The Wistful Throne
The feast in the Hall of Iron was not a celebration of joy but a ritual of endurance, a heavy, suffocating layer of meat and stale wine that coated the throats of the men who sat upon the tiered stone benches, their faces illuminated by the sputtering, amber glow of tallow candles that seemed to weep oil into the darkness, and in the center of this circular void of noise and sweat and the...
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