Dragonstone's quay, where the surging waves hammered the seawall and burst into sprays of foam.
Gawen Crabb quipped, "Easy, ser. Those screwed-tight brows put folk on edge."
Ser Davos Seaworth forced a thin smile. "Forgive me. I've yet to master a steady face."
Gawen chuckled and shook his head.
After a hesitation, Davos said, "Lord Gawen, the Stannis I know has ever made sound decisions. I hope you'll choose soon."
"Ser Davos, we're friends…"
Gawen's brown eyes flickered. "Frankly, I think Lord Stannis is far more taken with that prophecy in the sacred fire."
He pointed to the flaming heart banners snapping along the pier. The sea wind raked long ripples over the water.
"The moment I saw those from my deck, I knew his mind was set."
Davos studied the red standard, remembering the day he was knighted.
Back then, with only a scant garrison, Stannis held Storm's End near a year against the combined might of Tyrell and Redwyne. Even the sea road was sealed by the Arbor's Redwynes. The horses were long eaten, then cats and dogs, until only roots and rats remained.
On a moonless, cloud-cloaked night, Davos slipped a black-hulled boat through Redwyne ships and the Reaver's reefs—black sail, black oars—her hold crammed with onions and saltfish. Not much… but enough to keep them alive until Eddard Stark broke the siege.
After the war, Lord Stannis granted him fertile lands at Cape Wrath, a small castle, and a knight's honors… and saved him the trouble of trimming the fingertips of his left hand ever again.
…
Davos sighed. "I've failed to win the Stormlords. They prefer Lord Renly's pretty words."
Gawen looked over. "In the end, they'll choose the winner, ser."
Davos's mouth twisted. "Plainly, few now believe Lord Stannis will sit the Iron Throne."
Gawen glanced back at the burning heart. He murmured, "You mean to say Lord Stannis must make choices he'd rather not?"
He turned to Davos. "You know Storm's End well?"
Davos nodded slightly.
Gawen began, "The songs say the first Storm King Durran won the love of the lovely Elenei, born of Sea God and Wind Goddess.
"On their wedding night she gave her maidenhood to a mortal—and so had to suffer mortal lot, with birth and death.
"Her divine parents raged at the choice. They called up gales and mountains of water and loosed their wrath upon Durran's castle.
"That night his friends, his brothers, the whole wedding feast were swept away—smashed upon walls or drowned in the deeps. Only Durran, whom Elenei shielded, was spared."
Davos's eyes trembled. He caught Gawen's drift: whatever the intent, all things have a price.
He pulled his thoughts back. He revered Stannis and believed hardship would pass; in the end his lord would sit the Iron Throne. His loyalty never wavered.
His voice was kind, but his eyes were firm. "Lord Gawen—it still stands."
Gawen clapped the Onion Knight's arm. "I look forward to good news, Ser Davos."
Leaving that ambiguous, he flipped his cloak and stepped onto the gangplank to the Mermaid.
…
The Mermaid eased out of harbor. Aft on the quarterdeck, Gawen stared back at Dragonstone, carved like a dragon crouched upon the sea. His thoughts ran… dragonglass… the Others… Melisandre… dragons.
…
Toward dusk the Mermaid made Siren's Port. With Steward Herschel, "King of Coils" Gawen went straight to inspection.
As the Crabb lands' public face to the world, Siren's Port never stopped receiving Gawen's golden dragons—less than the army's share, but steady.
The port shone white—broad, clean streets, lush trees lining the ways, buildings in ordered ranks; shops and homes stacked like tidy scales.
Under the strict Crabb lord's law, Siren's Port was safe—and clean, a rarity in Westeros.
But with Stannis's blockade of Blackwater Bay, few traders from King's Landing came, and the port lay far duller than before.
…
In the last light the sea glittered gold against the white quays, a lovely painting.
Herschel huffed, "My lord, had a great Lysene leather-merchant not come by chance, the goods meant for the King's Landing trade would have gone to the rats."
Then, brightening, "The furs Rossell bought in White Harbor have been taken up by the Lyseni as well. When the Black Pearl comes down from the North—no, I'll reach Rossell and have her sail straight to Lys."
By Stannis's order no ship could run Blackwater Bay to the city quays; nor could city ships depart—including those from Dragonstone. He was even-handed—and just.
Gawen tugged his reins and turned his horse. "See to it, Herschel."
…
Essos, the City-state of Viserys.
In the governor's study, petite Daenerys Targaryen sat straight-backed, with Ser Jorah Mormont and others before her.
Her silver hair spilled like waves. Worry touched her small face. "Our gold dragons won't suffice, will they?"
