The Golden Song
The gate is iron. It is cold. You press your hand against it. The metal bites. You do not pull away. You have been here for three days. The rain has stopped. The air smells of wet stone and old blood. You wait. You are the last of the Kingsguard. Your armor is dented. The steel is dark with rust. It is your skin now. You feel every crack in the plate. You feel the weight of it. It holds you up....
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