Davos would have given much to know what he was thinking, but one such as Velaryon would never confide in him. The Lord of the Tides was of the blood of ancient Valyria, and his House had thrice provided brides for Targaryen princes; Davos Seaworth stank of fish and onions. It was the same with the other lordlings. He could trust none of them, nor would they ever include him in their private councils. They scorned his sons as well. My grandsons will joust with theirs, though, and one day their blood may wed with mine. In time my little black ship will fly as high as Velaryon's seahorse or Celtigar's red crabs. (A Clash of Kings)

They had sailed up the Blackwater Rush flying the fiery heart of the Lord of Light. Maric his thirdborn was oarmaster on Fury, at the center of the first line. (A Clash of Kings)

The Father protects his children, the septons taught, but Davos had led his boys into the fire. Maric would never have his knighthood. (A Storm of Swords)

Chapter Text

Chapter 3/7: Maric Seaworth

The Warrior stands before the foe, protecting us where e'er we go,

With sword and shield and spear and bow, he guards the little children.

"Is it any wonder? Of course Stannis would send his onion knight to deliver those letters."

"And his two sons, let's not forget."

"Captains of their own ships too, those two Seaworth boys. And the third son not long in coming, I'm sure. We will have seven war galleys in Stannis' fleet captained by that family of upjumped smuggler soon."

"Eight, if you count the father."

"Or more, if his wife back in Cape Wrath gives him another son."

"The Seven preserves us from that! We're already drowning in a sea of Seaworth as it is."

"The Seven? Don't you mean the Lord of Light? Stannis would not be best pleased to hear that."

"Stannis is the one drowning us in the stink of onion and salt fi– oh hello Maric. Not gone with your father and brothers then?"

Maric kept the smile on his face, pretending he had not heard every sneering word, every derisive syllable. "My duty is here with Fury. And it's not going anywhere just yet."

"Have they left? Where are they going again, the onion knight and his sons?"

"Ser Davos is going north to deliver King Stannis' letters announcing his rightful claim to the Iron Throne," Maric replied, with an emphasis on the Ser. "My oldest brother Dale is doing the same in the south, and my brother Allard is entrusted with the Free Cities. They have not left. They will be leaving on the morrow."

"And you're stuck here waiting like the rest of us?"

Maric forced a laugh, grinning widely. "Aye, aye. That's what you get for being the third son. But I'm sure we will be leaving for battle soon."

"Well, the son of Stannis Baratheon's favorite knight would most surely be given a chance to cover himself with glory. Perhaps even a knighthood for you, eh?"

A knighthood and a piece of land. In Dragonstone, not Cape Wrath. Close to your father's land, perhaps. And perhaps I will wed one of your comely sisters, Velaryon. How would your lord father the proud Lord Velaryon, blood of ancient Valyria, feel about that?

But these thoughts Maric kept to himself. He had learned to keep most of his thoughts to himself. A smuggler's son should be well-versed in stealth and secrecy.

"You should have told them to choke on their onions," Allard said gloomily, when Maric recounted the conversation at dinner. "And we're not a smuggler's sons, we're a knight's sons. If you and Father would not remember that simple fact, why should they?"

"We are the son of Davos and Marya of Cape Wrath, once of Flea Bottom," Dale said, gently but firmly.

Allard looked like he was about to argue, but Maric interrupted swiftly to forestall the tension he knew was coming between his older brothers. "Onions? Not for the likes of them, eating onions. It would stink their breath too much. Do you reckon they eat sweet, perfumed candy every morning, to wash out the bitter taste of spite and envy?"

Allard laughed, and even Dale had a smile on his usually serious and solemn face. The smile faded quickly, however. "Father has many enemies and not a lot of friends among Stannis' highborn lords and knights. Take care that we do not give them any ammunition that could to injure Father and his position."

Allard glanced sharply at Dale, his face reddening. "Is that meant as a warning for me, your wayward brother?"

"It is meant for all of us, brother," Dale said, his hand on Allard's back. The two brothers exchanged a meaningful glance – its meaning completely lost on Maric, however – and Allard nodded, settling down before he could truly lose his temper.

