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he explained. “I was the monster. It’s a childish game but my cousin likes it. Do you have a name?” “Ser Davos Seaworth.” The boy looked him up and down dubiously. “Are you certain? You don’t look very knightly.” “I am the knight of the onions, my lord.” The blue eyes blinked. “The one with the black ship?” “You know that tale?” “You brought my uncle Stannis fish to eat before I was born, when Lord Tyrell had him under siege.” The boy drew himself up tall. “I am Edric Storm,” he announced. “King Robert’s son.” “Of course you are.” Davos had known that almost at once .
The lad had the prominent ears of a Florent, but the hair, the eyes, the jaw, the cheekbones, those were all Baratheon. “Did you know my father?” Edric Storm demanded. “I saw him many a time while calling on your uncle at court, but we never spoke.” “My father taught me to fight,” the boy said proudly. “He came to see me almost every year, and sometimes we . On my last name day he sent me a warhammer just like his, only smaller. They made me leave it at Storm’s End, though. Is it true my uncle Stannis cut off your fingers?” “Only the last joint. I still have fingers, only shorter.” “Show me.” Davos peeled his glove off. The boy studied his hand carefully. “He did not shorten your thumb?” “No.” Davos coughed. “No, he left me that.” “He should not have chopped any of your fingers,” the lad decided. “That was ill done.” “I was a smuggler.” “Yes, but you smuggled him fish and onions.” “Lord Stannis knighted me for the onions, and took my fingers for the smuggling.” He pulled his glove back on. “My father would not have chopped your fingers.” “As you say, my lord.” Robert was a different man than Stannis, true enough. The boy is like him. Aye, and like Renly as well. That thought made him anxious. The boy was about to say something more when they heard steps. Davos turned. Ser Axell Florent was coming down the garden path with a dozen guards in quilted jerkins. On their breasts they wore the fiery heart of the Lord of Light. Queen’s men, Davos thought .
A cough came on him suddenly. Ser Axell was short and muscular, with a barrel chest, thick arms, bandy legs, and hair growing from his ears. The queen’s uncle, he had served as castellan of Dragonstone for a decade, and had always treated Davos courteously, knowing he enjoyed the favor of Lord Stannis. But there was neither courtesy nor warmth in his tone as he said, “Ser Davos, and undrowned. How can that be?” “Onions float, ser. Have you come to take me to the king?” “I have come to take you to the dungeon.” Ser Axell waved his men forward. “Seize him, and take his dirk. He means to use it on our lady.”
JAIME
Jaime was the first to spy the inn. The main building hugged the south shore where the river bent, its long low wings outstretched along the water as if to embrace travelers sailing downstream. The lower story was grey stone, the upper whitewashed wood, the roof slate. He could see stables as well, and an arbor heavy with vines. “No smoke from the chimneys,” he pointed out as they approached. “Nor lights in the windows.” “The inn was still open when last I passed this way,” said Ser Cleos Frey. “They brewed a fine ale. Perhaps there is still some to be had in the cellars.” “There may be people,” Brienne said. “Hiding. Or dead.” “Frightened of a few corpses, wench?” Jaime said. She glared at him reenex. “My name is -”