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

[DragonParadox]

Lord and Lady upon a Far Shore ​

Fifteenth Day of the Eighth Month 294 AC

Gerold Dayne would not be taking part in the joust. The realization did not come to him all at once in some flash of insight, and a good thing too for he did not trust those one whit since at the age of eight and ten and still new to the city he had thought to seduce the Black Pearl of Braavos, which had gone about as well as one might imagine. He had been finding the recollection a bit less mortifying and a bit more amusing as time went by, which was part of the reason for his abstaining. He did not feel he had any more glory to find on the jousting field.

It was only a game, he thought as he looked out with a familiar eye upon the stands going up for the joust to come. It had always been a game of course, but one played as close to deadly earnest as the circumstances allowed. One had to have a fine horse and the skill to hold your seat, a well-balanced lance and the boldness to use it.

Never is a blink more telling than in the joust, least it be in the throes of passion, the old saying went. Like many things that were old it had lost much of its sharpness in this new age.

Just this evening Gerold had heard from a wizard with three pints in him that the Schoolarum of the Shadow Tower had a room where the shadows came alive as foes of every sort to train against. The knight had asked if they could be fought with sword and shield as well as with spell and the answer had been a firm 'yes'.

It only made sense really. They did have spell-swords like Ser Royce in the tower and for them marshal skill was as much a part of their training as magic. So why then could not these false battles be fought ahorse with lance and shield? No reason really. Well, no practical reason at least. The joust was not really here to train cavalry, it was to celebrate the upcoming wedding of the Imperator and his lovely bride, it was a matter of prestige of being seen and adulated by the roaring crowds. Oh how he used to crave that once.

A man could get drunk on that alone, and much like drink the healers should warn against it, the Darkstar thought then laughed softly under his breath. He had done it now, gotten himself to where he would not be able to enjoy winning, and if that were so it would be churlish of him to even make the attempt.

"Let the young bloods have their fun. By the time their children are old enough to earn their spurs they might not even want them," there was something hollow in Darkstar's chest when he said that aloud, even if only softly, unheard by any other in the bustle and good cheer of the tavern. It was hard to contemplate in such a place as this, but Gerold knew as well as any man could that any new beginning must carry within it the shadow of an ending, and there were a lot of things beginning this month in the City of Sorcerers.

"You look like you have just seen a ghost, Ser. I do hope you reported it to the Scholarum," a soft voice heavy with amusement and the faintly sing-song accent of the Reach called out from his left. Turning she saw a woman who was obviously of noble blood and just as obviously associated with the Academy of Fine Arts here in the capital from the green cap and swan feather.

"No ghost, my lady, only a vision of loveliness so bright that I thought it at first the work of some spirit," the knight replied as he rose from his seat to give a proper bow. "Gerold Dayne, at your disposal."

"Truly?" There was no mistaking the coquettish gleam in her eye. "Lynesse Hightower..."

Right, of course she would be a duke's sister, Gerold thought. His luck had never been that good. Still, no one was going to be calling for his head over a bit of light flirtation and he could use some distracting. "Did you see the Wave Parade this morning? Truly breathtaking. Almost makes me wish I had learned how to swim, and me a proper Dornishman."

"It is really not that hard. Why, I would wager even I could teach you..."

It was more than Gerold's head that got distracted by the time the evening was done.

OOC: Yes, the Dornishman did just get seduced by the lady of the Reach. He might never live it down if Oberyn ever finds out. Might still count it a fair trade.

 

[DragonParadox]

Fair Dealings ​

Fifteenth Day of the Eighth Month 294 AC

News from Oldtown makes a grim hearing but not, alas, unexpected. You always knew there would be trouble there given the threat from the depths and the instinctive revulsion of those from Beyond the Farthest Sphere that seems to be afflict all spirits and mortals to some extent. Yet it does not escape your eye that such sentiments could be pernicious indeed at a time when you are only just extending to Scholarum system to Westeros. 'Possibility of outside involvement cannot be excluded,' reads one Inquisition report on the matter. Part of you wants to send it back with a reply scribbled in the margins: 'Hard to prove a negative, isn't it?'

You still the impulse. It is surely hard enough to be in the position of running a newly open office of the Inquisition without the Imperator sending back glib replies. Instead you send a word to Garin to look into the matter closely in case this is more than caution bubbling over into hatred and intolerance.

In the meantime you draft one final note to the authorities in Oldtown, from Lawmen to the Inquisition to Duke Baelor Hightower's steward who stands in his place while the man himself is in the capital for the wedding:

Leave no stone unturned, no crime unpunished and no victim without justice found. I wish to see this threat ended, root and branch before it can spread. There is more at stake in this matter than the use which such magicians might serve to the Imperium, more even than the peril they might pose if they remain shunned and fearful, the prey to dark dreams and weavers of madness. It is my pledge as Imperator which stands for their safety as it does to the safety of every Imperial Citizen.

