The Pale Banner
The ledger in your hand is heavy with the weight of twelve months of unpaid tithes, and you count the coins in your pouch for the ninth time, your thumb dragging over the rough edges of the silver groats until the metal feels warm and slick with sweat. You are Eamon, thirty-two years old, a squire with mud under his fingernails and a debt that stretches from the borderlands to the winter...
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