DAVOS

In the heart of Dragonstone, Davos slept. He'd claimed some sparse quarters within the Stone Drum many years ago, long before the start of the war, and though he missed his dear Marya most of all, he could not help but be grateful to get away from the unfamiliar soft bed and fancy furnishings that a castle and knighthood had brought him. He slept much better when he was close to the sea.

Davos had insisted on filling his small room with hard trappings, an always-open window let the smell of salt touch his nose, and he'd left a standing order for the help not to touch anything without his specific instructions. He dreamt that the ground rocked between the waves. He dreamt of seeing the Stag banner and dropping sail, barking an order for absolute silence in the middle of the great black sea. Fire illuminated the Stag as the ship passed, a terrible column of flame that licked at the feet of a bound prisoner, just a girl, young and terrified and screaming in agony, surrounded by horned figures with cloven hooves that danced and sang. One of them was dressed all in red. The nightfire grew and grew until the roar blotted out the chanting and the screaming both, and all he could do was lay low and wait for the demons to pass.

Sudden he clutched a short metal spear, heavier than it looked, and his hands - whole and strong again - were wrapped around a pair of leather grips. Sorcery called to him, told him the ship need not pass unscathed, whispered in his ear that the girl could be saved and the revelers slain. All he needed to do was ask. The roots grow deep, deep enough to touch the bottom of the sea.

A sudden knock jolted him awake. "Enter," he barked, his voice hoarse and dry.

The intruder was a servant bearing the fiery heart upon his breast. Davos exchanged half-remembered words, then rubbed at his eyes with his good hand and sat up. The chill of the sea drifted through the open window, and he took a few moments to stare out at the dark sky. Pre-dawn.

He couldn't dawdle. The King requested his presence in the Chamber of the Painted Table, and he requested it immediately. The servant had little in the way of details to offer him, aside from a raven-sized letter and a look of grim determination on his liege lord's face. So all is normal.

Davos stumbled half-dressed through the dimly-lit halls of the Stone Drum, his passage a blur of stone and blank walls, until a beacon of light drew him towards a closed wooden door. He fumbled with the latch, nudged it open, and recoiled against a blaze of braziers inside, bright as day and blinding to his constricted pupils. Light danced across the ceiling and Davos shielded his face with his maimed hand, blinking away tears.

Stannis was already in the Chamber. The king grunted and stared out the window, where smoke blew out and over the sea, but before Davos could offer a greeting, a door on the far side of the room swung open. Through it strode The Red Woman.

"You called for me, my king?" Melisandre purred.

"Lord Hand," the King said, ignoring her. He gave nothing away in his posture or expression, only staring out the window in silence, before he finally turned and stooped over the table. Stannis flexed his jaw, then looked back and forth between pieces carved into the image of stags, wolves, lions, and trout. No part of the tableau had moved since nightfall.

"Your grace," Davos said. His voice croaked from lack of water and he coughed until it blew clear. "Your grace," he repeated in a stronger voice.

"Sorry to wake you," Stannis said quietly.

That got his attention. The king was as thoughtful a man as any and willing to apologize when he was in the wrong, but a summons at night was hardly a cause for fault.

"I was told it is urgent," Davos said.

Stannis swept a hand across the midst of the Seven Kingdoms, lingering on nothing in particular. "Do you see what piece is missing from the board?"

Davos turned first to Melisandre, who only smirked at him in silence. What game is he playing? Davos looked one more time and saw the usual players, from the Greyjoys in the north to the Martells in the south. All the highlords and some of the stronger bannermen were represented and placed at odds with one another, though a handful of powers like the Arryns remained stubbornly neutral and in their own territory. The Riverlands was particularly busy, with many minor lords crowded around the bigger Stark and Tully pieces. Besides wolf and trout, the Northerners bore such imagery as a gloved fist and a silver eagle, three buckets, a merman, and countless varieties of trees and axes. All of those armies had combined to attend the Frey wedding, which should be-

"The Twins," Davos blurted out, puffing up his chest as he said it. "You've removed the Freys from the board."

