was called for. She had very sharp elbows.

"Me? Why me?" Jon asked back. He liked her, not least for calling him Snow without a hint of disdain or pity he had expected of one of her birth, but like it was just another name of the sort which there were many and strange in the city.

"Well you are the Prince and she is the Maiden Fair, you are supposed to save her," the girl replied as Lydia stuttered on. "You do think she is fair, don't you?"

Though Jon did his level best not to blush, though he suspected from the heat he could feel on his ears that he had been less than successful. The fact of the matter was that he was just getting to the age where girls were starting to look fair to his eye and he knew less of what to do with that than with magic, devils and dead things. "And what pray am I supposed to know about ordering a rat hunt in the sewers for things that did not exist before last month? Sam is the clever one here," Jon shot back. Though granted if Jon was at times embarrassed to be thrust into strange and teasing company, Samwell Tarly was often seeming petrified to even speak a word to any of the girls lest he give some imagined offense.

"I think we should put the devils on guard at the mooring lines for the airforce," Joran spoke up, before Jon could decide if his compassion for Lydia was enough to justify playing into Ysilla's teasing 'tale of chivalry'. "I mean, we know the rats can't spread on ordinary ships right because there isn't enough magic outside the Deep, but there is plenty of magic on one of the Moonchasters, never mind the Dauntless."

"Gaavs are rather dim," one of the twins spoke up distantly. "Unless you want something strangled, torn apart or taken into the sky and dropped to its death you are best served sending one of the cats in charge of other cats..."

"Or Glyra if you had enough of her jests," the other twin finished, in that eerie way they had about them that went beyond the pale faces and gazes stained crimson.

"I do not think we are actually in charge of the Great Gremlin," Lydia said, wincing a little at some memory. Had she actually tried to give the strange fey an order and been ignored for it? Jon wondered. "The only one who really commands her is the Princess, or the Imperator I suppose, but who in their right mind would trouble them?"

"I can speak to Princess Daenerys about it," Jon spoke up at last, sounding more confident aloud than he did in his own head.

"Alright, so we have plans for actually dealing with the rats themselves and not leaving any behind to bedevil the city?" Kyla Fairwind asked from beside her friend to Jon's right. "We can't just drop all the cats and spitters down there and hope for the best. We need some kind of search pattern that checks itself thoroughly and divinations from the House of Mirrors to make sure we did not miss anything." Thus saying she drew a large map of the sewage system of the city from a pouch too small to normally hold it. Magic, and not cheap magic, but then her kin are Braavosi and rich even by the measure of that city, Jon knew. "Some of those things are going to get up the drains and into people's houses so we are going to need a plan to talk to them and get them to let a in talking cat on their property. We are going to need a liaison with the Lawmen and maybe a small ad in the Imperial Times to warn people about magic multiplying rats so they don't panic if they see one."

"Snake and Tree, why isn't she in charge is she knows so much?" Jon heard Lydia mutter, though he did not think any of the others save perhaps the twins caught it.

Well, because she did not unleash a plague of magic rats now did she? Jon bit his lip against saying. Setting aright what errors you had made yourself was that part of lordship that none could afford to ignore, for without that what claim had you to power at all?

"I'll handle the business at the docks, gremlins and all, Sam can write up the search pattern and Ladies Yisilla and Kyla can go the the Lawmen and the Times for aid in our task," Jon cut in. To his not inconsiderable surprise no one objected when he spoke and thus it was through no intent or malice of his own that Jon Snow found himself usurping the office of the new made 'Vice-Undersecretary of the Rat Catcher of Sorcerers Deep' for the brief month of its existence, before the rats were well and gone, though the companionship born of the task endured for long after.

What next?

[] Write in

OOC: You guys sent over a thousand flesh-forged and undead beings to deal with an infestation of CR 1 magical beasts. I realized as soon as I tried to roll this that I could not make this any sort of combat encounter without some truly momentous diabolus ex machina so I did not, instead I rolled for organizational skill and leadership as well as how the kids would see each other depending on their stats. Sam does get a level from designing a very good rat hunting strategy.

