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your mind.”
    “As you intend to sail, it is vital that you make common cause with Lord Stark
and Lady Arryn . . .”
    “I make common cause with no one,” Stannis Baratheon said.
    “No more than light makes common cause with darkness.” Lady Selyse took his
hand.
    Stannis nodded. “The Starks seek to steal half my kingdom, even as the
Lannisters have stolen my throne and my own sweet brother the swords and
service and strongholds that are mine by rights. They are all usurpers, and
they are all my enemies.”
    I have lost him,
Cressen thought, despairing. If only he
could somehow approach Melisandre unseen . . . he needed but an
instant’s access to her cup. “You are the rightful heir to your brother
Robert, the true Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and King of the Andals, the
Rhoynar, and the First Men,” he said desperately, “but even so, you cannot
hope to triumph without allies.”
    “He has an ally,” Lady Selyse said. “R’hllor, the Lord of Light, the Heart
of Fire, the God of Flame and Shadow.”
    “Gods make uncertain allies at best,” the old man insisted, “and
that
one has no power here.”
    “You think not?” The ruby at Melisandre’s throat caught the light as she
turned her head, and for an instant it seemed to glow bright as the comet. “If
you will speak such folly, Maester, you ought to wear your crown
again.”
    “Yes,” Lady Selyse agreed. “Patches’s helm. It suits you well, old man. Put
it on again, I command you.”
    “Under the sea, no one wears hats,” Patchface said. “I know, I know, oh, oh,
oh.”
    Lord Stannis’s eyes were shadowed beneath his heavy brow, his mouth tight as
his jaw worked silently. He always ground his teeth when he was angry.
“Fool,” he growled at last, “my lady wife commands. Give Cressen your
helm.”
    No,
the old maester thought,
this is not you, not your way, you
were always just, always hard yet never cruel, never, you did not understand
mockery, no more than you understood laughter.
    Patchface danced closer, his cowbells ringing,
clang-a-lang,
ding-ding, clink-clank-clink-clank.
The maester sat silent

while the fool set the antlered bucket on his brow. Cressen bowed his head
beneath the weight. His bells clanged. “Perhaps he ought sing his counsel
henceforth,” Lady Selyse said.
    “You go too far, woman,” Lord Stannis said. “He is an old man, and he’s
served me well.”
    And I will serve you to the last, my sweet lord, my poor lonely son,
Cressen thought, for suddenly he saw the way. Ser Davos’s cup was before him,
still half-full of sour red. He found a hard flake of crystal in his sleeve,
held it tight between thumb and forefinger as he reached for the cup.
Smooth motions, deft, I must not fumble now,
he prayed, and the gods
were kind. In the blink of an eye, his fingers were empty. His hands had not
been so steady for years, nor half so fluid. Davos saw, but no one else, he was
certain. Cup in hand, he rose to his feet. “Mayhaps I have been a fool. Lady
Melisandre, will you share a cup of wine with me? A cup in honor of your god,
your Lord of Light? A cup to toast his power?”
    The red woman studied him. “If you wish.”
    He could feel them all watching him. Davos clutched at him as he left the
bench, catching his sleeve with the fingers that Lord Stannis had shortened.
“What are you doing?” he whispered.
    “A thing that must be done,” Maester Cressen answered, “for the sake of the
realm, and the soul of my lord.” He shook off Davos’s hand, spilling a drop of
wine on the rushes.
    She met him beneath the high table with every man’s eyes upon them. But Cressen
saw only her. Red silk, red eyes, the

ruby red at her throat, red lips curled in a faint smile as she put her hand
atop his own, around the cup. Her skin felt hot, feverish. “It is not too late
to spill the wine, Maester.”
    “No,” he whispered hoarsely. “No.”
    “As you will.” Melisandre of