DAVOS

First came the silence. Then the screaming. And after that the silence again.

Ser Davos Seaworth watched, silent in a silent crowd, as the Baratheon guardsmen pulled gently on the rope, drawing it in. The knotted wool, brittle with frost, snaked its way backwards through the snow, retreating to its hiding-hole. A few more moments passed; the rope kept snaking – and then, quick as that, it was done. The rope was back in the hands of the guardsmen. The end, where the man had been attached, was now as naked as the convict's compatriots, who stood shivering in a tight circle about ten feet from the crowd.

That made two. There were still three more to go.

The executions occurred with alarming regularity now. Though Davos would never have voiced his suspicions, he had the sneaking feeling that King Stannis was starting to see their usefulness as more important than their necessity. If the day ever came when a man made it all the way through the snowfield somehow, Davos knew the army would march at once. He wondered if the enemy knew that, too.

"Next!" shouted Ser Godry Farring, who commanded the men holding the rope. Then the third prisoner was brought forth. He was a younger man, with a scraggly beard and some reddish-gold down on his cheeks. Eighteen, reckoned Davos. Three years older than Devan was. Looks could be deceiving, but Davos doubted this one had been the ringleader. That honour probably belonged to the meaner-looking, Flea-Bottom-scum-type man who, just now, had shoved his younger compatriot from the circle. As if somehow, he could be saved now.

But they are convicts nonetheless, Davos reminded himself. And the girl – a servant of Ser Kevan's household – had been no older than Princess Shireen, who stood at his side now. And, if the girl spoke the truth, they had all taken their turns.

The downy-cheeked boy felt the cold worst of the three that remained. From here Davos could see the raised goosepimples on his skin. His manhood was shrunken and small, and his lips were blueish. They seemed to be trying to form a word, "M-m-m…" Davos had seen enough men executed to know what that word was. Mercy. I only held her down. I only watched. I only did as I was ast to, m'lord. And in the last, he was no different to Davos Seaworth.

They bound the boy's wrists with the rope, and pulled it in a tight double knot. Then the circle parted in the cave mouth, and the raw light of the outside world rushed in, and the Stranger revealed her blue breast to them.

The moment that followed seemed to last forever. And Davos, despite his best efforts, thought of the boy prisoner. Maybe he had some widowed mother, still living in Flea Bottom. Or some girl he had loved. And yet…

if half an onion is black with rot, it is a rotten onion. A man is good, or he is evil.

As he thought on the red woman's words, Davos's eyes drifted to King Stannis. Caught between the bright light of fading day and the darkness and ruddy torchlight in the cave, Stannis seemed to epitomise that dilemma of light and dark.

Ser Godry turned to the king. There was half a second's pause. Then Stannis nodded. Ser Godry turned back to his men, and to the boy with the rope now bound around his wrists.

The boy's feet would not move, at first. They were purplish with frostbite from having been exposed out here for so long, but it was the fear that kept him rooted. It spasmed across his face, twisting it, and then sheer terror overtook him. And then, as the men pushed him away from the cave, that terror turned to giddiness. He pushed away from his captors, twisting on his rope, and languidly drifted out into open sky. He might even have been laughing, but Davos thought he had imagined that, and even if he had been, the sound of the wind would have drowned it out.

First came the silence. Then the screaming. And after that the silence again.

The rope came back. The man was gone.

Then it was the fourth man's turn. Then the fifth. The fourth man, having seen three of his accomplices perish before him, fell to his knees, begging. The fifth – the one Davos thought to be the ringleader – spat in the snow at King Stannis's feet. In the end, neither of their choices mattered. They went the same way.

Davos watched King Stannis throughout the execution of the last two, hoping for some brief flicker of humanity, but there was nothing. Long months out here had hardened his once-stony countenance even further, to one of ice. Ice in his mouth, ice in his cheekbones, and blueish chips of ice in his eyes.

He felt a tugging on his arm: Shireen. "Ser Davos," she said. "Ser Davos, we're going inside."

Inside. If you could call it that. The mines of Castamere did not have doors that separated out from in. It was hell above the ground just as it was below. "All right," Davos said to the princess. He nearly reached for her hand, but Shireen did not do that anymore. Instead they walked shoulder to shoulder, she always half a step ahead of him, as they descended into the too-closeness of the cave. From there Shireen forged the path ahead on her own through the fog of men. It made Davos strangely sad to see the little girl he had helped raise grown so much like her father.

