Stannis had told Davos once about mistaking Tywin Lannister, who had been Hand of the King at the time, for King Aerys Targaryen when his lord father took him to court for the first time, as a boy of five. The king was as fearsome and as impressive as the dragons, the young Stannis had agreed with his brother Robert, possibly marking the first of the very few occasions in which the Baratheon brothers had ever agreed with one another. But it truth, it was not the king they had seen sitting on the Iron Throne that day, but the king's Hand, sitting in for Aerys who had injured himself on the throne yet again.
No one would ever mistake Davos Seaworth for King Stannis, or for any other king for that matter. Because his lowborn origin was writ large on his features, Davos would have said. Because his conscience was too clear, unlike men who had fought and battled to sit on the Throne, and that was the thing writ large on Davos' face, Stannis would have said.
Davos would have preferred to sit in his usual place in the throne room, or any place else, anywhere except the Iron Throne. But that was not a choice open to him, not with Stannis departing for the Wall.
In the king's absence, the Hand must sit on the throne to dispense justice and conduct the business of the realm, Stannis insisted. Tywin Lannister had done so, Ned Stark had done so, and so had other Hands throughout history. That was the law, and Davos knew there was no point arguing with Stannis when it was a question of the law. Stannis was still as hard and uncompromising in that regard as he had been the day he chopped four of Davos' finger joints, as punishment for all his years of smuggling.
Davos took care not to lean back. He took care to keep his arms and his palms away from the jagged edges and the sharp, twisted metal. King Scab, men had mocked King Aerys because of how often he cut himself on the throne. Davos did not want to be known as the Scab Hand, or the Onion Scab, or any other variations of mocking names men could come up with. Not for his own sake, for Davos was inured to all sorts of mockery by now, but for Stannis' sake.
For his king's sake.
There was no way to get comfortable, no way at all to feel at ease while sitting on the throne. That was the whole point, Stannis had told Davos. It was purposely constructed to be uncomfortable, to be treacherous and dangerous in its own right. For a king should never rest easy and complacent on his throne, forgetting his duty, forgetting the dangers and the treacheries always lurking around him.
Stannis would never have forgotten his duty, would never have relaxed his suspicion about dangers and treacheries lurking around him for one moment, even if he was sitting on a bed of soft, fluffy feathers instead of a lump of sharp, twisted metal. He sat on the throne looking stiff and rigid, not leaning back, not bending at all. But then again, Davos had seen him sitting on other less dangerous chairs with that exact same posture. Stannis did not seem to find sitting on the Iron Throne that much different from, or more onerous than sitting on other chairs.
"You look as if you're afraid dragons would come out from the back of that chair to eat you," Stannis said, entering the throne room so stealthily Davos had not realized the king's presence until he opened his mouth.
Davos stood up immediately, his face turning red. What was he doing? The Mother preserves him! What had he been thinking? The king would not depart for the Wall until the morrow.
"Forgive me, Your Grace. I was …"
"Practicing. Yes, I can see that."
Was that a hint of a smile lurking around Stannis' mouth? Or more likely it was a smirk. It must be treason to sit on the Iron Throne while the king was still in King's Landing. But to Davos' surprise, Stannis seemed amused rather than angry. Well, as amused as Stannis Baratheon could ever be about anything, being the man that he was.
"You were hunching as if you were an old, decrepit man twice your age. Sit up straight, as you would in any other chair," Stannis instructed.
Easy for Stannis to say, he of the ramrod posture and the stiff back, Davos grumbled silently.
"Sit," Stannis commanded. "Let me see you do it right, this time."
To sit on the Iron Throne while the king was in the throne room, watching? The thought made Davos shudder. It was inconceivable. It was not his place to do so.
"But Your Grace –"
"I am still your king, Davos," Stannis snapped. "And I believe I just gave you a direct command."
Davos swiftly took a seat, looking and feeling very miserable indeed. He tried not to hunch or stoop too much, while still keeping his back away from sharp and jagged metal. It was not an easy position to maintain. How had Stannis endured it, day after day? How did any king endure it?
For reasons that were inexplicable to Davos, Stannis was nodding with approval. "Good. Keep that expression on your face. You should be looking grave and serious. After all, these are serious matters you will be hearing," Stannis said.
They will see me for the lowborn pretender that I am, Davos feared. Tywin Lannister, Jon Arryn, Ned Stark, they were all of them highborn lords, not one of them an upjumped smuggler raised above his station for the meager price of some onions and salted fish. What right did he have to sit on that throne, even if it was only temporary, during the king's absence? What right did he have to be a lord, to be Hand of the King?
"They called Robert a pretender too, when he first sat on that throne. And they are calling me a pretender still," Stannis said, as if he knew what was on Davos' mind. "But we know better, don't we, my lord Hand?"
"We do, Your Grace," Davos replied.
Stannis made me a lord, and he made me his Hand. It is not a question of rights. It is a question of duty.