Do not make a liar of me.
-Viserys Targaryen

There is no sense in adding the full list of titles which would be longer than the message itself, though you mark the communication with the new Seal of State, a thing of new forged-adamantine still gleaming with the light of the forge and bright with inner magic. Varys delivers it in a flash of borrowed magic.

"I might almost pity the poor peasants," your familiar hisses. At your dubious look she snaps at the air amused. "I said almost."

Thankfully closer to home there is none of the unrest one might expect from cramming so many peoples of different cultures and creeds under one roof and one law. Those who come to Sorcerer's Deep expect wonders and wonders they find. Amusingly enough there seems to be a minor problem with children trying to get a rise out of the Black Knight on display for the public by throwing rocks at it. You would almost suspect Glyra of that, only for the fact that she would probably get bored of shocking onlookers swiftly and would not keep it up so long.

Meanwhile the duels in the Circle of Battle have already begun, but it shall be days yet before the two hundred and fifty six contenders for each of the categories are windowed out to a more reasonable length and the fights get truly interesting. In the meantime the craft exposition provides an unique opportunity to offer patronage to some of the humbler crafts of the realm. You have been of course invited to judge everything from beer brewing to weaving to carpentry and smithing. Glass-making, clock crafting, pottery... the list goes on and on until the stack of parchments is really too large to even fit wholly on your desk, but you do have time to fit a few of them in at least over the next several days.

Which part of the Trade Fair do you judge (Choose 3)?

[] Weaving

[] Pottery

[] Fine Glassware

[] Clockmaking

[] Beer Brewing

[] Carpentry

[] Winemaking

[] Smithing

[] Write in

OOC: You guys can write in any mundane trade that makes sense. This is bit of a chance for Viserys to see and to be seen by the common citizenry, a bit of a follow up on that mirror play recommendation and also a chance for us to finalize those lists before we get to the martial and magical stuff.

 

[DragonParadox]

In Glass and Steel ​

Fifteenth Day of the Eighth Month 294 AC

When most men think of alchemy they always seem to think of gold first, of wealth beyond measure, or if they are inclined to suspicion before greed they think of blood, that crimson mark that shows both the proof of life and the peril of death. For yourself, placed into a position to judge, if asked what mundane material that is the most remarkable in its transformations you would say glass without hesitation. The lens in a Myrish Eye can bring close up that which was far away, the shine of a mirror can reflect the watcher's face back clearer than the stillest pond, marbled calcedonio can imitate the treasures of the deep earth and fine filigree that flows like streams of gold and silver frozen in time.

For all you see arrayed before you masters from as far east as Mantarys and as far west as Lannisport there is no real question as to who holds mastery in this. Fame more than four centuries in the making does not lie.

A dragon rampant stands defiantly on the table prepared for the Grandmaster of the Glassmakers of Myr, its scales of glittering aventurine, or goldstone as it is at times called, though it it more crimson than gold. The actual craftsman who made the dragon is tall dark haired fellow, almost broad shouldered enough to be thought a smith. He offers a brilliant white smile: "What better substance, after all, to make the dragon out of, eh?"

Spoiler: Goldstone

"I prefer the older name to be honest, goodman," you reply, returning the man's bow with a nod of your own. "It sounds more interesting. One can with only a bit of luck simply dig gold out of the ground. Yet discovering an entirely new substance made by purely mundane means when seeking alchemical reagents is rarer by far. It would be more common by far to find something you would rather have not."

"Aye," the man chuckles deep and rumbling. "More often than not your apprentices find just enough of you to bury for a jewel box. But that is not all I made for the day. That dragon is looking mighty lonely, if you do not mind me saying so, Your Majesty..."

"I do not." Though it is not hard to guess what the Myrman had planned you are still surprised to see the figure of Lya in her starry robes with filigree of gold and silver wrought, a mage's staff in her hand. You had expected something more themed to the wedding, but this makes her seem as ready to go to war as the dragon wrought in your image.

Someone had put in a great deal of heart into the making of this, likely more than had gone into the dragon for that was easy enough to find models of in all manner of forms, but so far Lya has been less of a public figure, not to mention the skills it took to get the astral patterns on her robes right, the precise celestial configuration for the day of your wedding.

