Jon Snow caught the wineskin Young Griff tossed him, pulled the stopper, and drank—he truly was thirsty.
"You're not worried it's poisoned?"
Kh—kh! Jon choked mid-swallow.
Young Griff laughed, then smiled. "What you're drinking is safe—but take care with poisons on this continent."
Jon grimaced at the skin, took one more pull, and stoppered it.
"I'll be careful."
He handed it back and noticed Young Griff's lashes—long as Sansa's—and a handsomeness a bit like Lord Gawen's, only less… manly—
Jon suddenly remembered those days when Gawen beat him until he doubted life itself. Strength isn't judged by looks. He grimaced again.
Young Griff hooked the skin at his belt. "Cheer up, Jon. You'll soon come to like it here."
Jon smiled faintly and shook his head. "Just remembering a few things, Young Griff."
Rolly laughed. "Happens to everyone who's just left home. Tonight I'll take you somewhere good—you'll be happy all night and won't miss home again."
At once Jon thought of a brothel. He had never forgotten Uncle Ned's lessons and prepared to decline politely.
But Young Griff snorted and explained, "Not that place. He means the bonfire gathering in the harbor town. Every seven days—singing and dancing till dawn."
He added, "Anyone can join; no one asks where you're from. Our luck's good—it's tonight."
Rolly grinned. "What are we waiting for?"
Night fell. Men and women danced round the fire; laughter and quick steps made the place burst with life.
Young Griff and Rolly had already plunged into the whirl. Jon, having refused invitation after invitation, sat a little apart—drinking alone.
He watched the revelers with a smile… He wanted to join, truly—but the last courage never quite came.
"Hey—you need drink just to be brave?"
Kh—kh! A girl's sudden voice hit true; Jon coughed to cover his embarrassment.
He looked up. She had a lovely mane of curly red hair, sun-warmed wheat-brown skin, and the lively glow of someone brimming with life.
Northern men were no artists of talk. He admitted it plainly: "You're right. I want to join… I lack the nerve."
Her voice was bright and playful. "If you keep drinking, you'll only sleep here. Come on—I am your courage, shy boy!"
"I'm not shy," Jon muttered—too low for any ears but his own.
She seized his hand; dazed, he rose and let himself be led.
They entered the ring. She let go and spun; her long skirt flared like a blossoming flower. The folk around smiled kindly and made space for them.
She glanced at Jon staring at her. Her eyes were bright as stars, and she danced on.
Light and quick as a bird in flight, she seemed to skip upon the air. Cheers rose around her; her warmth spread to everyone—Jon included.
She caught his hand again. "My boy—have you found your courage?"
Her smile was all sunlight. Its warmth washed over him.
Jon squeezed her hand and nodded, smiling. "I've found it."
With the summer-bright girl at his side, Jon stumbled through the steps and danced with the crowd.
He saw Young Griff, trapped and smiling beneath a swarm of girls, and other girls fleeing big Rolly's approach. Jon laughed aloud, a little wickedly.
He laughed and laughed—the happiest he had ever been.
Later, in his tent, Jon lay on his back with his hands behind his head, a smile tugging at his lips.
The bonfire was over; night was deep. But he could not sleep. The red-haired girl filled his thoughts.
The flap lifted. A small figure slipped inside.
Jon's hand left his hilt. "It's you?"
She sat astride him in a flash, leaning down until her face filled his vision.
"Your father—" Jon began, rigid.
Silvery laughter. "Out to sea to fish. He didn't tell me—on purpose."
"My name is Rhaeniel," she said. "Fisherman's daughter."
"I'm Jon, from Westeros… a bastard."
"Not highborn?"
"Sorry…"
"No—I'm glad…"
"Sorry, I thought—"
"I want a handsome husband. If you're no lord, will you marry me?"
Her face slipped out of sight.
"…Tell me…"
"Gods… I like you."
"Rea… lly? J—Jon…"
"…Aye… I'm sure… I've fallen for you."
That night, the tent knew joy like water and fish.
A week later, at dawn.
Gawen's Mermaid eased into Dragonstone's quay under the "escort" of the royal—now Stannis's—fleet.
In the stern cabin, Gawen looked to Brother Zari (see Ch. 115), whose face held a touch of worry.
"Brother Zari, you will remain aboard."
Watching Gawen check his gear, Zari murmured, "Earl Gawen, Dragonstone reeks of a muddy red—peril on every side. Let me refuse their invitation for you."
Gawen glanced over and smiled. "Rest easy, Brother. Please wait—patiently."
"May the gods keep you."
Gawen turned and went for the hatch.
Outside the stern cabin, he eyed Mondon Waters' newly fitted plate. "Mondon—time to try the new armor?"
The blue enamel gleamed in the morning light. "My lord, I've got the feel of it. I can fight as before."
"I look forward to it."
Gawen clapped him and strode on.
