The night was ink-black, pricked only by a scatter of stars.
Swish—swish—swish. A black-sailed skiff slid in silence, etching faint ripples behind her.
Davos Seaworth liked the sound of water. On a rocking deck he could sleep at once; the "sigh" of wind in rigging was sweeter to him than any bard's tune.
Tonight even the sea could not soothe him.
The red priestess's soft voice drifted over. "I smell fear on you, Onion Knight."
Davos turned. Beneath the hood Melisandre's face was pale.
"Perhaps," he said after a beat, "because someone is fond of saying: The night is dark and full of terrors."
"And besides—tonight I'm no knight. Tonight I'm Davos the smuggler again… and you're my cargo of onions."
She laughed—clearer, almost merry. "Tell me, smuggler: do you fear me, or what we're about?"
"This is your business, Lady Melisandre. It has nothing to do with me."
"Not so. You set the sail; you hold the tiller."
Davos fell silent and minded the boat.
After a time she asked, "Are you a good man, Davos Seaworth?"
"Would a good man do this?" He sounded more weary than defiant. "I'm a man. I've been a decent husband… and I've known other women. I try to be a good father and win a place in this world for my children. Aye, I've broken more than a few laws. I'm… complicated, my lady. There's good in me, and ill."
"Neither black nor white, but both," she mused. "A grey man. Is that it, Ser Davos?"
"Call it that. What of it? Most folk are the same, I'd say."
Under the hood her eyes glowed like red candles. "If half an onion is rotten, it's a rotten onion. If a man is not good, he is evil."
The hull bumped and the sail shivered; Melisandre steadied herself on the gunwale, Davos on the tiller. The skiff nosed toward shore, a forked wake trailing aft.
"You spoke of men and onions," Davos said. "What of women? Are they any different? Tell me, my lady—are you good, or ill?"
She chuckled. "A fair question… From my view, I am a kind of knight as well—a champion of light and life."
"Light and life?" Davos raised a brow. "All I smell tonight is death."
Again she laughed softly. "Ah, Davos… you are lost in darkness and confusion."
"I've always had doubts."
"The servants of false gods hide black hearts beneath bright robes. R'hllor grants his red priests the sight to strip off such masks."
She sighed. "You are a good man, Ser Davos. Even lost in darkness, you keep to honesty and plain dealing."
"I am only a servant of King Stannis," he said evenly.
Her strange blood-red eyes studied him. "There is fire in you. If ever you would better serve your king, come to my chamber some night. I will grant you pleasures you have never known."
A chill crawled Davos's spine. He dragged the talk elsewhere. "Your landing is close by the enemy. What is it you—we—mean to do?"
"Shadows are servants of the light, children of the flame," she said at last, lips curving. "Only the brightest fire casts the darkest shadow, ser."
Davos did not understand and asked no more. He bent to the oars and moved through the heaving black.
They made land. Melisandre found her bearing and went ahead; Davos followed. Moonlight sifted through leaves; the two of them slipped like ghosts between bands of shadow.
At a cave mouth she halted. "Here."
She entered first. Davos cast one look toward the wavering lamps of Renly's camp, then went in after her.
Dark swallowed him. He heard only her low chant.
When it ended, a sudden brilliance flared; Davos flung up a hand.
Melisandre threw back her hood and shrugged off the tight dark-red cloak. She wore nothing. The great ruby at her throat seemed aflame. Her belly was swollen, taut as if to split.
Terror rooted Davos. "Gods have mercy…"
"The blessing of the Lord of Light," she whispered, voice gone raw.
She squatted, gasping. Something black as ink poured between her thighs. Her cries were pain—or rapture—or both.
A crowned head forced its way out of her; then hands, writhing, grasping, twining—until at last a shadow stood, taller than Davos.
It moved with terrible swiftness. In the blink of an eye it was gone—
—but Davos knew it.
Before dawn the king's pavilion in Renly's camp blazed with candlelight, the silk walls aglow like a great green-lit castle of sorcery.