As your eyes dart from the work to the craftsman again you move from surprise to shock, seeing sadness, longing there, poorly veiled. There is nothing of the good cheer that had been there before. What Lya will say at having inspired an infatuation from afar you cannot guess at. It seems almost cruel irony to grant him first prize now, but he has earned it without question and you are not about to insult the city of Myr by refusing it. You say the right words and clinking marks change hands, crafts for crafts.

Next up are the smiths. Many had come with weapons fit for war, bearded axes engraved with scenes of valor and battle, swords heavy upon the foe yet light and balanced in the hand...

"For mundane work at least," Dark Sister grumbles.

You rather agree, if not quite for the same reason. Thus you pass by stands with fanciful Tyroshi helms wrought in the forms of beasts and birds and those of Westerlander smiths who cannot quite meet your eye as readily for all their graft of steel is no less fair. Thus you come upon the stand of a elderly man with only a few hints of red left in the grey of his beard like sparks in a dying hearth, Donnal by name. Rather then weapons the smith, one of the most skilled in Runestone, forges tools and in this case surgical instruments. Fair and gleaming they are in the noonday sun, their edges fine as anything that can be wrought without sorcery.

"Good for any sort of healer's work as you can't do with magic alone, Your Majesty..." the man trails off for a moment. "Well, not you particularly, just you know regular wizards like."

Regular wizards, especially after the news from Oldtown the words are music to your ears. You might almost hand him a prize for that alone, though your reasoning is rather more twisty than that. Surgery had grown a good bit more commonplace now that one could use simple magic in place of crude stitches when you did not have the skill to simply mend the ailment with sorcery. Yet there were still plenty of places that looked poorly on cutting into living flesh, so in offering your prize you could offer your blessing.

Yet just as you open your mouth to speak you notice a familiar boy, dark haired and blue eyed. Gendry Waters had made a showing and not just in Mott's shadow, not just as an apprentice. He had reforged a small necklace of dragonsteel, each link like coils of fire locking around the throat. It is only when you look more closely that you realize he had run threads of true silver and cold iron through it, bane of many a perilous being. As fair a warding talisman as one could make, without magic that is.

Rewarding the son of Robert Baratheon would show once and for all in the most public of ways that you bear no grudge, while at the same time marking what you expect of those who had by their will or not been associated with the last king of Wsteros. Build a better future.

Who do you give first prize for smithing?

[] Donal of Runestone

[] Gendry Waters

OOC: I really wanted to fit in the clocks too, but this is already past a thousand words and more to the point it is almost midnight for me.

 

[DragonParadox]

Telling Time ​

Fifteenth Day of the Eighth Month 294 AC

In the end it is no contest, not if you want to be fair. Donal of Runestone is named the winner of the trade fair in his craft, though Gendry would not be going home disappointed. "How much for this?" you ask, running your fingers over the dragonsteel, still faintly warm from more than the light of the evening sun.

"Your Majesty, I could not possibly, please take..." the boy stutters, but you cut him off before he can earn his master a loss in materials.

"Three Sovereigns, is it," you ask, counting off the coins one by one, more adamantine by weight than is in the piece itself. It is a touch ostentatious to be paying in a coin so little trafficked in, but this is a show when all is said and done and it will make a good retelling down the line.

After a moment of shocked silence, the boy quickly gathers his wits and sweeps up the coin with gracious thanks, only a touch marred by the fact that his voice breaks halfway through. It is hard to judge the mood of a crowd when you are out in public like this because everyone has cause to applaud whatever you do no matter their actual feelings, but you judge the message had been heard, and a fair gift bought besides. You value tools as much as weapons, and mundane craft no less than the arcane when it it fairly made.

***​

To your senses, the ticking of scores of clocks and the sweep of dozens of pendulums make for a strange cacophony, like a mad dance of wheels and gears, chaos from order springing. To your surprise, you see a lawman standing guard over this part of the fair, the only man wearing the grey in sight. He catches the look, half nods-half bows in the manner of someone without much skill or interest in courtly things, and explains simply, "Gremlins, Yer Majesty. The buggers are everywhere and this is like a pile of dead fish to hungry gulls, it is."

The craftsmen behind him do not seem best pleased with the comparison, particularly the stern looking Braavosi who by his dress and manner would not look out of place in the service of the Iron Bank. Still, he manages to affix a smile as he turns to you and your escort. "Come, come to see Gerimo's pride and joy, the first such work in all the land."

He did not boast in vain. There are many clocks more finely engraved here and others set with precious stones, faces of lapis lazuli and numbers wrought of bright sapphire, tongues carved of ivory. Clockwork figurines that look almost alive, so finely are they painted strike gongs of brass and bells of silver, yet none can quite compare to the simple fact that the first time-keeper you see is actually able to be worn on the arm. Not entirely comfortably perhaps, it is a bit heavier than one of the ceremonial armbands of the Thenns, but still there is not a single spark of magic to it and it keeps time perfectly adequately.

