Lord Alester looked up sharply. “Voices,” he said.
“Do you hear, Davos? Someone is coming for us.”
“Lamprey,” said Davos. “It’s time for
our supper, or near enough.” Last night Lamprey had brought
them half a beef-and-bacon pie, and a flagon of mead as well. Just
the thought of it made his belly start to rumble.
“No, there’s more than one.” He’s right. Davos heard two voices at least, and
footsteps, growing louder. He got to his feet and moved to the
bars.
Lord Alester brushed the straw from his clothes. “The king
has sent for me. Or the queen, yes, Selyse would never let me rot
here, her own blood.”
Outside the cell, Lamprey appeared with a ring of keys in hand.
Ser Axell Florent and four guardsmen followed close behind him.
They waited beneath the torch while Lamprey searched for the
correct key.
“Axell,” Lord Alester said. “Gods be good. Is
it the king who sends for me, or the queen?”
“No one has sent for you, traitor,” Ser Axell
said.
Lord Alester recoiled as if he’d been slapped. “No,
I swear to you, I committed no treason. Why won’t you listen?
If His Grace would only let me explain—”
Lamprey thrust a great iron key into the lock, turned it, and
pulled open the cell. The rusted hinges screamed in protest.
“You,” he said to Davos. “Come.”
“Where?” Davos looked to Ser Axell. “Tell me
true, ser, do you mean to burn me?”
“You are sent for. Can you walk?”
“I can walk.” Davos stepped from the cell. Lord
Alester gave a cry of dismay as Lamprey slammed the door shut once
more.
“Take the torch,” Ser Axell commanded the gaoler.
“Leave the traitor to the darkness.”
“No,” his brother said. “Axell, please,
don’t take the light . . . gods have
mercy . . . ”
“Gods? There is only R’hllor, and the Other.”
Ser Axell gestured sharply, and one of his guardsmen pulled the
torch from its sconce and led the way to the stair.
“Are you taking me to Melisandre?” Davos asked.
“She will be there,” Ser Axell said. “She is
never far from the king. But it is His Grace himself who asked for
you.”
Davos lifted his hand to his chest, where once his luck had hung
in a leather bag on a thong. Gone now, he remembered, and the ends
of four fingers as well. But his hands were still long enough to
wrap about a woman’s throat, he thought, especially a slender
throat like hers.
Up they went, climbing the turnpike stair in single file. The
walls were rough dark stone, cool to the touch. The light of the
torches went before them, and their shadows marched beside them on
the walls. At the third turn they passed an iron gate that opened
on blackness, and another at the fifth turn. Davos guessed that
they were near the surface by then, perhaps even above it. The next
door they came to was made of wood, but still they climbed. Now the
walls were broken by arrow slits, but no shafts of sunlight pried
their way through the thickness of the stone. It was night
outside.
His legs were aching by the time Ser Axell thrust open a heavy
door and gestured him through. Beyond, a high stone bridge arched
over emptiness to the massive central tower called the Stone Drum.
A sea wind blew restlessly through the arches that supported the
roof, and Davos could smell the salt water as they crossed. He took
a deep breath, filling his lungs with the clean cold air. Wind and
water, give me strength, he prayed. A huge nightfire burned in the
yard below, to keep the terrors of the dark at bay, and the
queen’s men were gathered around it, singing praises to their
new red god.
They were in the center of the bridge when Ser Axell stopped
suddenly. He made a brusque gesture with his hand, and his men
moved out of earshot. “Were it my choice, I would burn you
with my brother Alester,” he told Davos. “You are both
traitors.”
“Say what you will. I would never betray King
Stannis.”
“You would. You will. I see it in your face. And I have
seen it in the flames as well. R’hllor has blessed me with
that gift. Like Lady Melisandre, he shows me the future in the
fire. Stannis Baratheon will sit the Iron Throne. I have seen it. And I know what must be done. His
Grace must make me his Hand, in place of my traitor brother. And
you will tell him so.” Will I? Davos said nothing.
“The queen has urged my appointment,” Ser Axell went
on. “Even your old friend from Lys, the pirate Saan, he says
the same. We have made a plan together, him and me. Yet His Grace
does not act. The defeat gnaws inside him, a black worm in his
soul. It is up to us who love him to show him what to do. If you
are as devoted to his cause as you claim, smuggler, you will join
your voice to ours. Tell him that I am the only Hand he needs. Tell
him, and when we sail I shall see that you have a new
ship.” A ship. Davos studied the other man’s face. Ser Axell had
big Florent ears, much like the queen’s. Coarse hair grew
from them, as from his nostrils; more sprouted in tufts and patches
beneath his double chin. His nose was broad, his brow beetled, his
eyes close-set and hostile. He would sooner give me a pyre than a
ship, he said as much, but if I do him this
favor . . .
“if you think to betray me,” Ser Axell said,
“pray remember that I have been castellan of Dragonstone a
good long time. The garrison is mine. Perhaps I cannot burn you
without the king’s consent, but who is to say you might not
suffer a fall.” He laid a meaty hand on the back of
Davos’s neck and shoved him bodily against the waist-high
side of the bridge, then shoved a little harder to force his face
out over the yard. “Do you hear me?”
“I hear,” said Davos. And you dare name me
traitor?
Ser Axell released him. “Good.” He smiled.
“His Grace awaits. Best we do not keep him.”
At the very top of Stone Drum, within the great round room
called the Chamber of the Painted Table, they found Stannis
Baratheon standing behind the artifact that gave the hall its name,
a massive slab of wood carved and painted in the shape of Westeros
as it had been in the time of Aegon the Conqueror. An iron brazier
stood beside the king, its coals glowing a ruddy orange. Four tall
pointed windows looked out to north, south, east, and west. Beyond
was the night and the starry sky. Davos could hear the wind moving,
and fainter, the sounds of the sea.
“Your Grace,” Ser Axell said, “as it please
you, I have brought the onion knight.”
“So I see.” Stannis wore a grey wool tunic, a dark
red mantle, and a plain black leather belt from which his sword and
dagger hung. A red-gold crown with flame-shaped points encircled
his brows. The look of him was a shock. He seemed ten years older
than the man that Davos had left at Storm’s End when he set
sail for the Blackwater and the battle that would be their undoing.
The king’s close-cropped beard was spiderwebbed with grey
hairs, and he had dropped two stone or more of weight. He had never
been a fleshy man, but now the bones moved beneath his skin like
spears, fighting to cut free. Even his crown seemed too large for
his head. His eyes were blue pits lost in deep hollows, and the
shape of a skull could be seen beneath his face.
Yet when he saw Davos, a faint smile brushed his lips. “So
the sea has returned me my knight of the fish and
onions.”
“It did, Your Grace.” Does he know that he had me in
his dungeon? Davos went to one knee.
“Rise, Ser Davos,” Stannis commanded. “I have
missed you, ser. I have need of good counsel, and you never gave me
less. So tell me true—what is the penalty for treason?”
The word hung in the air. A frightful word, thought Davos. Was
he being asked to condemn his cellmate? Or himself, perchance?
Kings know the penalty for treason better than any man.
“Treason?” he finally managed, weakly.
