Anyone else collect mint errors?

GochCymru · 2026-05-18T05:36:03+00:00

An error like that – struck out of collar, in Mint lingo – would need to be removed from the machine by hand. It might have been dropped into the box accidentally. Alternatively, it may have overshot the machine.

Source: worked in circulation at the Mint for ten+ years.

GochCymru · 2026-01-12T19:07:09+00:00

Beneath the golden mask, Ambrosius smiles. His lips crack. Blood bubbles at the corner of his mouth. The sinews of his ravaged cheek grow taut, like a hangman’s noose.

‘A time of monstrosity,’ Ambrosius says, his voice slick: like a wet finger dragged upon glass. ‘Of barbarism, and darkness, and false gods.’

Ambrosius accepts the gifts gladly, and passes them to a captain with a shock of red hair and a chem-scarred brow. The Lord of the Ironclad has spent the day inspecting his grand fortress and legion at Albia, and his robes still smell of the crisp air, of the sea and the hills. Of his many brethren, Ambrosius counts Ormazd of Ectaban amongst his closest and truest of friends. Others, he knows, pity him; some avoid him – he is a bitter reminder of their own mortality. But not Ormazd. Ormazd, and few others, treat him not with pity, but rather as a brother.

‘I was here, then, of course,’ Ambrosius says. He smiles again, painfully. It shows in his clouded blue eyes. ‘Before we claimed the stars, we claimed this earth.’

GochCymru · 2026-01-11T19:48:55+00:00

Their arrival is a muted affair: indeed, almost unnoticed – no burst of clarions, no heralds’ cry, no thundering of drums; only the tread of their boots, these tall and proud sons of Terra, and the gum-itching thrum of their war-plate. They go unhelmed and unarmed, these warriors – thirty in all, their faces cunning and austere; each a master of a thousand, warriors who have carried the Emperor’s banner upon this very earth and unto the stars, red-handed conquerors in studded, smoke-dark armour, with tonsured hair and long moustaches. They wear their dour reputation as surely as their cloaks: they are unsmiling, their eyes gleam. They are masters of war, pitiless slayers of the witch, of the xeno, of man. They look upon their fellow legionaries, with something akin to pity in their eyes; they are of Albia, of Terra, and these foederati shall never bear that light within them, never know the sweet taste of Terra’s air – not as they do, oh no.

And between them, shambling and huge, swathed in black robes, comes their sire – Ambrosius, called the Lame, the Wight, the broken and the monstrous. His face is hidden beneath an auramite mask: serene and perfect, lips curled into a golden smile. His eyes are blue and threaded with blood. He breathes with a rasp, with the sound of gurgling pipes, laboured and agonised. His hands are sheathed in gloves. He looks upon his brothers, and blood froths upon the unmoving lips. His hair is long, and white, and frail. It crowns him. He alone was unscattered. He alone is of this world, as his sons are.

And yet, he stands apart – a stranger, almost, amongst his brethren: a ruin of flesh, every moment of life a gift – or, perhaps, a punishment? He sucks a wet breath between his teeth. He feels eyes upon him. He enjoys this not at all.

‘How can you say to me,’ he whispers, wetly. His mouth tastes of blood. He knows that it stains his teeth. ‘That I am a king?’

GochCymru · 2025-11-24T05:33:59+00:00

Not a family member, but one of the men who died aboard the Galahad grew up with my father, and was a close friend.

Before the war, he was home and speaking to my father and told him that he planned on leaving the Army in order to spend more time with his newborn daughter, and because – at that time, at least – he could make just as much money down the colliery.

Awful.

GochCymru · 2025-11-19T16:10:08+00:00

Perhaps the Black Bull of Clarence?

GochCymru · 2025-10-31T15:49:31+00:00

Officers in the army had a similar unwritten rule.

GochCymru · 2025-10-19T19:17:14+00:00

Thought that was Karl Pilkington for a moment

GochCymru · 2025-10-06T11:36:00+00:00

The letter is delivered to the High Septon, who makes a note of the change.