Within, a dozen braziers burned. Brienne of Tarth, blue of the Rainbow Guard, buckled Renly Baratheon into deep-green armor, leaf-dark as summer woods. Gold winked on clasps and fittings like fox-fire in trees.
Randyll Tarly of Horn Hill and Mathis Rowan of Goldengrove spoke of lines and charges.
"My king," said Rowan, stepping forward with a bow, "the host is ready. Why wait for dawn? Sound the charge and let us ride."
Brienne cinched the breast and back. Renly's eyes flicked. "Ser Mathis, I want a victory bright with glory, not a base triumph by treachery. Dawn was the hour named."
Tarly came up. "Your Grace, Stannis chose it. He means to drive under the risen sun—our men near blind."
Renly was untroubled. "With what few he has, he'll do no more than startle us."
Brienne drew the golden gorget tight. Renly turned with a smile. "When my brother is slain, see he is not dishonored. He is my blood; no man will spike his head for show."
Rowan smiled and bowed. Tarly frowned. "And if he yields?"
"He'll eat rats first," Renly said, lifting his chin for the strap. "My brother never learned to bend."
Rowan chuckled. "Our good Lord Paramount of Highgarden knows it well."
Renly laughed and smoothed his hair. Brienne tied it with velvet, set a padded cap, and fastened on the cloak stitched with the crowned stag in black jet.
He donned the golden-antlered helm, rolled his neck. "Oh—if Barristan Selmy rides with Stannis, take him alive."
Rowan hesitated. "Since the boy-king cast him out, Ser Barristan has… vanished."
"I know the man. He must have a king to serve—or be nothing."
He slid a green-and-gold lobster-back gauntlet on his left hand. Brienne knelt to fix the sword-belt heavy with blade and dagger.
"Robb Stark may call himself king," Renly went on, "but he has no claim to the Iron Throne. If he is not with me, then only Stannis remains."
"As you command," said Tarly and Rowan together, and withdrew.
A gust threw the tent-flap wide. Only Renly and Brienne remained.
Her hand fell to her hilt. The usual awkwardness was gone; her eyes were keen on the doorway.
She felt something enter, though she saw nothing. Her brow creased.
"What is it, my blue knight?" Renly asked lightly.
Brienne turned back—then her pupils blew wide. The green silk had gone dim; candles guttered. Renly's own shadow drew steel while the sword at his hip stayed sheathed.
"So cold," Renly murmured, confused.
The shadow's blade kissed the gorget and parted steel like cloth. He gave only a rough, thin gasp before the blood drowned him.
"No!" Brienne's scream tore the night like a child's.
Candles died. Renly staggered into her arms, blood pouring down the bright green. She threw back her head to shout—but grief choked off the words.
The night smelled of rain. Renly's pavilion roared with fire, flames clawing high while men ran, shouting of arson and sorcery and murder.
"I never held him," someone sobbed, "not until he died… I'll kill him with Renly's own sword, I swear it, I swear it, I swear it!"
Dawn's long fingers stroked the fields below Storm's End.
Through the haze a forest of lances glimmered gold; banners flamed red and rose and orange, blue and brown, noble with shining yellow.
An hour ago they were Renly Baratheon's great host.
Now they belonged to Stannis Baratheon.
Crab Claw Peninsula — Whispering City.
In his study, Gawen (Green) Crabb set quill to parchment: Honored Ned…
He paused; the quill hovered. Robb Stark was styling himself King in the North—what title for Eddard? It touched on politics.
He thought a moment, then added: …uncle.
The quill moved again: With a heart heavy beyond words I write to you… In a strange land Jon won the respect of all by plain honor and courage…
He dipped for ink and wrote on: He knew a sweet love, and found the warmth he had long sought… He led men as a commander and broke bandit hosts in the field… He did it for his duty… and for his honor… May the Old and the New watch over him…
When he had done, Gawen sealed the letter with the marigold of the marsh pressed deep in wax.
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🔥 The Throne's Last Flame — A Song Forged in Ice and Wrath 🔥
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