“What else would you call it, to deny your king and seek
to steal his rightful throne. I ask you again—what is the penalty
for treason under the law?”
Davos had no choice but to answer. “Death,” he said.
“The penalty is death, Your Grace.”
“It has always been so. I am
not . . . I am not a cruel man, Ser Davos. You
know me. Have known me long. This is not my decree. It has always
been so, since Aegon’s day and before. Daemon Blackfyre, the
brothers Toyne, the Vulture King, Grand Maester
Hareth . . . traitors have always paid with
their lives . . . even Rhaenyra Targaryen. She
was daughter to one king and mother to two more, yet she died a
traitor’s death for trying to usurp her brother’s
crown. It is law. Law, Davos. Not cruelty.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” He does not speak of me. Davos
felt a moment’s pity for his cellmate down in the dark. He
knew he should keep silent, but he was tired and sick of heart, and
he heard himself say, “Sire, Lord Florent meant no
treason.”
“Do smugglers have another name for it? I made him Hand,
and he would have sold my rights for a bowl of pease porridge. He
would even have given them Shireen. Mine only child, he would have
wed to a bastard born of incest.” The king’s voice was
thick with anger. “My brother had a gift for inspiring
loyalty. Even in his foes. At Summerhall he won three battles in a
single day, and brought Lords Grandison and Cafferen back to
Storm’s End as prisoners. He hung their banners in the hall
as trophies. Cafferen’s white fawns were spotted with blood
and Grandison’s sleeping lion was torn near in two. Yet they
would sit beneath those banners of a night, drinking and feasting
with Robert. He even took them hunting. ‘These men meant to deliver you to Aerys to be
burned’ I told him after I saw them throwing axes in the
yard. ‘You should not be putting axes in their hands.’
Robert only laughed. I would have thrown Grandison and Cafferen
into a dungeon, but he turned them into friends. Lord Cafferen died
at Ashford Castle, cut down by Randyll Tarly whilst fighting for
Robert. Lord Grandison was wounded on the Trident and died of it a
year after. My brother made them love him, but it would seem that I
inspire only betrayal. Even in mine own blood and kin. Brother,
grandfather, cousins, good
uncle . . . ”
“Your Grace,” said Ser Axell, “I beg you, give
me the chance to prove to you that not all Florents are so
feeble.”
“Ser Axell would have me resume the war,” King
Stannis told Davos. “The Lannisters think I am done and
beaten, and my sworn lords have forsaken me, near every one. Even
Lord Estermont, my own mother’s father, has bent his knee to
Joffrey. The few loyal men who remain to me are losing heart. They
waste their days drinking and gambling, and lick their wounds like
beaten curs.”
“Battle will set their hearts ablaze once more, Your
Grace,” Ser Axell said. “Defeat is a disease, and
victory is the cure.”
“Victory.” The king’s mouth twisted.
“There are victories and victories, ser. But tell your plan
to Ser Davos. I would hear his views on what you
propose.”
Ser Axell turned to Davos, with a look on his face much like the
look that proud Lord Belgrave must have worn, the day King Baelor
the Blessed had commanded him to wash the beggar’s ulcerous
feet. Nonetheless, he obeyed.
The plan Ser Axell had devised with Salladhor Saan was simple. A
few hours’ sail from Dragonstone lay Claw Isle, ancient
sea-girt seat of House Celtigar. Lord Ardrian Celtigar had fought
beneath the flery heart on the Blackwater, but once taken, he had
wasted no time in going over to Joffrey. He remained in
King’s Landing even now. “Too frightened of His
Grace’s wrath to come near Dragonstone, no doubt,” Ser
Axell declared. “And wisely so. The man has betrayed his
rightful king.”
Ser Axell proposed to use Salladhor Saan’s fleet and the
men who had escaped the Blackwater—Stannis still had some fifteen
hundred on Dragonstone, more than half of them Florents—to exact
retribution for Lord Celtigar’s defection. Claw Isle was but
lightly garrisoned, its castle reputedly stuffed with Myrish
carpets, Volantene glass, gold and silver plate, jeweled cups,
magnificent hawks, an axe of Valyrian steel, a horn that could
summon monsters from the deep, chests of rubies, and more wines
than a man could drink in a hundred years. Though Celtigar had
shown the world a niggardly face, he had never stinted on his own
comforts. “Put his castle to the torch and his people to the
sword, I say,” Ser Axell concluded. “Leave Claw Isle a desolation of ash and
bone, fit only for carrion crows, so the realm might see the fate
of those who bed with Lannisters.”
Stannis listened to Ser Axell’s recitation in silence,
grinding his jaw slowly from side to side. When it was done, he
said, “It could be done, I believe. The risk is small.
Joffrey has no strength at sea until Lord Redwyne sets sail from
the Arbor. The plunder might serve to keep that Lysene pirate
Salladhor Saan loyal for a time. By itself Claw Isle is worthless,
but its fall would serve notice to Lord Tywin that my cause is not
yet done.” The king turned back to Davos. “Speak truly,
ser. What do you make of Ser Axell’s proposal?” Speak truly, ser. Davos remembered the dark cell he had shared
with Lord Alester, remembered Lamprey and Porridge. He thought of
the promises that Ser Axell had made on the bridge above the yard.
A ship or a shove, what shall it be? But this was Stannis asking.
“Your Grace,” he said slowly, “I make it
folly . . . aye, and cowardice.”
“Cowardice?” Ser Axell all but shouted. “No
man calls me craven before my king!”
“Silence,” Stannis commanded. “Ser Davos,
speak on, I would hear your reasons.”
Davos turned to face Ser Axell. “You say we ought show the
realm we are not done. Strike a blow. Make war,
aye . . . but on what enemy? You will find no
Lannisters on Claw Isle.”
“We will find traitors,” said Ser Axell,
“though it may be I could find some closer to home. Even in
this very room.”
Davos ignored the jibe. “I don’t doubt Lord Celtigar
bent the knee to the boy Joffrey. He is an old done man, who wants
no more than to end his days in his castle, drinking his fine wine
out of his jeweled cups.” He turned back to Stannis.
“Yet he came when you called, sire. Came, with his ships and
swords. He stood by you at Storm’s End when Lord Renly came
down on us, and his ships sailed up the Blackwater. His men fought
for you, killed for you, burned for you. Claw Isle is weakly held,
yes. Held by women and children and old men. And why is that?
Because their husbands and sons and fathers died on the Blackwater,
that’s why. Died at their oars, or with swords in their
hands, fighting beneath our banners. Yet Ser Axell proposes we
swoop down on the homes they left behind, to rape their widows and
put their children to the sword. These smallfolk are no
traitors . . . ”
“They are,” insisted Ser Axell. “Not all of
Celtigar’s men were slain on the Blackwater. Hundreds were
taken with their lord, and bent the knee when he did.”
“When he did,” Davos repeated. “They were his
men. His sworn men. What choice were they given?”
“Every man has choices. They might have refused to kneel.
Some did, and died for it. Yet they died true men, and
loyal.”
“Some men are stronger than others.” It was a feeble
answer, and Davos knew it. Stannis Baratheon was a man of iron will
who neither understood nor forgave weakness in others. I am losing,
he thought, despairing.
