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There was a hint of melancholy in his eyes. Compared to Stannis's steely gaze and Melisandre's feigned indifference, his expression felt warm—almost approachable.
He was younger than Mathos, yet far more mature in both words and demeanor. Though both had already passed their sixteenth name day and were considered men grown, he carried himself with a presence beyond his years.
"Ser, you have never disappointed me." That was what the king had said that day—of course, those words were meant for the silver-haired young man. In the end, Stannis had chosen to risk his fleet, entrusting Ser Cole Julius with command of the royal navy.
The king had promised that, should they emerge victorious, Cole would retain authority over the fleet and be granted a seat at the royal council.
At that moment, he was holding the medal pinned to his chest—the sigil of Stannis from his time as Master of Ships in King's Landing. It had been given to him by his brother Robert, just as Dragonstone had been.
Stannis had never hidden his resentment. He had wanted to be Hand of the King, but instead, Robert had awarded Storm's End to Renly, who had done nothing to earn it, while he was given the remote island stronghold of Dragonstone. To Stannis, it had always been an insult.
Davos couldn't help but wonder—if Ser Cole succeeded, how would the king reward him? Would he receive a modest keep and hunting lands, as Davos himself had?
No, that didn't seem likely. If that were the case, what difference would there be between Stannis and King Robert?
The crew whispered among themselves—Ser Cole deserved a great reward, perhaps even a significant domain. Of course, some spoke in hushed, wilder tones, speculating about something as grand as Storm's End itself.
Would Stannis allow an outsider to claim the ancestral seat of House Baratheon, even for great service? Ser Cole had certainly proven his worth, but that was a line few could imagine the king crossing.
Shaking his head, Davos dismissed the thought. Storm's End should belong to Princess Shireen—it was her birthright. If the king were to have a son in the future, the boy would be heir to the Stormlands, while Dragonstone would remain the seat of the king's chosen successor.
As for Ser Cole, he had been made Master of Ships. Surely, the king would grant him lands by the sea.
Cole sat aboard his flagship, the Black Bess, flanked by Velaryon's Glory of Tidepoint, Bar Aemon's Swordfish, and Celtigar's Red Crab. Among these vessels, Black Bess was unremarkable, yet Cole had chosen it as his command ship nonetheless.
They had set sail under the cover of night, reaching Summerhall after a day and a night's journey from Shipbreaker Bay.
Lord Velaryon and Lord Celtigar had remained at Storm's End—that had been Cole's only request before taking command.
Summerhall had once been the Targaryen summer palace, but now only ruins remained. The fire that consumed it had been a catastrophe not just for House Targaryen, but for all of Westeros.
It was here that Ser Duncan the Tall, King Aegon V, and Prince Duncan—called the Dragonfly—had perished.
And it was here, in the midst of that tragedy, that the last true dragon, Rhaegar Targaryen, had been born.
To celebrate the birth of his great-grandson, Aegon V had sought to hatch dragon eggs with wildfire, aided by pyromancers. But the flames had not birthed dragons—only destruction. The tragedy of Summerhall became one of the greatest sorrows of House Targaryen.
Cole recounted the tale as though he had lived it himself. Davos could see the regret in his eyes.
Sitting amid the ruins, Cole sighed softly. "The Targaryens once ruled a great dynasty… and now, they are nothing but history, like Summerhall itself."
These stories had come to him from an old man far beyond the Wall. King Maekar I had four sons—Daeron the Drunken, Aerion Brightflame, Aemon, and Aegon.
Yes, that Aemon—the very same Maester Aemon of the Night's Watch.
Cole had once told Davos, "Maekar's eldest and second sons were both useless." And in truth, it was hard to argue. One had died of drink and disease, while the other had burned himself alive by drinking wildfire, believing he would be reborn as a dragon. Cole had been polite not to call them mad outright.
Davos didn't understand Cole's sadness. To him, Targaryen history was just another tale—something to amuse oneself with before and after meals, nothing more.
But how could he know? Cole had grown up listening to stories of King Aegon V. Maester Aemon had spoken often of his brother—not as a king, but as a boy, an ordinary child who had once dreamed of becoming a knight of the Kingsguard.
And in some way, that dream had shaped Cole as well.
But his dream of becoming a Kingsguard had soon become the subject of ridicule among his brothers on the Wall. They mocked him for aspiring to such heights despite his low birth. Humiliated, he had run to Maester Aemon in tears, and it was then that the old maester told him the story of Ser Duncan the Tall.
"Some of the maesters used to call me 'Egg,'" Cole told Davos. "When people grow old, they sometimes get confused, even learned maesters."
Hearing this, Davos couldn't help but think of Maester Cressen of Dragonstone—another old man, wise yet weary. The thought filled him with a quiet sadness.
"Perhaps I'm getting old as well," Davos mused. "Maybe one day, I'll start confusing my own sons."
He had seven children. "You've met Davon, I believe. He serves as the king's squire."
He gestured toward a young man working nearby. "And that's Mathos, my third son."
"A fine lad," Cole remarked. "I think he'll be ready to take on more responsibility soon."
Davos simply shook his head. The two young men were the same age, yet Cole already carried the weight of command.
"I heard King Aegon tried to hatch seven dragon eggs here," Cole said suddenly, his interest piqued. "Do you think they could still be hidden somewhere among these ruins?"
"Many have wondered the same," Davos replied. "A single dragon egg could buy several ships across the Narrow Sea. I've never understood why people are willing to pay so much for a stone. Dragons have been extinct for generations."
"Still, it's worth trying. What if I'm the one to find them?" Cole said with a grin.
Davos chuckled. "Then you'll be a very rich man."
Cole wandered off, searching through the ruins of Summerhall like a child chasing insects. For the first time, Davos glimpsed a boyish side to him.
Despite being only half Stannis's age, Cole had been entrusted with one of the most crucial tasks in the war.
After two days of rest in Summerhall, the army set out on the third day. Leading a force of three thousand men, Cole guided them through the narrow passes of the Dornish Mountains, heading straight for the Lambren River.
He sent a small detachment of cavalry across the river, making for the Rose Road, while his main force worked swiftly to lay iron chains and ropes across the Lambren's waters. At the same time, they felled trees and built rafts.
By the next day, a fleet came sailing down the river, only to be stopped short by the chains. Cole's men attacked swiftly, using the rafts to board the trapped ships.
On land, this force might not have been the strongest, but on the water, they were unmatched.
After capturing the vessels, they tossed the enemy's supplies and provisions overboard, then took command of the ships, turning into river raiders. As they sailed upstream, they fought, plundered, and seized more ships, becoming the scourge of the Lambren River.