The red glow of the hearth embers caught the edge of the scrubbed oak prep table, painting the wood with the dark hue of dried bullock’s blood. Outside, the rain had turned into a steady, needles-sharp sleet that tapped against the kitchen shutters like a handful of coarse salt thrown against timber, while down on the river ward, the chains of the West Quay timber booms clanked in the dark.
Jon did not drop his eyes. He did not bow his shoulders into the rounded slump of a fearful tradesman.
For four lifetimes, he had played the polite, ignorant innkeeper, bobbing his chin when royal officers rode into his yard, counting out change with greasy fingers, apologizing for sour cider and stale bread while the world burned to ash around his daughter’s cradle. He had learned the exact pitch of rustic humility that satisfied an imperial courtier. He had learned when to look at his boots, when to mumble apologies for late porridge, and how to feign total blindness when royal scouts carried chests of gold through the common room at midnight.
He abandoned that posture now.
Jon leaned forward, resting his forearms flat on the table, closing the distance between his face and Cael’s until barely a foot of shadow separated their brows.
