The cell was warmer than any cell had a right to be.  It was dark, yes. Flickering¹ orange light fell through the ancient iron bars from the torch in the sconce on the wall outside, but the back half of the cell remained drenched² in gloom. It was dank as well, as might be expected on an isle³ such as Dragonstone, where the sea was never far. And there were rats, as many as any dungeon⁴ could expect to have and a few more besides.  But Davos could not complain of chill. The smooth stony⁵ passages beneath the great mass of Dragonstone were always warm, and Davos had often heard it said they grew warmer the farther down one went. He was well below the castle, he judged, and the wall of his cell often felt warm to his touch when he pressed a palm against it. Perhaps the old tales were true, and Dragonstone was built with the stones of hell.  He was sick when they first brought him here. The cough that had plagued him since the battle grew worse, and a fever took hold of him as well. His lips broke with blood blisters⁶, and the warmth of the cell did not stop his shivering. I will not linger long, he remembered thinking. I will die soon, here in the dark.  Davos soon found that he was wrong about that, as about so much else. Dimly he remembered gentle hands and a firm voice, and young Maester Pylos looking down on him. He was given hot garlic broth⁷ to drink, and milk of the poppy to take away his aches and shivers. The poppy made him sleep and while he slept they leeched⁹ him to drain off the bad blood. Or so he surmised¹⁰, by the leech⁸ marks on his arms when he woke. Before very long the coughing stopped, the blisters vanished, and his broth had

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