As it became clear that Vilon had shared the same bloody field as the King's host, the table demanded its tax in war tales.
They were fine, roaring stories. Edric and Rykio had ten thousand of them tucked beneath their scars from years under the black falcon. Edric spoke passionately of the fall of the Fingers, carving the image so sharply with broad gestures that Vilon could see it plain as day. The hedge knight had never laid eyes on the place, so it came as a shock to hear it painted as an eyrie of sheer rock, perched high in the crags and long deemed utterly impregnable to iron.
"And guess who finally breached the maidenly bitch!" Edric roared with a booming laugh, tossing his head back and draining his heavy flagon in one massive, liquid gulp.