“It is every man’s duty to remain loyal to his
rightful king, even if the lord he serves proves false,”
Stannis declared in a tone that brooked no argument.
A desperate folly took hold of Davos, a recklessness akin to
madness. “As you remained loyal to King Aerys when your
brother raised his banners?” he blurted.
Shocked silence followed, until Ser Axell cried,
“Treason!” and snatched his dagger from its sheath.
“Your Grace, he speaks his infamy to your face!”
Davos could hear Stannis grinding his teeth. A vein bulged, blue
and swollen, in the king’s brow. Their eyes met. “Put
up your knife, Ser Axell. And leave us.”
“As it please Your Grace—”
“It would please me for you to leave,” said Stannis.
“Take yourself from my presence, and send me
Melisandre.”
“As you command.” Ser Axell slid the knife away,
bowed, and hurried toward the door. His boots rang against the
floor, angry.
“You have always presumed on my forbearance,”
Stannis warned Davos when they were alone. “I can shorten
your tongue as easy as I did your fingers, smuggler.”
“I am your man, Your Grace. So it is your tongue, to do
with as you please.”
“It is,” he said, calmer. “And I would have it
speak the truth. Though the truth is a bitter draught at times.
Aerys? If you only knew . . . that was a hard
choosing. My blood or my liege. My brother or my king.” He
grimaced. “Have you ever seen the Iron Throne? The barbs
along the back, the ribbons of twisted steel, the jagged ends of
swords and knives all tangled up and melted? It is not a
comfortable seat, ser. Aerys cut himself so often men took to
calling him King Scab, and Maegor the Cruel was murdered in that
chair. By that chair, to hear some tell it. It is not a seat where
a man can rest at ease. Ofttimes I wonder why my brothers wanted it
so desperately.”
“Why would you want it, then?” Davos asked him.
“It is not a question of wanting. The throne is mine, as
Robert’s heir. That is law. After me, it must pass to my
daughter, unless Selyse should finally give me a son.” He ran
three fingers lightly down the table, over the layers of smooth
hard varnish, dark with age. “I am king. Wants do not enter
into it. I have a duty to my daughter. To the realm. Even to
Robert. He loved me but little, I know, yet he was my brother. The
Lannister woman gave him horns and made a motley fool of him. She
may have murdered him as well, as she murdered Jon Arryn and Ned
Stark. For such crimes there must be justice. Starting with Cersei
and her abominations. But only starting. I mean to scour that court
clean. As Robert should have done, after the Trident. Ser Barristan
once told me that the rot in King Aerys’s reign began with
Varys. The eunuch should never have been pardoned. No more than the
Kingslayer. At the least, Robert should have stripped the white
cloak from Jaime and sent him to the Wall, as Lord Stark urged. He
listened to Jon Arryn instead. I was still at Storm’s End,
under siege and unconsulted.” He turned abruptly, to give
Davos a hard shrewd look. “The truth, now. Why did you wish
to murder Lady Melisandre?” So he does know. Davos could not lie to him. “Four of my
sons burned on the Blackwater. She gave them to the
flames.”
“You wrong her. Those fires were no work of hers. Curse
the Imp, curse the pyromancers, curse that fool of Florent who
sailed my fleet into the jaws of a trap. Or curse me for my
stubborn pride, for sending her away when I needed her most. But
not Melisandre. She remains my faithful servant.”
“Maester Cressen was your faithful servant. She slew him,
as she killed Ser Cortnay Penrose and your brother
Renly.”
“Now you sound a fool,” the king complained.
“She saw Renly’s end in the flames, yes, but she had no
more part in it than I did. The priestess was with me. Your Devan
would tell you so. Ask him, if you doubt me. She would have spared
Renly if she could. It was Melisandre who urged me to meet with
him, and give him one last chance to amend his treason. And it was
Melisandre who told me to send for you when Ser Axell wished to
give you to R’hllor.” He smiled thinly. “Does
that surprise you?”
“Yes. She knows I am no friend to her or her red
god.”
“But you are a friend to me. She knows that as
well.” He beckoned Davos closer. “The boy is sick.
Maester Pylos has been leeching him.”
“The boy?” His thoughts went to his Devan, the
king’s squire. “My son, sire?”
“Devan? A good boy. He has much of you in him. It is
Robert’s bastard who is sick, the boy we took at
Storm’s End.” Edric Storm. “I spoke with him in Aegon’s
Garden.”
“As she wished. As she saw.” Stannis sighed.
“Did the boy charm you? He has that gift. He got it from his
father, with the blood. He knows he is a king’s son, but
chooses to forget that he is bastard-born. And he worships Robert,
as Renly did when he was young. My royal brother played the fond
father on his visits to Storm’s End, and there were
gifts . . . swords and ponies and fur-trimmed
cloaks. The eunuch’s work, every one. The boy would write the
Red Keep full of thanks, and Robert would laugh and ask Varys what
he’d sent this year. Renly was no better. He left the
boy’s upbringing to castellans and maesters, and every one
fell victim to his charm. Penrose chose to die rather than give him
up.” The king ground his teeth together. “It still
angers me. How could he think I would hurt the boy? I chose Robert,
did I not? When that hard day came. I chose blood over
honor.” He does not use the boy’s name. That made Davos very
uneasy. “I hope young Edric will recover soon.”
Stannis waved a hand, dismissing his concern. “It is a
chill, no more. He coughs, he shivers, he has a fever. Maester
Pylos will soon set him right. By himself the boy is nought, you
understand, but in his veins flows my brother’s blood. There
is power in a king’s blood, she says.”
Davos did not have to ask who she was.
Stannis touched the Painted Table. “Look at it, onion
knight. My realm, by rights. My Westeros.” He swept a hand
across it. “This talk of Seven Kingdoms is a folly. Aegon saw
that three hundred years ago when he stood where we are standing.
They painted this table at his command. Rivers and bays they
painted, hills and mountains, castles and cities and market towns,
lakes and swamps and forests . . . but no
borders. It is all one. One realm, for one king to rule
alone.”
“One king,” agreed Davos. “One king means
peace.”
“I shall bring justice to Westeros. A thing Ser Axell
understands as little as he does war. Claw Isle would gain me
naught . . . and it was evil, just as you said.
Celtigar must pay the traitor’s price himself, in his own
person. And when I come into my kingdom, he shall. Every man shall
reap what he has sown, from the highest lord to the lowest gutter
rat. And some will lose more than the tips off their fingers, I
promise you. They have made my kingdom bleed, and I do not forget
that.” King Stannis turned from the table. “On your
knees, Onion Knight.”
“Your Grace?”
“For your onions and fish, I made you a knight once. For
this, I am of a mind to raise you to lord.” This? Davos was lost. “I am content to be your knight,
Your Grace. I would not know how to begin being lordly.”
“Good. To be lordly is to be false. I have learned that
lesson hard. Now, kneel. Your king commands.”