 

[DragonParadox]

Dark Wings Arising ​

Sixth Day of the Fifth Month 294 AC

Looking down at the egg, grey and black against the blood-red pillow it had been set upon in a restrained attempt at ceremony fit for private consumption, Brynden Rivers found himself without words upon his tongue in the presence of a king for the first time in what felt like ages. There were some dreams that followed you down through the years, from the bright morn of childhood and past all the shadows of your life untarnished, those desires that show themselves first to the soul untroubled by the whys and wherefores of the world, by what could be done and what should be done. For Brynden, one had always been the desire to fly.

Even now he could still recall his mother's voice gently explaining that the dragons had passed from the world and there would be no wings for him, and then she would tease him gently and say the mark upon his face showed a soul born too late. She had been more right than she could ever know. Before his tenth birthday he had taken wing in spirit upon wings not his own, though upon a bird less portentous than those he would in the fullness of time be known for, only a common swift of the sort that was kin to swallows and who only lightly and seldom set foot upon the ground or even the branch of a tree. It had died soon after, crushed by his too heavy will bent upon its simple mind, and bitterly he had wept. Then he had learned to care more for that which he did not mean to break, and later taught himself to care less for that which must be broken.

"I never thought this day would come, not truly." His words were soft, but he had no worry that they would not be heard—a dragon's ear was fine indeed, and both the Imperator and the Princess were that and more. "At first it was for seeing too many attempts to revive the dragons end in ruin, like pouring steam back into the cauldron from whence it had boiled away, it seemed to me. And by the time I learned that it was not so, by the time I had heard the truths of the world, I was in no fit state to ride anything save in mind."

Even now he could feel, though distantly, the aches and pains of a body sustained against the ravages of age only by the throne upon which it sat, like a dying spider pinned to the ground by some cruel child. Yet here he walked in flesh, here he was whole, in body if not in power, strong enough by far to ride the dragon that from the egg would rise.

"Thank you, Your Majesty, Your Highness..." he began.

Young Viserys opened his mouth to speak, likely to dismiss the need for thanks, but his sister was swifter. "I have a name, you know, and so do you for that matter. I'm not in the habit of giving gifts to stodgy old 'Lord Bloodraven' when my uncle Brynden is still without that which his heart desires."

A sniff of hastily stifled laughter came from beside her. "I would not put it quite that way, but yes. Consider this not a gift of the throne, for those most often just come with more duties to fulfill, but a gift of family long overdue. May it bring you as much joy as Balerion does me, and may it serve you faithfully and well as ever you have served the Realm."

The last words hurt like the twinge of an old wound in the side. He had not always been skillful and he had not always been as loyal as he could have been to the throne over his own grudges and ambitions, and it was only upon being forced away from the morass of the court as the bird sent upon the wing that he could have seen the truth of it. Still, he kept the emotion off his face. It would be ill done of him to reward kindness and generosity with old guilt long curdled into melancholy.

He could feel the life below the shell. It was old and slumbering, taken from under the shadow of the Doom in the City of Syrax, by foresight guarded, by fortune kept whole. A fitting companion if ever he had known one, and the slumbering mind within seemed to agree, driven by some half-understood instinct, some kinship beyond the gulf of years and leagues uncounted.

"Wake!" commanded the Last Greenseer and last of the Great Bastards, Last Hand of the King yet living for a kingdom that was no more. In this he was the first. Never before had a skinchanger called a dragon from stone with naught but the strength of his will and the voice of his thoughts. "Blood for the spilling waits, flesh for the feasting waits, sky bright and wide waits! Your time has come!"

If pressed, Brynden would admit he had not expected the egg to explode outwards like an alchemist's grenade with a crack of thunder and the smell of smoke and ash.

"What the hells..." the Imperator gestured imperiously to the curtain of grey, and with a thought dispelled it to reveal a young dragon looking oddly fine boned, its body grey, its wings black as soot, though that was likely not the first thing one would notice about it. The coloring of the hatchling's head gave the impression of a skull, as though it had been born with a foretelling of death already upon it. Not its own death, Brynden knew, but that of its foes.

