Across the boy's shoulders his cloak hung heavy. Her hair was matted with blood. You're here. She kissed his wrinkled brow.
The petitioners clustered near the tall doors, the knights and high lords and ladies beneath the tapestries, the smallfolk in the gallery, the mailed guards in their cloaks, gold or grey: all stood. Long and long ago. His father would like to see him knighted, in good time. A man's worth is not marked by a ser before his name.
Join the newsletter to receive news, updates, new products and freebies in your inbox.