Davos knelt, and Stannis drew his longsword. Lightbringer,
Melisandre had named it; the red sword of heroes, drawn from the
fires where the seven gods were consumed. The room seemed to grow
brighter as the blade slid from its scabbard. The steel had a glow
to it; now orange, now yellow, now red. The air shimmered around
it, and no jewel had ever sparkled so brilliantly. But when Stannis
touched it to Davos’s shoulder, it felt no different than any
other longsword. “Ser Davos of House Seaworth,” the
king said, “are you my true and honest liege man, now and
forever?”
“I am, Your Grace.”
“And do you swear to serve me loyally all your days, to
give me honest counsel and swift obedience, to defend my rights and
my realm against all foes in battles great and small, to protect my
people and punish my enemies?”
“I do, Your Grace.”
“Then rise again, Davos Seaworth, and rise as Lord of the
Rainwood, Admiral of the Narrow Sea, and Hand of the
King.”
For a moment Davos was too stunned to move. I woke this morning
in his dungeon. “Your Grace, you
cannot . . . I am no fit man to be a
King’s Hand.”
“There is no man fitter.” Stannis sheathed
Lightbringer, gave Davos his hand, and pulled him to his feet.
“I am lowborn,” Davos reminded him. “An
upjumped smuggler. Your lords will never obey me.”
“Then we will make new lords.”
“But . . . I cannot
read . . . nor
write . . . ”
“Maester Pylos can read for you. As to writing, my last
Hand wrote the head off his shoulders. All I ask of you are the
things you’ve always given me. Honesty. Loyalty.
Service.”
“Surely there is someone
better . . . some great lord . . . ”
Stannis snorted. “Bar Emmon, that boy? My faithless
grandfather? Celtigar has abandoned me, the new Velaryon is six
years old, and the new Sunglass sailed for Volantis after I burned
his brother.” He made an angry gesture. “A few good men
remain, it’s true. Ser Gilbert Farring holds Storm’s
End for me still, with two hundred loyal men. Lord Morrigen, the
Bastard of Nightsong, young Chyttering, my cousin
Andrew . . . but I trust none of them as I
trust you, my lord of Rainwood. You will be my Hand. It is you I
want beside me for the battle.” Another battle will be the end of all of us, thought Davos. Lord
Alester saw that much true enough. “Your Grace asked for
honest counsel. In honesty then . . . we lack
the strength for another battle against the Lannisters.”
“It is the great battle His Grace is speaking of,”
said a woman’s voice, rich with the accents of the east.
Melisandre stood at the door in her red silks and shimmering
satins, holding a covered silver dish in her hands. “These
little wars are no more than a scuffle of children before what is
to come. The one whose name may not be spoken is marshaling his
power, Davos Seaworth, a power fell and evil and strong beyond
measure. Soon comes the cold, and the night that never ends.” She
placed the silver dish on the Painted Table. “Unless true men
find the courage to fight it. Men whose hearts are fire.”
Stannis stared at the silver dish. “She has shown it to
me, Lord Davos. In the flames.”
“You saw it, sire?” It was not like Stannis
Baratheon to lie about such a thing.
“With mine own eyes. After the battle, when I was lost to
despair, the Lady Melisandre bid me gaze into the hearthfire. The
chimney was drawing strongly, and bits of ash were rising from the
fire. I stared at them, feeling half a fool, but she bid me look
deeper, and . . . the ashes were white, rising
in the updraft, yet all at once it seemed as if they were falling.
Snow, I thought. Then the sparks in the air seemed to circle, to
become a ring of torches, and I was looking through the fire down
on some high hill in a forest. The cinders had become men in black
behind the torches, and there were shapes moving through the snow.
For all the heat of the fire, I felt a cold so terrible I shivered,
and when I did the sight was gone, the fire but a fire once again.
But what I saw was real, I’d stake my kingdom on
it.”
“And have,” said Melisandre.
The conviction in the king’s voice frightened Davos to the
core. “A hill in a forest . . . shapes in
the snow . . . I
don’t . . . ”
“It means that the battle is begun,” said
Melisandre. “The sand is running through the glass more
quickly now, and man’s hour on earth is almost done. We must
act boldly, or all hope is lost. Westeros must unite beneath her
one true king, the prince that was promised, Lord of Dragonstone
and chosen of R’hllor.”
“R’hllor chooses queerly, then.” The king
grimaced, as if he’d tasted something foul. “Why me,
and not my brothers? Renly and his peach. In my dreams I see the
juice running from his mouth, the blood from his throat. If he had
done his duty by his brother, we would have smashed Lord Tywin. A
victory even Robert could be proud of.
Robert . . . ” His teeth ground side to
side. “He is in my dreams as well. Laughing. Drinking.
Boasting. Those were the things he was best at. Those, and
fighting. I never bested him at anything. The Lord of Light should
have made Robert his champion. Why me?”
“Because you are a righteous man,” said
Melisandre.
“A righteous man.” Stannis touched the covered
silver platter with a finger. “With leeches.”
“Yes,” said Melisandre, “but I must tell you
once more, this is not the way.”
“You swore it would work.” The king looked
angry.
“It will . . . and it will
not.”
“Which?”
“Both.”
“Speak sense to me, woman.”
“When the fires speak more plainly, so shall I. There is
truth in the flames, but it is not always easy to see.” The
great ruby at her throat drank fire from the glow of the brazier.
“Give me the boy, Your Grace. It is the surer way. The better
way. Give me the boy and I shall wake the stone dragon.”
“I have told you, no.”
“He is only one baseborn boy, against all the boys of
Westeros, and all the girls as well. Against all the children that
might ever be born, in all the kingdoms of the world.”
“The boy is innocent.”
“The boy defiled your marriage bed, else you would surely
have sons of your own. He shamed you.”
“Robert did that. Not the boy. My daughter has grown fond
of him. And he is mine own blood.”
“Your brother’s blood,” Melisandre said.
“A king’s blood. Only a king’s blood can wake the
stone dragon.”
Stannis ground his teeth. “I’ll hear no more of
this. The dragons are done. The Targaryens tried to bring them back
half a dozen times. And made fools of themselves, or corpses.
Patchface is the only fool we need on this godsforsaken rock. You
have the leeches. Do your work.”
Melisandre bowed her head stiffly, and said, “As my king
commands.” Reaching up her left sleeve with her right hand,
she flung a handful of powder into the brazier. The coals roared.
As pale flames writhed atop them, the red woman retrieved the
silver dish and brought it to the king. Davos watched her lift the
lid. Beneath were three large black leeches, fat with blood. The boy’s blood, Davos knew. A king’s blood.
Stannis stretched forth a hand, and his fingers closed around
one of the leeches.
“Say the name,” Melisandre commanded.
The leech was twisting in the king’s grip, trying to
attach itself to one of his fingers. “The usurper,” he
said. “Joffrey Baratheon.” When he tossed the leech
into the fire, it curled up like an autumn leaf amidst the coals,
and burned.
Stannis grasped the second. “The usurper,” he
declared, louder this time. “Balon Greyjoy.” He flipped
it lightly onto the brazier, and its flesh split and cracked. The
blood burst from it, hissing and smoking.
The last was in the king’s hand. This one he studied a
moment as it writhed between his fingers. “The
usurper,” he said at last. “Robb Stark.” And he
threw it on the flames.
