A Dance With Dragons

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    Davos had hoped to speak with Wyman Manderly alone, but he found a crowded court. Along the walls, the women outnumbered the men by five to one; what few males he did see had long grey beards or looked too young to shave. There were septons as well, and holy sisters in white robes and grey. Near the top of the hall stood a dozen men in the blue and silver-grey of House Frey. Their faces had a likeness a blind man could have seen; several wore the badge of the Twins, two towers connected by a bridge.
    Davos had learned to read men’s faces long before Maester Pylos had taught him to read words on paper. These Freys would gladly see me dead, he realized at a glance.
    Nor did he find any welcome in the pale blue eyes of Wyman Manderly. His lordship’s cushioned throne was wide enough to accommodate three men of common girth, yet Manderly threatened to overflow it. His lordship sagged into his seat, his shoulders slumped, his legs splayed, his hands resting on the arms of his throne as if the weight of them were too much to bear. Gods be good, thought Davos, when he saw Lord Wyman’s face, this man looks half a corpse. His skin was pallid, with an undertone of grey.
    Kings and corpses always draw attendants, the old saying went. So it was with Manderly. Left of the high seat stood a maester nigh as fat as the lord he served, a rosy-cheeked man with thick lips and a head of golden curls. Ser Marlon claimed the place of honor at his lordship’s right hand. On a cushioned stool at his feet perched a plump pink lady. Behind Lord Wyman stood two younger women, sisters by the look of them. The elder wore her brown hair bound in a long braid. The younger, no more than fifteen, had an even longer braid, dyed a garish green.
    None chose to honor Davos with a name. The maester was the first to speak. “You stand before Wyman Manderly, Lord of White Harbor and Warden of the White Knife, Shield of the Faith, Defender of the Dispossessed, Lord Marshal of the Mander, a Knight of the Order of the Green Hand,” he said. “In the Merman’s Court, it is customary for vassals and petitioners to kneel.”
    The onion knight would have bent his knee, but a King’s Hand could not; to do so would suggest that the king he served was less than this fat lord. “I have not come as a petitioner,” Davos replied. “I have a string of titles too. Lord of the Rainwood, Admiral of the Narrow Sea, Hand of the King.”
    The plump woman on the stool rolled her eyes. “An admiral without ships, a hand without fingers, in service to a king without a throne. Is this a knight who comes before us, or the answer to a child’s riddle?”
    “He is a messenger, good-daughter,” Lord Wyman said, “an onion of ill omen. Stannis did not like the answer his ravens brought him, so he has sent this … this smuggler. ” He squinted at Davos through eyes half-buried in rolls of fat. “You have visited our city before, I think, taking coin from our pockets and food off our table. How much did you steal from me, I wonder?”
    Not enough that you ever missed a meal. “I paid for my smuggling at Storm’s End, my lord.” Davos pulled off his glove and held up his left hand, with its four shortened fingers.
    “Four fingertips, for a lifetime’s worth of theft?” said the woman on the stool. Her hair was yellow, her face round and pink and fleshy. “You got off cheaply, Onion Knight.”
    Davos did not deny it. “If it please my lord, I would request a privy audience.”
    It did not please the lord. “I keep no secrets from my kin, nor from my leal lords and knights, good friends all.”
    “My lord,” said Davos, “I would not want my words to be heard by His Grace’s enemies … or by your lordship’s.”
    “Stannis may have enemies in this hall. I do not.”
    “Not even the men who slew your son?” Davos pointed. “These Freys were amongst his hosts at the Red Wedding.”
    One of the Freys stepped forward, a knight long and lean of limb, clean-shaved but for a grey mustache as thin as a Myrish stiletto. “The Red Wedding was the Young Wolf’s work. He changed into a beast before our eyes and tore out the throat of my cousin Jinglebell, a harmless simpleton. He would have slain my lord father too, if Ser Wendel had not put himself in the way.”
    Lord Wyman blinked back tears. “Wendel was always a brave boy. I was not surprised to learn he died a hero.”
    The enormity of the lie made Davos gasp. “Is it your claim that Robb