The Throne Leaves a Blind Edge

I spent two weeks last winter tracing the roads between Greywater Hold and the eastern gate. Each mile was marked twice: once by the cartographer, and again by the names crossed out after the council changed its mind. The map was accurate. The silence around it was not.

Every crown has a blind edge

By the time the first frost reached the river forts, three banners had been replaced, though the records still named the same commander. That is how power survives its own reversals: not through certainty, but through a story clean enough for the next soldier to inherit.