"Thou shall be Deathwind, and thy foes shall fear you as deeply as they fear their own demise," Bloodraven proclaimed as he gently reached for the dragon's mind, finding it more welcoming and far wider than that of any bird. Thus they took flight.

Bloodraven hatches Valyrian Dragon Deathwind (Due to his extraordinary skills at skinchanging and the particular affinity with the egg, the Valyrian Dragon counts as a Familiar for him for the Familiar Bond and delivering Touch Spells)

OOC: Bloodraven crit his roll to make the Valyrian Dragon wake without blood sacrifice so he got a small extra bonus... well small by the standards of someone who is already the chosen of a major god-mind.

 

[DragonParadox]

Finest Wines ​

Sixth Day of the Fifth Month 294 AC

In the days and weeks following the declaration of the Imperium and the ascension of Imperator Viserys First of His Name and some whispered already likely to remain the only so named and honored until the ends of time, there was much merriment and much celebration as one might have expected. Loud were the songs in evening time and oft rowdy, rich and red or gold flowed the wine, and the mead was sweet, and many were the tasks of the Lawmen, though of a sort most of that grey-cloaked company did not overly begrudge. Strangers in a strange land were the men from the West, their fellow citizens in law but not yet in temperament, save perhaps those of Dorne, for in Dorne the Sunset Kingdoms stretched out farthest over the sea and it would be to Dorne that the Great Bridge already planned in the halls of the Ministry of Public Works.

Yet it was not only the folk of Sorcerer's Deep who saw this nearness in thought and in council. The manse of Doran Martell near the Temple of the Moonsingers where the sound of silver bells mingled with the dance of the waters and the spirits that dwelt therein soon saw the company of many noble heralds and many lords, even from those parts who before time had little time from the Dornish, in truth especially from them. It is, after all, not those to whom the throne is warm that must curry back favor, but those to whom it is displeased. One might almost see an accounting of the banners of the rebellion by the fine ebony doors of the Prince of Dorne who alone among all the lords of Westeros had the ear of a Companion to question on the councils and temperament of the Imperator.

Now Doran was no fool and he did not reveal to Tully or Tyrell or any lord of Westerlands or Crownlands that which was said for his ears alone, and all that he unveiled could have been found just as readily in the texts of law or essays of finance or the texts of speeches which had been spoken before many, but all of that lore was easier got from the mouth of a lord than a dusty tome or the tongue of some faintly sneering functionary.

...Yes such were the laws pertaining to marriage and such and such the cause. The ordering of your own inheritance if your own to deal with and the crown will see it enforced by all the might of the Lawmen, the Inquisition, and at need even the Legions.

...No, you may not bar the red-robed priests from your domain, but you are under no obligation to give them any special succor. They may find their own as any other travelers on the road.

...Local taxes for local needs are permitted, but not in such a way as would strangle trade and the exchange of goods, and that is not for the good of merchants, but for the good of the people those merchants serve.

...Crop rituals are a wondrous thing, but it would be wise to think of what use you put all the idle hands that are no longer needed to raise wheat and barley. There are only so many mouths to feed.

On and on the conversation turned in matters great and small for scarce there was a day when the Prince of Dorne did not have company, nor when that company did not seek council. Of all other High Lords only Bronze Yohn Royce could claim similar closeness to the throne, and his son it was well known would sooner act in the doing to great deeds than hold council with his kin as Tyene Sandviper did. Now though the Prince of Dorne was not his brother and never openly crude or mocking of those who had read the fate of Westeros different than him and wagered upon a losing hand, he did not need to be, for it was oft said that the tongue of a Martell could be as sharp as the tip of the spear upon their banner, and while it may have been that in defeat that spear had been poisoned with bitter mockery, in victory it was eager and almost playful in its jabs.