Lord Alester looked up sharply. “Voices,” he said.
“Do you hear, Davos? Someone is coming for us.”
“Lamprey,” said Davos. “It’s time for
our supper, or near enough.” Last night Lamprey had brought
them half a beef-and-bacon pie, and a flagon of mead as well. Just
the thought of it made his belly start to rumble.
“No, there’s more than one.” He’s right. Davos heard two voices at least, and
footsteps, growing louder. He got to his feet and moved to the
bars.
Lord Alester brushed the straw from his clothes. “The king
has sent for me. Or the queen, yes, Selyse would never let me rot
here, her own blood.”
Outside the cell, Lamprey appeared with a ring of keys in hand.
Ser Axell Florent and four guardsmen followed close behind him.
They waited beneath the torch while Lamprey searched for the
correct key.
“Axell,” Lord Alester said. “Gods be good. Is
it the king who sends for me, or the queen?”
“No one has sent for you, traitor,” Ser Axell
said.
Lord Alester recoiled as if he’d been slapped. “No,
I swear to you, I committed no treason. Why won’t you listen?
If His Grace would only let me explain—”
Lamprey thrust a great iron key into the lock, turned it, and
pulled open the cell. The rusted hinges screamed in protest.
“You,” he said to Davos. “Come.”
“Where?” Davos looked to Ser Axell. “Tell me
true, ser, do you mean to burn me?”
“You are sent for. Can you walk?”
“I can walk.” Davos stepped from the cell. Lord
Alester gave a cry of dismay as Lamprey slammed the door shut once
more.
“Take the torch,” Ser Axell commanded the gaoler.
“Leave the traitor to the darkness.”
“No,” his brother said. “Axell, please,
don’t take the light . . . gods have
mercy . . . ”
“Gods? There is only R’hllor, and the Other.”
Ser Axell gestured sharply, and one of his guardsmen pulled the
torch from its sconce and led the way to the stair.
“Are you taking me to Melisandre?” Davos asked.
“She will be there,” Ser Axell said. “She is
never far from the king. But it is His Grace himself who asked for
you.”
Davos lifted his hand to his chest, where once his luck had hung
in a leather bag on a thong. Gone now, he remembered, and the ends
of four fingers as well. But his hands were still long enough to
wrap about a woman’s throat, he thought, especially a slender
throat like hers.
Up they went, climbing the turnpike stair in single file. The
walls were rough dark stone, cool to the touch. The light of the
torches went before them, and their shadows marched beside them on
the walls. At the third turn they passed an iron gate that opened
on blackness, and another at the fifth turn. Davos guessed that
they were near the surface by then, perhaps even above it. The next
door they came to was made of wood, but still they climbed. Now the
walls were broken by arrow slits, but no shafts of sunlight pried
their way through the thickness of the stone. It was night
outside.
His legs were aching by the time Ser Axell thrust open a heavy
door and gestured him through. Beyond, a high stone bridge arched
over emptiness to the massive central tower called the Stone Drum.
A sea wind blew restlessly through the arches that supported the
roof, and Davos could smell the salt water as they crossed. He took
a deep breath, filling his lungs with the clean cold air. Wind and
water, give me strength, he prayed. A huge nightfire burned in the
yard below, to keep the terrors of the dark at bay, and the
queen’s men were gathered around it, singing praises to their
new red god.
They were in the center of the bridge when Ser Axell stopped
suddenly. He made a brusque gesture with his hand, and his men
moved out of earshot. “Were it my choice, I would burn you
with my brother Alester,” he told Davos. “You are both
traitors.”
“Say what you will. I would never betray King
Stannis.”
“You would. You will. I see it in your face. And I have
seen it in the flames as well. R’hllor has blessed me with
that gift. Like Lady Melisandre, he shows me the future in the
fire. Stannis Baratheon will sit the Iron Throne. I have seen it. And I know what must be done. His
Grace must make me his Hand, in place of my traitor brother. And
you will tell him so.” Will I? Davos said nothing.
“The queen has urged my appointment,” Ser Axell went
on. “Even your old friend from Lys, the pirate Saan, he says
the same. We have made a plan together, him and me. Yet His Grace
does not act. The defeat gnaws inside him, a black worm in his
soul. It is up to us who love him to show him what to do. If you
are as devoted to his cause as you claim, smuggler, you will join
your voice to ours. Tell him that I am the only Hand he needs. Tell
him, and when we sail I shall see that you have a new
ship.” A ship. Davos studied the other man’s face. Ser Axell had
big Florent ears, much like the queen’s. Coarse hair grew
from them, as from his nostrils; more sprouted in tufts and patches
beneath his double chin. His nose was broad, his brow beetled, his
eyes close-set and hostile. He would sooner give me a pyre than a
ship, he said as much, but if I do him this
favor . . .
“if you think to betray me,” Ser Axell said,
“pray remember that I have been castellan of Dragonstone a
good long time. The garrison is mine. Perhaps I cannot burn you
without the king’s consent, but who is to say you might not
suffer a fall.” He laid a meaty hand on the back of
Davos’s neck and shoved him bodily against the waist-high
side of the bridge, then shoved a little harder to force his face
out over the yard. “Do you hear me?”
“I hear,” said Davos. And you dare name me
traitor?
Ser Axell released him. “Good.” He smiled.
“His Grace awaits. Best we do not keep him.”
At the very top of Stone Drum, within the great round room
called the Chamber of the Painted Table, they found Stannis
Baratheon standing behind the artifact that gave the hall its name,
a massive slab of wood carved and painted in the shape of Westeros
as it had been in the time of Aegon the Conqueror. An iron brazier
stood beside the king, its coals glowing a ruddy orange. Four tall
pointed windows looked out to north, south, east, and west. Beyond
was the night and the starry sky. Davos could hear the wind moving,
and fainter, the sounds of the sea.
“Your Grace,” Ser Axell said, “as it please
you, I have brought the onion knight.”
“So I see.” Stannis wore a grey wool tunic, a dark
red mantle, and a plain black leather belt from which his sword and
dagger hung. A red-gold crown with flame-shaped points encircled
his brows. The look of him was a shock. He seemed ten years older
than the man that Davos had left at Storm’s End when he set
sail for the Blackwater and the battle that would be their undoing.
The king’s close-cropped beard was spiderwebbed with grey
hairs, and he had dropped two stone or more of weight. He had never
been a fleshy man, but now the bones moved beneath his skin like
spears, fighting to cut free. Even his crown seemed too large for
his head. His eyes were blue pits lost in deep hollows, and the
shape of a skull could be seen beneath his face.
Yet when he saw Davos, a faint smile brushed his lips. “So
the sea has returned me my knight of the fish and
onions.”
“It did, Your Grace.” Does he know that he had me in
his dungeon? Davos went to one knee.
“Rise, Ser Davos,” Stannis commanded. “I have
missed you, ser. I have need of good counsel, and you never gave me
less. So tell me true—what is the penalty for treason?”
The word hung in the air. A frightful word, thought Davos. Was
he being asked to condemn his cellmate? Or himself, perchance?
Kings know the penalty for treason better than any man.
“Treason?” he finally managed, weakly.
