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

[DragonParadox]

Pledged to the Realm ​

Fifteenth Day of the Fifth Month 294 AC

The jest went that 'the king got rid of the heirs of Lann and put another Lann in their place'. Lann of Dragonsmount, the man in question would usually content himself with mildly pointing out that it was Imperator now and not king. If it were not for his hair still gleaming silver and not simply the white of old age and eyes of violet you would not think the man to be any sort of dragon's get, for his disposition was far from fiery and his mind far from prone to flights of fancy nor was for him a sorcerer's strange and subtle art. Though he had been a knight in his youth and rode in the War of the Ninepenny Kings he had gained no great honor for it, though the company of Essosi prisoners had gotten him some unusual schooling that he had put to use in the years that followed, taking on the jobs of tutor to youngsters who could not count upon the teaching of a measter and steward for the meager estates of the Narrow Sea.

Though he had only traveled to the Deep to follow some of his younger kinsmen and make sure they would not fall prey to storm or robbers he had found the city of the Dragon King much to his liking, not least because it had taken to him. Freed from the aches and pains of old age and able to wield a mountain of slowly gathered experience to the formal lessons of the swiftly growing institutions of higher education. Lann advanced swiftly up the ladder of the administration until he had come to a post setting order to the lands of Andalos, before he had been asked, seemingly in jest also, if he would like to deal with lands 'even more filled with Seven-Botherers'

Governor of the vast and rich new province of the Midlands was not what he had expected, but he would certainly not refuse it and the folk of his new charge were glad to have a coreligionist in charge, even if he was a dragon's man in more way than one.

Governor of Middlands: Ser Lann of Dragonsmount
Culture: Westerosi
Religion: Seven
Ideology: Loyalist

***​

Lorenso was born a cobbler, or near enough given that his father had been one and his father before that and so on as far as family history told, and he might have stayed a cobbler but for two things, his love of the sea and the unfortunate habit of raking up gambling debt he could not pay to folk who would be content getting their payment in blood as well as silver. He took ship to the Deep among the first Braavosi immigrants and there like many who had their letters already, a legacy of his mother silver moonlight carry her soul, he was assigned to one of the tasks that needed it, first quartermaster, then clerk ashore, then inspector of the harbor. He had been one of the few honest ones in those days, and then up and up the ladder as the realm grew and needed ever more folk in ever more places to gather the king's gold and see his writ held.

Unlike many others fallen along the wayside to the pitiless quills of the Lawmen and once or twice the Inquisition he had known not to wet his beak more than was decent, and with the gold he had gathered he did not buy a house in the Deep and the company of a new set of friends as so many did in those days. He bought circlets of pearls gleaming with arcane wisdom and rings that would sharpen the mind, glasses that would see through deception and talismans to ward the mind from enchantment. One might say that without his collection Lorenso was only half the civil servant he was with them, but he had the foresight to get them when others had not and moreover he was a man of great trust and belief in the King, now Imperator, and that earned him the position of Governor in the Heartlands.

Governor of Heartlands: Lorenso Cobbler
Culture: Essosi
Religion: Moonsinger
Ideology: Loyalist

What do you do next?

[] Write in

OOC: You have two more days until the Curia Opening is scheduled and I still need to think about those 3 seats, don't worry I have not forgotten them.

 

[DragonParadox]

Loose Golden Thread ​

Fifteenth Day of the Fifth Month 294 AC

The ink is dry upon the last of the scrolls, acclaiming the governors of the western provinces, or perhaps it should be called the Sunset Provinces after the manner common around the Narrow Sea to speak of those over the water. You wonder that tongue shall be spoken in the councils of the Curia in a century or a millennia. Some yet undreamt daughter of Valyrian or the Common Tongue of Westeros willing out by virtue of the waves of the weary and the hopeful already starting to arrive on these shores from the crowded streets of King's Landing, seeking work, shelter and clean water for their children to drink? Or would it instead be a mingling that would be equally strange to folk from every other corner of the realm, ennobled for its oddity and for the nearness of power?

