Ossinett

Ser Jorren looked over his shoulder as the Sprintfall knight emptied the purse into his gloved palm. Eight silver coins fell from the leather bag as Ser Don moved them around to budget for the weeks ahead - Six Silver Stars could buy them both salt meats and hardtack for the week, but forty eight could feed the wandering pair well. The young errant's mind drifted to coins of gold. he'd seen one once, a Golden Sun stamped with the dead King's image, it had been in a woodcutter

"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