Chapter 47

In this continuously stormy weather, the most comfortable place on Sweet Sister Island might be the Earl's castle, but since the Earl had made it clear he was no longer a "criminal", he naturally did not wish to linger, and left impatiently, like the eagle in the Earl's story.

The Earl invited him to stay in the castle, wait for the storm to pass, and arranged for him to return to White Harbor with Sansa Stark, but he still left on the pretext of looking for his companions.

Leaving the castle, Davos pulled his cloak tight against the raging storm, preparing to find an inn where he could settle. But after crossing the Earl's drawbridge and passing through the rust‑ridden iron gate, he saw that the island's streets were already filled with knee‑deep rainwater; a few vendors, taking advantage of the brief lull in the hurricane, were selling pork, beef, and mutton that had turned white from soaking, as well as some chickens whose feathers had not been cleaned, on the flooded streets, under the pattering rain.

Davos guessed that this meat certainly came from innocent animals drowned by the heavy rain.

The storm and rain did not dampen the islanders' enthusiasm for life; as Davos struggled past with his cloak pulled tight, they shouted their wares loudly, but Davos had no need for this meat and passed silently through the water.

Davos admired their enthusiasm for life.

If such a downpour and such flooding occurred in his fief, he would certainly not be so relaxed; he would hurriedly organize people to move to higher ground to escape the flood. But here the island is surrounded by sea, and although the streets are flooded, as long as this water can still flow out to the sea, the island will be fine—this amount of rain cannot raise the sea level even a bit.

What seems to be causing the residents' losses is not the rain, but the gale that accompanies the storm.

The gale had blown apart dozens of wooden houses, and the floodwater carried countless splintered boards and wood chips downstream; on a few isolated planks, Davos also saw several live rats clinging tightly to a corner, drifting along with the water.

Several naked boys threw stones and mud clods at the drifting rats; some rats struggled in the water, while others still clung desperately to the boards that sheltered them.

Davos envied the boys' fervor; his lower legs, submerged in the filthy water, felt frozen, and he really did not want his chest and back to touch any more icy water.

Several rats dodged stones and splashing filth in the torrent, carefully keeping their balance in the churning flood— for creatures their size, this surely counts as a flood, right?

Davos watched one rat clinging to a small piece of wood drift past his side.

The gray rat also noticed him, its tiny eyes full of utter terror.

Davos felt a wave of sorrow.

Under the gods' trickery, the Onion Knight might be as helpless as you.

When Davos passed, the boys stopped what they were doing, waited for him to go by, then swarmed forward and hurled the stones they had readied at the poor rat.

"Hurry, hurry, hurry, it wants to climb up the wall…" he heard the children's cries. He glanced over and saw the rat bravely crawling through the torrent's muddy water toward the nearby wooden wall.

It needed to be quick to escape the boys' teasing—but did it still have the strength to climb? Davos wondered.

Parting from those cheerful children, he trudged onward along the flooded street, passing two inns, but both had no rooms left.

He had begun to doubt whether leaving the Earl's castle had been the right choice, but in his current state, returning would likely invite ridicule.

The Onion Knight could be mocked, but the King's Hand, who represents King Stannis, could not.

He wanted to settle quickly, then try to contact the sailors, and learn all the news of the past few days at the inn—that was his simple hope.

Fortunately, Sansa Stark remained in the Earl's castle; thinking of not having to bring this willful, brazen noble girl through the sewage‑filled streets, he secretly felt relieved. To let such a delicate young lady suffer such hardship would be too discourteous.

That frightened rat would make her scream in terror.

He continued along the street, heading opposite the water's flow, looking for an inn. If the Red Woman could have foreseen this persistent storm, perhaps she would have chosen in advance to stay at an inn that had not been flooded.

Although he did not want to share an inn with the Red Woman at all, having someone to consult with could now comfort his wavering heart.

According to the present time, he should release the ravens to report his progress at Winterfell to his king—but now?

Passing through the gaps between houses, the storm swept again, blowing his cloak back and forth; he clung desperately to his garments and quickly dodged.

If Earl Baelish is not mistaken, the storm was produced by the union of the two ancient gods, the Lady of the Waves and the Lord of the Skies; the storm has now lasted dozens of days straight, still showing no sign of abating. Thinking about what the deities are doing now, Davos feels that the islanders of the Three Sisters truly have reason to remain optimistic about the foul weather.

But the god he believes in is not the Lady of the Waves or the Lord of the Skies, so he cannot be happy.

Leaving Dragonstone Island, a gentle tailwind all the way let them almost instantly cross the distance to this small isle. They had saved a stretch of time, but the gods are so miserly that they will soon take back double the time and hardship saved by that shortcut— is it punishing me, a believer, for borrowing the power of false gods?

