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originalpistol · 4 years

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𝑩𝒖𝒓𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚐𝚎, 𝑩𝒖𝒓𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝗠𝗲𝗺𝗼𝗿𝘆.

Running — That’s something I am great at. But I never ran from /you/. There was something about the way your arms wound around the small of my waist, pulling me in, and making me remember what it felt like to call a person home instead of four walls and countless marble pillars. Something in the way your breath would gently cascade in against the delicate flesh of my neck with every heated wind from the slow wind of my hips. A simple, slow tease. Oh, but I knew it was pure torture for you; that’s why I did it. Two small reasons why...why I never strayed, and why I held tight when your presence was nonexistent. I still remembered the shock that settled in the day you knelt down against the warm sand, and pulled out a ring. Pear shaped; my favorite. Simple, golden band. I never was one for over-complicated jewelry. Gross. If that shit has more diamonds than the most important one? Throw it out. But that was something he knew. Boy, did you really do a number on me with this whole setup. Lure me in, take me to our favorite beach, and low and behold? Sharks! The one and only favorite animal of yours truly. Great. Gotta love a man that knows exactly what to do. Fuck, me. So here we were, sharing the best memory I could ever hope for — a shark meet-and-greet. I was right at home in the ocean, swiping light fingers along the silken backs of them, completely mesmerized by the way they moved. And then? That was when he pulled me away; I didn’t mind, I knew the day was drawing to an end, and that was usually the time when sharks become ravenous with hunger. Wish I would’ve sank you to them, honestly. Shit, then I wouldn’t be standing here, feeling stupid. The thing I hate almost more than feeling vulnerable. Good job, pal. The initial pain that followed his disappearance was something that I’d honestly learned to tune out. Just busy, or perhaps just up to some shit I didn’t know or need to know about. Shit happens, Alice. You’ll be fine, just keep on building your empire. So that’s exactly what I did. I built a wedding line while he was off gallivanting. Seven of the eight pieces were nearly finished. All that lacked was the eighth and final dress. Something I had taken my sweet time in both designing, but also in bringing my idea to life. I never had issues on this until now. Where I couldn’t even find the headspace to slip away from the lingering memories of having him at home with me. I used to take my pieces home, give him a little show all his own, and allow him to tell me the small changes to make to the pieces. It was stupid, probably, but it always helped to steady my mind. I still can’t believe I allowed myself to lean on someone else so completely. Wasn’t that the first thing I learned in life from my lunatic mother? Crazy bitch; still locked away in the asylum. If there was one solid piece of advice I’d bother to lend to anyone? Never rely on anyone other than yourself. Your fingers, feet, will, and determination will take you a helluva lot further than anyone else ever will. If you find yourself wanting to lean into or on your partner? Fucking stand up — Stand tall. We don’t have time for that bullshit here. Waiting wasn’t the hard part. Continuing to have hope when you’re six months into being alone? That is the hard part. Going back, recreating each and every little memory you have of him while he won’t let you know he’s still breathing; that’s hard. It’s the whole thing of not knowing, for me. I never thought I would be the kind of girl to sit back and find myself a mess of confusion, anger, and doubt all because of this goddamn ring that sat so prominently against my left ring finger. But yet? I held on, refusing to let go or to give up. Not because of myself, but because I knew the feeling of coming back to an empty life, an empty home. Detriment was a kind way of putting that kind of hurt. Trust, love, compassion; these are all things we built together. Things to which were slowly slipping between my fingertips as the eighth month alone was creeping in. Settling into its place on the chalkboard calendar I’d hung to track both my progress on the wedding show, but also so I would force myself to be conscious in the time that lapsed. Eight fucking months of space between the two of us. I had never felt so empty. Both in mind and in soul. He’d slipped away so easily to my dismay. Not a word, not even a second thought. Maybe marriage wasn’t for me. Perhaps I was the kind of girl that would always find herself in these fucked up situations because this wasn’t something in the deck of cards I’d been playing with? We shall see. Teeter...totter. Back and forth she goes. Do I slip away like he did, or do I give it the full length of a year before I let this crash harder than a car at 80 stopping against a tree? Fuck it. Held on this long, suppose it won’t ruin me any worse to wait it out. Yeah? Yeah. Back to the dress. That’s right. It was mid July — only one dress remained. I slipped another pin from between my lips, into my fingers, and right by my thumb right through the soft — damn near silken, fabric. Weaving the pin into place, and securing it with a final thread of fabric against the shoulder. Draping it down to sit perfect against the shoulder of the mannequin at hand. They would slouch slightly, but never enough to reveal too much skin. Classy. Effortlessly classy. For a moment I pulled away from my project to look over it, eyes narrowing in suspicion and critique of my own work. Everything would be perfect, and without flaw by the time I was done. Nine months deep in this treacherous hell hole of a relationship, ey? Here I go again, making my rounds of excuses for why he’s gone, why he hasn’t said a single word, and why I don’t matter. Here I go venturing into the path of unknown on whether or not I’ll ever speak to the second most important person I’d met. Can’t believe I let him in to this extent. Still feel stupid. My will to push forward with my long-lived journey of waiting was dwindling. Quick. It was almost as if with every tap my nails made against the glass top of my desk, my patience were wearing further. Down the drain. Oh, fucking, well. I remembered typing out my release form, allowing me to escape the confines of this, but instead? I’d somehow turned it into a soppy form of how much I loved this man, and how I was still going to persevere so he would see the love I gave. I couldn’t tell you how badly I wanted to just be able to hear that deep, rusk voice of his. To know he was near. Little did I know, this need to feel him would be met only days later. I was dead to the world on the leather couch in my living room, bottle in hand, and drool dripping down the corner of my mouth. How lady like, Madame Lunatic would be oh sooo proud. Insert eyeroll here, please. Thank you. Anyways. I’d slept for a grand total of three hours when I finally heard the soft ringing of my phone. For the record, I had seven missed calls from Brooklyn at this point. What in the sam fuck is this? “Swain is here!” That was all I had to know, and I immediately sprung into action. Time to see /my/ man. When it was said that it was either Swain or nothing? People meant that. I cared about little to none unless it dealt with him. Dude had my whole heart tangled around his fingers. Even when he wasn’t around. But he was now. That is what mattered, for me. Fuck, yes. I knew there was a reason I kept holding on. This is exactly why I never gave up. He was coming back, he was always meaning to come back. Right? Of course! Wait...but then why had he left for so long in the first place? How could someone who claimed they loved you so fully just...disappear? What kind of things ran through his mind when it wandered to me, and subsequently; did he think of me? Did I actually matter? How could I? Truly, how could I have mattered to this man if he could suck the life from someone so easily? But then again, I couldn’t place that blame solely on him. I chose to wait. I put myself here, but love for me is a beast to remain unconquered. There isn’t a thing I wouldn’t overcome if it came between me and someone I loved. He was the one person I loved more than anything. He wants to marry me. He wants to marry me. He’s here now and he wants to marry me. These are the words I had to forcibly think over and over as I pushed pins and needles in and out of the fabric of the dress. My very last dress. The only dress I would start and complete all on my own. The only dress that was completely created by Pistol. So here I was, completely knees deep in tulle and silk, and crystals alike. Beading sure was a fickle little bitch, and my compulsive need to have everything perfect wasn’t helping the situation at all. Guess that’s the price you pay when you know your craft, and you take pride in each and every facetted detail. A small smile managed to hem it’s way onto my lightly lined lips as I stitched in the last few sectors of the bodice. Lace was embellishing the tight corset, meant to strap in everything. There was a soft fabric draping the shoulders, and framing the bodice. That way it would look more vintage than new-age. Paying homage is the purpose, here. Must remain a take on a classic. That small reminder hit me as I was carefully weaving my needle in against the lace. Ocean inspired eyes watched over every stroke, making sure to take the time to correctly stitch everything. Lets see how many years this would take. Kidding. Only took the next two weeks. During those two weeks Swain and I went back and forth of colors for our wedding, the people we should include, and a date. A year. It had almost been a year since we’d gotten engaged and we were finally getting somewhere. Holy hell. I didn’t give a damn that he wanted to scrap the things I’d came up with, either. Not even the tiniest bit. Life was on overload as it was. Hell yeah, you can help! Do what you