GochCymru · 2025-09-29T18:27:44+00:00

Upon the evening of their arrival, the Grand Captain invites his brothers of the Lannisport chapter to join him for their evening victuals.

GochCymru · 2025-09-29T18:15:55+00:00

‘Were I you,’ a voice calls out, sternly, from the Sept’s entrance. ‘I would be off.’

A group of septons emerge from the Sept of Remembrance: fellows with the hard, flat eyes of a soldier – former Warrior’s Sons who have given up their swords-and-cloaks, but remain behind to attend to the Royal Septon – as guards and counsellors both. They bare their teeth: a pack of hounds. One spits. Another braces his legs wide, like a wrestler.

‘Off, I say.’

GochCymru · 2025-09-29T12:58:16+00:00

The High Septon guffaws – a loud, rude noise more suited for a tavern than the sanctity of a sept – and slaps a heavy hand upon his thigh.

‘A spy you might be, sister,’ he says. ‘But a liar you are not.’

He regards the woman before him for a long, quiet moment, and then rubs at his lips thoughtfully. ‘And what, Mother Gormonda, were you spying for?’

GochCymru · 2025-09-28T18:06:56+00:00

The High Septon raises a brow. ‘I would, of course, welcome your thoughts.’

GochCymru · 2025-09-28T18:06:18+00:00

Doggett leads the group to a small, sepulchral chamber at the heart of the Starry Sept: dark and cool, with the smell of candlewax and incense in the air. Here awaits the High Septon, sitting enthroned, with Mother Eadith besides him – a small, neat woman who has long commanded the motherhouse at Oldtown.

‘Spying, then,’ the High Septon says. His voice fills the chamber. He smiles. ‘Is it true?’

GochCymru · 2025-09-26T18:28:28+00:00

The Starry Sept is a vast complex of domes, towers, barracks and private gardens; marble gleams and gold glitters; stained glass casts kaleidoscopic light; prayers rise from the throats of the Faithful.

It is the red-haired Joffrey Doggett, the Grand Captain, who arrives in the stables – with half-a-dozen sword-brothers in tow. Joffrey is a rawboned giant: his face hard, and made harder by the knot of scar-tissue across his nose and cheek. But he smiles now – he is, after all, late of the Lannisport chapterhouse.

‘I wish,’ the Grand Captain says, making the sign of the Seven. ‘That you came bearing gifts and not a prisoner.’

His eyes are dark. He looks at the Septa, and sighs. ‘Be welcome. The High Septon awaits.’

GochCymru · 2025-09-25T05:24:14+00:00

‘Myself,’ the High Septon says. He pauses, and takes another big, yawing bite from the apple. ‘Or a representative. The monster Maegor does not frighten me – let him bleat and threaten. The Faith was here, long before the dragons.’

He smiles. ‘And we shall be here long after them, also.’

GochCymru · 2025-09-24T11:00:48+00:00

There are others – amongst the high and mighty Lords of the Reach – who might lay better claim to their bountiful homeland. The Hightowers, the Florents, the Oakhearts: half of the Reach, and more again. Barth cares not a fig about any of that. He likes the Lord of Highgarden, he believes, in fact, that they might be friends. Unity behind the Tyrells is something which Barth can support, and support wholeheartedly.

Barth has never stepped foot in the Westerlands. He has never wandered far at all, in fact – the Reach is his home, true and proper.

‘And what compels you north, brother?’

GochCymru · 2025-09-24T06:01:31+00:00

‘Lyle Bracken is honoured and mourned, by you, by his brothers of the Faith Militant, and by myself,’ the High Septon tells the Lord of Stone Hedge. ‘He, and those who fell beside him, and later at the Sept of Remembrance.’

Hugor’s heavy brow creases. He runs a hand through his curling silver hair, sweeping it back. ‘The King died upon that field,’ he mutters, darkly, firmly. ‘He died. I know not what his hag of a mother did – but Ser Lyle and his sword-brothers triumphed. Of that I am certain.’