A pity for Gerimo that he did not come up with the design ten years ago, it would have made him moderately wealthy. Here and now it is more of a curiosity, if one that might earn him a pouch of coin if you were so inclined.

Spoiler: Hand Clock

The other serious contender to your mind is the so called Brass Light. Wrought by a clockmaker here in Sorcerer's Deep, it takes advantage of several minor spells to not only measure the time as well as the clock towers you have erected here and in other major Essosi cities, but also measures temperature, humidity and atmospheric pressure. It could be used for everything from complex experimentation to making one's chambers perfectly conform to one's needs and desires, at least if one has the magic to adjust that. Given that this is a timepiece which by your estimate cost upwards of a thousand marks to make, you doubt any buyer willing to acquire that will lack it.

Spoiler: Brass Light

Which clock do you proclaim the most impressive?

[] The Hand Clock for its masterful craftsmanship

[] The Brass Light for the innovative use of magic and clockwork

OOC: A little shorter than I might have preferred but hopefully interesting.

 

[DragonParadox]

Unwanted Honors ​

Sixteenth Day of the Eighth Month 294 AC

Although you certainly would not be using a hand clock anytime soon, the potential it unveils is in many ways startling. For all you have embraced magic, for all you are magic, blood, and bone now, you still recall the libraries of the serpent folk, writ in imperishable stone even in the darkness when all the mage lanterns had gone out. There are yet places and times in which such works that need not even a spark of magic to function and there are yet valuable works which can be wrought in the domain of the merely physical. This you believe and so this you reward with the accolades and the gold dragons which mark the greatest of craftsmanship.

"Mistake not my choice for having overlooked the work of this lighthouse for the days ahead," you motion to the Brass Light, your mantle swirling with the clink of a thousand scales, or to your ear perhaps that of a thousand diminutive teeth waiting to latch on to the next meal. You do not speak of contracts in public, it makes for rather dull speeches, but from the gleam in his own eye, the man can understand the meaning just fine. A true son of the Deep in more than his use of sorcery...

You later learn that Dany had actually had a a copy of the hand clock made not for herself but for Glyra, to serve as a sort of badge of office. She assures you that 'something every one of her troupe would love to smash but can't' makes excellent regalia. Thankfully, you stopped trying to make sense of Glyra years ago, so you nod and go about your day.

Said day takes a turn for the decidedly odd when you get a brief message from Monford Velaryon delivered in discretion, though not the sort of secrecy that would make you worry something truly terrible happened.

"Your Majesty, there is a bit of an issue with the wedding. Locally, I mean..."

"You shall have to be a touch more specific than that, my lord steward. Everything is about the wedding today," you reply breaking the tension before it could gather too deep. You do not expect everything to go perfectly, given that there are far more gears in motion than all the clocks you have seen today combined.

He laughs behind his palm with the trained reflex of a courtier, but still he shakes his head. "I did not mean the Imperial Wedding, Your Majesty... well in a way, but this is more weddings in a broader sense. You see, the city of Sorcerer's Deep, through its local Assembly of Voices, has decreed in its 'wisdom' that there would not be any weddings while the celebrations are under way so as not to 'create an undo association'."

"Well, it has only been a day, at least. Tell them to stop being absurd," you reply, caught between bemusement and annoyance at the unwanted gesture. Who could have thought that on the joyous occasion of your marriage you would wish to deny that very joy to others out of what? A sense of pride. You cannot deny you have that, but you have far better things to be proud of than arbitrary local ordinances.

"It is unfortunately not quite that easy, Your Majesty. You see, they have been counting rather creatively from the start of the month..."

You sigh, then count slowly to ten in Yi Tish just because it takes marginally more mental engagement. "How many were delayed?"

"Over a two hundred and ninety two local couples," Monford replies, though hastily adding. "We can make some use of this though. The ordinance will be repealed at once, of course, but some further show of Imperial generosity would likely resonate quite well with more than the prospective spouses and their families."

What do you do in response to the soon to be rescinded wedding delay?

[] Give a wedding gift to every single couple involved
-[] Write in

[] Include them in the festivities somehow
-[] Write in

[] Just let this pass without fanfare once the legal issues are resolved

[] Write in

OOC: Welp, I rolled administrative mishap in the background so here we are.