Davos pulled his cloak tight and carefully made his way through the water‑logged streets; in the gale he found it hard to judge the direction of the flow, and he silently resolved that, no matter which inn he reached, he would beg the host to take him in, even if only to rest in a hall soaked by rain.

He recalled that on Sweet Sister Island there was a decent inn at the muddy rock beach where one could get decent food, especially favored by sailors who gathered there to share news from all over the world. But getting there would mean crossing the entire abandoned coastal beach along the harbor street, and venturing out in the storm would be far too dangerous; moreover, it is farther from the harbor where they are moored, and he believes the Red Woman would not choose that place.

A fierce gust howled up from the alley, carrying the sound of thunder from above; Davos quickly clutched his head and curled into a corner, his whole thigh flooded with muddy water—amazingly, he did not feel cold, but rather somewhat warm.

A heap of timber‑like debris barely missed him, splashing water that soaked his entire back; the incoming wave surged up his neck into his chest, and the following swell pushed him to fall backward onto the ground.

He smelled the bloody tang in the rain.

After struggling to his feet in a sorry state, he wrung out his cloak, squeezed the water from it, and in the gale had difficulty refastening it; then he pulled a broken wooden stick from the wreckage that had nearly killed him, using it to support himself as he waded and probed into the alley—he had endured worse moments, so this was nothing.

After this, he was certain no part of him was dry. He therefore gripped the wooden stick as best he could and strode forward toward the ragged banner blown about by the gale ahead—it might be an inn or a fish shop; he had made up his mind that even if it were a fish shop, he would persuade the owner to take him in.

Drawing nearer, he could hear the noisy chatter from inside over the howling wind; he was sure this was not a fish shop but a proper inn. He quickened his steps, but upon stepping onto the inn's stairs he was tripped badly by a stone; this time he finally cursed aloud, angrily flung away the stick, and climbed up the steps, trembling.

Good. If there were no such steps, this place would also be underwater.

Emerging from the water‑logged narrow lane, he felt the cold.

He tidied his clothes a bit, wiped the filth from his face, grabbed the door's latch, and knocked hard.

While waiting, he glanced at the sign; thanks to Princess Shireen's education and guidance, perhaps it read 'Bite Bay Catfish Inn'.

Soon he heard the door creak open a crack; a young man resembling a servant opened a gap for Davos. Feeling the wind slip through that crack into the inn, he did not wait for the servant's assent and slipped inside as well.

The sudden gust clearly caused some trouble for the people inside; they cursed while continuing to talk loudly about their topics, paying no heed to Davos as he entered. Davos sincerely regretted disturbing them.

The floor inside the inn was likewise damp, but the hearth beside it burned a gloomy, smoky fire; if the wood is too wet, the flames probably look like this.

The servant had already stacked firewood beside the hearth in advance; perhaps once it is added, it will dry out a bit.

Whether it was the crowd or the miserable hearth, Davos felt the inn quite warm, as if white vapor were steaming throughout; the air was full of the smell of ale, food, and musty clothing.

He pushed through the crowded hall toward the long bar at the inn's interior; beside the bar stood a winding staircase to the second floor. He knew the rooms upstairs were for guests to rest, but seeing the hall packed with so many people, he felt the hope of finding a vacant room was slim.

He furtively pulled a silver stag from his money pouch; if the inn's servant told him there were no rooms left, perhaps this silver stag could be put to use.

As he approached the bar, about to inquire, he saw a shadow slowly descending the stairs; she was entirely wrapped in red silk, smiling sweetly at Davos. Ser Gāndé followed behind her.

"Ser, Ser Gāndé has already secured a room for you."

He could only glance at the still‑busy servant and silently slip the silver coins back into his pocket.

The red‑clad figure possessed a stunning beauty. He glanced around; no one was looking his way. Are all the people here blind?

"What's going on?" he asked.

"After you left, only one thing has happened here." She said calmly, "That is, the storm has continued."

Having said that, she went up the stairs. Ser Gāndé limped along behind her, like her personal guard.

"Can you stop it?" he asked when they reached the second floor.

"Cannot be stopped." She turned her head to glance at him. "The storm is full of the smell of blood—haven't you noticed?"

What does that mean?

Dafosi disliked this feeling. He would rather quietly follow a servant to find a dilapidated room, wash up a bit, then put on old but dry clothes, get ready, go downstairs, and listen to the sailors tormented by the storm repeatedly recount useful or useless news, or the legendary tales of some captain.

The storm was stirred up by a certain priest.

The priest of Lahlo?

She didn't answer. "This person is too young and arrogant, acting without confirming safety, thinking it would please Lahlo, but in fact it will only have the opposite effect."

This person? Why would he stir up a storm here?

Dafosi, I don't know. She pulled down the red headband, revealing her fair neck; the red gem on her neck sparkled.

He's targeting us.

"Us" not "you"? he confirmed.

It's us, Sir Dafosi.