"Ah such fine steeds does the Reach breed," he could be heard declaring to Mace Tyrell once as that worthy lord rode in under a cloud of ill tidings though soon after adding. "A pity the Legions could not make use of them and now ride a mix of Sand Steeds and the swift hardly mounts of the Dothraki. Do you know the Dothraki and how they came to serve under the dragon banner? First they fell upon the Companions in the wild lands west of Mantarys for they were desperate and sore-pressed by the Doom of their folk, the dead of Sarnor. But their Lord challenged Prince Viserys as then he was, not in hope of victory, but instead expecting that one mightier than he might lead his folk to greener safer lands. He died by dragonfire."

He paused then in contemplation, looking into the waters of his fountains that lesser spirits tended day and night and upon which they played marvelous songs and added. "He died by dragonfire and yet he lives, a man much honored, baron by rank and in the Imperial Army a general, for so impressed was the Imperator with the manner and reason for his passing that first of all men he was restored to life by his sister's hand. Let it not be said that those some foolishly call 'barbarians' are without honor."

It was said among the company of Dornish servants who made much of it in taverns that the face of the Lord of Highgarden was like unto the color of wax and tallow at the words said and those unsaid.

OOC: Were Doran a kinder man he would have laid off on the Tyrells given Olenna's death, but while he is loyal to his kin and great with children and a host of other good things beside Doran Martell is not kind to those he counts rivals of his House and those who have wronged it in his eyes.

 

[DragonParadox]

Head Over Shoulders ​

Seventh Day of the Fifth Month 294 AC

For all you have had countless reports in the hand of the Steward of the Deep, and soon to be Censor of the Imperium, it has been too long since you have had the company of your friend Alinor. Not that either of you can quite find the time for a meeting in private when there is so much else to be done, so many places to see and to be seen. Such a place and such a time is the coronation exposition of the Imperial Academy of Arts. She is here as a patron, of course, and you are here as... well, you suppose you are also here as a patron, but as one in a rather more exalted manner than just offering money. Though if one were to listen to Dany, your purpose is to give lie to all the overly dramatic pieces that are hanged about the wall and given pride of place in the sunlit halls.

"Could you actually do that, Your Majesty?" Alinor motions to one of the more blatant examples of overwrought symbolism. To be fair, you can understand why someone would want to show you in human form but with a dragon's head below your crown, though the composition rather suffers from the fact that the painter had obviously only just discovered, or could only just afford in any case, the kind of arcane paints than could make the image shimmer and move as it alive with some glamour. The movements of the head are all wrong... and you would probably snap any human neck if you tried to carry those horns atop it.

"With enough magic anything is possible," you reply tactfully. "Have you seen the Barge of Dawn?" That one is by far your favorite, for the simple fact that it does not show you alone or even just surrounded by the Companions in the midst of some struggle or battle, but rather atop a floating vessel whose lines take influence from the Moonchaser for all that it is open to the heavens, and all around you are the people of the Imperium who make your rule possible—nobles and merchants, judges and lawmen, craftsmen and mages. You may be the captain, but they are the crew and all the more valued for it.

"The one where you are fighting what looks like the sun-daubed black?" she asks.

In a softer voice you reply. "Yes, but only because the artist's initial composition of an army of demons was a bit too well done. Apparently, he asked Azema for pointers and she saw nothing wrong in giving them to him in all its dreadful detail."

Alinor winces slightly, though you doubt someone who does not know her as well as you would have caught the motion. "I hope the poor man is alright."

"Yes, he is surprisingly strong-minded. The artist would likely be in the Scholarum were it not for the fact that he sees magic as a distraction from his art. The Inquisitor in charge of the event just did not think it wise to have images faithful enough to conjure by on display for all and sundry."

"Wouldn't that be Azema herself?"

"For an art exposition?" you snort. "Of course not, the last thing any of us need is divided loyalties in an overseer."

"Speaking of loyalties hopefully undivided, have you given any mind for the Steward of the Imperial Lands?" she prompts. "For my part, I would almost suggest we fetch Hermetia over from Lys, but she has been talking long of going on an 'adventure'..." She says the word in the way one might speak of some dread illness to be warded off. "I have narrowed it down to a list of three proposals for my part, though you may of course know of more who might suit the task."

