Chapter 48

The storm continued for another three days; he felt that each day's rain was filled with a bloody scent, slightly warm, like blood.

If this rainstorm was aimed at them, what was the other side's purpose?

He couldn't figure it out.

He could only feel that, if there were no storm, he might have been sent directly to King's Landing by Count Bo Neier and sold to Duke Taiwen, for at that time the news of Mei Yi Shi Ta Ke taking Deep Forest Fort had not yet arrived, so Count Bo Neier would not change his mind.

The storm was clearly saving him.

He had countless doubts, but he was not prepared to ask the woman in red robes. Perhaps she could answer one of them, but soon she would make you have ten new doubts.

During these days, she had remained restrained. Hearing Sir Gande say, she occasionally just opened the window and stared blankly at the storm outside.

He felt it would be best to go communicate and understand a bit.

He had never seen a mage and a mage's battle.

He changed into a reluctantly made robe, threw it on casually, and added a grey sheepskin vest he had barely roasted dry over the past two days, making him look like an old man selling pancakes on Mud Street in King's Landing.

Over the past few days his beard grew wildly, but he didn't trim it; his originally curly beard now looked even curlier, and he felt that even if his wife Maria saw it, she might not recognize him at once.

He seriously locked the room door; Davos knew it might not help, so he always carried valuables, especially the authorization document, on his person.

Locking the door symbolized a contract with the blacksmith. To establish a contract, sometimes all you need is a wooden lock; when the Andals first landed on the continent, even a tied-up stick could symbolize the contract's formation. It was an age of simple folk, people were savage and crude, yet everyone revered the spirits and kept their oaths.

According to commonly accepted reasoning, establishing a contract symbolizes the blacksmith's willingness to guarantee the safety of your property; if someone picks the lock and steals your goods, although it cannot compensate your loss, it means it will punish the thief who violates the sacred contract between you.

Thus, among thieves there is also clear contempt: clever lock-pickers are always at the lowest, most despicable rank; somewhat more skilled ones climb roofs and lift tiles to sneak away goods; even more skilled ones dig tunnels and excavate passages, as if it were their home, while the true owner is merely someone storing goods there; and there are still higher ranks…

But no matter what, as long as the spirits refuse to compensate your loss, you must try to find a good lock, or simply protect your property yourself.

Davos sometimes felt that the prevalence of hidden rooms and secret passages in Westeros was entirely to facilitate theft without angering the spirits.

Few people in the Three Sisters Islands believe in the Seven Gods.

After locking the room door, he proceeded along the second-floor side-room corridor; the floorboards occasionally emitted an awkward creaking, as if criticizing his gait.

The noisy guests downstairs wouldn't notice the faint sounds coming from above, but Davos had been startled awake by them several nights, and he didn't want his own movements to disturb others likewise.

He tried to steady his steps, then stopped before the stairs leading to the third floor.

The Red Woman lived in a solitary garret at the far right of the third floor; in these past days he had gone there only once, because he wanted to know when the storm would finally end. But her answer was utterly unsatisfying.

She said, she didn't know.

Davos swore that before coming to this island, she had never said she didn't know; that was simply not a word in her vocabulary—she had always appeared to know everything and be full of confidence.

He remembered that when he absurdly asked why she didn't know, he himself actually blushed with embarrassment.

Davos felt that his will was gradually becoming weak, beginning to crave abilities beyond the ordinary.

Ha, he has spent his life struggling against unknown environments and unknown things; if he could truly know everything, he wouldn't know what meaning life would still have.

After realizing this, he went several days without speaking to her.

But as the nominal leader of a team that must accomplish the task together, he cannot completely dismiss this member's opinion or ideas, even just formally; a leader or the King's Hand ought not to be hidebound.

Thinking this, he stepped onto the stairs.

Her room was already open, as if waiting for him to enter.

Davos hated the feeling of being controlled and foreknown; he would rather communicate with ignorant, clueless people than with someone like this.

He saw her standing at the windowsill, gazing at the raging storm outside.

Amazingly, the violent wind did not pour in through her window; even if it did, it was merely a breeze brushing her face. Davos saw that the wind flowing in from outside only lightly lifted her reddish‑copper hair. He knew the sensation and reaction of the storm striking his face and hair.

"I thought you, my lady, would only stare at the fire." He said this as a greeting.

She turned her gaze from the outside scenery toward him.