Ser Jorah glanced at her. "Princess, King Viserys demands rich prizes besides. His demands only grow. We can't meet them."
Daenerys said after a moment, "Do the city's merchants not welcome a tourney for my brother's name day? Might they support us?"
"Not unless you order swords at their throats…"
He snorted. "A Westerosi tourney is novel here and will draw a crowd. The merchants mean to profit, not out of the devotion His Grace imagines."
He hesitated. "I think their true interest is you, Your Highness."
Though she had sworn not to yield to her brother, Viserys had lately sought her out, swearing off drink and even asking after her health. Daenerys had felt glad—and moved.
So she agreed to his demand for a name-day celebration. But instead of renewed warmth, she found only ever more demands—a Westerosi tourney among them.
Disappointed? Or simply foolish? She kept her face smooth.
Her violet eyes went to the window. She whispered, "A valuable commodity, again?"
No anger showed, but beneath the desk her hand clenched tight.
Ser Jorah said, "They say it was Dick who talked His Grace down."
Daenerys drifted, murmuring, "Yes. I'm worth ten thousand spears, it seems… at least, no one in this city can pay that price."
After a silence, Jorah stepped closer, eyes on her sorrow hid behind composure.
"Princess, besides his will to take the Iron Throne from the Usurper, Viserys is a king easily swayed by whispers."
"And I'll be plain—there are men in this world who will treasure you. Your brother is not one."
He looked again at her calm mask. "He is dangerous—to you. You trust him too much."
Daenerys brushed her hair, stealing away a tear that had not yet fallen.
The sight of her brave face stabbed Jorah through.
His voice was winter-cold. "Princess—His Grace needs a lesson. Let me give it."
"Ser, I value your loyalty. But remember: Viserys is my kin. I will not strike him first. Never."
Her voice stayed level, eyes on the window.
After a time she turned back, gentler. "I promise…"
Her gaze swept the room. "I won't disappoint you again. This is the last time."
They bowed their heads to her.
…
Essos, a small port at dawn.
In a clear little lake, Rhaeniel swam like a fish, her red hair spreading in the water like flame.
On the bank, Jon Snow stole another glance—Rhaeniel came every morning. A… fine habit.
He took a few steps and gathered the clothes she'd tossed on the grass. The block of ice from the North could not hide his cheer.
…
By the dying fire, Rhaeniel took her dress but didn't put it on at once, staring straight into Jon's averted eyes.
"Do you like what you see?"
He jerked his head away.
Her laugh rang like a bell. "Do you like it?"
Jon sounded helpless. "I'm quite sure."
Annoyed, she tossed the dress aside, and warmth pressed against him.
When his breath had grown rough, she burst into laughter, shoved him away, and scooped up the dress.
"My father's waiting for breakfast," she said as she tugged it on. "If I'm late, he'll come spear us with his fishgig."
Jon rubbed his face with both hands. "All right."
After a while she sat against him, resting her head on his hard arm. "Have you decided?"
Jon shook his head slightly. "There are people there I'm not sure I should meet. I haven't decided."
"Go," she said, looking up. "When you get there, you may find your answer."
"I can take you with me."
"My father won't allow it."
He drew her close. "I'll be back soon."
She stroked his cheek. "Shy boy, I'll wait—but don't make me wait long. Father's keen to find me a fisherman for a husband."
Jon smiled softly. "I've counted it. At most three months, and I'll return."
…
Pyke, in the Iron Islands, is an ancient fastness set once on a sea-jutting cliff—but as the waves gnawed the rock away, its towers were left marooned upon narrow, crumbling stacks, ringed forever by salt spray.
At the great doors of the keep, Theon Greyjoy—tall and spare, dark of hair and skin—stared at his hands, then at the woman who shared his sister's name. His lips trembled.
Asha Greyjoy was lean, long-legged, black hair cut short.
She smiled a wicked smile. "Did you like the feel, little brother?"
Theon came back to himself, flushing with anger. "W-why didn't you tell me who you were?"
"Elder sisters must see what Winterfell has made of their brothers."
She mocked him with a curtsey. "Well then, Prince, you'll excuse me. I must change into something fit—for your welcoming feast."
He stared after her, numb. He had fondled his own sister… and she had… Gods!
What a fool he was—worse, a willing fool.
His mute squire tittered beside him, and the sound snapped Theon back—and gave him a target for his rage.
He slapped Wex hard. "What are you laughing at?"
Another slap. "Why didn't you tell me? Why don't you have a tongue? In your next life—grow one for me!"
.
.
.
🔥 The Throne's Last Flame — A Song Forged in Ice and Wrath 🔥
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