 

[DragonParadox]

Stroke of Fortune ​

Seventeenth Day of the Eighth Month 294 AC

Coryn Bottoms was used to stupid rules raining down from on high, like a chamber pot upturned from some high kingly seat. He had come to the Deep as an apprentice potter without a master, expecting to earn his bread with with bent back and pained arms. What could you do when your master dies of the blue fever and you without the coin to pain another? Just his luck they needed potters in Sorcerer's Deep, just like they needed smiths and healers and rope makers and carpet weavers and everything else under the sun. It had not been easy to get a loan coming into the offices of the Iron Bank with patched breeches and woolen cloak so threadbare you could almost see daylight through it, but they had eventually taken him at his word.

Being as hard a worker as a man who had looked plague and hunger straight in the eye like the gaping maw of Flea Bottom his parents had only just gotten away from, Coryn had taken to rebuilding his life with single-minded zeal. For all that he had not really been expecting to find someone to share it with so soon, he had little more than hopes and prayers to offer a prospective goodfather, or as they used to say down Lime Street, spit in the wind.

The tides that washed on the shores of the city and the ships that sailed them had other ideas. Women as much as men found their way there with little more than the clothes on their backs, and so it had been for his Nohla. She had been running from debt to some merchant fella in the Summer Islands who would not bother looking this far afield for her, or so they both dearly hoped. They fell in love and they wished to marry sooner rather than later for the wait was rather... uncomfortable on both their parts now that they had decided to tie the knot, but it was not as though the likes of them could argue with the orders of the Imperator.

All such thoughts flew from Coryn's head when he heard the loud insistent knock on the door and opened it to find a trio of lawmen. They had found Nohla, he had to signal her to run somehow. But it was too late...

"Who's at the door, sweetheart?" her voice drifted in loud and clear as the door to the storeroom opened with a creak. "Oh..."

The lawman in the middle did not seem to notice the worried look on either of their faces. He glanced down a list on the clipboard he had in his left hand. "Coryn and Nohla Bottoms, of thirty seventh Victory Lane?"

"Yes," the potter replied, as firmly as he could manage. Nothing good ever came of dealing with goldcloaks, and he did not imagine changing them from gold to grey would have really changed much else.

"In the name of the municipality of Sorcerer's Deep, I would like to offer apologies for the delay of your upcoming nuptials. In recompense for any inconvenience or discomfort caused, I am authorized to offer the payment of ten Imperial Marks as well as an invitation to celebrate your union at the side of at least seventy two other couples, and likely more, as part of this glorious celebration..." The man spoke so quickly, in that toneless manner of someone reciting from a script, that for a moment Coryn did not understand what he had just been told, though it might just have been his surprise at the words coming out of the man's mouth.

Nohla snapped out of her shock a lot faster. "Yes, yes, we accept both!"

The lawman to the left immediately took a heavy silver realm out of a pouch on his belt. It was even one marked with the Islands of the Stepstones, the potter realized distantly. He could pay off the last of his debts with this and still have almost a full mark left over.

"And will you be participating?" the man asked, obviously used to the reactions by now.

After taking one look at his bride to be Coryn, nodded empathically. "Yes, we'll be there." Looks like sometimes it rains silver, too.

The two of them decided to celebrate by going out to the Circle of Battle and watching the preliminary fights.

[] Write in melee lists (Last version of the lists here)

OOC: A bit of a chance to see what street level looks like in SD and also a vote to finally get all of us focused on finishing that list so I cal roll it.

 

[DragonParadox]

Near to Glory ​

Eighteenth Day of the Eighth Month 294 AC

You are not certain if you aught to be amused or faintly pitying of some of the match ups that had emerged in the Circle of Battle at the Arcane Exclusion Category. You are not surprised by some of them, of course. The new Baron Rayne has been forged in the fires of difficult and deadly battle before he even came into your service. The same can be said of Liomond Lashare, though his years in battle were longer and harder, and if you were to make a bet on their meeting it would be on his side of the scales.

But when Dany brought you news that Greatjon Umber would be meeting Edmure Tully on the sands, it was all you could do not to laugh while drinking. How had they even gotten that far? Neither of their houses were rich nor particularly well favored to have gotten their hands on powerful enchantments.

"Oh well, you see, the knights with strong magic tried their luck on the other categories...." Your sister trails off meaningfully. "It did not go so well for most of them, so now we've got two men with something to prove about themselves or their houses. At least Umber did not get Domeric Bolton."

"You do not think he would actually do something... unsporting?" Everything you know about the Greatjon says no, at least not with any calculation, but wounded pride can be a perilous thing.

"Definitely not," Dany assures you. "It is not as though beating up the son will make the father any less imposing. If anything, I think the Lord of Last Hearth is loath to meet Domeric lest it invite snide comparisons with the last time he crossed blades with a Bolton." She takes a sip of her own drink and continues. "I think Domeric is pretty lucky to have drawn the naga. It is going to look very impressive, you know, knight against serpent, but she will not be able to use her magic and from the look of his sword he should be able to get through the golden scales just fine. I'm certain all manner of maidens will be sighing over him, not knowing he is already spoken for. You did hear about that, right?"