Stannis nodded grimly and slid Davos a small, furled letter. He swallowed and winced at the dryness in his throat, but there were no liquid comforts at hand. He unwrapped the little parchment and ran his eyes over the lettered mystery until his lessons came back at him, words flowing across his silent lips. It was a letter from Robb Stark.

"Have Maester Pylos and his endless patience proven fruitful?"

"Your grace?"

"Read it out loud," the king commanded.

Davos obeyed. "To the King on the Iron Throne," the letter began, and it went on explaining that the self-styled King in the North had declared the remaining Freys outlaws and asked Stannis Baratheon to assist him in their capture, should they flee into his domain. "We propose a permanent state of piece between the two kingdoms known as The Iron Throne and The North," he said, then paused.

"Finish the rest."

"We propose to establish borders at the traditional markers of the River Kings, whilst ceding Harrenhaal to the Iron Throne," Davos read. "The North and the Riverlands are eager to assist our leal ally King Stannis Baratheon in his policing action against the rebels and traitors within his kingdom."

"He calls me the King on the Iron Throne," Stannis said dourly. "I suppose we are meant to bond over our common troubles."

"My King," Melisandre said, drawing no reaction from him at all. She floated around the table, her long fingers dancing across her king's shoulders, then stood between Davos and Stannis. "You must not let half your kingdom slip away."

"Don't lecture me on my own kingdom, woman," he growled.

She only smiled and rubbed his back softly. "If Stark does not submit, he can be replaced. All that matters is we settle these petty squabbles and join the real war, the only war that matters. We must go north."

"If you mention the Great Other again, I am going to hit you."

She smiled again and bowed. "So be it. But the war rages on, and we sit in our island of stone and talk of weddings and borders. There is only one border, and it is the horizon. Everything before it belongs to the king."

"What happened at the wedding?" Davos said, then immediately flushed with embarrassment. Was I supposed to know this? Wasn't it just the Tully heir wedding a Frey girl?

"Robb Stark murdered Walder Frey and his entire family," Stannis said in a slow, mocking voice. "Turned into a wolf and joined his other wolf, or something like that. Throats were ripped, blood was drunk, rivers were swollen with the dead. The usual."

Davos's jaw dropped and he tried to summon a response, but Stannis waved him off with a gesture. "Or the Freys sprung a trap and he slipped free of its grasp. I believe the latter. Ser Edwyn tells me the former."

Davos wracked his memory for who Ser Edwyn was and why he was important. "Walder Frey's heir," Stannis said, before he could come up with the answer on his own. "Son of Ryman, recently slain by a wolf or what have you, son of Ser Stevron who died on campaign, son of Walder Frey, torn asunder by foul sorceries. Did I miss anyone?"

Melisandre chuckled warmly and smirked as if it were the most absurd idea she'd heard all day. "The old demons pulled up their roots and did something useful. For once."

"What she means," Stannis said, "is the traitors failed to put down the Starks, and now they are looking for any excuse they can muster. Ser Edwyn is a fugitive and has reached out to Dragonstone for succor."

Davos nearly asked of Stannis's response, but just before the words left his lips, his addled mind set itself. Ser Edwyn would not have a raven roost available to receive a message, of course, so Stannis had not sent any response at all. "If he comes," Davos said instead, "will we turn him away?"

"I will execute him and family as traitors," Stannis said, simply. "I will pardon the bannermen, knights, and smallfolk that he brings along. Even if I am inclined to ignore their transgressions against my crown, the Freys violated guest right, and that trumps any offer they might bring me. Or maybe the wolf story is true, in which case I better start doing anything I can to appease the King in the North."

Melisandre took a step away from him and frowned, but said nothing. Stannis looked at her with contempt. "What, woman? A jape about magic wolves shakes your faith? If your trick with the leeches were worth anything, we'd be having this conversation in the Red Keep."

"Balon Greyjoy is dead," she said.

