The morning air was dark with the smoke of burning gods.  They were all afire now, Maid and Mother, Warrior¹ and Smith, the Crone with her pearl eyes and the Father with his gilded² beard; even the Stranger, carved to look more animal than human. The old dry wood and countless³ layers of paint and varnish⁴ blazed with a fierce hungry light. Heat rose shimmering⁵ through the chill air; behind, the gargoyles⁶ and stone dragons on the castle walls seemed blurred⁷, as if Davos were seeing them through a veil of tears. Or as if the beasts were trembling, stirring...  “An ill thing,” Allard declared, though at least he had the sense to keep his voice low. Dale muttered agreement.  “Silence,” said Davos. “Remember where you are.” His sons were good men, but young, and Allard especially was rash. Had I stayed a smuggler⁸, Allard would have ended on the Wall. Stannis spared him from that end, something else I owe him...  Hundreds had come to the castle gates to bear witness to the burning of the Seven. The smell in the air was ugly. Even for soldiers, it was hard not to feel uneasy at such an affront⁹ to the gods most had worshiped all their lives.  The red woman walked round the fire three times, praying once in the speech of Asshai, once in High Valyrian, and once in the Common Tongue. Davos understood only the last. “R’hllor, come to us in our darkness,” she called. “Lord of Light, we offer you these false gods, these seven who are one, and him the enemy. Take them and cast your light upon us, for the night is dark and full of terrors.” Queen Selyse echoed the words. Beside her, Stannis watched impassively, his

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