Unseen you smile faintly, recalling one message from a functionary that with rather more fancy than good sense had suggested that the business of the Imperium should be done in draconic, it being the only proper tongue for a dragon's realm to be bound by. You might almost wonder if Amrelath had passed the man by, if you were not already sadly adept at recognizing flattery that seeks to engender itself to the mighty. Amrelath would not have formulated it as a suggestion, but rather at simple good sense. Of course your 'subjects' would have to learn a proper tongue, he would say, else how would you give them orders without tripping over their uncouth tongues?

You almost miss the red wyrm's company where you had weeks ago been relieved to hear that he would be withdrawing from court for the month to see to personal matters, one less strange peril for the new made lords to trip over their tongues over. After so long in the company of those who have cause to dip their tongues in honey with every word you might almost wish for some thoughtless scoffing at your softness and 'strange ways'. Relath is not quite the same, being more understanding of the necessities of politics and more polished in the manners of court.

"Well if it is draconic you want the boy speaks it," Varys whispers in your mind, a reminder of the thought you had this morning before you had become engrossed in counting the loyalists in the Curia to find a narrower majority than you might have hoped in the upper chamber, not that you really expect it to be challenged anytime soon given the diversity of other interests and priorities. Long will be the waiting before the new governor of Skagos should find common cause with the magisters of Myr or Tyrosh...

"The 'boy' is a good three years older than me," you counter.

"He still seeks the love of his father that is worth no nothing and offers none," your familiar replies as definitively as you have heard her speak. "Boy."

"Well come the end of the month he shall have to seek that in hell, or whatever other dark realm awaits the soul of Tywin Lannister," you reply aloud. "I had best have a talk with him. He warrants that much consideration one way or the other to see what might become of him."

Once you had been the exiled heir cast out by powers seemingly too vast to overcome and now how the wheel had turned. You shall not mistake the circumstances of the moment for unchangeable truths, particularly as the last remaining son of Tywin Lannister is not only clever, but a wizard already.

What do you say and what if anything do you offer to Tyrion Lannister?

[] A place in the Scholarum where his name will mean nothing beside whatever clever working his mind might conjure, there he might rise high regardless of his past (Smooth his way, open doors, put a whisper in the right ears to keep him from being stonewalled)

[] Enough gold to go into business or seek a life of modest ease if he should so choose (Lose 1,000 IM)

[] A landed title, far from the Westerlands, where he might prove himself a lord under a new name and forge a new legacy (Write in where)

[] His Freedom, no more and no less, his life is his own, but the name of Lannister he must leave behind

[] Write in

OOC: And here we are back with Viserys for a bit, we cover this and then if you guys like we can move on to the opening of the Curia.

 

[DragonParadox]

The Dragon and the Nameless ​

Fifteenth Day of the Fifth Month 294 AC

Someone had been forethoughtful enough to get the young man a chair fit for his stature, but carved of the same pale goldenwood as the rest of the sitting room. If there is one thing the palace staff does not lack for, it is experience with those of odd shape or appearance, but you are glad indeed that kindness was shown here for it shall be hard enough for the former scion of House Lannister to see this to the end without the reminder of that which has followed him like a blight all his life.

'Dwarf' they had called him and other ill names besides, for it is the nature of men to think that a comely face holds a worthy soul and one less comely must be the sign of some inner blight. Some had even thought to name him bastard, softly in the hearing of his father granted, but not so soft that he would not hear. It was this latter rumor that had made you change your thought as to the name he might take. Hill which you had planned for all the former Lannisters as a mark of their casting out from the nobility of Westeros might be taken for something else entirely when it came to Tyrion, and your mother would not have the memory of Joanna Lannister, whom she had once named friend, besmirched so.