Davos had heard the rumor already and put little stock in it. Neither had Stannis, apparently, as he only sighed impatiently and shrugged. "An old man walked a rickety bridge and fell to his death, or perhaps nothing of the sort happened at all. His treacherous brother is said to come the day after. Is this Euron Greyjoy your god's agent? Or are you seeing the rain fall and demanding gold for another dance?"

Melisandre pursed her lips and straightened her back. She regarded her king with those smoldering eyes, leaving Davos completely forgotten. "There is only one God, and he is yours and mine both. The Lord of Light has many agents, of which you are the greatest, and I am but a disposable servant. I have told you of all this many times."

"And you promised me four dead usurpers," he said. "You've given me one and taken credit for another, while the two most dangerous still live. What happened with Robb Stark, anyway? Ser Edwyn tells me that the Lord of Light was beaten by a tree. You aren't doing well."

Davos had long given up on predicting how Melisandre would react to the King's barbs, so he was not surprised when that last comment made her only smile a third time and soften her posture. She stepped up to him and rubbed his back, purring something quiet and familiar in his ear. Had she picked up a hint in his voice and decided that all was not lost? A little soothing will put him on the right track. That's our Stannis.

He'd watched him go from the most respected military commander in Westeros, a true King with a fleet and a formidable army behind him, to a desperate, wounded dog close to exile and hiding on a rock in the middle of the sea. Without her, Stannis would not have challenged Renly directly on the field, but gone after his bannermen one by one, seeking oaths as a king should. Davos would not have seen the horror at Storm's End and a brave man would still be alive. If the Freys practiced treachery and the Starks sorcery, Stannis was guilty of both, and all of it came at the behest of his wife's shadowbinder and her queer fire god.

Said shadowbinder looked between the two men with that easy, confident smile touching her eyes. "The Lord of Light has many agents, but so does the Great Other." Davos waited for the promised slap, but none came. "They kill each other in the North, the Riverlands, and the Iron Islands. The Drowned God lies beneath the waves in thrall to the Enemy, and his servants fight over sand and salt. The Children pit their dogs against one another while we wait and grow. We will bring the war to them, soon enough, and the banners of the Enemy will burn beneath the flaming stag." She turned to Davos. "All this I have seen, Lord Hand."

And you will dance on cloven hooves. A flash of memory from the nightmare made him shudder. "You say our power grows," Davos said. He looked to Stannis, but the king only leaned on his fists and ground his teeth. "How, again, do you mean to grow this power?"

He knew the answer, of course, but he had already decided to take every available opportunity, no matter how unrelated, to remind his king of what precisely the Red Woman meant to do. She clucked her tongue and shook her head sadly, then gestured to the table.

"I will do nothing," she said, "but the Lord of Light will knock the pieces off this board one by one." She turned to Stannis. "Power requires sacrifice, my king. The Lord of Light does not give to those who take greedily and give nothing in return. You know all of this."

"Then why are you telling me?" he growled.

"Because the boy yet lives."

"All three of the boys yet live," Stannis said. "The one you mean, plus the usurpers. I told you, give me two and I give you the third. You can stop preaching to me until then."

She pursed her lips and stiffened again. He is learning to set her off. Is that a good thing?

"So Edric Storm will live," Davos said, forcing Stannis to hear the name again. "Your brother's son, Edric, who is friends with your daughter, his cousin. We are in agreement not to burn him alive, hmm?"

The King took a deep breath and turned his head to burrow a hole in Melisandre's forehead with his eyes. "Edric Storm will live," he said, deep and certain. "Do not broach the subject to me until your god has produced the promised corpses. And do not offer to burn Edwyn Frey when he arrives. He has broken the law of guest right, and justice demands a harsher punishment."

The Red Woman flinched at his words. Davos thought of all the times Stannis had taken that tone with his own followers, but he couldn't remember Melisandre ever getting the iron dismissal to one of her ideas. As long as she was useful, he knew, the King would keep her around, listen to her nonsense, say the right words, and wear the right sigil. Enough failures, and the king might be persuaded that her usefulness had come to an end.