want, mister man. That was my way of thinking, at this point. I didn’t care if we didn’t invite a single soul to our wedding. I cared about the two of us and that was genuinely it. If you asked me? I was in favor of having this as small as it could be. I’d always been one to remain vulnerable with very few. Besides, he was all I truly needed. A marriage is between two people, not two people and everyone else. No thanks. Including other people in your relationship only succeeds to ruin that relationship. Outside opinions shouldn’t count or matter. This was about he and I. But the excitement that filled me to be able to say we had everything completely mapped out was unreal. I never thought we would get there. Not in the slightest, and especially not with nine months of space. Maybe this is that crazy level of love where nothing really forces you apart, or breaks you. Maybe. Just maybe. Slowly, though, oh so slowly he began to retreat back to the old habit. A few days at a time, at first, and then a week. See, I never was the girl that likes to nag someone because they’re absent for a week or two. Not when I’ve waited far longer. However, when you’ve got so many raw emotions invested into one human being? It’s genuinely a struggle to keep your head screwed on straight when that person starts fading once again. It’s like watching a relative relapse into the same shitty pattern. Over and over. This is where I had to sit back, on my own, and wonder how long until those little cracks in my heart would cause it to shatter? There has to be a limit to where I stay stable against the harsh reality that my favorite sense of comfort is about to wipe all that I’ve held onto, away, and into the nearest breeze. It’s almost as if I could feel the tension rising along my heartstrings. Each and every time I heard those fateful words, ‘I love you.’ There’s nothing more dangerous. October 31st, the big day. Holy hell, it’s finally here. I was going to be Kieran’s wife. His /wife/! The realization hadn’t even remotely set in at this point, but fuck it, I was hype. My nerves were non existent as I bustled to make sure I’d perfectly edited my vows for the man I loved endlessly. The erratic beating of my heart was unlike anything else, and even though I was surrounded by a group of people Swain and I had handpicked to witness our small ceremony? There was a huge weight of nervousness clouding my bronze shoulders. Lord, let's hope that my vows are enough. Nothing too short, nothing too long. Please, let me be enough. He said 2 o’clock. It is now well past 5p.m., but maybe he’s caught up and needs some time? Maybe a hundred different scenarios could’ve happened and that’s why he isn't here. Why I am standing here, wondering, waiting. My mind was running a million miles to the minute as I was being asked where he was, and if we were going to actually get married today. I hoped so. I remembered rolling the ring around the knuckle of my finger time and time again to ease my growing pangs of anxiety towards the situation at hand. He promised. He planned this. Why wouldn’t he show up, and how could /I/ not be enough to extract a goddamn hour of his time? One hour. That is all I wanted. Would I gladly accept and take more if the opportunity arises? Of course, but the chances of that were extremely slim. I knew that. I might’ve been in denial, but it wasn’t that goddamn strong. I could see two inches out from my feet, at the very least. As the hours passed, my anxiety level spiked, only to drop into the realization that it was now six hours later and not a word was said. No sorry, no dumbass excuse of what kept him from being here, from loving me. From making up all that time he’d already taken away. There really was nothing. Not a damn thing. You. I have loved you from the start. You drug me in with those stupid stoner jokes (that we both laugh at as if we’re kids), and kept me with your heart. When I think about you I see more than a body. I see your soul, your heart, and the mind that keeps it all afloat. I see you, Kieran. I’ve spent so many months learning any and everything from you that I can. And somehow it’s still hard to believe that we are here: waiting to be one. I know it’s probably weird for you to see this side of me; hell, it’s weird for me. But you allow me to be soft. To have emotion and to be vulnerable. You are my better half. You make all of the bullshit dissipate, and you are the light when everything seems to drown in black. I couldn’t be more thankful for someone than I am for you. But I’ve found myself thanking whatever higher power is there, for letting me find you. To have your love. And to be able to hide against you when shit gets hard. Marriage is something I /never/ thought /I/ would experience. But here I am. Here /you/ are. We’re fucking gettin’ married, and I couldn’t be more happy! I love you. More than a broken record loves to skip on the best part of a song. You have always and will always hold my heart and my hand. You are my most important. My constant. My rock. My ever-lasting love. The only one I would want to do forever with. You save me. In so many ways; from myself. You’ve always done that. Oh, but I doubt if you ever knew. You have bettered me in ways I don’t even know how to say, but baby? When I peer into those baby blue’s of yours I find myself watching out who life play out. The images I never thought I was worthy of. Being a wife. Being a mother. Owning about ninety-eight dogs. You’ve made me come alive in every sense of that word, and I love you even more for that. Loving. Admirable. Caring. Warm like the sun. Sweet. Honorable. Courageous. Funny. Talented. Wise. These are just a few words I have when it comes to you. These are aspects I watch flutter through your being each and every day. You inspire me to be a better woman in hopes that I will be the best for you. You called me the sun when you asked me to marry you, oh but you’ve never seen what you look like through my eyes, Kieran. You make me stand breathless all the time. And when I hear that deep voice of yours, signifying you’re home? Goddamn if my heart doesn’t want to run to you. Back to its home. Where I feel my safest. Because for me? You are my home. Fuck a house. It’s you. It has been you from the second week I knew you. So, Thank you, Kieran for always loving me. For staying even when I was the biggest pain in the ass. And for deciding you wanted to deal with my bullshit for the long haul. With that being said; please kiss me. Make me your wife, and let me take your last name, mister. Because I’m too in love with you for every passing minute it only gets stronger.‘ Those were the words that lay splattered across the back of this postcard I found nearly a year back. See, I wrote my vows far before I was ever even engaged to this man. He was my rock, my heart, my best friend. In every form possible, and I knew from the jump that it would always be him and I. Or, at least, that’s how it felt and seemed to be panning out. I felt like I was on top of the world when I felt the love he shared with me. He brought my heart to where it needed to be, and helped make me who I am. I knew that. But as I thought about the last year, I couldn’t help but to feel my pastel pink fingernails dig down into the weathered-most side of the postcard, tears welled, and soon strolled down the sides of my cheeks. I was slipping lower to the ground in hopes that I could avoid the incoming questions of our closest friends regarding our marriage. A marriage that wasn’t going to fail, because it couldn’t even start. I wasn’t worth the shot. The time. The effort...or the energy it took to simply show up. Processing the next few hours was something I didn’t fully understand, or know how to do. Maybe I’ll just push it away, or down? That’s usually how I would respond to a situation like this, but yet here I was. Still waiting. Everyone else gave up hours ago. Tears continued their way down my face, and I moved to get comfy in my favorite chair, in my home, that I shared as ours for over a year. Slap in the face. Insult to injury, as I thought more and more on this whole ordeal. What was I going to do? Was he ever coming back? Would he have the balls? OF COURSE HE WOULD! Here he was, in the early hours of the next morning. Did he apologize? Yes. Did it really mean anything? Not particularly. Did he give me an excuse? Also yes, but it wasn’t enough. Just that Halloween, the date he chose, was his favorite holiday (Mine too, but I don’t count, remember.) and he was busy enjoying it. You could’ve let me know, jackass. You could have taken three minutes to say you wouldn’t make the wedding. We either needed to reschedule or stop. Reschedule or leave. Those were the options I saw. The only ones that were worth a damn, and that would actually somehow save my heart a little bit. Would it fully save me? Fuck no, but in this case? I supposed every little bit really did count, didn’t it? Perhaps. We would see what came of this. To answer that one — A quick back and forth with how embarrassed I was, and how he didn’t care enough to save me from, what felt like, the ultimate embarrassment. I didn’t know what to do. I went back and forth with him. Fuck, me. Here we go again. How was it that all he needed to do was apologize, and I was going to nod my agreement to reschedule this? Yep. Yes, I was. Because why? Because I loved him more than I had anyone yet, and I had never been one to give up. Especially not when it came to anyone I loved. Perhaps that was my biggest downfall; the fact that I always loved to put those that I love before me. I could feel the rhythm of my heart picking up in pace, and the strong red discoloration coming into play along my chest and neck. God, I wanted to claw that skin away. Keep your hands away, Alice. Stop. It is going to be okay. I wanted to scream from the whole anxiety of it all. Not knowing what he would do next. Would he actually do what he said, or was this yet another empty promise for me to put weight into, and continue to feel my heart fall at the end of another dead-end result? September 1st.. That’s our new date for the wedding. Update all the guests. Everyone was ready. I was ready. Beyond so, even, and again? No Swain. Right back in stagnant water, huh. I needed to go, to get out. But I fought that overwhelming sensation turned urge to run from every part of this. I fought so fucking hard, and somehow I never got very far with it. Not in the slightest, and maybe that was one of the most devastating moments that compiled this shitty, shitty day? A sigh of defeat crossed my ruby red lips, and I nodded to myself in acknowledgement that he had fooled me this time, too. Here I was, with all the hope in the world, and a bouquet of daffodils. Soft, blue eyes swam in an ocean of pain as I sank into the nearest chair. Forget your life as you knew it, Alice. Forget the hope, forget the way he lies in his love for you. Someone who loved you a fraction of the amount he claims wouldn’t have done this. This guy is fine, just living his life, and at the expense of your raw heart. Pick yourself up, do better. But I can’t. I love him. Oh, the memory of it all was almost too real in this moment, and I could feel the want to let my tears form, but I would fight that, too. I was not allowed the right to be fragile or emotional, or vulnerable in any light. I am strong, right? Right...at least, that’s what I’ve always told myself. A day and a half later — That was the last time I saw him, and the last time my heart wept with weathered pain. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the way he spoke to me that day. I was a stranger, not the woman he wanted to marry, and that much was clear. I’d never seen him so cold, and why? For what reason was I given this kind of treatment? Because I stayed, and never gave up or gave in…? Was it because I loved him so completely and unconditionally? Was my love something too heavy to hold, for him? Did I, unintentionally, become a burden in the enormous love I shared? Every one of these questions plagued me for so damn long. They still do. But closure is a friend I do not know, nor do I yearn to. I only wish I could erase one thing that was spoken to me that day, “You know that even when we get married, I’m still not going to be around much, right?” There it was, I guess. What I knew he was doing, but at least? At least if he didn’t say it out loud, I wouldn’t have to deal with the reality of it all. I could just keep playing along as if my heart wasn’t slowly falling to a billion little shards, sharp as nails, and cutting me wide every time I attempted to bring myself together. God knows, he wasn’t going to even attempt to give me that small ounce of comfort that I was begging for. My pain was unimaginable. Sometimes it still haunts me. What makes me so hard to love...to deal with? Even with that guilt coming into play that I was the reason behind his drive to be so far? I found myself wanting nothing more than to love this man, who broke me so easily. “Never forget that I love you,” Boy sure did know how to sell it. All the way. Full fucking send. That was the last thing I told him, was how much I loved him. And then he was gone. I was broken. Void to everyone and everything around me, in entirety. I just didn’t care anymore. My wedding line was ready for the show in a week, and I was alienating myself from everyone in my life. Block them out. That’s all I cared to do. It wasn’t until the morning of the show that I found myself allowing a smile to crack along the lines of my lips. I had every dress perfectly organized in each bride’s dressing room, and on the eight one? I hung a sign on the door asking for privacy. She’d want to get herself ready for this day. Over the past few months, I’d gotten to know her fairly well, and I decided to do her this due justice. None of the other brides were aware of who the eighth bride was, and that was exactly as planned. I nodded to each of these women as I shut them into their spaces with their dresses. None had laid eyes on the finished product until this moment, and for once? I found comfort in not knowing the immediate reaction. Instead? I moved back down the long hallway, and stepped behind the door of my own little space. Here I could allow my soul some comfort, and a moment of peace before the runway bliss and clamor. Breathing was something that had become hard here lately. It was like I was suffocating beneath the pressure of tons of water. I couldn’t seem to get ahead of it, but yet here I was. Doing what I had always done, what I was good at — Acting like I was perfectly okay when I was anything but. One foot stepped down, into the dress, followed by the other. I’d made sure to have the perfect one for the show. Time in advance, and all. One couldn’t simply create a full wedding line, and look mediocre herself. I smiled up at myself as I lifted the dress from the floor, to my shoulders, and allowed Elie to complete fastening the back. Any other show? This would’ve been Swain’s place. To let his fingertips glide against the seam of my back, and drop a soft, simple kiss to my shoulder. But that was gone. A distant memory. Diminished, now, and I couldn’t allow myself that memory. Not now. Not today. I’d let Oscar take over guiding the girls in who was to take their walk down the runway, and when. I’d decided to take this time to myself, to ready myself. I kicked Elie out a few moments later only so I could wipe away the makeup I’d let a tear roll through, and for reapplication. Once that was done, I brought a diamond encrusted pin to slip between caramel locks, and fastened it in place. Both feet slipped down into my favorite pair of Louboutin shoes, and I took a few deep breaths before I headed out of the room, and down the hall...again. This time my heart was damn near jumping out of my chest, and I looked to both of these wonderful men for a brief moment before I moved to the stage entrance. All of the brides were lined up on the opposite side of the stage, where no one could see me from my current position. They’d taken their walks. Now it was my turn. Within the next few moments, life was a blur. It always was when I debuted a new line. Slowly, I stepped up to the stage, conscious of the dress, and overly conscious of what was going on. I allowed my smile to pour its way onto my porcelain features as I looked out at the hundreds of flashing lights, and began my journey down the runway. The dress was a tribute to a classic, just as all the rest. But this one hadn’t been touched by any hands other than my own. I’d taken months on months to create and sew this dress together. Lace, tulle, silk. All simple fabrics, with intricate weavings. Beautiful fabrics, for what was meant to be the most beautiful day. This was the first time I’d ever been allowed to step foot into my masterpiece. It never shined on its day of purpose. He’d ripped that away from me, hell, he’d never even known I was the eighth bride in my show. No one had. But here I was, making my way down, step by step, flash by flash, and with ease of motion. I’d learned how to fake it better than most, and this was where I used that to my advantage. The shoulders of my dress slouched along my slender shoulders, just as they were meant to, and everything fell perfectly into place. I had created something so beautiful, so perfect for my wedding day. It never shined on its day of purpose. “Oh my god, it was her this whole time?!” I heard those words as I was stepping back towards the exit of the stage, and I felt as if my heart was ready to shatter from the trauma of it all, all over again. And I was angry. So fucking angry at how I hadn’t been given the opportunity to shine, or to love, or to hurt. I’d only been allowed to deal with things as they came at me, in the moment, and never to process them. I continued to fake a smile as I stood alongside my co-creators of this line and took our final bows, but as soon as I managed to step away? I was gone. I needed to get out. I had to go. The urge to rip my skin off was rapidly approaching, and before my chest could start splotching, I needed to go. I knew exactly where, and truth be told? I never thought I would want to retrace my steps back to that spot, but here I was; already en route. My knuckles were white against the steering wheel as I flew down the PCH, throwing all caution to the wind, and not giving a damn about any speed limit in sight. Who cared, anyways. At this rate, it only took me a little over an hour to make it to the ocean. Well. The specific beach that Swain took me to nearly a year ago. Once I pulled in, I cut the engine, and sat there. Watching the waves crash against the sea-soaked sand, and rocks. I felt numb. I didn’t move, but instead? I reached over into my glove-box, and stole a cigarette to place between my lips. Lighter in hand. It was then that I slipped from the confines of the car, and made my way down the rocky path to where he asked me to marry him. I stood in the exact same spot I had then, and simply moved to unbutton the dress as best as I could. Rocking to and fro, ever so slightly, against my feet, as I did this. I didn’t speak. I didn’t think. I just let the dress fall to the sand. Leaving me in nothing more than my white, corseted slip, and heels. The cigarette remained between my lips as I flicked the igniter on the lighter, and took a nice, long drag. Ah, the ease of nicotine. Something to steady my restless and relentless nerves. In that same moment? I lifted the train of my dress, riddled with lace, and flicked the lighter to life once more. It took little longer than a minute to watch all my hard-work, love, and determination go up into flames. Just the same as my love for him. Burn the bridge, burn the memory. With the next drag of the cigarette, I was gone again. Sunk back into the seat of my ‘69 Hemi, and flying down the highway once more. It was time to go home. I am good at running. I am good at burning bridges. I am good at loving. I am good at many things. But what I am not good at is handling trauma. So, I’ll give you a Pro Tip: Never design and sew your own goddamn wedding dress. That shit will burn you far worse than any flame ever could. Much love, The Eighth Bride.