"Come to proclaim my doom, Your Majesty?" The tone is light, almost as in jest, though bitter is the smile upon the lips that speak it. "I must confess a certain curiosity in the matter and not just of the base sort. All the rumors I have been hearing rather fall flat of the proper grandeur I would expect of the proclamations of a dragon." The last was said in draconic, book learned, but well spoken. Varys had not been mistaken on this, at least.

"Whatever rumors you have been hearing, master Tyrion, I can assure you none have the ring of truth for I have shared my mind in this matter with none before coming here to speak with you," you reply in like tongue. "It seemed to me only fair that you should hear my judgement first and from mine own lips." You pause and consider him, the young man not that much older than you, with hair of gold and hair of black, one eye green and one dark, both of them watchful. "And if you would think of it as doom, I shall not stop you, but life even with dragons and devils and angels that walk among men is not a poem to be declaimed."

"Well, what is it then?" he asks, playing long gamely enough.

"A ledger and you would not wish to find yourself paying the debts of House Lannister." You offer a smile, brief but true. "Nor should you. You find yourself a mage, master Tyrion, in an age where magic is dawning again and there is much need for the skills of sorcery, even unto the furthest parts of my realm. In Mantarys, far from the wars and the feuds of Westeros, you should have the chance to make a new life on your terms, leaving behind a name leaden with ill fortune and ill deeds. "

Tyrion snorts, though he tries to make the sound into more of a sniff at the last moment. "You could make mugwort tea smell sweet as honey, Your Majesty, but..."

"Healers use mugwort as a digestive, do they not?" you interject. "Perhaps you should not focus on what it tastes like upon the tongue, but how it may aid you through the years to come."

"I did actually choose that tea with a purpose, but now I cannot use it in my own metaphor," he replies with a mock-scowl. "You, Your Majesty, are a thief..."

Rather than speak up, you let the silence linger, guessing there is some jape and some test to it. You might have been upset at it under other circumstances, but a man disarmed and captive has no tool but his words and his boldness to guide his fate in the world.

"A thief of words, of course, for what else could you have stolen from a dwarf who had naught but his father's scorn?" he finishes and you smile, but you see in his mismatched gaze that the words are not full truth. He would ask for clemency for Gerion and for Lanna if he could, but he has no leverage and no leg to stand on. "Though on the matter it seems too much to hope that my name should be forgotten in Mantarys or elsewhere, seeing me as I am."

Ah, now you step on shifting ground and must tread with care. "The flesh-smiths ply their craft with skill and at the call of the throne with speed also."

His lips tighten, though there is longing also writ upon his face. "It'll be enough of a change to my name without a new face."

You nod in understanding, more of it perhaps than he suspects. "Mayhap when you will have gotten used to the former you may wish to make use of the latter. The offer remains open, Master Tyrion. "

For a long while there is silence, broken only by the soft sighing of the rain outside the window, then at last he asks. "What is to happen to Cersei's children, and.... well, it still feels strange to say aloud, and Jaime's. There is no point hiding that I care for them more for the sake of their father than their mother."

There is an old pain there, one that runs deeper than you imagine the thoughtless comments of one such as Cersei Lannsister might go. You do not test it, but answer honestly. "Tommen shall go to Braavos, to foster in the Palace of the Sealord. I can well attest that city can give a boy quite the education, if he has but the ears to listen and take heed. Myrcella shall go east to Quarth where the Warlock promised to care for her with all honors as a potential new recruit for their order, of which they find few, and as for Joffrey, I plan to have him squired to a knight with honor, though I have not yet decided upon the name."

"Jaime would have liked that last part." A wistful expression that is as close to unguarded as you have seen on Tyrion steals across his features. He had wept for his brother, that much you know from the mimics in his room. You imagine he would like you a good bit less if he knew you had ordered his death, but to know that he would have to see through the deceptions of Bloodraven. Clever is Tyrion no-more-a-Lannister, and not unskilled in magic, but beside Brynden Rivers he is as a child with a willow branch and a shield of wicker beside a knight in full armor.

You leave his company well content that you had tied off that thread and can move on.

What next?

