The Distant Crown
The storm has been beating against the high, narrow windows of the cellar for three days, a rhythmic, hammering assault that makes the stone walls sweat and the air thick with the smell of damp rot and old iron. You sit at the rough-hewn oak table, your hands trembling not from cold, but from the terrible, electric anticipation of the task before you, the *Chronicle of Kings* open to the final,...
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