#writing #writer #author #roleplay #fanficition

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readbookywooks · 7 years

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Davos

The morning air was dark with the smoke of burning gods.

They were all afire now, Maid and Mother, Warrior and Smith, the Crone with her pearl eyes and the Father with his gilded beard; even the Stranger, carved to look more animal than human. The old dry wood and countless layers of paint and varnish blazed with a fierce hungry light. Heat rose shimmering through the chill air; behind, the gargoyles and stone dragons on the castle walls seemed blurred, as if Davos were seeing them through a veil of tears. Or as if the beasts were trembling, stirring . . .

"An ill thing," Allard declared, though at least he had the sense to keep his voice low. Dale muttered agreement.

"Silence," said Davos. "Remember where you are." His sons were good men, but young, and Allard especially was rash. Had I stayed a smuggler, Allard would have ended on the Wall. Stannis spared him from that end, something else I owe him . . .

Hundreds had come to the castle gates to bear witness to the burning of the Seven. The smell in the air was ugly. Even for soldiers, it was hard not to feel uneasy at such an affront to the gods most had worshiped all their lives.

The red woman walked round the fire three times, praying once in the speech of Asshai, once in High Valyrian, and once in the Common Tongue. Davos understood only the last. "R'hllor, come to us in our darkness," she called. "Lord of Light, we offer you these false gods, these seven who are one, and him the enemy. Take them and cast your light upon us, for the night is dark and full of terrors." Queen Selyse echoed the words. Beside her, Stannis watched impassively, his jaw hard as stone under the blue-black shadow of his tight-cropped beard. He had dressed more richly than was his wont, as if for the sept.

Dragonstone's sept had been where Aegon the Conqueror knelt to pray the night before he sailed. That had not saved it from the queen's men. They had overturned the altars, pulled down the statues, and smashed the stained glass with warhammers. Septon Barre could only curse them, but Ser Hubard Rambton led his three sons to the sept to defend their gods. The Rambtons had slain four of the queen's men before the others overwhelmed them. Afterward Guncer Sunglass, mildest and most pious of lords, told Stannis he could no longer support his claim. Now he shared a sweltering cell with the septon and Ser Hubard's two surviving sons. The other lords had not been slow to take the lesson.

The gods had never meant much to Davos the smuggler, though like most men he had been known to make offerings to the Warrior before battle, to the Smith when he launched a ship, and to the Mother whenever his wife grew great with child. He felt ill as he watched them burn, and not only from the smoke.

Maester Cressen would have stopped this. The old man had challenged the Lord of Light and been struck down for his impiety, or so the gossips told each other. Davos knew the truth. He had seen the maester slip something into the wine cup. Poison. What else could it be? He drank a cup of death to free Stannis from Melisandre, but somehow her god shielded her. He would gladly have killed the red woman for that, yet what chance would he have where a maester of the Citadel had failed? He was only a smuggler raised high, Davos of Flea Bottom, the Onion Knight.