"Ser Davos, there are secrets in the rain. You have already discovered some of them, haven't you?"

"I have only seen the rain, felt the violent wind, or perhaps just a breeze."

"You also smelled blood." She turned her head. "That is the scent of fresh blood pouring from the sacrifice. You also felt warmth—that is the body temperature of the sacrifice before death."

"Is it really that terrible, my lady?"

"Far worse than you imagine. To have such a storm, one must release the fear of the sacrifice before death—something you do not want to know." She shut the window, and Davos felt the room grow much darker.

She stepped away from the window and walked to the hearth with only a weak fire; she placed her hand on the hearth wall, and the flames inside instantly became vigorous and healthy, at least appearing like normal firewood.

"The storm has soaked the firewood for the inn's hearth; if the storm continues, soon the inn will be able to serve only cold food." She left the hearth, and the indoor light became somewhat normal. "In two days, the inn's food supplies will run out, and everyone will have to go hungry and search for something to eat."

"My lady, why are you saying these things?"

"People on the island have already begun looking for rats." She fixed her gaze on him; Davos saw her red eyes. "This means the storm will kill many people."

"My lady, I don't understand."

"You don't understand much, Ser Davos." She picked up a piece of firewood; its far end instantly burst into a thick flame, illuminating her face. "Spellcasters are too arrogant, unaware……"

"My lady, I don't care about spellcasters," he had to interrupt, for if this conversation continued he felt he would go mad. "You said he also targets you; how do you plan to deal with him?"

"He is too far away for me to convey my teaching."

"Teaching? Are you serious, my lady?"

"He too is a servant of R'hllor, thinking he can directly solve enemies for R'hllor, but in fact he only brings loss to the god. To avoid that, I need to give him instruction."

"I thought you would…… doesn't he understand?"

"Do you think I would kill him?" she gave a wicked smile, "Heh, he understands, but he is too proud, too eager for quick success, too…… confident. I will give him a little education." Davos couldn't follow; she realized this and began to explain herself, "Someone who is too confident doesn't know humility, and thus cannot serve. He lacks the quality you possess, Ser Davos."

"Forgive my bluntness, I am not of service……" Your Red God—he couldn't get the words out.

"You don't need to serve. You need to defeat its servant."

"Could it be that his aim is not aligned with yours, my lady?"

"Of course not. I said he is too arrogant, he thinks he can overwhelm potential enemies with force alone," she stepped slightly closer to Davos; Davos felt a comforting warmth and the scent of cloves and nutmeg, he felt attracted, but fear made him retreat a step reluctantly, barely keeping his distance; seeing this, she broke into a smile, "Enemies can also be friends, as long as you devote patience, devote……"

Davos would not allow this dangerous atmosphere to spread, so he interrupted, "If the storm never stops……"

"Then we wait for the storm to stop." She tugged at her long sleeve, turned around, and returned to the window.

Davos had no recourse, so he retreated from the room. Before going downstairs, he glanced once more at her chamber.

She had reopened the window; the wild wind blew the room's curtains all about, her hair streaming loose, like a burst of flame blown in from outside.

He hurried downstairs to the hall.

Ordinary folk could bring him more news and more clever solutions; failing that, silly stories could soothe his uneasy mind.

He went down the winding stairs; the attendant saw him and gave him a smile. Over these three days he had paid out quite a bit of silver, drinking the hotel's every stored brew, and to loosen more talk from the story‑laden drinkers he had quietly slipped extra coins through the attendant.

He had grown familiar with some of the people in the hall, and had been forced to hear certain stories over and over.

When the distant news and wondrous tales were done, some began to tell lewd, ribald jokes, but after so many days any joke had lost its original charm.

These past few days the innkeeper had somehow brought in a few prostitutes, quieting the growing unease among the guests.

When Sir Gande rose in the morning, bleary‑eyed, he came over to keep him company at breakfast—one of the day's few fixed exchanges. When Dafos asked why he was so tired, he laid the blame entirely on those women: "Their voices are simply too loud."

Dafos laughed heartily, suggesting he find one of those women to relieve himself, but he waved his hands back and forth: "Before I became a knight I was always chaste, and I will not relax my standards after becoming one."

Those words made Dafos treat him with solemn respect; perhaps only a man like him could fulfill Tangtos's charge.