[] Move on to the Opening of the Curia

[] An interlude
-[] Write in from who

[] Write in

OOC: And here we are, a good bit of Viserys being preternaturally observant, though he did not have much cause to dig deep. Not yet edited.

 

[DragonParadox]

An Arm Mended ​

Sixteenth Day of the Fifth Month 294 AC

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

OOC: I decided to do this as more of a ground level interlude, but if you guys want Viserys to do a speech for the occasion you can of course vote for it.

 

[Azel]

The Quiet One​

Fifteenth Day of the Fifth Month 294 AC

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

AN: Never had a scene with the whole Bolton family so far, so I decided to give Tita a chance to be more than a side-note.

 

[DragonParadox]

A Binding in Sun and Shadow ​

Sixteenth Day of the Fifth Month 294 AC

The Circle of Battle had seen the battles of angels and devils, it had seen dragons and giants, purists and champions of the blade facing one another over the sands for gold and for glory, but it had never seen a show quite like the one that would be put on a day before the official opening of the Curia. When it became known among the highborn and the well-connected that Maelor, the Shadow's Son, would be making an appearance in the Circle, whispers were sent flying wild for it was uncommon indeed for any Companion to show themselves on the sands. "Count'em on the fingers of one hand," the old Deepsmen would say to any who might ask.

The speculation only burned all the hotter for the fact that this was a Companion of which little was known and much spoken of.

The Lady Lya was of course known as the mother of the Scholarum and the queen to be, some even said the one who taught the Imperator magic. Ser Lonmouth and young Ser Royce were warriors of great repute while the Grand Inquisitor and Lord High Justice were known from their forays at court, for all their foreboding manner. As to the ladies Sandviper and Cox, while they may not be equally famous, or infamous as the case might be, their place at court was well-known and easy enough for the newcomers to understand. It was said that Wisdom Xor's strange name hid a stranger nature, but how strange could the smiling scholar truly be? No worse than the girl who molded flesh as a one might mold wet clay, and certainly he did not glare so fiercely.

But no, it was not the Companion who was most open to meeting new folk who caught the imagination afire, it was the silver-haired young man with the horns of gold born of the blood of dragons and that of fiends who drew many an eye, intrigued, curious, or wary. Young lords of high daring sought him out for drinks and those with an interest in the arcane found him less intimidating than some Companions to address, and some lords of a perhaps less pious bent were considering if devil's blood in the family was worth the price of royal favor.

Now another might have shied away from all the greedy gazes of the world, but though Maelor Golden Horn was many things, shy and retiring was not one of them. If they wanted to talk about him, then he would give them something talk about that was not speculation about whose bastard he might or might not be.

It would be the kind of show that only one with friends in very high places, friends with power over time itself, would dare put on in front of so many of the notables of the realm.

***​

Of all the dragons spoken of in the song and tale of the Seven Kingdoms, Meleys the Red Queen was the one who most recalled the coloring of her ancient forebears, and no small measure of their fierceness, for it had taken the combined might of Sunfyre and the venerable Vhagar to slay her, and it was said then when her head had been paraded through the streets of King's Landing by the victorious Greens, the smallfolk had been awed to silence. How much more impressive then, to see her fierce and wild, copper horns flashing under the sun as she looked down upon the bloody sands?

Spoiler: Meleys

Red flared the eyes of the young sorcerer in the shadow of the dragon, and he did not quail as she took to the air above him, for of that shadow he forged his own tattered wings and rose up to meet her. In one hand he bore a scepter of black iron that seemed to drink in the light and in the other he held a small crystal vial. Some of those watching would later swear he laughed as the dragon's fire enveloped him and then in a high clear voice he claimed his mastery over the beast in the tongue of wizardry that it was said dragons of old did speak as he tossed the vial into the dragon's maw and came to fly first beside it, then upon it, without saddle or harness for what need has one with wings of his own to fear the long fall?

Three times he circled the arena and then landed in its midst and dismounted. With an elegant bow and a wink to the stands, he said, "I hope you have all been entertained by our humble showing."