He was hastening to catch Shireen when someone tapped him on the shoulder. "Ser," they said, and he saw that it was Ser Godry. "The king's council is meeting. You are needed."

"Why?" So we can discuss the impossibility of our situation yet again?

"I was not told, ser. I was just told to fetch you."

"Now?"

"Yes, sir. In the great hall."

The great hall. That was a joke in itself. The castle of Castamere might have a great hall, somewhere up above, but in these drowned tunnels there was only the empty shell of that greatness. And who are you, a proud lord had once said, that I must bow so low. Only a cat of a different coat, that's all the truth I know. But now Lord Roger Reyne and all his sons were dead. In the caverns there had been a stockpile of treasure: rich crimson tapestries, statues of marble lions, a trove of golden ornaments. But then Lord Tywin diverted the river down here and everything drowned. The marble statues were chipped and soft, the gold worn and greasy cold to the touch. The banners were still wet and sodden, and sanguine dye ran down the manes of the red lions; near fifty years had passed, yet still they bled.

Castamere's great hall, where the council met, was a vast, empty cavern. There was not nearly enough light to illuminate it all, so the oil lanterns serviced only the huge, damp table at the centre of the room. Beyond that King Stannis's and Ser Kevan Lannister's guardsmen stood with torches, and beyond them were stone pillars and mysterious darkness.

The lord of Dragonstone and all Seven Kingdoms sat at the head of the table, illumined by pale red firelight and shadowed in darkness. His eyes were fire and storm. The rest of the council was already assembled. Davos was the last to arrive. The king said nothing as the onion knight took his seat, at his right hand. Across from Davos was Ser Kevan Lannister, looking tired as ever. They exchanged a wordless understanding.

"I have called you here because the time has come," the king said ominously.

"To march, Your Grace?" Ser Justin Massey asked uncertainly. Massey, Davos noted, had grown a beard, though plainly he did not know how to wear it.

"Aye, Ser Justin," said King Stannis. "We must march. Back south, towards Casterly Rock."

Addam Marbrand shook his big orange head. "We cannot. You saw what happened when we executed those men. The enemy is still out there—"

"And I do not think the enemy has any intention of leaving, Ser Addam. They are waiting for us to make our move. Ser Kevan and I are agreed on that." Here he motioned to the Lannister commander.

"Lord Stannis is right," said Ser Kevan. "In an ordinary siege, we might hole up behind our walls and wait for the enemy to give up and go home, or for relief from the Rock and Lannisport, but we know this enemy is no natural foe. You all saw what happened at Ashemark."

Ashemark was where Stannis and the Lannister forces had come together. The king's army had been greatly decimated by then after the battle outside the walls of Lannisport and during the hasty flight north, but they had a good position in the mountains which would have been difficult for Addam Marbrand and Lyle Crakehall's pursuing force to assault. The day had been ripe for battle nonetheless… but then the wights had come down in their hundreds, and the battle between Lannister and Baratheon became a battle for survival between man and Other. With both armies torn pieces by the first assault, they fled back to Castamere, where Ser Kevan had his garrison, and here they were. Things had not been as simple as all that, of course, but it was rare that any of them had time to dwell on the past. There was no time for then when everything was happening now.

"All the same," said Ser Addam. "If we go out there—"

"We may all die, yes," the king replied. "But if we stay here, and they mount an attack on the caves, we have no way of stopping them. The mines of Castamere are not defensible, as Lord Reyne learned to his peril, even with a well-trained and well-provisioned army."

"And we are not that," Ser Kevan added. "Our supplies are running low already. What we have here will last us another two weeks, even with lowered rations. And our morale…"

"Our morale is sufficient," insisted Ser Lyle Crakehall, the Strongboar.

"Oh?" said the king. "Ser Davos, tell Ser Lyle how many men have died today."

"Nineteen," said Davos. "At the last count."

"You are mistaken," Ser Lyle insisted. "We sent out the five rapists, yes—"

"Yes," said Davos. "And then there are the fourteen men who died of their own volition. Their fellows tried to stop them, but they walked out into the snow and that was that."

"So," said the king. "The situation is more dire than you think, sers. Our men are killing themselves from fear. And maybe they have a point. If we leave the caves behind, yes, we will die. In our hundreds, and maybe in our thousands. But you are all fighting men. I am sure you have all been told many times that the best way to die, if there is such a thing, is with a sword in your hand."