Sir Gande and the young captain had escorted Lady Stark from Junlin to Dragonstone, keeping their promise, overcoming the crew members who had grown ambitious and fearful, and daringly yet perfectly fulfilled Tangtos's commission.

Excellent work earned him the title of knight—Dafos, acting on the king's orders, invested Sir Gande with the accolade.

Actually Dafos thought his own knighthood was insufficient to dub such a brave, wise man, but the king stressed that if even the King's Hand could not do it, he saw no one else on Dragonstone worthy, which convinced Dafos—until he added, "A smuggler dubbing a smuggler—is there anything more fitting?"

Dafos recalled having objected, but the thin king said, "Never mind—I didn't cut his finger, for he lacks the merit. He'd do better to take 'smuggler' as a compliment."

Dafos admitted that no king would be so just, so generous, as to appoint a smuggler as his King's Hand; this honor he would keep in his heart, and carry it finally to the grave.

Sir Gande was now waiting in a corner beside the hall, quietly drinking his beer; seeing Dafos come downstairs, he gave him a look, and Dafos nodded in return.

The hall also held many unfamiliar faces.

This was normal; the inn had vacated a few rooms. Several hot‑tempered lodgers, unable to endure the endless storm, after shouting abuse at "Lady Wave" and "Lord of the Sky" without shame, slammed the door and left.

Sir Gande quietly told him the truth: these folk had simply run out of money to pay for lodging, and rather than be thrown out they chose to leave of their own accord.

Dafos had seen the sort of folk the landlord tossed out without ceremony—the inn flung open its doors, heedless of wind and rain, as hands and lackeys grabbed patrons by the limbs and hurled them from the gallery onto the sewage‑slick street; the motion reminded him of Kahor's fleet tossing goats into the sea to beg the gods' favor.

The gale almost blew the person back, but fortunately they landed safely on the water.

Dafos walked to the bar, produced a few copper stars, and had the attendant pour him a large mug of dark ale.

The hall's floor was wetter than when he first arrived; in places it could churn up a basin of mud, and a few days earlier the attendant would come by to scrape off the slop, then fill the holes with cinders and ash raked from the hearth.

That habit had clearly lapsed.

That, too, was unavoidable.

Rain kept seeping in through the cracks of the door; the attendant had sealed the door tight and stuffed the gaps with cloth, yet water still found its way in through every corner.

The constant traffic of guests had churned every spot into a mess, making the hall look less like an indoor common room and more like a muddy yard full of warhorses—thankfully there was no horse dung.

Dafos thought this setting was good enough; every inn he'd passed before had been the same—its hall awash with rain—and he wondered whether those roofs had now been blown down by the gale.

Dafos carried his beer carefully past a soot‑blackened, massive timber post that held up the beam, and sat down in an open spot against the wall facing the door.

The hall was hot as a steamer; in the midst of the winter storm, to sit and drink a cup might be one of life's finest pleasures. He lifted his mug and gulped down half. Glug‑glug, he heard. He stifled a belch.

Just as he thought the day would end like that, he heard a wild pounding on the inn's door.

The attendant set down his bowl and plate, muttered a curse, and went to open the door.

The attendant braced one side of the door, cracked it open a slit, and the rushing wind instantly knocked over several empty chairs; the others, backs to the door, shouted curses.

Those outside shoved the door wide open; the attendant fell to the floor at the cry, unclear whether he had been blown over or pushed.

Inside all was chaos; Dafos crouched, raised his cup, braced himself on the wooden table, and hoped the newcomers would shut the door quickly.

After a brief hesitation, the two who had entered closed the door, and the wind and rain ceased at once.

Only then did Dafos have a chance to study them.

They were soaked from head to toe, rain plastering their hair to their faces; who knew how many times they had slipped in the sewage‑strewn streets, but Dafos knew he had looked just the same when he arrived.

They wore the livery of Count Bonnearl's guard, and Dafos could see the spider‑crab emblem on their clothing.

Once inside they angrily shoved back the wet hair that clung to their eyes, roughly drying the rain from their faces, and they looked somewhat familiar.

After they tidied themselves a little, they began scanning the hall's occupants; Dafos meant to lower his gaze, but their familiar aspect made him want to look closer, and their eyes met his.

One of them gritted his teeth, flung his cloak aside at the other with a snarl, and strode straight toward Dafos.

"Goddamn it, finally found you!"