You are surprised to hear that your kinsman Laenor is done rusticating enough to potentially take the job, though you can see why he would be considered for it. He would work skillfully with the Scholarum and his manner and lineage will gain the ear of many a magister, though you suspect the Lords of Westeros would find him overproud. The next option is a trade magnate new made in the age of the Imperium, skilled with trade and with words, though old exploits still haunt him with the Iron Bank and he is fearful of the living dead no matter what the law might say. Lastly is Shad Ibm Mal, an azer skilled in both finance and infrastructure, though without much skill with people and less so in a new land.

Who do you choose as Steward of the Deep?

[] Laenor Targaryen
+Skilled mage (Level 13 Concept Cleric of Knowledge and Dream)
+Ancient Politician (Skilled in Diplomacy and Intrigue)
+Family Ties (Strong Loyalist)
-Old Prejudices (Very Socially Conservative)
-An Aversion to Crimson (Dislikes the Red God and his priests)

[] Orestor Tynko
+Trade Magnate (Skilled with Finance)
+New Man (A Firm believer in Imperial Economic Policy; Economically Liberal)
+Glad Hander (Makes friends or at least well-disposed acquaintances wherever he goes)
-Fear of the Grave (Is deathly afraid of the Undead and unlikely to work well with them)
-Old Debts (Was once a debtor of the Iron Bank, though the money has been paid there are yet those within it who do not trust him)

[] Shad Ibm Mal
+Extraplanar Connections
+Master Builder (Skilled at infrastructure projects)
+Finance Expert (Skilled in the gathering of gold)
-Taxman (Being known for parting people from their money makes few friends)
-Stranger in a strange land (Is not yet immersed in the politics and culture of his new land)

[] Write in

OOC: And we are off again. Hope you guys enjoy this, I wrote it kind of fast, just to get it off before it gets too late.

 

[DragonParadox]

New Steps in the Dance ​

Seventh Day of the Fifth Month 294 AC

"Well, at least you are wearing a dress," Lady Elysa Velaryon nee Celtigar looked her daughter up and down, giving the wine-red dress a sniff of what might charitably be called approval. For her part, she might as well have been carved from a block of Lyseni marble, all pale silk and frothing white lace of the kind you practically needed a cleaning cantrip to keep in decent condition.

She had taken to that magic well, at least, Valaena thought less charitably perhaps than filial piety might have required. There was apparently something about being at court, amid the glittering lights and soft spoken words, that made her mother forget that she was more than a highborn daughter of House Velaryon, that she was a dragonrider, a warrior, and a battle mage besides. Thus her answering whisper owed perhaps something to frustration. "I'm not, the armor is glamored."

"What would His Majesty say?" Lady Elysa hissed, looking sideways at the place where the Imperator was speaking with Valaena's father about his new duties as Steward of the Imperial Lands. A great honor, yes, and one many of the Lords of Westeros and Essos both might have coveted, not to mention the legions of bureaucrats just waiting for their day in the sun.

"'Good job on being prepared for trouble', probably," the girl shrugged, though the gesture itself was more polished than it may once have been. She was not in her own way without knowledge of the court. "I can't actually see through his wards, but I know for a fact that his cloak can shed arrows like rain on the mountainside. I know the princess routinely wears her armor at all hours of the day and night, including those she spends sleeping... well, other than those she spends as a dragon, curled up on a rock by the harbor."

"That's..." Valaena's lady mother very deliberately breathed in and regained mastery of herself. "That can't be comfortable dear."

Feeling a touch guilty in that way that only a parent can make one feel, the young dragonrider replied. "Well, I would not call it light as silk, but it certainly moves like it and better than any dress you have to be laced into, that is for certain."

"Hmph," the lady sniffed. "Essosi nonsense. Of course it is more comfortable than that." She had made no great secret that she saw the manner of those magisters and their kin who had flocked to the Deep long before the conquest of Westeros as crude and grasping, from the way they festooned themselves with unsubtle magics to the threads of gold and silver and other more precious metals they wove into their garb.