Meleys snapped in agreement, for well had she been named a queen. Unseen in the high box, the young princess rolled her eyes fondly.

OOC: Maelor had a bit of steam to blow off from all the hiding and skulking you had him do. Don't worry about the ritual being public, the words he said aloud were mummery (albeit one you had to speak Draconic to fully understand). He used message to say the actual words of binding into her ear. Even when Maelor is being a show off, he is still being at least a bit sneaky.

 

[DragonParadox]

In the Guarded Garden ​

Sixteenth Day of the Fifth Month 294 AC

Evening lay soft and quiet over the Deep, at least as quiet as the city ever became these days under the silver and gold light of the mage lanterns. It felt more crowded somehow, with the sound of Common so oft in your ear, mingling with the countless daughter tongues of Valyria and the arcane syllables of more distant planar languages. It feels a little like your past has caught up with you or no, more like it is casting shadows into the light of the present. The lords of Westeros are gathered to take council... you laugh softly into the night air, cooling under the power of Zathir. And that council shall be worth precisely as much as you count it to be.

"The gardens are nice, aren't they?" Vee's voice is soft beside you.

Shifting your gaze from far to near, you imagine there are even now poets feverishly witting verse to encapsulate the way the shadows of the trees, both familiar and strange, dance under the moonlight, the way the scent of the sea mingles sharply with the flowers of peach and apple blossoms, with flowers of the realms of high air where the wind dances free. But Vee had ever been one to get to the heart of things. "Yes, they are nice, and all the better with people to enjoy them."

The Red Keep had no garden, of course. When you were growing up it held only a Godswood without even a true heart tree to its name, and the only folk who could walk there were the highborn and those seldom so. By contrast, in the gardens of your palace walk folk of all sorts, from envoys lingering from the coronation and they attendants to functionaries taking in the air after a long day at their desk. A fey of the Orphne court walks in with shadows of evening, by most eyes unseen, and in the branches of a linden tree of phoenix rests, the embers of its feathers falling softly on the head of a woman in the black and gold uniform of the palace staff freed from her shift for the night.

Hestior, who had taken over the palace staff, had made it a rule that all staff would have some access to the gardens when their shift was done, for it would be a pity, he said, that any should work in sight of such beauty and never get to experience it, and you had found the thought wise indeed. The gardens are a good bit more populous than you had at first thought they would be, but they do not feel crowded, only lively in the different way than the rowdy celebrations at the start of the month, more like the lung of the particular microcosm you had wrought here allowing all to take a breath before returning to their duties refreshed.

"You know some folk have even taken to sleeping outside," Vee says. "Roughing it, they call it," she laughs, giggles really not a sound oft heard from your young friend's lips. "Rough 's silk sheets it is, with Zathir on the watch. No rain but to wash your face in the morning and no wind but the breeze to ruffle your hair. You know..." she trails off.

With most others you would have prompted her, but you know it is best to let Vee speak in her own time.

"When I was little, this would have seemed near enough to heaven as made no difference." she pauses and looks about before allowing. "Well, alright, with less folk about."

"And now it seems a touch too quiet," you catch her thought unsaid. "Like stepping into a quiet painting, all soft colors and gentle lines." You had both seen too much to trust peace in the long term, all your companions had. All of you know what lies beyond the walls of the palace gardens and beyond the walls of the world.

"I wouldn't change it, even if I could." Might have beens are not in Vee's nature to ponder long, she says the words for you, but they are honestly said, you think, and you are thankful for them.

"Good night and pleasant dreams Vee," you wish her in parting before finally seeking your bed for the night.

What do you do next?

[] Write in

OOC: We have not seen much of Vee just talking recently, so I thought why not have a bit of a quiet meeting as a bridge update and a bit of a look at the palace. Not yet edited.