The burning gods cast a pretty light, wreathed in their robes of shifting flame, red and orange and yellow. Septon Barre had once told Davos how they'd been carved from the masts of the ships that had carried the first Targaryens from Valyria. Over the centuries, they had been painted and repainted, gilded, silvered, jeweled. "Their beauty will make them more pleasing to R'hllor," Melisandre said when she told Stannis to pull them down and drag them out the castle gates.

The Maiden lay athwart the Warrior, her arms widespread as if to embrace him. The Mother seemed almost to shudder as the flames came licking up her face. A longsword had been thrust through her heart, and its leather grip was alive with flame. The Father was on the bottom, the first to fall. Davos watched the hand of the Stranger writhe and curl as the fingers blackened and fell away one by one, reduced to so much glowing charcoal. Nearby, Lord Celtigar coughed fitfully and covered his wrinkled face with a square of linen embroidered in red crabs. The Myrmen swapped jokes as they enjoyed the warmth of the fire, but young Lord Bar Emmon had turned a splotchy grey, and Lord Velaryon was watching the king rather than the conflagration.

Davos would have given much to know what he was thinking, but one such as Velaryon would never confide in him. The Lord of the Tides was of the blood of ancient Valyria, and his House had thrice provided brides for Targaryen princes; Davos Seaworth stank of fish and onions. It was the same with the other lordlings. He could trust none of them, nor would they ever include him in their private councils. They scorned his sons as well. My grandsons will joust with theirs, though, and one day their blood may wed with mine. In time my little black ship will fly as high as Velaryon's seahorse or Celtigar's red crabs.

That is, if Stannis won his throne. If he lost . . .

Everything I am, I owe to him. Stannis had raised him to knighthood. He had given him a place of honor at his table, a war galley to sail in place of a smuggler's skiff. Dale and Allard captained galleys as well, Maric was oarmaster on the Fury, Matthos served his father on Black Betha, and the king had taken Devan as a royal squire. One day he would be knighted, and the two little lads as well. Marya was mistress of a small keep on Cape Wrath, with servants who called her m'lady, and Davos could hunt red deer in his own woods. All this he had of Stannis Baratheon, for the price of a few finger joints. It was just, what he did to me. I had flouted the king's laws all my life. He has earned my loyalty. Davos touched the little pouch that hung from the leather thong about his neck. His fingers were his luck, and he needed luck now. As do we all. Lord Stannis most of all.

Pale flames licked at the grey sky. Dark smoke rose, twisting and curling. When the wind pushed it toward them, men blinked and wept and rubbed their eyes. Allard turned his head away, coughing and cursing. A taste of things to come, thought Davos. Many and more would burn before this war was done.

Melisandre was robed all in scarlet satin and blood velvet, her eyes as red as the great ruby that glistened at her throat as if it too were afire. "In ancient books of Asshai it is written that there will come a day after a long summer when the stars bleed and the cold breath of darkness falls heavy on the world. In this dread hour a warrior shall draw from the fire a burning sword. And that sword shall be Lightbringer, the Red Sword of Heroes, and he who clasps it shall be Azor Ahai come again, and the darkness shall flee before him." She lifted her voice, so it carried out over the gathered host. "Azor Ahai, beloved of R'hllor! The Warrior of Light, the Son of Fire! Come forth, your sword awaits you! Come forth and take it into your hand!"

Stannis Baratheon strode forward like a soldier marching into battle. His squires stepped up to attend him. Davos watched as his son Devan pulled a long padded glove over the king's right hand. The boy wore a cream-colored doublet with a fiery heart sewn on the breast. Bryen Farring was similarly garbed as he tied a stiff leather cape around His Grace's neck. Behind, Davos heard a faint clank and clatter of bells. "Under the sea, smoke rises in bubbles, and flames burn green and blue and black," Patchface sang somewhere. "I know, I know, oh, oh, oh."

The king plunged into the fire with his teeth clenched, holding the leather cloak before him to keep off the flames. He went straight to the Mother, grasped the sword with his gloved hand, and wrenched it free of the burning wood with a single hard jerk. Then he was retreating, the sword held high, jade-green flames swirling around cherry-red steel. Guards rushed to beat out the cinders that clung to the king's clothing.

"A sword of fire!" shouted Queen Selyse. Ser Axell Florent and the other queen's men took up the cry. "A sword of fire! It burns! It burns! A sword of fire!"

Melisandre lifted her hands above her head. "Behold! A sign was promised, and now a sign is seen! Behold Lightbringer! Azor Ahai has come again! All hail the Warrior of Light! All hail the Son of Fire!"

A ragged wave of shouts gave answer, just as Stannis's glove began to smolder. Cursing, the king thrust the point of the sword into the damp earth and beat out the flames against his leg.

"Lord, cast your light upon us!" Melisandre called out.

"For the night is dark and full of terrors," Selyse and her queen's men replied. Should I speak the words as well? Davos wondered. Do I owe Stannis that much? Is this fiery god truly his own? His shortened fingers twitched.

Stannis peeled off the glove and let it fall to the ground. The gods in the pyre were scarcely recognizable anymore. The head fell off the Smith with a puff of ash and embers. Melisandre sang in the tongue of Asshai, her voice rising and falling like the tides of the sea. Stannis untied his singed leather cape and listened in silence. Thrust in the ground, Lightbringer still glowed ruddy hot, but the flames that clung to the sword were dwindling and dying.

By the time the song was done, only charwood remained of the gods, and the king's patience had run its course. He took the queen by the elbow and escorted her back into Dragonstone, leaving Lightbringer where it stood. The red woman remained a moment to watch as Devan knelt with Byren Farring and rolled up the burnt and blackened sword in the king's leather cloak. The Red Sword of Heroes looks a proper mess, thought Davos.

A few of the lords lingered to speak in quiet voices upwind of the fire. They fell silent when they saw Davos looking at them. Should Stannis fall, they will pull me down in an instant. Neither was he counted one of the queen's men, that group of ambitious knights and minor lordlings who had given themselves to this Lord of Light and so won the favor and patronage of Lady—no, Queen, remember?—Selyse.

The fire had started to dwindle by the time Melisandre and the squires departed with the precious sword. Davos and his sons joined the crowd making its way down to the shore and the waiting ships. "Devan acquitted himself well," he said as they went.

"He fetched the glove without dropping it, yes," said Dale.

Allard nodded. "That badge on Devan's doublet, the fiery heart, what was that? The Baratheon sigil is a crowned stag."

"A lord can choose more than one badge," Davos said.

Dale smiled. "A black ship and an onion, Father?"

Allard kicked at a stone. "The Others take our onion . . . and that flaming heart. It was an ill thing to burn the Seven."

