He dipped the quill in ink and began to write. Not what was true. But what should be.
“What is it?” the boy asked. His name was Gerris, and he was ten, old enough to know fear but young enough to still feel wonder. The book’s pages were not vellum but a strange, thin material, brittle as dried leaves. libros de cancion de hielo y fuego
Gerris looked up. His face was pale. “Maester? Are we… are we real?” He dipped the quill in ink and began to write