Cressen looked over the knights¹ and captains and lords sitting silent. Lord Celtigar, aged² and sour, wore a mantle³ patterned with red crabs⁴ picked out in garnets. Handsome Lord Velaryon chose sea-green silk, the white gold seahorse at his throat matching his long fair hair. Lord Bar Emmon, that plump boy of fourteen, was swathed in purple velvet⁵ trimmed with white seal, Ser Axell Florent remained homely⁶ even in russet and fox fur, pious⁷ Lord Sunglass wore moonstones at throat and wrist and finger, and the Lysene captain Salladhor Saan was a sunburst of scarlet  satin, gold, and jewels. Only Ser Davos dressed simply, in brown doublet and green wool mantle, and only Ser Davos met his gaze, with pity in his eyes.  “You are too ill and too confused to be of use to me, old man.” It sounded so like Lord Stannis’s voice, but it could not be, it could not. “Pylos will counsel me henceforth. Already he works with the ravens⁸, since you can no longer climb to the rookery. I will not have you kill yourself in my service.”  Maester Cressen blinked. Stannis, my lord, my sad sullen⁹ boy, son I never had, you must not do this, don’t you know how I have cared for you, lived for you, loved you despite all? Yes, loved you, better than Robert even, or Renly, for you were the one unloved, the one who needed me most. Yet all he said was, “As you command, my lord, but... but I am hungry. Might not I have a place at your table?” At your side, I belong at your side...  Ser Davos rose from the bench. “I should be honored if the maester would sit here beside me, Your Grace.”  “As you will.” Lord Stannis turned away to say something to Melisandre, who had seated herself at his right hand, in the place of high honor. Lady Selyse was on his left, flashing a smile as bright and

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