His two older brothers never ceased to amaze Maric. He could live a hundred years and still would never understand all the currents and undercurrents in their relationship. Only a year apart, yet as different as night and day, Dale and Allard shared a deep bond that the other Seaworth brothers could only guess at. They only truly confided in each other, Maric knew, when it came to the really important matters. Part of it was that annoying habit older brothers had, thinking that they must protect the younger ones from distressing knowledge, but another part of it was less explicable to Maric. Perhaps they saw the other and yearned for what was missing in themselves - what could have been, what might have been, in fact what would never be, because they were each the kind of man that they were.

Maric and Matthos were separated by more years, and his shy, quiet younger brother was always an incomprehensible mystery to Maric, and to Dale and Allard too. "What goes on in that head of his?" Allard was always asking Maric, and Maric had to admit that he was just as clueless of the answer. Alone, among the four older Seaworth brothers, the ones who had known what it was like to be the sons of a smuggler before Davos was given his knighthood, Matthos had been the one who seemed oblivious to all the sneers and the jeers directed at them, content to serve his father on Black Betha, seemingly resentful of no one, indignant about no insult.

Indignation was the fuel driving Allard and Maric, even if outwardly they reacted to the insults in very different ways – Allard was more likely to react and show his anger, and Maric was more likely to smile and pretend that he had not heard anything. Dale was more apt to be conciliatory, to remind his brothers that they were not to do anything that could bring down more sneers and mockery on their House.

"What were you doing on the beach earlier?" Maric asked Allard. "And who were you speaking to for so long?"

"I was looking at the remains of the Seven," Allard said, not answering the second question.

They had burned the Warrior too, his sword blackened and charred, his mighty face ruined. Who would Maric lit a candle to, to pray for courage? To pray for strength and courage to earn his knighthood, to prove that the Seaworths were just as good and as worthy as the sons of any highborn lord or knight? Who would protect them in the coming battle? Who would -

"They burned wood this morning, not our gods. That's what Father said," Dale said, his voice low, almost a whisper, even in the privacy of their own living quarter.

Maric raised an eyebrow. "So Father is not convinced of this Lord of Light business either? Now that, is definitely not something we want anyone else to know. The Queen's men would trip over themselves trying to let King Stannis know."

"I doubt Stannis believes in the Lord of Light either," Allard said. "But half his army does, and most of his men are scared of the red woman. Perhaps he thought … well, never mind what he thought."

"Since when are you an expert on Stannis Baratheon? I thought you dislike the man?" Maric asked, astonished at his brother's words.

"I do not dislike him," Allard said defensively. "I dislike the notion that we owe him not just our loyal service, but our lives too. But he has been more than fair to us, I can't deny that."

"How will the rest of the Seven Kingdoms take this Lord of Light business, do you reckon?" Maric asked his brothers.

"Not well, if my own crew is any indication. My men are certain Lady Marya will run aground or encounter a terrible storm on our way. Punishment from the gods, they say, for turning our back on them," Allard replied.

Dale nodded. "The men on Wraith were whispering the same thing."

Maric was alarmed seeing his brothers' gloomy, pessimistic prediction. "Surely Father could say something. King Stannis trusts him and values his counsel."

Dale was the one who replied. "Yes, but for how long? Lady Melisandre has his ears now. And if Father speaks up too insistently, might not Stannis begin to doubt Father's loyalty, and refuse to listen to his counsel at all?"

"I do not envy Father his predicament," Allard said.

Oh Father. How glad he had been, when Dale and Allard were made captains of their own ships. How pleased he still was, when Maric told him that his dream was not to captain a ship, but to be a knight, strong, gallant and as good as any Velaryon or Celtigar, as worthy as any of those highborns mocking and sneering at the Seaworths.

"I will make you proud, Father," Maric had promised his father.

"You are my son. I have always been proud of you, for being the kind of man that you are. Even if you never become a knight," Davos Seaworth had told his son.