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- Джордж Мартин
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Davos
groped
for
some
other
answer
.
"
Storm
’
s
End
holds
no
knight
who
can
match
Ser
Guyard
or
Lord
Caron
,
or
any
of
a
hundred
others
sworn
to
your
service
.
This
single
combat
.
.
.
could
it
be
that
Ser
Cortnay
seeks
for
a
way
to
yield
with
honor
?
Even
if
it
means
his
own
life
?
"
A
troubled
look
crossed
the
king
’
s
face
like
a
passing
cloud
.
"
More
like
he
plans
some
treachery
.
There
will
be
no
combat
of
champions
.
Ser
Cortnay
was
dead
before
he
ever
threw
that
glove
.
The
flames
do
not
lie
,
Davos
.
"
Yet
they
require
me
to
make
them
true
,
he
thought
.
It
had
been
a
long
time
since
Davos
Seaworth
felt
so
sad
.
And
so
it
was
that
he
found
himself
once
more
crossing
Shipbreaker
Bay
in
the
dark
of
night
,
steering
a
tiny
boat
with
a
black
sail
.
The
sky
was
the
same
,
and
the
sea
.
The
same
salt
smell
was
in
the
air
,
and
the
water
chuckling
against
the
hull
was
just
as
he
remembered
it
.
A
thousand
flickering
campfires
burned
around
the
castle
,
as
the
fires
of
the
Tyrells
and
Redwynes
had
sixteen
years
before
.
But
all
the
rest
was
different
.
The
last
time
it
was
life
I
brought
to
Storm
’
s
End
,
shaped
to
look
like
onions
.
This
time
it
is
death
,
in
the
shape
of
Melisandre
of
Asshai
.
Sixteen
years
ago
,
the
sails
had
cracked
and
snapped
with
every
shift
of
wind
,
until
he
’
d
pulled
them
down
and
gone
on
with
muffled
oars
.
Even
so
,
his
heart
had
been
in
his
gullet
.
The
men
on
the
Redwyne
galleys
had
grown
lax
after
so
long
,
however
,
and
they
had
slipped
through
the
cordon
smooth
as
black
satin
.
This
time
,
the
only
ships
in
sight
belonged
to
Stannis
,
and
the
only
danger
would
come
from
watchers
on
the
castle
walls
.
Even
so
,
Davos
was
taut
as
a
bowstring
.
Melisandre
huddled
upon
a
thwart
,
lost
in
the
folds
of
a
dark
red
cloak
that
covered
her
from
head
to
heels
,
her
face
a
paleness
beneath
the
cowl
.
Davos
loved
the
water
.
He
slept
best
when
he
had
a
deck
rocking
beneath
him
,
and
the
sighing
of
the
wind
in
his
rigging
was
a
sweeter
sound
to
him
than
any
a
singer
could
make
with
his
harp
strings
.
Even
the
sea
brought
him
no
comfort
tonight
,
though
.
"
I
can
smell
the
fear
on
you
,
ser
knight
,
"
the
red
woman
said
softly
.
"
Someone
once
told
me
the
night
is
dark
and
full
of
terrors
.
And
tonight
I
am
no
knight
.
Tonight
I
am
Davos
the
smuggler
again
.
Would
that
you
were
an
onion
.
"
She
laughed
.
"
Is
it
me
you
fear
?
Or
what
we
do
?
"
"
What
you
do
.
I
’
ll
have
no
part
of
it
.
"
"
Your
hand
raised
the
sail
.
Your
hand
holds
the
tiller
.
"