"When did you grow so devout?" Davos said. "What does a smuggler's son know of the doings of gods?"

"I'm a knight's son, Father. If you won't remember, why should they? "

"A knight's son, but not a knight," said Davos. "Nor will you ever be, if you meddle in affairs that do not concern you. Stannis is our rightful king, it is not for us to question him. We sail his ships and do his bidding. That is all."

"As to that, Father," Dale said, "I mislike these water casks they've given me for Wraith. Green pine. The water will spoil on a voyage of any length."

"I got the same for Lady Marya," said Allard. "The queen's men have laid claim to all the seasoned wood."

"I will speak to the king about it," Davos promised. Better it come from him than from Allard. His sons were good fighters and better sailors, but they did not know how to talk to lords. They were lowborn, even as I was, but they do not like to recall that. When they look at our banner, all they see is a tall black ship flying on the wind. They close their eyes to the onion.

The port was as crowded as Davos had ever known it. Every dock teemed with sailors loading provisions, and every inn was packed with soldiers dicing or drinking or looking for a whore . . . a vain search, since Stannis permitted none on his island. Ships lined the strand; war galleys and fishing vessels, stout carracks and fat-bottomed cogs. The best berths had been taken by the largest vessels: Stannis's flagship Fury rocking between Lord Steffon and Stag of the Sea, Lord Velaryon's silver-hulled Pride of Driftmark and her three sisters, Lord Celtigar's ornate Red Claw, the ponderous Swordfish with her long iron prow. Out to sea at anchor rode Salladhor Saan's great Valyrian amongst the striped hulls of two dozen smaller Lysene galleys.

A weathered little inn sat on the end of the stone pier where Black Betha, Wraith, and Lady Marya shared mooring space with a half-dozen other galleys of one hundred oars or less. Davos had a thirst. He took his leave of his sons and turned his steps toward the inn. Out front squatted a waist-high gargoyle, so eroded by rain and salt that his features were all but obliterated. He and Davos were old friends, though. He gave a pat to the stone head as he went in. "Luck," he murmured.

Across the noisy common room, Salladhor Saan sat eating grapes from a wooden bowl. When he spied Davos, he beckoned him closer. "Ser knight, come sit with me. Eat a grape. Eat two. They are marvelously sweet." The Lyseni was a sleek, smiling man whose flamboyance was a byword on both sides of the narrow sea. Today he wore flashing cloth-of-silver, with dagged sleeves so long the ends of them pooled on the floor. His buttons were carved jade monkeys, and atop his wispy white curls perched a jaunty green cap decorated with a fan of peacock feathers.

Davos threaded his way through the tables to a chair. In the days before his knighthood, he had often bought cargoes from Salladhor Saan. The Lyseni was a smuggler himself, as well as a trader, a banker, a notorious pirate, and the self-styled Prince of the Narrow Sea. When a pirate grows rich enough, they make him a prince. It had been Davos who had made the journey to Lys to recruit the old rogue to Lord Stannis's cause.

"You did not see the gods burn, my lord?" he asked.

"The red priests have a great temple on Lys. Always they are burning this and burning that, crying out to their R'hllor. They bore me with their fires. Soon they will bore King Stannis too, it is to be hoped." He seemed utterly unconcerned that someone might overhear him, eating his grapes and dribbling the seeds out onto his lip, flicking them off with a finger. "My Bird of a Thousand Colors came in yesterday, good ser. She is not a warship, no, but a trader, and she paid a call on King's Landing. Are you sure you will not have a grape? Children go hungry in the city, it is said." He dangled the grapes before Davos and smiled.

"It's ale I need, and news."

"The men of Westeros are ever rushing," complained Salladhor Saan. "What good is this, I ask you? He who hurries through life hurries to his grave." He belched. "The Lord of Casterly Rock has sent his dwarf to see to King's Landing. Perhaps he hopes that his ugly face will frighten off attackers, eh? Or that we will laugh ourselves dead when the Imp capers on the battlements, who can say? The dwarf has chased off the lout who ruled the gold cloaks and put in his place a knight with an iron hand." He plucked a grape, and squeezed it between thumb and forefinger until the skin burst. juice ran down between his fingers.

A serving girl pushed her way through, swatting at the hands that groped her as she passed. Davos ordered a tankard of ale, turned back to Saan, and said, "How well is the city defended?"

The other shrugged. "The walls are high and strong, but who will man them? They are building scorpions and spitfires, oh, yes, but the men in the golden cloaks are too few and too green, and there are no others. A swift strike, like a hawk plummeting at a hare, and the great city will be ours. Grant us wind to fill our sails, and your king could sit upon his Iron Throne by evenfall on the morrow. We could dress the dwarf in motley and prick his little cheeks with the points of our spears to make him dance for us, and mayhaps your goodly king would make me a gift of the beautiful Queen Cersei to warm my bed for a night. I have been too long away from my wives, and all in his service."

"Pirate," said Davos. "You have no wives, only concubines, and you have been well paid for every day and every ship."

"Only in promises," said Salladhor Saan mournfully. "Good ser, it is gold I crave, not words on papers." He popped a grape into his mouth.

"You'll have your gold when we take the treasury in King's Landing. No man in the Seven Kingdoms is more honorable than Stannis Baratheon. He will keep his word." Even as Davos spoke, he thought, This world is twisted beyond hope, when lowborn smugglers must vouch for the honor of kings.

"So he has said and said. And so I say, let us do this thing. Even these grapes could be no more ripe than that city, my old friend."

The serving girl returned with his ale. Davos gave her a copper. "Might be we could take King's Landing, as you say," he said as he lifted the tankard, "but how long would we hold it? Tywin Lannister is known to be at Harrenhal with a great host, and Lord Renly . . . "

"Ah, yes, the young brother," said Salladhor Saan. "That part is not so good, my friend. King Renly bestirs himself. No, here he is Lord Renly, my pardons. So many kings, my tongue grows weary of the word. The brother Renly has left Highgarden with his fair young queen, his flowered lords and shining knights, and a mighty host of foot. He marches up your road of roses toward the very same great city we were speaking of."

"He takes his bride?"

The other shrugged. "He did not tell me why. Perhaps he is loath to part with the warm burrow between her thighs, even for a night. Or perhaps he is that certain of his victory."

"The king must be told."

"I have attended to it, good ser. Though His Grace frowns so whenever he does see me that I tremble to come before him. Do you think he would like me better if I wore a hair shirt and never smiled? Well, I will not do it. I am an honest man, he must suffer me in silk and samite. Or else I shall take my ships where I am better loved. That sword was not Lightbringer, my friend."

The sudden shift in subject left Davos uneasy. "Sword?"

"A sword plucked from fire, yes. Men tell me things, it is my pleasant smile. How shall a burnt sword serve Stannis?"

"A burning sword," corrected Davos.