"The Mormonts, yes. Not sure which one, but comparative ranks aside, she would be marrying up in terms of wealth and power and he will have an interesting time of it, Vale trained as he is." You pause and consider the rather surprising win of Ser Robar Royce against the sole Adamantine Warforged to compete in any of the categories. It is clear Waymar's bother feels he has something to prove also. "Speaking of the Vale..."

"I told Ysi to get ready to commiserate," she snorts. "There is simply no way he is getting past Osric, even limited as he is."

"I do not think commiserations from his little sister are quite what the good knight is looking for," you counter. "Which one do you want to go see?"

Quarterfinalists (No magic)
Greatjon Umber vs Edmure Tully
Liomond Lashare vs Ser Roger Reyne
Domeric Bolton vs Hidden Coils
Robar Royce vs Osric

[] See all the fights

[] Roll all of them and then post the most interesting (GM's call)

[] Summarize the semifinals and show the finale

[] Write in

OOC: Sorry about thus guys, by the time I could write I had already spent way too much time thinking about character builds and rolls. tomorrow we will get down to business though, promise.

 

[DragonParadox]

Blood of Giants ​

Eighteenth Day of the Eighth Month 294 AC

The roar of the crowd filled the arena like the crashing of waves upon the shore and banners waved madly in the hands of the thousand upon thousand seated in the tiered steps. Children climbed onto the shoulders of their parents for a better look while hawkers of hood and drink called out to one and all:

"Get your glazed corn on the cob! Glazed corn on the cob here!" Sugar, once a luxury of the elite, was growing more affordable in Sorcerer's Deep, ferried over on ships from the east.

"Small beer! Small beer! Who wants some small beer to tide them over for the fight?!" It was only 'small' beer ever since one unfortunate instance when word had come in from the House of Mirrors, shutting the whole arena down to prevent a riot later in the day, which had been later concluded would have been caused by the prevalence of spirits.

"Authentic steel figures! Polished, painted and thrice-forged! Get them for your children to play with! Get them to show to your grandchildren!"

You could not hear the clink of copper schillings, but you could still see the flash in the bright evening sunlight. Thus it was that a man of the North met a dragon on the hot sands of the Circle, though he wasn't quite what one might expect from the look of him.

"He looks like a bear that just saw a snake in the grass," Ser Richard affords himself a small laugh as he looks down upon the Greatjon meeting his opponent for the first time, his second opponent that was. Edmure Tully had not lasted more than half a minute in the fight, much to the misfortune of those spectators who had been willing to bet on long odds for the underdog. The odds were much more balanced for this fight. After all, the last time warriors from the western lands faced a dragon it went ill indeed for them.

Still, this was not Amrelath, red in tooth, claw and scale, his breath as a furnace and his voice echoing like thunder. Osryx tipped his head back and waved to the crowd, his guise as fair as any son of Valyria, his doublet grey and fringed with silver as though he had just come from a ball. Though as Tyene notes, it would have to be one not overly concerned with propriety. The myrkdreki does not wear anything under the unbuttoned doublet, giving the audience a good look at the bare chest underneath. "He shall not lack for company after this if he wants it..." your friend trails off. At Waymar's look she bats her eyes with faux innocence. "What? I'm only admiring his skill with shape-shifting."

The young knight snorts. "I'll have to remember that one."

Spoiler: Osryx

Greatjon Umber could not have made more of a contrast to his opponent's courtly elegance or fencer's grace if he had tried. Garbed in heavy steel scale blackened by the soot of another world and hefting a sword near as long as Osryx is tall he strides boldly forth. Though a bristling black beard obscures hia face his words are courteous enough as the bows to his opponent and his eyes are wary.

Spoiler: Greatjon

That weariness is almost enough to spare him from his the dragon's first blow, but as his eyes are fixed upon the lines of his body and the twitch of his wrist his experience betrays him for Osryx is not bound to what mortal bone and sinew can bear. He flings himself forward, half charge, half running jump, slipping under the arc of the heavy blade and slipping his own true silver rapier between the finer scales of the Greatjon's mail just beneath the collar bone.

Then he twists as you suck in a deep gulp of air between your teeth. He had almost carved right into the tendons of the shoulder which would have left the Northener the option of fighting left-handed or fighting with ever growing pain. Luckily for Greatjon and in no small measure for the audience who wants to see a grand show after a yesterday's less than stellar performance he manages to get his shoulder out of the way just in time, taking the blow on the upper arm instead.