“What else would you call it, to deny your king and seek
to steal his rightful throne. I ask you again—what is the penalty
for treason under the law?”
Davos had no choice but to answer. “Death,” he said.
“The penalty is death, Your Grace.”
“It has always been so. I am
not . . . I am not a cruel man, Ser Davos. You
know me. Have known me long. This is not my decree. It has always
been so, since Aegon’s day and before. Daemon Blackfyre, the
brothers Toyne, the Vulture King, Grand Maester
Hareth . . . traitors have always paid with
their lives . . . even Rhaenyra Targaryen. She
was daughter to one king and mother to two more, yet she died a
traitor’s death for trying to usurp her brother’s
crown. It is law. Law, Davos. Not cruelty.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” He does not speak of me. Davos
felt a moment’s pity for his cellmate down in the dark. He
knew he should keep silent, but he was tired and sick of heart, and
he heard himself say, “Sire, Lord Florent meant no
treason.”
“Do smugglers have another name for it? I made him Hand,
and he would have sold my rights for a bowl of pease porridge. He
would even have given them Shireen. Mine only child, he would have
wed to a bastard born of incest.” The king’s voice was
thick with anger. “My brother had a gift for inspiring
loyalty. Even in his foes. At Summerhall he won three battles in a
single day, and brought Lords Grandison and Cafferen back to
Storm’s End as prisoners. He hung their banners in the hall
as trophies. Cafferen’s white fawns were spotted with blood
and Grandison’s sleeping lion was torn near in two. Yet they
would sit beneath those banners of a night, drinking and feasting
with Robert. He even took them hunting. ‘These men meant to deliver you to Aerys to be
burned’ I told him after I saw them throwing axes in the
yard. ‘You should not be putting axes in their hands.’
Robert only laughed. I would have thrown Grandison and Cafferen
into a dungeon, but he turned them into friends. Lord Cafferen died
at Ashford Castle, cut down by Randyll Tarly whilst fighting for
Robert. Lord Grandison was wounded on the Trident and died of it a
year after. My brother made them love him, but it would seem that I
inspire only betrayal. Even in mine own blood and kin. Brother,
grandfather, cousins, good
uncle . . . ”
“Your Grace,” said Ser Axell, “I beg you, give
me the chance to prove to you that not all Florents are so
feeble.”
“Ser Axell would have me resume the war,” King
Stannis told Davos. “The Lannisters think I am done and
beaten, and my sworn lords have forsaken me, near every one. Even
Lord Estermont, my own mother’s father, has bent his knee to
Joffrey. The few loyal men who remain to me are losing heart. They
waste their days drinking and gambling, and lick their wounds like
beaten curs.”
“Battle will set their hearts ablaze once more, Your
Grace,” Ser Axell said. “Defeat is a disease, and
victory is the cure.”
“Victory.” The king’s mouth twisted.
“There are victories and victories, ser. But tell your plan
to Ser Davos. I would hear his views on what you
propose.”
Ser Axell turned to Davos, with a look on his face much like the
look that proud Lord Belgrave must have worn, the day King Baelor
the Blessed had commanded him to wash the beggar’s ulcerous
feet. Nonetheless, he obeyed.
The plan Ser Axell had devised with Salladhor Saan was simple. A
few hours’ sail from Dragonstone lay Claw Isle, ancient
sea-girt seat of House Celtigar. Lord Ardrian Celtigar had fought
beneath the flery heart on the Blackwater, but once taken, he had
wasted no time in going over to Joffrey. He remained in
King’s Landing even now. “Too frightened of His
Grace’s wrath to come near Dragonstone, no doubt,” Ser
Axell declared. “And wisely so. The man has betrayed his
rightful king.”
Ser Axell proposed to use Salladhor Saan’s fleet and the
men who had escaped the Blackwater—Stannis still had some fifteen
hundred on Dragonstone, more than half of them Florents—to exact
retribution for Lord Celtigar’s defection. Claw Isle was but
lightly garrisoned, its castle reputedly stuffed with Myrish
carpets, Volantene glass, gold and silver plate, jeweled cups,
magnificent hawks, an axe of Valyrian steel, a horn that could
summon monsters from the deep, chests of rubies, and more wines
than a man could drink in a hundred years. Though Celtigar had
shown the world a niggardly face, he had never stinted on his own
comforts. “Put his castle to the torch and his people to the
sword, I say,” Ser Axell concluded. “Leave Claw Isle a desolation of ash and
bone, fit only for carrion crows, so the realm might see the fate
of those who bed with Lannisters.”
Stannis listened to Ser Axell’s recitation in silence,
grinding his jaw slowly from side to side. When it was done, he
said, “It could be done, I believe. The risk is small.
Joffrey has no strength at sea until Lord Redwyne sets sail from
the Arbor. The plunder might serve to keep that Lysene pirate
Salladhor Saan loyal for a time. By itself Claw Isle is worthless,
but its fall would serve notice to Lord Tywin that my cause is not
yet done.” The king turned back to Davos. “Speak truly,
ser. What do you make of Ser Axell’s proposal?” Speak truly, ser. Davos remembered the dark cell he had shared
with Lord Alester, remembered Lamprey and Porridge. He thought of
the promises that Ser Axell had made on the bridge above the yard.
A ship or a shove, what shall it be? But this was Stannis asking.
“Your Grace,” he said slowly, “I make it
folly . . . aye, and cowardice.”
“Cowardice?” Ser Axell all but shouted. “No
man calls me craven before my king!”
“Silence,” Stannis commanded. “Ser Davos,
speak on, I would hear your reasons.”
Davos turned to face Ser Axell. “You say we ought show the
realm we are not done. Strike a blow. Make war,
aye . . . but on what enemy? You will find no
Lannisters on Claw Isle.”
“We will find traitors,” said Ser Axell,
“though it may be I could find some closer to home. Even in
this very room.”
Davos ignored the jibe. “I don’t doubt Lord Celtigar
bent the knee to the boy Joffrey. He is an old done man, who wants
no more than to end his days in his castle, drinking his fine wine
out of his jeweled cups.” He turned back to Stannis.
“Yet he came when you called, sire. Came, with his ships and
swords. He stood by you at Storm’s End when Lord Renly came
down on us, and his ships sailed up the Blackwater. His men fought
for you, killed for you, burned for you. Claw Isle is weakly held,
yes. Held by women and children and old men. And why is that?
Because their husbands and sons and fathers died on the Blackwater,
that’s why. Died at their oars, or with swords in their
hands, fighting beneath our banners. Yet Ser Axell proposes we
swoop down on the homes they left behind, to rape their widows and
put their children to the sword. These smallfolk are no
traitors . . . ”
“They are,” insisted Ser Axell. “Not all of
Celtigar’s men were slain on the Blackwater. Hundreds were
taken with their lord, and bent the knee when he did.”
“When he did,” Davos repeated. “They were his
men. His sworn men. What choice were they given?”
“Every man has choices. They might have refused to kneel.
Some did, and died for it. Yet they died true men, and
loyal.”
“Some men are stronger than others.” It was a feeble
answer, and Davos knew it. Stannis Baratheon was a man of iron will
who neither understood nor forgave weakness in others. I am losing,
he thought, despairing.
