Where is it I've read that someone condemned to death says or thinks, an hour before his death, that if he had to live on some high rock, on such a narrow ledge that he'd only room to stand, and the ocean, everlasting darkness, everlasting solitude, everlasting tempest around him, if he had to remain standing on a square yard of space all his life, a thousand years, eternity, it were better to live so than to die at once. Only to live, to live and live! Life, whatever it may be! ( / )
✪ yo

What kind of person is he anyway, expecting the worst of someone he’s only met for a grand total of five minutes?

I’m Stannis, he thinks with an inward groan. I’ve turned into Stannis.

“So, Davos,” she smiles as she takes a sip of water. Her lips leave a vivid red mark of lipstick on the glass, Davos notes idly.

The red goes well with her auburn hair. Davos notes that too. Goes well with—well, with everything. Her white-on-red dress that he’s not sure what, specifically, it’s supposed to be doing, but she’s alluring and tasteful both. (Marya once told him something about it, showing him a picture on a magazine. “I should be wearing the dress, not the other way around.” He hadn’t understood it then. But now, well, now he does.) Revealing little in that curious way that classy ladies seem to have effortless skill in doing in that neat-messy, artful toss of hair over her shoulder, in the sly curve of her full lips.

God, she’s really beautiful.


Davos blinks. He reddens when he realizes that he’s been staring. “Oh hell, sorry.”

C’est bon, don’t worry,” Melisandre laughs. “D’accord,” she claps her hands together, her fingers noticeably long and elegant that Davos wonders if she’s a pianist. “Tell me about yourself.”

“What—“ he bristles, and hides his discomfort by laying on the table napkin on his lap. “What did you want to know?”

“Well,” she leans in, elbows leaning slightly against the table. “You and Stannis—you’ve been—how do you say—copain, copain,” she trails off, looking for the word, “—good friends, oui?” she nods, “Oui, good friends. You have been good friends?”

“Yes,” he clears his throat, “Yes, you could say that.”

“Oh?” her eyes sharpen somewhat and Davos wonders, not for the first time, if some people are actually born with the ability to do that, to make you feel like you’ve said something wrong. He’s suddenly uncomfortable. “For how long?”

“Years.” Hell, decades.

Show Notes