Another man might have been staggered, he might at least have been startled out of his own charge by the pain, but the lord of Last Hearth was made of sterner stuff. He brought his own sword arching in an undercut that struck Osryx in the chest and practically threw the dragon back by sheer force of the blow.

Twisting in the air quicksilver-swift, such that the beads of blood hung like dewdrops, the dragon laughed then. "Well, well, the bull has sharp horns then, all the better to... " he huffed as the sword came in for the next strike and grabbed onto it with his left hand, propelling himself upwards. "Hang on to."

The next exchange left the Greatjon without his helm and bleeding from the side of his face as he cursed a slightly limping Osrys. They seemed evenly matched in skill for all they had come to it by such different paths.

"By the Gods, stand still! Stand still so I can can stick you!" What might have at another time have been a roar of anger was now merely frustration bubbling over into the bloodlust for which the Umbers were famed.

As soon ask the wind to be still as Osryx. Though the dragon soon added what looked like a broken rib to his collection of wounds, his blade was always faster, as were his words. There are entire schools of dueling centered along not giving any sign to one's opponents as to one's next move, but by contrast he seems to delight in it. You can only hope he had fun because he would have likely won without it.

The sound of a spine snapping is very loud indeed, enough to cover the cursing of half-blinded Greatjon still trying to clear a handful of sand out of his face as he tries to strike his opponent.

"Good show," the myrkdreki proclaims, spitting out a mouthful of dust as the healers rush forward. "Want to try again when I'm in my own skin sometime?"

"Are you any easier to hit for being bigger?" the lord of Last Hearth asks, swaying on his feet slightly, bleeding from more than a dozen different wounds himself.

"Not so you'd notice," comes the sly reply.

"Then I'll have to pass for now," came the wary reply, followed by a reluctant laugh.

What next?

[] See more from the joust

[] Finish with the results from this category of the melee and then move on to the others

[] Write

OOC: And that is the power of crits and very high STR modifiers as well as the HP to tank death by a thousand cuts.

 

[DragonParadox]

Northern Trails ​

Nineteenth Day of the Eighth Month 294 AC

'The warriors' duels' as they had come to be known through mirror and broadsheet ended with a hard fought duel between the Duke of Last Hearth and Liomond Lashare. 'Thus was the might and valor of the North matched with the sword art of the New Man', proclaimed one enthusiastic contributor for the Imperial Times, though he would have perhaps been disappointed to hear that the victorious Lashare was physically one of the least new men to have attended and he had cut his teeth not in the wars of the Imperium, but in the internecine wars of the Disputed Lands which had become a byword for disunity and senseless bloodshed in recent years.

The world does not come with convenient metaphors unless you make them, fortunately you are quite good at that. It did not take much prompting to get Liomond to invite his last opponent to the Golden Hearth and it takes even less to convince the Greatjon to visit a tavern. By the end of the night they are fast friends and the perception of the duel had changed from some sort of 'defeat of the barbarian' to a message of unity and fair fighting, one of the very reasons why the walls of the Circle of Battle have been raised.

It does not hurt of course that Liomond is the sort of man the Inquisition can count on for a report, not that you need one for the Greatjon of course, but it is always best to keep an eye or two open on the farther corners of the realm just to be sure.

Speaking of Northern lords, you are pleasantly surprised to hear that Lord Stark is making overtures to Eithur Fulka, even though Lady Stark has rather cooled to the notion since she discovered that young Domeric Bolton is to be engaged to one of the daughters House Mormont. According to Dany, who had heard it from Jon, no one had taken the news quite as badly as his cousin Sansa who was far more open to the abstract idea of being a duchess than her father was to sending his daughter to the Dreadfort.

"It is really quite amusing..." Bloodraven's smile that evening as he meets with you, Dany and Lya over a private dinner is restrained, though you imagine it would still send quite the chill down the spine of any lord who should happen to glance upon it. "The fact that Stark's wife is now upset over the loss of a betrothal that could never be is making him more open to talks with Bolton."

"I did not think Lord and Lady had that kind of relationship." You can feel the shadow of a headache coming on. Marital troubles among the high nobility are the only sort you have no real hope of mediating by their nature.

"Oh, they don't," he assures you. "But that does not mean Eddard Stark cannot recognize an emotional reaction in his wife when he hears one and he is, I think, beginning to wonder if his own cold shoulder to the Eithur Fulka might not be begotten of thwarted pride."