Not that Valaena disagreed about many of the particulars her lady mother referred to, but she rather liked the more restrained Northern fashions of Braavos and Lorath, for all that they too at times had dresses you had to be laced into. When you were not cheating with magic, at least. "Essos stretches from the Shivering Sea to... well, here, and from the Narrow to the Jade Sea, mother. If you are going to cast aspersions upon the dress and manner of our fellow citizens, its best to be precise lest, like an arrow shot without care, you should hit someone you did not mean to. No less than three Companions are Braavosi... well, alright, one of them could not give less of a damn about clothes if she tried, but still you don't want to accidentally insult the Empress-To-Be, do you?"

"I dread asking, but who is it that does not care about clothes?"

Guessing her mother's thoughts, Valaena giggled. "Relax, no one is walking around naked. Barefoot I will grant, but you won't have much of a chance to deal with Wisdom Vee at most court events. Although, now that she is officially the First Flesh-Smith, I guess there might be some that try to come to her to make them a better body or give their lapdog dove's wings or something."

"Ah magic, what wonders you make," Lady Elysa's tone was rather more wry than in genuine complaint. "Now I might not be able to put faces to people."

"You don't really need flesh-smithing for that, not unless you want wings or gills or the like, just a good magic ribbon. It's as easy as..." Valaena cut herself off as she saw the Princess arrive with the silver box that was the Imperator's second honor. "Oh look mother, they are bringing out the dragon egg. It's in our House colors. I helped pick it out."

For a long moment the chamber was silent as the Imperator and the Princess waited for Valaena's father to catch his breath before the gift, not that her mother looked any less wide-eyed. "You make it sound so easy," she finally said in a faint tone as His Majesty graciously turned her father's effusive thanks into compliments of his skillful handling of the Lords of the Narrow Sea. "Like picking out a ring or chain of office, or a sword with the right gem in its pummel. Next thing you will tell me, he is going to hatch it on the spot."

"Not quite on the spot," the young sorceress replied tactfully. Not that she thought either the Imperator or his sister would object to blood sacrifice in a private meeting like that, but her father likely would and there were some things her mother did not need to know yet.

Which posts do you wish to fill in next?

[] Write in

OOC: We have not heard much from Valaena recently, so I figured why not take the chance to show her PoV on some of the culture clashes of the court and flesh things out a bit with her family as well.

 

[DragonParadox]

An Exchange of Ideas ​

Seventh Day of the Fifth Month 294 AC

Trade has ever been the lifeblood of the realm, since the days when all you truly had to your name was the passage through the straights and pirates who were willing to turn from wolf to shepherd for the merchantmen who dared them. True, you gained almost as much from raiding ever more far flung waters in those days, but as you knew they must, the well of enemies on the high seas has dried up and the trade across the seas had not... at least not yet.

The grim fate of Kayce, so blatantly done, makes you wonder how much longer it will be until the seas are no longer fit for passage, and in that worry you are not alone. From the Sealord to Wyla and Garin, and even to Salladhor Saan, all those who have a skill and an affinity in that matter have shared the worry, in person or by proxy. You know that more than one forethoughtful magister or lord who is already looking to the sky for the passage of goods.

Thus, whoever you name to head the Ministry of Trade has to be more than knowledgeable of the ways and winds of trade at this present hour, they must be adaptable enough to deal with all the changes that may come in trade that spans not just the oceans and roads of this world, but the passage into others besides. Three names come readily to mind, one which you had already considered for the position of Steward, and another whom you have known for years and employed in a related position for almost half that span.