“It is every man’s duty to remain loyal to his
rightful king, even if the lord he serves proves false,”
Stannis declared in a tone that brooked no argument.
A desperate folly took hold of Davos, a recklessness akin to
madness. “As you remained loyal to King Aerys when your
brother raised his banners?” he blurted.
Shocked silence followed, until Ser Axell cried,
“Treason!” and snatched his dagger from its sheath.
“Your Grace, he speaks his infamy to your face!”
Davos could hear Stannis grinding his teeth. A vein bulged, blue
and swollen, in the king’s brow. Their eyes met. “Put
up your knife, Ser Axell. And leave us.”
“As it please Your Grace—”
“It would please me for you to leave,” said Stannis.
“Take yourself from my presence, and send me
Melisandre.”
“As you command.” Ser Axell slid the knife away,
bowed, and hurried toward the door. His boots rang against the
floor, angry.
“You have always presumed on my forbearance,”
Stannis warned Davos when they were alone. “I can shorten
your tongue as easy as I did your fingers, smuggler.”
“I am your man, Your Grace. So it is your tongue, to do
with as you please.”
“It is,” he said, calmer. “And I would have it
speak the truth. Though the truth is a bitter draught at times.
Aerys? If you only knew . . . that was a hard
choosing. My blood or my liege. My brother or my king.” He
grimaced. “Have you ever seen the Iron Throne? The barbs
along the back, the ribbons of twisted steel, the jagged ends of
swords and knives all tangled up and melted? It is not a
comfortable seat, ser. Aerys cut himself so often men took to
calling him King Scab, and Maegor the Cruel was murdered in that
chair. By that chair, to hear some tell it. It is not a seat where
a man can rest at ease. Ofttimes I wonder why my brothers wanted it
so desperately.”
“Why would you want it, then?” Davos asked him.
“It is not a question of wanting. The throne is mine, as
Robert’s heir. That is law. After me, it must pass to my
daughter, unless Selyse should finally give me a son.” He ran
three fingers lightly down the table, over the layers of smooth
hard varnish, dark with age. “I am king. Wants do not enter
into it. I have a duty to my daughter. To the realm. Even to
Robert. He loved me but little, I know, yet he was my brother. The
Lannister woman gave him horns and made a motley fool of him. She
may have murdered him as well, as she murdered Jon Arryn and Ned
Stark. For such crimes there must be justice. Starting with Cersei
and her abominations. But only starting. I mean to scour that court
clean. As Robert should have done, after the Trident. Ser Barristan
once told me that the rot in King Aerys’s reign began with
Varys. The eunuch should never have been pardoned. No more than the
Kingslayer. At the least, Robert should have stripped the white
cloak from Jaime and sent him to the Wall, as Lord Stark urged. He
listened to Jon Arryn instead. I was still at Storm’s End,
under siege and unconsulted.” He turned abruptly, to give
Davos a hard shrewd look. “The truth, now. Why did you wish
to murder Lady Melisandre?” So he does know. Davos could not lie to him. “Four of my
sons burned on the Blackwater. She gave them to the
flames.”
“You wrong her. Those fires were no work of hers. Curse
the Imp, curse the pyromancers, curse that fool of Florent who
sailed my fleet into the jaws of a trap. Or curse me for my
stubborn pride, for sending her away when I needed her most. But
not Melisandre. She remains my faithful servant.”
“Maester Cressen was your faithful servant. She slew him,
as she killed Ser Cortnay Penrose and your brother
Renly.”
“Now you sound a fool,” the king complained.
“She saw Renly’s end in the flames, yes, but she had no
more part in it than I did. The priestess was with me. Your Devan
would tell you so. Ask him, if you doubt me. She would have spared
Renly if she could. It was Melisandre who urged me to meet with
him, and give him one last chance to amend his treason. And it was
Melisandre who told me to send for you when Ser Axell wished to
give you to R’hllor.” He smiled thinly. “Does
that surprise you?”
“Yes. She knows I am no friend to her or her red
god.”
“But you are a friend to me. She knows that as
well.” He beckoned Davos closer. “The boy is sick.
Maester Pylos has been leeching him.”
“The boy?” His thoughts went to his Devan, the
king’s squire. “My son, sire?”
“Devan? A good boy. He has much of you in him. It is
Robert’s bastard who is sick, the boy we took at
Storm’s End.” Edric Storm. “I spoke with him in Aegon’s
Garden.”
“As she wished. As she saw.” Stannis sighed.
“Did the boy charm you? He has that gift. He got it from his
father, with the blood. He knows he is a king’s son, but
chooses to forget that he is bastard-born. And he worships Robert,
as Renly did when he was young. My royal brother played the fond
father on his visits to Storm’s End, and there were
gifts . . . swords and ponies and fur-trimmed
cloaks. The eunuch’s work, every one. The boy would write the
Red Keep full of thanks, and Robert would laugh and ask Varys what
he’d sent this year. Renly was no better. He left the
boy’s upbringing to castellans and maesters, and every one
fell victim to his charm. Penrose chose to die rather than give him
up.” The king ground his teeth together. “It still
angers me. How could he think I would hurt the boy? I chose Robert,
did I not? When that hard day came. I chose blood over
honor.” He does not use the boy’s name. That made Davos very
uneasy. “I hope young Edric will recover soon.”
Stannis waved a hand, dismissing his concern. “It is a
chill, no more. He coughs, he shivers, he has a fever. Maester
Pylos will soon set him right. By himself the boy is nought, you
understand, but in his veins flows my brother’s blood. There
is power in a king’s blood, she says.”
Davos did not have to ask who she was.
Stannis touched the Painted Table. “Look at it, onion
knight. My realm, by rights. My Westeros.” He swept a hand
across it. “This talk of Seven Kingdoms is a folly. Aegon saw
that three hundred years ago when he stood where we are standing.
They painted this table at his command. Rivers and bays they
painted, hills and mountains, castles and cities and market towns,
lakes and swamps and forests . . . but no
borders. It is all one. One realm, for one king to rule
alone.”
“One king,” agreed Davos. “One king means
peace.”
“I shall bring justice to Westeros. A thing Ser Axell
understands as little as he does war. Claw Isle would gain me
naught . . . and it was evil, just as you said.
Celtigar must pay the traitor’s price himself, in his own
person. And when I come into my kingdom, he shall. Every man shall
reap what he has sown, from the highest lord to the lowest gutter
rat. And some will lose more than the tips off their fingers, I
promise you. They have made my kingdom bleed, and I do not forget
that.” King Stannis turned from the table. “On your
knees, Onion Knight.”
“Your Grace?”
“For your onions and fish, I made you a knight once. For
this, I am of a mind to raise you to lord.” This? Davos was lost. “I am content to be your knight,
Your Grace. I would not know how to begin being lordly.”
“Good. To be lordly is to be false. I have learned that
lesson hard. Now, kneel. Your king commands.”
