Davos clung to the edge of the group as they wound through Braavos's crooked streets, his green eyes darting over every strange sight. The air reeked of fish and coal, the din of Ragman's Harbor fading as they neared the Red Temple. Tom trudged ahead, still green from the sea, muttering oaths under his breath. Wyl skipped beside him, grinning like a madcap, his brown hair flopping with each bounce. Waymar Royce marched at the front, stiff and proud in brown leather stitched with chainmail, the links glinting dully in the light. A silver falcon clasp pinned his cloak at the shoulder—his only nod to House Arryn, no badge on his chest like the rest. Five Arryn guards trailed them, boots thumping, hands on swords. Davos fingered his own falcon badge, the blue leather stiff against his wiry frame. A year back, he'd been a Flea Bottom rat, nicking coppers for scraps. Now he was here, in a city of purple-haired fools and coal-dark sailors, trailing Edric's orders like some lord's pup.
The Red Temple loomed ahead, its walls a deep, bloody red, scarred black where smoke had clawed upward. Towers stabbed the sky, crowned with flames that danced even in daylight. Davos's jaw dropped as they passed the gates—crimson-robed figures twirled sticks that spat fire, weaving it into arcs and hoops like it was silk. One juggled blazing orbs, tossing them skyward, while another spat a plume of flame that licked the air. "Bloody hells," Davos breathed, his golden curls catching the glow. Wyl whooped, clapping like a kid at a mummer's show, but Tom just grunted, clutching his gut.
"Think they'd teach me that?" Wyl asked, dodging a guard's scowl.
"You'd torch your fool head," Tom growled, swiping at him and missing.
Waymar shot them a glare, all highborn and sour. "Quiet. Edric said report back, not gape like smallfolk."
Davos smirked but held his tongue, his fingers twitching for a coin to swipe. The temple's heart yanked them in—a wide courtyard where a giant fire roared, taller than three men stacked end to end. Orange and red tongues thrashed, spitting sparks like angry flies. Around it, figures in red swayed and chanted, their voices a low, throbbing drone that set Davos's skin crawling. "R'hllor… R'hllor…" The words hit like stones, foreign and heavy. Above the blaze, swinging in a rusted crow's cage, dangled a charred husk—blackened bones and tatters of flesh, rocking as the heat shimmered below. A corpse, burnt to a crisp, its skull leering down.
"Seven save us," Tom muttered, crossing himself. "What's that?"
"Some sod who pissed 'em off," Davos said, forcing a grin, though his stomach flipped. He'd seen death—gutters thick with it in Flea Bottom—but this was wrong, like the fire had eaten the man's soul too.
A shadow slipped through the crowd, and a woman stepped forth—tall, beautiful, deadly. Her hair tumbled down her back like molten copper, blazing in the firelight, and her eyes glowed red, bright as coals. She wore a scarlet silk robe, clinging tight, and a pendant swung at her neck—a heart wreathed in flames. Davos froze, breath snagging in his throat. She wasn't some hag or simpering lady. She was something else, something that made his blood pound and his knees wobble.
"Welcome, little birds," she said, her voice a purr, thick with an accent that twisted her words into a song. "I am Zhea of Asshai, priestess of R'hllor, the Lord of Light. Come." She beckoned them toward the central fire, her red eyes glinting like she could peel their skulls open.
The guards balked, but Waymar squared his shoulders, chainmail clinking, and strode forward, so Davos hauled Tom and Wyl along. The heat slammed them like a fist, sweat slicking Davos's brow as they halted a few paces from the blaze. The chanting swelled, the dancers whirling faster, their shadows leaping wild on the stone.
"Your names," Zhea said, tilting her head, her gaze slicing over them like a hot knife. "Give them to me."
Waymar spoke first, voice firm. "Waymar Royce, third son of Runestone."
"Tom," Tom mumbled, staring at the corpse, his black hair plastered with sweat.
"Wyl," Wyl chirped, grinning despite the heat, hopping on his toes.
Davos swallowed, jutting his chin up. "Davos. Just Davos." No kin, no lands—just Edric's crew, and that was plenty.
Zhea's lips curved, a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "We have seen one of your futures in the flames," she said, her voice dropping low, coiling around them like smoke. "A path of blood and shadow, clear as dawn. But the shadow has shifted since a bird flew over the temple—a bird with storm-gray wings." She paused, her red eyes flicking skyward, then back, pinning them. "Do you know what your fates could have been, little birds?"
Davos's heart kicked hard, his mind flashing to Edric—Storm, the falcon, gray as a squall. Had she seen him? The guards tensed, hands gripping hilts, but Waymar stood steady, frowning. Tom looked ready to run, and Wyl's grin wobbled, his eyes darting to the fire. Davos licked his lips, tasting ash. "What'd you see?" he rasped, rougher than he meant. "What fates?"
Zhea's smile sharpened, secret and cutting, and the fire surged higher behind her.