Lightning split the northern sky, etching the black tower of the Night Lamp against the blue-white sky. Six heartbeats later came the thunder, like a distant drum.

The guards marched Davos Seaworth across a bridge of black basalt and under an iron portcullis showing signs of rust¹. Beyond lay a deep salt moat and a drawbridge supported by a pair of massive chains. Green waters surged below, sending up plumes² of spray to smash against the foundations of the castle. Then came a second gatehouse, larger than the first, its stones bearded with green algae³. Davos stumbled across a muddy yard with his hands bound at the wrists. A cold rain stung his eyes. The guards prodded⁴ him up the steps, into Breakwater’s cavernous stone keep.

Once inside, the captain removed his cloak and hung it from a peg⁵, so as not to leave puddles⁶ on the threadbare Myrish carpet. Davos did the same, fumbling⁷ at the clasp with his bound hands. He had not forgotten the courtesies he had learned on Dragonstone during his years of service.

They found the lord alone in the gloom of his hall, making a supper of beer and bread and sister’s stew⁸. Twenty iron sconces were mounted along his thick stone walls, but only four held torches, and none of them was lit. Two fat tallow candles gave a meagre, flickering⁹ light. Davos could hear the rain lashing¹⁰ at the walls, and a steady dripping where the roof had sprung a leak.

“M’lord,” said the captain, “we found this man in the

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