Davos tried to take a deep breath of the salty air, but the burning fuel within the braziers hid the scent. I need to be at sea. Arguing theology in a little stone room wasn't the kind of life he was cut out for. At least the boy will live. I've done that much, if I've done anything at all.

"I hope you will see reason soon enough," Melisandre said. She offered a deep, formal bow, then turned and walked away.

When she was gone, Stannis looked to the window again. "Sun's almost up."

"When can we expect the Freys?"

"Probably never." Davos waited a few moments for Stannis to continue. "What do you think, Lord Hand? Do you believe Robb Stark really wrapped his paws around the magic of the Old Gods?"

A too-heavy spear, and a carousel of death. Davos pushed the dream away. "I doubt they could perform such a feat so far south," he said, remembering his history.

"For lack of bloody-eyed trees?"

Davos nodded. "Their roots grow deep, so deep as to-" he gulped. "What I mean is, the gods touch where they may, but here in the south, we have little to be concerned about. The Andals have seen to the problem already."

"Those direwolves seem a touch more mobile."

What is he getting at? "I suppose they are familiars of the old gods, if there ever were any."

Stannis sighed. "The old gods offer no power whatsoever," he said. "Nor any guidance, or even the barest evidence that they even exist. An odd plant and a particularly large breed of wolf do not a diety make. The northerners just carve bloody eyes in their white trees and hope somebody is listening. The Seven have their books and their superstitions, but the Red Woman has real magic, deadly and unnerving. You've seen it."

He had, and he preferred not to let his memories drift back to Storm's End. Perhaps some years might erase it the memory entirely. At his age, though, he was more likely to forget everything all at once. Still, it wasn't the first time in his life he'd seen magic, or something close to it, and though what Melisandre had accomplished was intriguing, he could not cross that barrier in his mind between the higher mysteries and divine power.

"There are no shortage of sorcerers in the world," Davos said. "Nor are we lacking in magicians who work illusions of mortal talent. I've also seen some particularly convincing mummers, and every port features outright charlatans in red robes with sleeve pouches full of fire powder. Perhaps she is only one of those, and what magic she does work is of her own design. We must not abandon our gods each time a witch casts a spell. Nor must we close our minds when Robb Stark calls on his."

Stannis considered his words for a moment, then nodded. "I've heard it all before, but if you're saying it, it must be true. Enough on this topic. Edric is under guard, and no, they are not my wife's men. Kinslaying is nearly as bad as breaking guest right, and it hardly matters if you hold the bloody knife yourself, or if you stand back and a women in red do it for you."

"Then we should talk about the Stormlands," Davos said, and they did.

Minutes later, Davos was blinking away exhaustion and taking the first of many steps up to Maester Pylos's study. His knees creaked with the effort, but the pain brought him enough energy to put one foot in front of the other. It is always young men who build these damnable things.

Thinking about maesters only reminded him of poor Cressen, the last person besides himself who'd tried to remove Melisandre from the king's side. He'd done the work with poison, and he'd failed in the worst way imaginable. Davos came back from all that time stranded at sea with a similar sacrifice etched on his heart, but the fires had seen him coming, and so his plan had turned into a quick arrest and a slow imprisonment. Could he try again? Her magic seemed to wane with the summer. This time, would the knife escape her notice?

After all, she'd gotten the wedding wrong. Where else might she have made such obvious mistakes? What did the burning heart banner really mean? Who was the sacrifice in his dream? Davos could only guess at the answers to those questions, but he knew that no god fed either of them the insight of the fates. Melisandre painted the image of success with careful language and good timing, and even then, the fires only spoke when she needed to manipulate the king into doing something unwise.

She's nearly gotten herself thrown out on this Edric Storm business, no help from me. Renly's death had left a sour taste in his brother's mouth, Davos knew, and the string of failures since only lowered her more and more in his eyes. Queen Selyse would not be swayed, of course, nor would her stubbornly faithful family, but the King could banish the lot of them if he wished and still have an army strong enough to take a throne. All he needed was time, money, and land. The Stormlands.

