The Distant Crown
The banquet hall of Ironhold was a cathedral of smoke and sweat, the air thick with the smell of roasted lamb and the metallic tang of old blood. Torches flickered in iron sconces, casting long, dancing shadows against the stone walls where coats of arms hung like shed skins. In the center of the long oak table, three men sat in a triangle of silence, their cups untouched. They were the...
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