"And the taste of enemy blood on our lips," Marbrand finished sarcastically. "Indeed. But these foes of ours do not bleed, my lord."

"No," said Stannis flatly. "They do not. But what would you have us do, Ser Addam? Stay here and die?"

"Stay here and live, I hope."

"You hope." The king's face was wan and steely. "Will you pray too? Will you put your hands together and say a prayer to the Seven? Or to the Lord of Light? He has given me a flaming sword. Perhaps he will give us all salvation, if you pray to him. Perhaps he will make the snows fade." Stannis's mouth twitched, but it was impossible to tell whether it was in anger or amusement. "Go on. Pray."

Marbrand was quiet. Ser Kevan spoke for him: "If the gods were ever planning to answer our prayers, Ser Addam, they would have done so long ago. The sentiment is plain. We are on our own. We have two choices. Stay here, or go. As I see it… that choice is live or die."

"Ser Addam may be right," said King Stannis. "Perhaps the day after we leave, a Lannister army will arrive from the south and relieve us. If we leave the caves, we may doom ourselves. But… I see this not so much as a matter of life or death as a matter of choosing what to believe in. In them, or in ourselves. Surely we are the masters of our own fates?"

Something about that moved them. They did not acknowledge it outright, and Davos did not break rank in that, but it was true for him. Stannis had spoken of dying well. Davos was not sure there was such a thing; indeed, his own father had spoken fiercely to the contrary – nothing at all is worth more than your life, and so forth – and he understood that; he would much rather his son Devan had lived a coward than died. But at the same time, if he had to die…

And he very well might have to.

He did not realise until Stannis said "Ser Davos" that all the others had gone. "Is something troubling you, ser?"

"No, Your Grace." Davos rose. "I'll be away—"

The king grimaced. "Remain seated, ser. We need to talk. To discuss matters I would rather not have the entirety of my council – especially not the Lannisters – be privy to."

He meant close counsel, or even friendship, but those words would never cross Stannis Baratheon's lips (and frankly Davos would be concerned if they did). "Which matters, Your Grace?"

A long pause. Then: "Shireen."

"What about her?"

"Where do you think this notion of fleeing back to Casterly Rock came from. The girl has told me that the boy Tommen will be most accomodating to our cause."

"And… you believe her? Wholly?"

"No. But I think she is right when she says it may be our best chance." There was a pause. "You never really told me how you came to be here in the Westerlands."

"That was Shireen's choice too. No doubt you have heard about Melisandre and Selyse…"

"I have. And I am angry at myself for not predicting it earlier. The red woman always made her allusions, but I never thought she was entirely serious. So I have you to thank for that as well, Davos."

He had played no part in the princess's rescue; that had been Melisandre herself, after some incomprehensible change of heart. But he did not need to tell Stannis that.

"But," said the king, "even with that danger gone, I thought you would have stayed in the Riverlands—"

"It was my counsel to stay in the Riverlands, Your Grace. But I am afraid the Princess Shireen insisted—"

"A fifteen-year-old girl insisted, you mean."

"She is your daughter. And even more stubborn than you, I think. Once she had her heart set on coming to you, I could not change her mind. I think, after Riverrun and Melisandre, she felt she was a mere bystander, watching the war tear her life apart."

Stannis nodded. "I know the feeling. When the Windproud broke up on Shipbreaker Bay I felt a distinct helplessness. But at the same time, that was what drove me."

So you see, Your Grace, thought Davos, she is your daughter after all. And the fact that she had managed to convince Stannis Baratheon of anything proved that. "And do you believe what she says about Casterly Rock?"

"That is why I asked you here, Ser Davos. Does it seem… reasonable that the bastard boy would be amenable to our cause?"

"I do not know, Your Grace. I did not trust him. But Princess Shireen did. Maybe that is folly on her part—"

The king's frown grew. "I think there is something you are not telling me, Ser Davos. You seem unsure of your own judgement. That is most strange."

What was stranger was that he did trust the boy. And it was not because of what Shireen had said. It was because the boy had told him the truth. He killed Devan, yes, and so I must hate him for that, always. But he told me that killed Devan. He knew that I would have been well within my rights as a father to strike him down there and then, but he told me anyway.

But he could not explain any of that to Stannis.

"It is your decision, Your Grace," he said instead. "I am uncertain, but I think you and Ser Kevan are right about one thing: if we stay here, we will all surely die. If we leave… we may still die, but our deaths will be ours, not theirs."