"Three new letters from the Seven Kingdoms," Maester Pylos said by way of greeting. "I've left them for you, as you instructed."

"From whom?"

The young man shrugged. He was pouring over some stacks of parchment bearing a faded seven-pointed star, then turning and jotting down brief phrases in fresh ink and his quick, efficient script. Davos could hardly make out any of it, as small as the letters were. He preferred reading words written in hands as clumsy as his own. Big, blocky, and thick-stemmed made for easier reading.

He took a seat by an east window where the morning sun illuminated half of the table. Three letters the same size as Robb Stark's offer lay curled on the desk. Davos opened the first and held it up to the light, reading silently and moving his lips. I need to stop doing that.

If Maester Pylos noticed, he didn't say anything. The first letter was some nonsense about a wedding, but not one of the ones where everyone died. The second was a polite refusal from a Stormlander to send aid in men and gold to his exiled king. He will regret that, soon. The last, though, came from the Wall, and though it was written in the hand of a Maester Clydas, he knew the words belonged to none other than Aemon Targaryen, the oldest man in the world and the one dragon prince whom Robert had spared when he'd wrapped the rest of them in red.

Davos nearly began to read the letter out loud, but thought better of it. Don't move your lips. He read the first line silently with only a tug around the edge of his mouth. Something about a battle beyond the Wall, the Others, the Wildlings, Castle Black…

"The Others?" he said, recoiling in sudden shock. "Did you read this?"

Pylos arched an eyebrow at him and snatched the letter out of his hand. "Give me that. What is- uh…"

Davos took the letter back and dashed out the door and down the stairs, legs pounding with each step. Though the force shook his bones he felt no pain, and he seemed to move as if he were twenty again and hauling cargo in and out of a ship's hold. The spiral staircase ended and he bounded through the door to the Chamber of the Painted Table, but Stannis was already gone and the room lay empty. Davos glanced at the table as he ran by and saw that most of the pieces were laying on their side, including all of the Lannisters and Tyrells, but the Stag stood triumphantly over Storm's End. We all have our visions.

When he reached the king's quarters, Davos rapped on the door and stepped back, hands fidgeting, heart pounding from the sudden exertion. When the door opened a moment later, a bleary-eyed Stannis stood on the other side. Behind him, Melisandre sat in a chair with her hands in her lap.

Stannis looked at him quizzically. "Yes?"

Davos tried to speak but all that came were gasps. Stannis waited patiently for him to catch his breath.

"Read this," he finally said, handing over the letter. "Raven just came today from Castle Black."

Stannis's lips moved with his eyes. At least it's not just me. "Is this a joke?"

"Not a joke, my king," came Melisandre's voice, drifting from the back of the room.

"She has quite the story to share, Davos. Convenient that the Lord of Light grants her stunning new visions right after I've questioned everything."

"Your grace-"

"The Others march," Stannis continued, ignoring his Hand. "She said it's a fresh message from the flames. Must have been a short vision." He turned back to her. "Where did it happen, woman? A brazier in the hallway?"

Davos had only been gone for a couple of minutes, including the stairs. "The letter comes from Aemon Targaryen. I think we can believe it."

"The ancient dragon is well outside of his own time," Melisandre said, "but the Lord of Light still speaks through him, as he has so often in the past."

The king ignored her too. "She also has some words about you, onion knight."

Davos froze, and Stannis continued before he could respond. "Says you're here on a mission from the Drowned God, of all the bizarre creatures in all the world, and she says you've come here to unleash foul sorceries and slay the both of us. Do I have that right?"

Roots that touch the bottom of the sea. Melisandre nodded deeply with a broad, disingenuous smile across her face. "The one who shall not be named has many agents, and though you deny it in earnest, you are one of them, Lord Davos. You wield the same sorcery as Robb Stark, the curse of the Old Gods, and it has been inflicted on both of you for use in the war to come."

"I thought you said it was the Drowned God," Stannis droned.