"Their stated goals to match up with what the Starks have been trying to do for centuries, revitalize the North," Dany notes. "I think that as long as things are kept to the council table, and not the wedding bed Lady Stark was hoping for, things should go smoothly." She shakes her head. "Honestly, some people would betroth unborn children if they had the chance..." as her words trail off she looks at Bloodraven. "Please do not tell me someone actually did that?"

"It was considered as unwise as it was uncommon, but yes, I have heard of such happening," he replies in a cool distant voice that is just a little too serious not to wrap back around to being a jest. "For one thing there is no guarantee the child will survive birth, never mind infancy."

Alas, you do actually have serious business to attend to. You clear your throat. "At the very lest that means White Harbor will be more involved in plans to develop the Northern Duchies. After all, where goes Stark so does Manderly."

Cups clink softly in recognition of another day well spent in the midst of celebrations, then you give your full attention to the meal.

What do you want to see next?

[] The buffs and blessings only section

[] The full magic section

OOC: It's way too late to roll combat, but I could at least handle a bit more politics.

 

[DragonParadox]

Good Enough ​

Nineteenth Day of the Eighth Month 294 AC

There was something comforting about putting on one's armor, Brienne thought as she latched the final belt tight with practiced fingers. It wasn't really the weight of it, the sunsilver she wore was much less heavy than the steel she had trained in for so long. It almost felt like she was someone else when she put it on, the quartered sun and moon of House Tarth arrayed around a seven-pointed star. Yet the helm she bore was not one of the visored ones that would hide all but the eyes from the world, silver and gold in the shape of what had once been wrought of humble iron. It had been forged by the only other Chosen to have yet revealed themselves within the Imperium.

Spoiler: Silver Helm of the Chosen

The smith who forged in secret and the warrior who goes into battle that is not battle. Brienne bit back a sigh. Doubts weighed down far more heavily on her than iron. She did not know if this was the right use for her gifts, if she aught to make use of the blessings of the Warrior in such an arena. Of course she did not have anything against the idea of the Circle of Battle, warriors of all sorts would need a place to train and match themselves against each other, and if their striving should bring some joy to those watching than who was she to argue, so it had been for centuries.

Some things were not as they had been. It did not take glancing over the vast form of the Imperial Palace, like its own city looming over the crowded streets, to realize that. The Seven Kingdoms were kingdoms no more and the Iron Throne had been melted anew and reforged. New people bearing their own gods were sailing west across the Narrow Sea and for all they did so as friends and not conquerors she did not doubt they would change the face of Westeros as much as the Andals of old had done so.

"My head was meant to bear a helm, but not all these questions Tris. I'm the Chosen of the Warrior, not the Father, not the Crone and not the Stranger. I don't know where I should go or what I should do," she confessed to the flame shrouded bird perched by the door waiting for her to finish equipping herself, or to finish woolgathering depending on how you looked at it.

"Questions should make the brow lighter, the better to look for answers," the phoenix replied without voice. "Now tell me, what truly troubles you..."

"I told you I..." It was surprisingly hard to lie when thinking the words at someone, all the more so because Brienne was a poor liar to begin with. "I'm afraid I still won't fit in even here with the Children of the Forest and men with beards of fire. Too much of a knight in the capital, not enough of a one for back home. It feels like the world is more about who you can pretend to be, who you can play at, than who you really are. Am I just putting on a show for my own vainglory? Am I...?"

She never got to finish because Tris snapped her beak closed with a shower of spark. "The only thing you are in lacking is confidence. Are you not blessed of your god? Does he not answer your prayers when you speak them? What, do you think He only indulges you like a child, that He chose you only for your skill at arms and that you should stubborn your judgement to another? Nonsense. If that were so He would not be worth worshiping at all."

The young chosen bristled a bit at the implication that her friend was judging her god unfit, even conditionally. "Just because He does not take His hand from me does not mean all paths are equal..." she cut herself off, realizing what Tris had been doing. 'You are always more confident when you are confronting someone then when doing the same to yourself,' she recalled the phoenix saying not two months ago.

"Come on then, let's be off," she said aloud as the two set off together on the path to the Circle, the light of flaming wings flaring golden off the polished armor.

Which of the following do you wish to see?

Full Magic Listing:

1. Vrath vs Old Juicer
2. Dirriz Bluecloak vs Digir Izi
3. Nuri vs the Pride of Myr
4. Brienne of Tarth vs Ser Dregaire

[] See all the fights

[] Roll all of them and then post the most interesting (GM's call)

[] Summarize the semifinals and show the finale

[] Write in

OOC: I was just going to show Brienne's fight, but then she rolled the fey knight who is probably going to flatten her, but on the other hand I wanted to give voice to her doubts and thoughts in the context of these celebrations, so I decided to break before the fight and give you guys a vote.