A Game of Thrones 4-Book Bundle

do.
    â€œA 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.
    â€œNow 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?”
    â€œSoon, I think,” said Davos, “if his god wills it.”
    â€œ
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.”
    â€œI 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. If
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