The Wistful Throne
The rain has been falling on the cobblestones of the Lower Ward for three days, a relentless, gray drumming that soaks into the wool of your traveling cloak and settles into the marrow of your bones, yet you do not stop, for you are walking toward the High Spire where the King of Ash and Iron sits, and you carry in your satchel the only thing that matters, a pair of silver spurs that hum with a...
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