A Game of Thrones 4-Book Bundle

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.”
    â€œAs 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.”
    â€œI got the same for
Lady Marya,
” said Allard. “The queen’s men
have laid claim to all the seasoned wood.”
    â€œI 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.
    â€œYou did not see the gods burn, my lord?” he asked.
    â€œThe 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
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.
    â€œIt’s ale I need, and news.”
    â€œThe 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