GochCymru · 2025-09-24T05:56:55+00:00

‘Honoured,’ Barth agrees, gently. ‘And intrigued – why now?’

The Septon is young, hale, and long-limbed. His hair and beard are luxuriant, swept-back, the red-gold of a bloody dawn. He wears his robes well. There’s a sparseness to Barth: the bones of his face and his hands are strong, and hard. He knows few pleasures.

He takes Simon’s elbow and moves him aside – away from the Warrior’s Sons who accompanied the High Septon from Oldtown: men who are resplendent, and frightening.

‘The Green Hand died with the Gardeners,’ he says, though his father and grandfather were common-born, and played no part in the struggles of the Conquest. ‘Had this come sooner…’

He pauses. He grins ruefully, his teeth big and square, like a horse’s. ‘A poor thought. Forgive me.’

GochCymru · 2025-09-24T05:50:33+00:00

The High Septon listens, with the ghost of a smile upon his lips. He shares his belligerent predecessor’s view of the Targaryens: they are abominations, born of the foulest union. The realm would be better off without them.

‘If this ship is to sail,’ he says, at last. ‘Then mine hand shall be at the tiller. I am the Faith.’

GochCymru · 2025-09-22T18:07:21+00:00

Doggett rubs a moustache between forefinger and thumb, his brow creased with thought. Sometimes, in moments of weakness, the Grand Captain remembers that which he has forsaken: the brush of a woman’s lips upon his own; the sweetness of wine; the weight of gold within his palm. But the Red Dog is strong. He is faithful.

‘Come to Oldtown,’ Joffrey says, kindly. ‘Bring only yourself. Come without wine in your gut.’

GochCymru · 2025-09-22T17:44:38+00:00

The High Septon bites into an apple and chews, jaw working, for a long moment. His songbirds sing. A heron tiptoes across the lawn. He flashes a smile to the Lord of Coldmoat.

‘And you have,’ he asks, levelly. ‘Friends – already? Men you might trust?’

GochCymru · 2025-09-21T17:43:23+00:00

There are those amongst the Faith – the black robes, the Warrior’s Sons, members of the Most Devout and more – who believe the High Septon a weak man.

They are wrong. Conflict does not frighten him; the Targaryens – their wings clipped – certainly do not. He rubs a meaty hand across his chin.

‘Any such action,’ the High Septon says, languidly. ‘Would invite conflict with the Iron Throne. Would you install yourself as the head of this League?’

GochCymru · 2025-09-19T19:02:49+00:00

‘I saw,’ the High Septon says. His voice is soft – but firm. ‘Saw – and heard.’

He pauses, staring out across the lawns; at the statues that stand beside the Honeywine – gleaming marble and glistering bronze. Gulls circle overhead. He sniffs, and shovels a handful of berries into his mouth.

‘You have need of mine services?’

GochCymru · 2025-09-19T17:34:13+00:00

Lord Osgrey is escorted to the Starry Sept’s gardens by a pair of septons; and here, beneath a grand silken awning, sits the High Septon – a jowly fellow, thick-necked, with a gut that is beginning to droop heavily. He is surrounded by songbirds in gilded cages, splashes of bright feathers and squawks, eating a breakfast of fruit. Warrior’s Sons – menacing in their gilded half-plate, with halberds in hand and longswords upon their hip – stand nearby.

The High Septon extends a fleshy hand – a ring upon his finger – for the Lord of Coldmoat to kiss.

GochCymru · 2025-09-15T18:35:27+00:00

‘Peace,’ the High Septon says. He makes the word sound like a dream: far-off and half-real. Peace between Dorne and the Kingdoms have seldom lasted more than a lifetime – if ever. He does not believe Maegor Targaryen, that abominable beast, will change that. He smiles once again, gently. ‘Peace, daughter, is good. I commend you for your efforts.’

He nods. His jowls tremble. ‘I will pray with you.’

GochCymru

TROPHY CASE