 

[DragonParadox]

New Shoes for a New Road ​

Seventeenth Day of the Fifth Month 294 AC

The first day of the proceedings of the Curia's opening dawns bright and busy over the white walls of the palace, but for your first task today at least you have another sort of meeting to see to. The affairs of state do not obviate those of family, though you might count yourself more fortunate than the kings who came before you that the two do not conflict, and the worst you shall have to face today is awkwardness and misunderstanding. Still, you do not at once summon the knight, Bonifer Hasty, with whom you must speak, but instead call your sister to take her council, for she is more likely to know the mind of your mother in this matter and keep you from saying more than you should.

"Oh, she is definitely pining for him and him for her, unless I miss my guess, though I know the man less," Dany says. "Why he does not say something, I cannot guess, but as for mother..." she sighs and there is a mingled note of sadness and exasperation to it. "It is this whole 'ladies do not act first' thing that so many have been saddled with. I swear the Dornish are the sanest people west of the Narrow Sea when it comes to matters of the heart."

"I shall be sure to tell Oberyn that you think so," you reply, adding a touch of levity to the discussion before it can grow too dark.

"It is not his heart that is the trouble there," your sister scoffs, but her eyes are laughing. "Look, I get where it comes from, I'm not blind to the social pressures. If something happens, it is the woman that gets stuck bearing the child, but we have better wards against that than Moon Tea, there is no earthly reason to keep going with these sorts of morals." She says the last word with an edge of weary disgruntlement. "It's like you wear wooden clogs because those are the only shoes around, but even when that changes you keep them because you are used to the splinters."

You almost choke on your tea. "One hopes you did not say that too loudly around mother."

"Of course not, I'm not stupid," your sister replies. "I may have glared at the two of them a time or two wishing they would get on with it. Mother got what I was going for, I'm sure of it. She gave me this 'it's more complicated than you know, Daenerys' look. It is really, really is not. When you have the power, you make the rules. It's only sensible to make those rules so you are not feeling miserable over matters of the heart, when you have found someone to share that joy with."

"And Ser Hasty?" you prompt, not sure you want to hear the answer.

"He just looked sort of worried," she shrugs. "I figured mother would explain what the problem was and that would finally break the dam and get them moving."

"I am assuming that did not go according to plan then?" you prompt. Perhaps you should have been paying more attention, but it had seemed to you that your eye on the matter would do more harm than good.

"No, it did not, and I am all out of ideas save one," she replies. Then with eyes opened wide and ingenious, like a child in some mummer's farce, she asks softly. "Should I call you 'father' now, Ser Hasty?"

For a moment you are caught between sheer horror at the awkwardness that might engender and incredulous laughter. In the end, the laughter wins out. "Let's save that for... never. Yes, never sounds good. I'll talk to him."

"Well, alright then. See that you do, else I shall be saying that," she replies in mock imperiousness.

***​

Ser Bonifer Hasty looks in some ways unchanged from that day more than half a year ago when he had pledged his sword to your service, save that in place of arms and armor he now wears court garb in the purple and white of his House, though if anything, he looks more worried now than when he had first come before the throne to kneel. "There is no elegant way to say this without awkwardness, Ser, so I shall instead strive for clarity," you begin. "It is no business of mine and never has been who my mother chooses to show favor to. I trust her judgement and her wisdom in such matters. I do not give you leave to court her, but only because it is not my place to give or to retract such leave."

The knight all but sways in his place, and you think a feather might be enough to knock him over.

"Would that this be all that was needed, I would be more happy than words could tell, Your Grace," he finally finds his voice, forgetting new courtesies, not that you blame him for it. You do, however, blame him for his next words. "Yet what might be said of the fair queen when it should come to light that the name was placed beside one so low in standing as myself? The rumors were dark enough when there was naught to them but longing, even the captain of the Kingsguard bent his ear to them."
"Rumors?" You shake your head, staring to understand Dany's exasperation. "Ser, I have it on good authority that a year ago there were rumors going about in Westeros that had me using babes for soup stock. I do not imagine such things have been spared my mother's ears, much as I would have wished it otherwise. Now I ask you what to that is the empty tittering of a scandal starved court?"