"They are all thralls of the enemy," she said, dismissing the distinction with a wave of her pale hand. "To them, names are worthless. The dead one touched your Hand after the battle of the Blackwater. I have been shown this truth, and though you cannot blame the poor man for his misfortune, you must act." Her satisfied smile curled into a wry grin. I want to make your dreams come true.

"Wait until she tells you how the sorcery works," Stannis said, exasperated..

"You have come to us with a weapon concealed about your person," Melisandre said, rising from her chair and gliding across the floor. "The curse rains destruction on your enemies and your own body, alike. It is a weapon of steel and leather, not unlike a dagger but bent in the middle, and death bursts in fire and smoke from its tip." She reached the doorway and leaned into Stannis, reaching up and laying both hands on his shoulders at once. "I have seen the weapons, many of them, and I have seen lions slain in great numbers where the rivers meet. I have seen corpses rise from the sea at the behest of the dead god, a noose of seaweed in one hand and a knife of fire in the other. The krakens sink and the onions float. And I have seen your cursed weapon trampled by the stag, so I do not fear for our king. I fear for your soul."

Stannis laughed. "You see what I have to deal with?"

Davos felt around in his pockets reflexively, then shook his head and cursed himself for foolishness. Of course I'm not carrying around a magic knife. He changed the subject. "The real battle is in the north," he said, sparing a quick glance at the Red Woman. "That's what she's always said, right? I know little of this business about Others and dead gods, but I do know that Maester Aemon would not treat such a subject lightly. I know the Wildlings are flesh-and-blood, and they are coming, and without a proper power in the North to stop them, half your kingdom will be aflame by winter."

"And we can do what, exactly, for them?" Stannis said, frowning. "The krakens still swim. The northerners have their own king. Let them beg for the protection of the Iron Throne after they have buried their pretender in the crypts of Winterfell."

"They do not have their own king," Davos said, quietly. "They have only you."

Stannis thought that over for a moment, but when his eyes set in determination Davos knew he'd lost. "I will stitch my realm together from the south, first," the king said. "I'll wager the only weapon on your body right now is a knife meant for cutting ropes, and I assume it rarely sets fires. I don't need witches and visions to tell me that Stark and Lannister have given me an irresistible opportunity. We will liberate Winterfell and the rest in due time, I promise. For now, I have a kingdom to rebuild."

"The Seven Kingdoms will not know the enemy until it is rotting on their doorstep," Melisandre said to Davos. "When the Wall has fallen and the north is covered in White, only then will the Andals call on their rightful king. They will pray into their nightfires for our god to chase away the darknesses, and then we are all saved by the coming of the dawn. Much is lost by the end, but not all, and the enemy marches to his doom. I regret you will not live to know it."

"Because I'm going to try and kill the king?" Davos said sarcastically.

"When the Great Other hands you the weapon," she said. "You will try, but you will fail."

Stannis laughed again shrugged her off. "A moment ago you said he had it already. Make up your mind, woman."

She shrugged as if it were the least important question in the world. "Mayhaps he does. The headless wolf has not yet come."

"That's a new one," Stannis drawled.

"The Lord of Light tells me what he will."

"Shouldn't a fire knife be one of his tricks?" Stannis asked. "Isn't the breath of the Great Other all cold and darkness?"

"Any fool can light a fire," she said, waving away the objection. The Red Woman stepped around Stannis and pushed past Davos through the doorway. "Any smith can hammer a blade, any swordsman can wield it. Be sure you are neither the fool nor the swordsman."

"I'm tired," Stannis suddenly said. "Leave me, both of you. We will plan the campaign tomorrow. Don't bring me any more news until the evening." He turned to Melisandre, looking over Davos's shoulder. "And you. Don't whisper in my ear until I ask. Write down the bloody visions or something, but stop interrupting my sleep. It's bad enough already that I lie awake until dawn."

He shut the door in Davos's face. Melisandre regarded him with a flat expression and mystery in her eyes, then drifted away without another word.