Ossinett

Bill watched closely as Ser Robert’s horse kicked and snarled, torrents of icy winter breath firing from its nostrils like the flames of the dragon that crested its rider’s helm. No wonder the brute had gained such a fearsome reputation; he was a tower of black steel and fury astride a beast that towered over any other knight’s steed. The Warren knight gave a glance down at the squire beside him, some poor girl of fifteen wrapped up in the purple, navy and yellow of her knigh

Two towers stood high above the hilly terrain, reaching high like the spears of the riders that rode before it. Lord Declan watched as the Holton bannermen approached, winding down the twisting road that led from the dark stone gatehouse across the jagged rocks and wild streams. Two riders met him on the stone bridge, one dark, tall and brooding - bearing the sigil of a black crow emblazoned on a forest green jerkin of rough leather - and one shorter, familiar, with a fury of

"So often it is the sins of the father than wreck the life of the child", Lord Whitecliff spoke coldly: "See here with our dear Queen, surrounded by a den of wolves all but created by her father's hand." Jorren watched the ageing lord closely as he picked at a loose thread in the sleeve of his black and silver houppelande. In the cold winter air, the words bit his ears harder than any freezing wind - what did the Lord want, and why did it feel like he was being tested? King G