Last though surely not least, there is Sur-Da, a codex archon of Yrael's folk who served a like function in the local government of Mantarys, skilled in dealing with the spirits of distant realms, able to soothe Relath's pride when such was needed, and even able to bring the Masters of Slaver's Bay to the negotiating table, though naught came of the talks for the matter of slavery hung too heavy between the parties. Still, he is not without flaw, being both a reformer in matters of not just the economy, which you would be inclined to support on the balance, but also in social matters, under the banner of 'Greater Voice to the Voices' and other propositions that would give common citizens more of a say in governing at all levels. Further, according to Yrael, like many archons Sul-Da, whose new name in this latter age means 'Light's Lament', still struggles with the Fall of Heaven and at times falls into black moods from which he is hard to rouse, though he always makes up for lost time in the end.

[] Orestor Tynko
+Trade Magnate (Skilled with Finance)
+New Man (A Firm believer in Imperial Economic Policy; Economically Liberal)
+Glad Hander (Makes friends or at least well-disposed acquaintances wherever he goes)
-Fear of the Grave (Is deathly afraid of the Undead and unlikely to work well with them)
-Old Debts (Was once a debtor of the Iron Bank, though the money has been paid there are yet those within it who do not trust him)

[] Menel Goldentooth
+Old Venturer (Skilled in dealing with odd and unusual trade partners)
+Of the Silver Serpent (Preexisting connections with by far the largest trade company in the Imperium)
+Trusted (Has been set on several difficult and dangerous missions and acquitted himself well)
-Foes in Odd Places (Has made quite a few enemies in his time as a Member of the Windward Society and few would be fooled by a new face)
-The Lesser City (Many a Braavosi magnate will see the naming of a Lorathi to the position as an affront)

[] Sul-Da
+Spirit of the Far Spheres (Able to Negotiate skillfully with Extraplanar powers)
+Peace-Maker (Can bring even hostile powers or interests to considering a common goal)
+Even Handed (Will not be seen as favoring any of the large trade interests in the realm)
-Firebrand (Very Economically and Socially Liberal)
-Dark Moods (Like many archons still struggling with the Fall of Heaven)

[] Write in

OOC: Taking these one at a time since it is hard to generate characters. The lordships should go easier since you would not have to interact as much with them.

 

[DragonParadox]

Hated and Honored ​

Seventh Day of the Fifth Month 294 AC

In the end there can be no contest. While you recognize the worth of Sul Da's skills in Mantarys Menel was the man who taught a boy who still thought coin came from 'taxing the smallfolk' or at best 'conning criminals' the meaning of trade. Would you have gotten so far so fast without those lessons? Not all your foresight and all your magic say for certain, but it is undeniable that for that and for his leal service these past months he is owed the closest of considerations, and looking over his proposals for the ministry and his predictions for the broad flow of trade are well written and argued. Bold without being headlong and calculating without wholly forgetting the human costs involved.

"You do me the greatest honor, Majesty," the seemingly young man bows elegantly, though one has only to look into his eyes to see the rich and storied history that gleams there. "I fear there might yet be some who shall object to my rising so far and so fast, but I shall do my best to reconcile with who I may and keep the others from troubling you overmuch."

Before he can say more on the matter you wave it aside. "If there are any in Braavos or abroad who would complain at your appointment then they may come before the throne to see the matter settled."

At that Menel laughs darkly. "Few would be so bold, Majesty, though I confess I would wish to see at least one standing there for the lightness of my heart." With that he bows low again and departs from your study to be about his duties. A wheel well turning among the ordering of the realm.

Thus as evening falls to dusk, gleaming gold and crimson over the white roofs of Sorcerer's Deep, you ponder the position that is likely to be among all the ministries of your realm the least loved, the taxman. Yet though no man loves being parted from his coin only a fool would discount the position and grant it to one already unloved. For a moment it is as though the shade of Petyr Baelish stands before you one last time in mute rebuttal of the folly that had seen such as him given the keys of a treasury.

"The citizens may not love the taxman, but they damn well should if they have any sense..." you muse to a slumbering Varys who only flicks her tail and turns her head aside, having no care for the work of an empire one way or another.

"Talking to yourself again?" she grumbles.

You shake your head more in amusement than in exasperation. "Only because you are not listening, my friend. What if one day I should be called away to some urgent task and you should have to sit on the throne in my place to render judgement?"

