To singularize Cole so boldly, so tightly second in line with Gwayne himself, does not merely burden him with the unnecessary, it demotes her many sworn Nameless further down their dirty ladder.

She must truly be beguiled. Fascinating, how subjective taste buds are even within a shared litter.

❝ Father couldn’t identify me among common meat sellers. His heart will be spared no matter the outcome. ❞

Wasting breath on him in such a Hightower fashion under a weirwood lets Gwayne keep the last of his earthly pleasures. Tattle and hypocrisy are best enjoyed interlocked. The drag of his chainmail sits him at a threshold between nobleman and set-out cattle out there, on Cole’s left. Second, to again speak of order.

❝ —Your grip has seen some improvement. ❞

Gratingly Citadelian. Very well, and on his very last wit. Knighthood is a savagery of the instincts, embalmed in a white cloak, armoured shut to a bruising for fear of what it might fuck if given free rein.

Is it not.

As exhibited before him, Cole’s foremost dream of death.

They pass the night in silence.

They break the fast in silence.