Lord Davos, you will not know, but you are dead.” Robett Glover filled a wine cup and offered it to Davos. He took it, sniffed it, drank. “How did I die, if I may ask?” “By the axe. Your head and hands were mounted above the Seal Gate, with your face turned so your eyes looked out across the harbor. By now you are well rotted, though we dipped your head in tar before we set it upon the spike. Carrion crows and seabirds squabbled over your eyes, they say.” Davos shifted uncomfortably. It was a queer feeling, being dead. “If it please my lord, who died in my place?” “Does it matter?