"I..." he trails off then swallows and forces himself to carry on. "Your Grace, how can I ask her to put her hand in mine when I have nothing to offer but my lance and spear? Life is not some ballad heard in boyhood. When I am old and grey... well older and greyer than I am now, she shall yet be young, kept so by the magic in her songs. Should I then ask her to drag me through the ages like some lodestone of mortality?"

It is then that you realize Bonifer Hasty thinks more of songs and ballads than he himself realizes, his mind filled with forever such that he forgets the day at hand. Your tone grows softer in understanding. "Ser, the world is dark and filled with evil things and tidings may yet be black in the end. To none of us is eternity or even long life guaranteed. Better, I would think, to catch the moment when you can than to look only to the horizon."

Although your words are dark and foreboding, it seems to you as though a great weight was lifted from the knight's shoulders and in his eyes a new light kindled as he bids you farewell. That had been less painful than you might have feared.

What next?

[] Curia opening
-[] Write in any last minute details

[] Write in

OOC: I know the vote is a bit weak, but this really needed a break point.

 

[DragonParadox]

In Open Session ​

Seventeenth Day of the Fifth Month 294 AC

Monford Velaryon, new-made Steward if the Imperial lands, felt unaccountably small in the high halls of the Curia echoing with the sound of many voices, many in tongues he did not himself speak. It was not as he had thought might be the case, the strangest of his fellow members of the Curia who caused him the most anxiety, the one who looked like a pale snake and spoke not with lips he did not have but in his mind, the bullman who had introduced himself as Brax and walked in full armor as was the habit of his strange folk. It was not even seeing one of the Children of the Forest, eyes green like the light in shadowed woods standing behind a table with all the others and papers upon it that seemed to him most strange. No, in the end those were few and odd voices in a great chorus, or as he was starting to suspect might be the case at times, a great cacophony. What had truly never struck Monford before was how vast the realm was and how many its folk trailing off westwards to the edge of Cursed Valyria itself and to the lonely half built ruins by the far northern waters. Maps did not do it justice.

It was all too easy to get lost in the many strange places and many untrod paths of the Deep and forget that from here was ruled an empire of uncounted souls, ruled in some ways very loosely, as seen by all the odd styling of its lords and ladies from the Sealord of Braavos to the Archonic council of Myr to whatever the hell Vargo Alexi was, a failed king of dubious prophecy mayhap. In other ways the rule was very strong indeed. He could count the number of provincial governors serving at the pleasure of the throne as readily as any of his peers and he could see how the strict division of landed title from all others would keep any from gathering any such power as could challenge the crown. Even the Vox Curiae in their way were a means to give the throne one more leaver on the realm, for many kings before Viserys First of his name, now speaking fair words of fellowship and unity, could before claim that the smallfolk favored them, but what use has the favor of those who were silent... who were voiceless? A lesson from the fall of his great grandfather Aegon perhaps.

Still, unlike many of his fellow lords Monford was content with the way the power of the new Imperial throne compared to the Iron Throne that was no more, with light heart he rose in acclamation of the changes made to the lands Baratheon had granted and to the matters of succession also and not just, as some sour voices mostly from the Reach and the Vale, had called because his daughter had been given a great boon of land that few younger sons would have hoped for, nor even from the gift of Stromrider, his dragon a warm though still unaccustomed weight upon his shoulder. For the most part he was simply glad that if by some mischance or the stroke of some strange foe he would die on the morrow his lands would go to his son uncontested no matter that he was hardly more than a babe in arms. Monford Velaryon, greatest 'rebel' of the Crownlands until but a few weeks past, was just in this for the lasting prosperity and peace of his lands and of his House and that it was clear to him was wedded to the Imperial Banner tight as any two interests could be.

What tongue or tongues does Monford hear as the Curia goes about its first full day of activity and governors are named east and west, north and south?