"Why then I should call upon Malarys on my right with law in hand and Ser Ricahrd on my left with sword in hand, and I should see who dares come before me seeking redress and to them I would grant their will for their boldness," the replies, still sleepy.

"You would make a dreadful judge," you laugh at her reply.

"Why then it would best never ask me to sit in judgement," your familiar replies, faux innocence dripping from her forked tongue.

It is therefore alone that you are faced with reviewing the files of those who might see that the realm is given its due, those of your Companions who are responsible enough to help while having other tasks and those who are not having found other places to be. The first proposal is a Tyroshi magistrate of impeccable record and by some coincidence father of Lydia of rat-making fame, though you do not jest on the matter with him as you would have done with most others in his position, for it is clear Argentos Aertis has little use for humor, most of all at his own expense. Not an easy man to work with, though perhaps that could be turned to a strength and not a weakness in time.

The second candidate who steps into your study is far more experienced, indeed he has seen aeons collecting that which others did not wish to relinquish and he is skilled besides at following trails of parchment to any spy or thief and you have no doubts as to his loyalty, for if you did he would not be in your service at all. Only one concern do you have in that glowing report... it is the molten gold gaze of a Harvester devil that looks up at you over a cup of steaming Myrish tea. It is one thing to get men to trust that the furies do not mean them ill when they are far away on business that does not concern them, another for them to trust one of the naatezu with the contents of their coin purses.

You bid the baatezu a courteous farewell therefore and consider the last name on the short list. Aldo Wyl is troubled by who he had just passed by the door, but you doubt an eye less careful than yours would have caught it. The grey-haired Dornish noble has eyes as sharp as castle forged steel and according to Doran, who had originally patronized him, he has seen to it that all the taxes old and new were paid in full, caring not if kith nor kin would try to sway him.

A distant cousin of the main branch of House Wyl and born without any great skill for the traditional tasks of the nobility he had gotten by on a head for numbers that few other nobles cultivated, but where the likes of Baelish saw the scorn of their fellows as cause to cheat and steal Aldo had gone the other way, scrupulously honest and willing to hang anyone who transgressed over it. Still, that had not kept the man from seeking greener pastures in the east once he saw how your realm had been growing and Doran had released him to your service more than a year and a half ago, time in which he has served with distinction as part of the old Office of Taxation.

[] Argentos Aertis
+Perfect Recall (Possesses Eidetic Memory almost akin to Lya as the only expression of an otherwise latent magical affinity)
+Exemplary Judicial Service (Is one of the most skilled and most fair judges in Tyrosh)
+Last of his line (Has no family save his young daughter to call upon undue loyalties)
-Tongue of Iron (His courtesies sound rehearsed and and artificial, his manner cold and unfeeling)
-High standards (Difficult to work with, he has gone through more court scribes than any other magistrate in Tyrosh)

[] Iziku of the Deep
+Eons of Experience (Has served in the taxation system of Mammon the Golden)
+Follow the Ink (Skilled in spotting inconsistency and fraud)
+Relentless (As one who has hunted souls across the spheres he would never relent in seeking out the state's due)
--Devil in the Dark (His nature is likely to worry any cautious or pious souls no matter what you put out in the Times)

[] Aldo Wyl
+High Scruples (Has never taken a bribe nor softened his hand for kith or kin even when he served in Dorne where such was more accepted at the time)
+Ruthlessly Fair (Takes personal satisfaction in bringing malefactors to justice, though he has never let it get in the way of his sense of fairness)
+Channeled Ambition (Very loyal to the Imperium as the place where he has most been able to find a place of honor as befits his skills)
-Dornish Favoritism (Doran is already the only Prince in your realm, the other lords of Westeros will not look with favor upon a Dornishman being in charge of their taxes)
-Too Finely Sharpened (Does not seem to have any interests or passions outside his work which might leave him psychologically vulnerable)

OOC: I did roll for a Sarnori lich, but that did not pan out. No immigrants with the right skills and interests yet from that corner.