Davos knelt, and Stannis drew his longsword. Lightbringer,
Melisandre had named it; the red sword of heroes, drawn from the
fires where the seven gods were consumed. The room seemed to grow
brighter as the blade slid from its scabbard. The steel had a glow
to it; now orange, now yellow, now red. The air shimmered around
it, and no jewel had ever sparkled so brilliantly. But when Stannis
touched it to Davos’s shoulder, it felt no different than any
other longsword. “Ser Davos of House Seaworth,” the
king said, “are you my true and honest liege man, now and
forever?”
“I am, Your Grace.”
“And do you swear to serve me loyally all your days, to
give me honest counsel and swift obedience, to defend my rights and
my realm against all foes in battles great and small, to protect my
people and punish my enemies?”
“I do, Your Grace.”
“Then rise again, Davos Seaworth, and rise as Lord of the
Rainwood, Admiral of the Narrow Sea, and Hand of the
King.”
For a moment Davos was too stunned to move. I woke this morning
in his dungeon. “Your Grace, you
cannot . . . I am no fit man to be a
King’s Hand.”
“There is no man fitter.” Stannis sheathed
Lightbringer, gave Davos his hand, and pulled him to his feet.
“I am lowborn,” Davos reminded him. “An
upjumped smuggler. Your lords will never obey me.”
“Then we will make new lords.”
“But . . . I cannot
read . . . nor
write . . . ”
“Maester Pylos can read for you. As to writing, my last
Hand wrote the head off his shoulders. All I ask of you are the
things you’ve always given me. Honesty. Loyalty.
Service.”
“Surely there is someone
better . . . some great lord . . . ”
Stannis snorted. “Bar Emmon, that boy? My faithless
grandfather? Celtigar has abandoned me, the new Velaryon is six
years old, and the new Sunglass sailed for Volantis after I burned
his brother.” He made an angry gesture. “A few good men
remain, it’s true. Ser Gilbert Farring holds Storm’s
End for me still, with two hundred loyal men. Lord Morrigen, the
Bastard of Nightsong, young Chyttering, my cousin
Andrew . . . but I trust none of them as I
trust you, my lord of Rainwood. You will be my Hand. It is you I
want beside me for the battle.” Another battle will be the end of all of us, thought Davos. Lord
Alester saw that much true enough. “Your Grace asked for
honest counsel. In honesty then . . . we lack
the strength for another battle against the Lannisters.”
“It is the great battle His Grace is speaking of,”
said a woman’s voice, rich with the accents of the east.
Melisandre stood at the door in her red silks and shimmering
satins, holding a covered silver dish in her hands. “These
little wars are no more than a scuffle of children before what is
to come. The one whose name may not be spoken is marshaling his
power, Davos Seaworth, a power fell and evil and strong beyond
measure. Soon comes the cold, and the night that never ends.” She
placed the silver dish on the Painted Table. “Unless true men
find the courage to fight it. Men whose hearts are fire.”
Stannis stared at the silver dish. “She has shown it to
me, Lord Davos. In the flames.”
“You saw it, sire?” It was not like Stannis
Baratheon to lie about such a thing.
“With mine own eyes. After the battle, when I was lost to
despair, the Lady Melisandre bid me gaze into the hearthfire. The
chimney was drawing strongly, and bits of ash were rising from the
fire. I stared at them, feeling half a fool, but she bid me look
deeper, and . . . the ashes were white, rising
in the updraft, yet all at once it seemed as if they were falling.
Snow, I thought. Then the sparks in the air seemed to circle, to
become a ring of torches, and I was looking through the fire down
on some high hill in a forest. The cinders had become men in black
behind the torches, and there were shapes moving through the snow.
For all the heat of the fire, I felt a cold so terrible I shivered,
and when I did the sight was gone, the fire but a fire once again.
But what I saw was real, I’d stake my kingdom on
it.”
“And have,” said Melisandre.
The conviction in the king’s voice frightened Davos to the
core. “A hill in a forest . . . shapes in
the snow . . . I
don’t . . . ”
“It means that the battle is begun,” said
Melisandre. “The sand is running through the glass more
quickly now, and man’s hour on earth is almost done. We must
act boldly, or all hope is lost. Westeros must unite beneath her
one true king, the prince that was promised, Lord of Dragonstone
and chosen of R’hllor.”
“R’hllor chooses queerly, then.” The king
grimaced, as if he’d tasted something foul. “Why me,
and not my brothers? Renly and his peach. In my dreams I see the
juice running from his mouth, the blood from his throat. If he had
done his duty by his brother, we would have smashed Lord Tywin. A
victory even Robert could be proud of.
Robert . . . ” His teeth ground side to
side. “He is in my dreams as well. Laughing. Drinking.
Boasting. Those were the things he was best at. Those, and
fighting. I never bested him at anything. The Lord of Light should
have made Robert his champion. Why me?”
“Because you are a righteous man,” said
Melisandre.
“A righteous man.” Stannis touched the covered
silver platter with a finger. “With leeches.”
“Yes,” said Melisandre, “but I must tell you
once more, this is not the way.”
“You swore it would work.” The king looked
angry.
“It will . . . and it will
not.”
“Which?”
“Both.”
“Speak sense to me, woman.”
“When the fires speak more plainly, so shall I. There is
truth in the flames, but it is not always easy to see.” The
great ruby at her throat drank fire from the glow of the brazier.
“Give me the boy, Your Grace. It is the surer way. The better
way. Give me the boy and I shall wake the stone dragon.”
“I have told you, no.”
“He is only one baseborn boy, against all the boys of
Westeros, and all the girls as well. Against all the children that
might ever be born, in all the kingdoms of the world.”
“The boy is innocent.”
“The boy defiled your marriage bed, else you would surely
have sons of your own. He shamed you.”
“Robert did that. Not the boy. My daughter has grown fond
of him. And he is mine own blood.”
“Your brother’s blood,” Melisandre said.
“A king’s blood. Only a king’s blood can wake the
stone dragon.”
Stannis ground his teeth. “I’ll hear no more of
this. The dragons are done. The Targaryens tried to bring them back
half a dozen times. And made fools of themselves, or corpses.
Patchface is the only fool we need on this godsforsaken rock. You
have the leeches. Do your work.”
Melisandre bowed her head stiffly, and said, “As my king
commands.” Reaching up her left sleeve with her right hand,
she flung a handful of powder into the brazier. The coals roared.
As pale flames writhed atop them, the red woman retrieved the
silver dish and brought it to the king. Davos watched her lift the
lid. Beneath were three large black leeches, fat with blood. The boy’s blood, Davos knew. A king’s blood.
Stannis stretched forth a hand, and his fingers closed around
one of the leeches.
“Say the name,” Melisandre commanded.
The leech was twisting in the king’s grip, trying to
attach itself to one of his fingers. “The usurper,” he
said. “Joffrey Baratheon.” When he tossed the leech
into the fire, it curled up like an autumn leaf amidst the coals,
and burned.
Stannis grasped the second. “The usurper,” he
declared, louder this time. “Balon Greyjoy.” He flipped
it lightly onto the brazier, and its flesh split and cracked. The
blood burst from it, hissing and smoking.
The last was in the king’s hand. This one he studied a
moment as it writhed between his fingers. “The
usurper,” he said at last. “Robb Stark.” And he
threw it on the flames.