"Burnt," said Salladhor Saan, "and be glad of that, my friend. Do you know the tale of the forging of Lightbringer? I shall tell it to you. It was a time when darkness lay heavy on the world. To oppose it, the hero must have a hero's blade, oh, like none that had ever been. And so for thirty days and thirty nights Azor Ahai labored sleepless in the temple, forging a blade in the sacred fires. Heat and hammer and fold, heat and hammer and fold, oh, yes, until the sword was done. Yet when he plunged it into water to temper the steel it burst asunder.

"Being a hero, it was not for him to shrug and go in search of excellent grapes such as these, so again he began. The second time it took him fifty days and fifty nights, and this sword seemed even finer than the first. Azor Ahai captured a lion, to temper the blade by plunging it through the beast's red heart, but once more the steel shattered and split. Great was his woe and great was his sorrow then, for he knew what he must do.

"A hundred days and a hundred nights he labored on the third blade, and as it glowed white-hot in the sacred fires, he summoned his wife. ‘Nissa Nissa' he said to her, for that was her name, ‘bare your breast, and know that I love you best of all that is in this world.' She did this thing, why I cannot say, and Azor Ahai thrust the smoking sword through her living heart. It is said that her cry of anguish and ecstasy left a crack across the face of the moon, but her blood and her soul and her strength and her courage all went into the steel. Such is the tale of the forging of Lightbringer, the Red Sword of Heroes.

"Now do you see my meaning? Be glad that it is just a burnt sword that His Grace pulled from that fire. Too much light can hurt the eyes, my friend, and fire burns." Salladhor Saan finished the last grape and smacked his lips. "When do you think the king will bid us sail, good ser? "

"Soon, I think," said Davos, "if his god wills it."

"His god, ser friend? Not yours? Where is the god of Ser Davos Seaworth, knight of the onion ship?"

Davos sipped his ale to give himself a moment. The inn is crowded, and you are not Salladhor Saan, he reminded himself. Be careful how you answer. "King Stannis is my god. He made me and blessed me with his trust."

"I will remember." Salladhor Saan got to his feet. "My pardons. These grapes have given me a hunger, and dinner awaits on my Valyrian. Minced lamb with pepper and roasted gull stuffed with mushrooms and fennel and onion. Soon we shall eat together in King's Landing, yes? In the Red Keep we shall feast, while the dwarf sings us a jolly tune. When you speak to King Stannis, mention if you would that he will owe me another thirty thousand dragons come the black of the moon. He ought to have given those gods to me. They were too beautiful to burn, and might have brought a noble price in Pentos or Myr. Well, if he grants me Queen Cersei for a night I shall forgive him." The Lyseni clapped Davos on the back, and swaggered from the inn as if he owned it.

Ser Davos Seaworth lingered over his tankard for a good while, thinking. A year ago, he had been with Stannis in King's Landing when King Robert staged a tourney for Prince Joffrey's name day. He remembered the red priest Thoros of Myr, and the flaming sword he had wielded in the melee. The man had made for a colorful spectacle, his red robes flapping while his blade writhed with pale green flames, but everyone knew there was no true magic to it, and in the end his fire had guttered out and Bronze Yohn Royce had brained him with a common mace.

A true sword of fire, now, that would be a wonder to behold. Yet at such a cost . . . When he thought of Nissa Nissa, it was his own Marya he pictured, a good-natured plump woman with sagging breasts and a kindly smile, the best woman in the world. He tried to picture himself driving a sword through her, and shuddered. I am not made of the stuff of heroes, he decided. If that was the price of a magic sword, it was more than he cared to pay.

Davos finished his ale, pushed away the tankard, and left the inn. On the way out he patted the gargoyle on the head and muttered, "Luck." They would all need it.

It was well after dark when Devan came down to Black Betha, leading a snow-white palfrey. "My lord father," he announced, "His Grace commands you to attend him in the Chamber of the Painted Table. You are to ride the horse and come at once."

It was good to see Devan looking so splendid in his squire's raiment, but the summons made Davos uneasy. Will he bid us sail? he wondered. Salladhor Saan was not the only captain who felt that King's Landing was ripe for an attack, but a smuggler must learn patience. We have no hope of victory. I said as much to Maester Cressen, the day I returned to Dragonstone, and nothing has changed. We are too few, the foes too many. ff we dip our oars, we die. Nonetheless, he climbed onto the horse.

When Davos arrived at the Stone Drum, a dozen highborn knights and great bannermen were just leaving. Lords Celtigar and Velaryon each gave him a curt nod and walked on while the others ignored him utterly, but Ser Axell Florent stopped for a word.

Queen Selyse's uncle was a keg of a man with thick arms and bandy legs. He had the prominent ears of a Florent, even larger than his niece's. The coarse hair that sprouted from his did not stop him hearing most of what went on in the castle. For ten years Ser Axell had served as castellan of Dragonstone while Stannis sat on Robert's council in King's Landing, but of late he had emerged as the foremost of the queen's men. "Ser Davos, it is good to see you, as ever," he said.

"And you, my lord."

"I made note of you this morning as well. The false gods burned with a merry light, did they not?"

"They burned brightly." Davos did not trust this man, for all his courtesy. House Florent had declared for Renly.

"The Lady Melisandre tells us that sometimes R'hllor permits his faithful servants to glimpse the future in flames. It seemed to me as I watched the fire this morning that I was looking at a dozen beautiful dancers, maidens garbed in yellow silk spinning and swirling before a great king. I think it was a true vision, ser. A glimpse of the glory that awaits His Grace after we take King's Landing and the throne that is his by rights."

Stannis has no taste for such dancing, Davos thought, but he dared not offend the queen's uncle. "I saw only fire," he said, "but the smoke was making my eyes water. You must pardon me, ser, the king awaits." He pushed past, wondering why Ser Axell had troubled himself. He is a queen's man and I am the king's.

Stannis sat at his Painted Table with Maester Pylos at his shoulder, an untidy pile of papers before them. "Ser," the king said when Davos entered, "come have a look at this letter."

Obediently, he selected a paper at random. "It looks handsome enough, Your Grace, but I fear I cannot read the words." Davos could decipher maps and charts as well as any, but letters and other writings were beyond his powers. But my Devan has learned his letters, and young Steffon and Stannis as well.

"I'd forgotten." A furrow of irritation showed between the king's brows. "Pylos, read it to him."

"Your Grace." The maester took up one of the parchments and cleared his throat. "All men know me for the trueborn son of Steffon Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End, by his lady wife Cassana of House Estermont. I declare upon the honor of my House that my beloved brother Robert, our late king, left no trueborn issue of his body, the boy Joffrey, the boy Tommen, and the girl Myrcella being abominations born of incest between Cersei Lannister and her brother Jaime the Kingslayer. By right of birth and blood, I do this day lay claim to the Iron Throne of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros. Let all true men declare their loyalty. Done in the Light of the Lord, under the sign and seal of Stannis of House Baratheon, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, and Lord of the Seven Kingdoms." The parchment rustled softly as Pylos laid it down.