[] High Valyrian, for it is a subtle tongue much suited to the intricacies of law and rule

[] Low Valyrian, after the manner of Tyrosh and the Stepstones as the tongue of the city

[] Low Valyrian and Common, strange it sounds to the ear to have everything spoken twice and slowing the wheels of debate

[] Write in

OOC: I cannot believe we have not had this vote before, but now that you have a significant portion of the realm that speaks something other than Low Valyrian I really do need to know what the language of central administration and high formality is. Also, I'm not doing a dragon hatching for him because we have already had so many and I really do not have interesting ideas for that.

 

[DragonParadox]

First Debates ​

Seventeenth Day of the Fifth Month 294 AC

It is no surprise to you looking down from a high seat upon the Curia that Slippery Sal should be questioned first of all the governors you have appointed. The man makes no bones about being a merchant, and his opinions about participation in government and indeed the role and purpose of said government are uncommon. You expect he shall have few allies, though devoted, among the Curia Vocium, and none among his colleagues in the higher chamber, but at the end of the day the man is appointed to Skagos, a land with far more of the stones it is named for than people. Cold, harsh and even by other Northerners seen as barbaric and strange. His speech passes and the questions dry up quickly.

The same goes for Brenn Pyke save only for the fact that his remarks call no particular animus. Trade is good, unity is good and 'an Ironborn busied with papers is one not getting into other mischief ' as Lord Manderly notes, mostly in jest, though there is an edge of seriousness about it. Asha has a long road yet to be accepted by her peers if this is how they treat a man who was merely born to the Islands, though of course she has no confirmation to make and her claim by blood no one doubts. The irony of the contrast does not escape you, but you keep your peace going down the list.

Lormar Tyos keeps his religious leanings to himself, and none of the lords or magisters who take heed of the academia of the Deep enough to know of them are minded to question him, and so he passes without comment.

Kora the Kindly actually gets into a brief back and forth with Antonia Solaris, the first Glassblower of Myr, over her past. Some parts of the Disputed Lands recall her involvement in the transition from Legion administration to civilian law all too well, and not that kindly. She had argued against the heirs of several prominent families getting their lands back on the grounds of 'gross mismanagement akin to abandonment,' and one of those decisions had eventually turned against her, though the other five had not. You have to throttle the urge to interfere in what is by all accounts a local spat. Allowing such things to come into the open is half the reason why the Curia exists, and there shall be at least as much seaweed in these nets as fish if not more.

Once the matter is settled, Lann of Dragonsmount is another thoroughly unremarked personage, and Oddo actually makes much of the hall laugh with an anecdote in his own speech. A man likely to gain a significant measure of influence to be sure, though he might not be the greatest organizer you could have picked for the task. By contrast Lorenso Cobbler barely stirs the room at the mention of his name, and his speech seems more designed to get him quickly through a less than pleasant chore.

So you come to the Lady Indryse Umaris who is this day given stewardship of King's Landing where no hand save a king's has reigned since the days of the Conqueror. An unknown woman from Myr without any great name in her own city. That sets the fox among the pigeons the way no naming before had done, the whispers going through the chamber like a wave at sea, with more than one member of the Chambers being suddenly discomfited that they could not speak a tongue known only to their neighbors you would judge.

Lord Paxter Redwyne, Duke of the Arbor, asks to be recognized and rises from his seat to address the throne. "Your Majesty, I do not doubt the lady's competence nor her will to better the city of King's Landing, but I must confess I am confused as to why a city so great and dear to the soul of all the Seven Kingdoms should fall under the scepter of a woman who has never even been across the Narrow Sea. Surely my esteemed colleagues from the Free Cities would raise hue and cry should one of the Daughters of Valyria fall under the hand of a man or woman of Westeros. Can I at least hope that the lady shall make use of assistants from the Seven Kingdoms, ones used to the sea and the ways of trade perhaps?"

Ones who are related to me or under my patronage, you translate easily enough.

What do you reply?

[] Write in

OOC: And we are off to the wonderful lands of politics in full.