The Wistful Throne
The banquet hall of the High Watch was a cathedral of smoke and silence, where the air hung heavy with the scent of roasted boar, spilled wine, and the metallic tang of old blood that seemed to seep from the very stones of the fortress. I sat at the lower end of the long table, my back against the cold oak, watching the candlelight flicker and dance across the faces of the senior captains who...
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