"Make it Ser Jaime the Kingslayer henceforth," Stannis said, frowning. "Whatever else the man may be, he remains a knight. I don't know that we ought to call Robert my beloved brother either. He loved me no more than he had to, nor I him."

"A harmless courtesy, Your Grace," Pylos said.

"A lie. Take it out." Stannis turned to Davos. "The maester tells me that we have one hundred seventeen ravens on hand. I mean to use them all. One hundred seventeen ravens will carry one hundred seventeen copies of my letter to every corner of the realm, from the Arbor to the Wall. Perhaps a hundred will win through against storm and hawk and arrow. If so, a hundred maesters will read my words to as many lords in as many solars and bedchambers . . . and then the letters will like as not be consigned to the fire, and lips pledged to silence. These great lords love Joffrey, or Renly, or Robb Stark. I am their rightful king, but they will deny me if they can. So I have need of you."

"I am yours to command, my king. As ever."

Stannis nodded. "I mean for you to sail Black Betha north, to Gulltown, the Fingers, the Three Sisters, even White Harbor. Your son Dale will go south in Wraith, past Cape Wrath and the Broken Arm, all along the coast of Dorne as far as the Arbor. Each of you will carry a chest of letters, and you will deliver one to every port and holdfast and fishing village. Nail them to the doors of septs and inns for every man to read who can."

Davos said, "That will be few enough."

"Ser Davos speaks truly, Your Grace," said Maester Pylos. "It would be better to have the letters read aloud."

"Better, but more dangerous," said Stannis. "These words will not be kindly received."

"Give me knights to do the reading," Davos said. "That will carry more weight than anything I might say."

Stannis seemed well satisfied with that. "I can give you such men, yes. I have a hundred knights who would sooner read than fight. Be open where you can and stealthy where you must. Use every smuggler's trick you know, the black sails, the hidden coves, whatever it requires. If you run short of letters, capture a few septons and set them to copying out more. I mean to use your second son as well. He will take Lady Marya across the narrow sea, to Braavos and the other Free Cities, to deliver other letters to the men who rule there. The world will know of my claim, and of Cersei's infamy."

You can tell them, Davos thought, but will they believe? He glanced thoughtfully at Maester Pylos. The king caught the look. "Maester, perhaps you ought get to your writing. We will need a great many letters, and soon."

"As you will." Pylos bowed, and took his leave.

The king waited until he was gone before he said, "What is it you would not say in the presence of my maester, Davos?"

"My liege, Pylos is pleasant enough, but I cannot see the chain about his neck without mourning for Maester Cressen."

"Is it his fault the old man died?" Stannis glanced into the fire. "I never wanted Cressen at that feast. He'd angered me, yes, he'd given me bad counsel, but I did not want him dead. I'd hoped he might be granted a few years of ease and comfort. He had earned that much, at least, but"—he ground his teeth together—"but he died. And Pylos serves me ably."

"Pylos is the least of it. The letter . . . What did your lords make of it, I wonder?"

Stannis snorted. "Celtigar pronounced it admirable. If I showed him the contents of my privy, he would declare that admirable as well. The others bobbed their heads up and down like a flock of geese, all but Velaryon, who said that steel would decide the matter, not words on parchment. As if I had never suspected. The Others take my lords, I'll hear your views."

"Your words were blunt and strong."

"And true."

"And true. Yet you have no proof. Of this incest. No more than you did a year ago."

"There's proof of a sort at Storm's End. Robert's bastard. The one he fathered on my wedding night, in the very bed they'd made up for me and my bride. Delena was a Florent, and a maiden when he took her, so Robert acknowledged the babe. Edric Storm, they call him. He is said to be the very image of my brother. If men were to see him, and then look again at Joffrey and Tommen, they could not help but wonder, I would think."

"Yet how are men to see him, if he is at Storm's End?"

Stannis drummed his fingers on the Painted Table. "It is a difficulty. One of many." He raised his eyes. "You have more to say about the letter. Well, get on with it. I did not make you a knight so you could learn to mouth empty courtesies. I have my lords for that. Say what you would say, Davos."

Davos bowed his head. "There was a phrase at the end. How did it go? Done in the Light of the Lord . . . "

"Yes." The king's jaw was clenched.

"Your people will mislike those words."

"As you did?" said Stannis sharply.

"If you were to say instead, Done in the sight of gods and men, or By the grace of the gods old and new . . . "

"Have you gone devout on me, smuggler?"

"That was to be my question for you, my liege."

"Was it now? It sounds as though you love my new god no more than you love my new maester."

"I do not know this Lord of Light," Davos admitted, "but I knew the gods we burned this morning. The Smith has kept my ships safe, while the Mother has given me seven strong sons."

"Your wife has given you seven strong sons. Do you pray to her? It was wood we burned this morning."

"That may be so," Davos said, "but when I was a boy in Flea Bottom begging for a copper, sometimes the septons would feed me."

"I feed you now."

"You have given me an honored place at your table. And in return I give you truth. Your people will not love you if you take from them the gods they have always worshiped, and give them one whose very name sounds queer on their tongues."

Stannis stood abruptly. "R'hllor. Why is that so hard? They will not love me, you say? When have they ever loved me? How can I lose something I have never owned?" He moved to the south window to gaze out at the moonlit sea. "I stopped believing in gods the day I saw the Windproud break up across the bay. Any gods so monstrous as to drown my mother and father would never have my worship, I vowed. In King's Landing, the High Septon would prattle at me of how all justice and goodness flowed from the Seven, but all I ever saw of either was made by men."

"If you do not believe in gods—"

"—why trouble with this new one?" Stannis broke in. "I have asked myself as well. I know little and care less of gods, but the red priestess has power."

Yes, but what sort of power? "Cressen had wisdom."

"I trusted in his wisdom and your wiles, and what did they avail me, smuggler? The storm lords sent you packing. I went to them a beggar and they laughed at me. Well, there will be no more begging, and no more laughing either. The Iron Throne is mine by rights, but how am I to take it? There are four kings in the realm, and three of them have more men and more gold than I do. I have ships . . . and I have her. The red woman. Half my knights are afraid even to say her name, did you know? If she can do nothing else, a sorceress who can inspire such dread in grown men is not to be despised. A frightened man is a beaten man. And perhaps she can do more. I mean to find out.

"When I was a lad I found an injured goshawk and nursed her back to health. Proudwing, I named her. She would perch on my shoulder and flutter from room to room after me and take food from my hand, but she would not soar. Time and again I would take her hawking, but she never flew higher than the treetops. Robert called her Weakwing. He owned a gyrfalcon named Thunderclap who never missed her strike. One day our great-uncle Ser Harbert told me to try a different bird. I was making a fool of myself with Proudwing, he said, and he was right." Stannis Baratheon turned away from the window, and the ghosts who moved upon the southern sea. "The Seven have never brought me so much as a sparrow. It is time I tried another hawk, Davos. A red hawk."

#ClashofKings

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