Creak—creak. With clan guards bearing the greatsword Ice upon their backs and Mondon Waters beside him, Gawen descended the gangplank.
They were met by Ser Davos Seaworth and others.
Davos greeted first with a smile. "Good day, Earl Gawen."
Gawen studied him a moment before returning the courtesy. "Good day, Ser Davos."
Davos gestured toward the castle. "Please—Lord Stannis is pleased by your visit."
Gawen did not move. "Ser Davos, the royal fleet's 'friendly invitation' left a deep impression."
Davos hesitated. "My lord Earl—the men are… shy. So they may seem unusual. I assure you: Lord Stannis looks forward to meeting you."
Gawen stepped forward at last. "I require bread and salt."
He spoke of guest right—when a guest accepts a host's bread and salt beneath his roof, both are bound not to harm the other, on pain of the old and the new gods alike.
Would such right bind Stannis now that he bent toward the Red God? That mattered less than the message: Gawen did not trust them.
He meant to remind Lord Stannis: he was no vassal, no petty man to come at a snap of fingers—and a summons with a hint of force was no favor.
Davos's face went stiff a heartbeat. He loathed those men as well, but they were his camp; he would not show it.
He kept his smile. "Earl Gawen, Lord Stannis is the one just man in the Seven Kingdoms—this all know."
"And he values you; he will not treat you as an outsider."
Gawen shook his head. "I brought only two guards—that is my respect for Lord Stannis. My request is not excessive. I see no reason for you to refuse on his behalf, Ser Davos."
Before Davos could answer, Gawen added, "Before we enter the castle, bring me bread and salt."
Davos sighed and shrugged, then turned and murmured orders to his son.
They walked on in silence, the air grown heavy.
Gawen glanced at the Onion Knight's grave face. "Ser Davos—care to hear a joke?"
Davos looked at Gawen's now-gentler face and nodded.
"Two days ago, boarding at the Blackwater, I heard…"
He paused, then said, "Lord Ardrian Celtigar of Claw Isle has claimed dominion over the Crab Claw Peninsula."
He chuckled softly.
House Celtigar of Claw Isle were vassals of Dragonstone, Valyrian in blood—an old, rich house.
Gawen's eyes flickered. Rumor said their castle brimmed with Myrish carpets, Volantene glass, gold and silver plate, jeweled cups, a rare hunting falcon, a Valyrian steel axe, a horn that could wake sea monsters, chests of rubies, and wine without end.
Gawen's laugh was not loud, yet Davos felt his cheeks burn; the men behind went very still.
"Heh… heh… heh."
Mondon's dull gaze slid round the group. Then—suddenly—he laughed out loud. A lord tells a joke and none laugh? He must supply it.
Gawen: "…"
Davos & company: "…"
Mondon blinked and pulled down his visor.
After a moment, Davos ventured, "Lord Ardrian… spends his days steeped in wine."
"Drunken prattle?"
Gawen's smile cooled. "Ser Davos, you know why Lord Stannis wants me here. Yet your people make me feel scorned."
He went on, "We all know what you're preparing. So—you've already gathered a hundred thousand? Am I to beg to join you?"
Davos tasted the heat of Gawen's anger and cursed his own side's folly. A near-certain ally—now likely lost.
He forced it: "My lord Earl, you may mistrust others—but you can trust Lord Stannis. He is the rightful heir to the Iron Throne."
Gawen's tone went cold. "Ser Davos—have you forgotten the great war of these past years?"
Tongue-tied by nature, Davos opened his mouth—then closed it. He knew what Gawen meant: all knew how House Baratheon had taken the Iron Throne. Blood and claim mattered—but in the end, the winner of the war sat the chair.
He tried again. "Earl Gawen—any man of justice cannot stomach the Lannisters' ugliness."
Gawen's eyes shifted. True enough. Nearly everyone in the Seven Kingdoms had cause to strike at Lannister.
"The love of the people…"
Gawen sighed and patted Davos's arm. "Tell me, Ser Davos—does Lord Stannis gain the people's love after he takes the Iron Throne… or sit the Iron Throne because he has their love?"
Davos stopped dead. Eyes wide, he stared at Gawen, storm-tossed within.
Gawen patted him again, bidding him walk on.
Davos came back to himself, a rare urgency in his tone. "My lord… the law—"
Gawen lifted a hand, cutting him off. "Ser Davos, I honor your character. Truly. Today I chiefly came to see you—to see you safe. I'm heartened."
His smile was warm; his voice, sincere.
Davos pressed a hand to his breast and bowed. "Earl Gawen—the Iron Throne needs a man of true justice."
Gawen nodded. "A rare thing indeed. But…"
"I'll be plain with you: the Crab Claw folk will never forget our sacred duty to guard the Iron Throne—but we will never be any one man's servants. Come—let's go, Ser Davos."
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🔥 The Throne's Last Flame — A Song Forged in Ice and Wrath 🔥
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