There was a moment of silence. Then the king ground his teeth together and said, "Tell me, Davos, how did we come to the point where dying well is the only thing we have left? There was a time when I meant to take the Iron Throne. I had the might of the Stormlands behind me, and I stood in R'hllor's shadow, wielding the Red Sword of Heroes." He snorted. "And yet here I am."

"You still wield that sword, Your Grace. When Shireen and I found you that night…"

"Oh, it catches fire when it wants to, yes. And my knights tell me that it is R'hllor's light, and I nod along with them. Because if you give a man a flaming sword and a prophecy, he thinks he has become the last hero, or the prince that was promised. But I needed the Lord of Light on the Blackwater, and he deserted me then. I needed him at Lannisport, and he deserted me again, and left me for dead. I trusted in him, and in Melisandre, and they repaid my trust with lies and treachery.

"And then there is you, Davos. You are no god. No son of a king. Only a crabber's son. And yet you have been truer to me than all these gods put together. I do not believe in gods any more. There is only one thing left for me to believe in, and that is the men. The hearts, minds, and swords of men will prevail. R'hllor offered me fire. Power. But what is power, without a way to wield it? What are gods without the men who follow them?"

"I can't speak for the gods, Your Grace," said Davos. "Nor for men either, I don't think. But my wife is a pious woman. She knows the Seven, far better than I do, and they taught her virtues. I don't believe in the gods much, but I believe in some of the things they teach us. Maybe when we die there are no seven heavens and no seven hells; maybe there is just nothing. But I do not think trying to live virtuously can hurt us, even if there is no hell on the other side."

"Aye," said Stannis. Then his eyes drifted away, and Davos knew that it was time for him to leave the king to his quiet reflection. He had other duties to attend to, besides. The first of those was Shireen.

He found the princess in her chambers, across the hall from his own. They were as damp and cavernous as any in Castamere, but Shireen had tried to make them homely by hanging up cloaks and blankets as tapestries and by placing a few candles here and there. A dozen books, the contents of her saddlebags, were spilled across the floor. Davos found her hunched over one of them, reading by the light of a thin candle. For a few moments he stood and watched her. She knew he was here, no doubt. But her reading came first, and he came second, as was increasingly the case.

Eventually Davos cleared his throat. "What are you reading, princess?"

"It doesn't matter." Shireen closed the book and looked up. "What is it, ser? Does my father want me for anything?"

"No. It's not that. I was just wondering if you wanted help with anything."

She saw through his ruse, of course. "I am fine, Ser Davos," she said, "but I sense that you are not. And it is a very particular problem that troubles you. Something that only I can solve. Else you would not have come to me for counsel. Which means…"

"—Devan," said Davos, because he was sure she already knew. "I was talking to your father, princess. He says—"

"—that I told him we should try and make for Casterly Rock. Yes. I did."

"Why?"

"What other choice do we have, Ser Davos? Other than staying here to die?" She said it with hard-edged, unfamiliar confidence. She has changed so much.

"None, my princess."

"Then we had best head for the Rock, don't you think?"

"I suppose so, my princess." Davos turned to go. "I apologise for interrupting you."

When he was at the door Shireen called him back. "I know it is hard for you," she said. "With what happened to Devan. I miss him too. But sometimes we have to make peace with our enemies. And… whatever he did, Lord Tommen will help us. I know he will. And you know so too, I think. You just don't want to admit it."

Davos nodded, and without another word, he went out into the hallway. He could smell a cookfire somewhere down the winding hall, but he had no appetite for food. Instead he retreated to the narrow space of his chambers, closed the curtains behind him, and lay down amid his blankets in the complete darkness.

It was always raining in Castamere. Water dripped endlessly down the walls. Among decrepit watchtowers and crumbling ramparts, the rains wept o'er these halls. And here I am to hear.

How many women died here? Davos wondered, staring up at the stone ceiling. How many children? How many were convinced that they would be safe, because their lord said they would be? Then he thought, if Lord Tywin had gone to Dragonstone while we were still there, or to Cape Wrath and our keep, what would have become of Marya and Stanny and Steff? He could not help but picture his elder sons too, floating facedown in Blackwater Bay, with tendrils of serpent-green fire swirling around them. He thought of Devan – his Devan, his young, sweet son, and the battlefield at Sarsfield, and mud on gauntlets and bright blue eyes staring into green ones that stared back bright as the wildfire from the Blackwater.

He fought bravely to the end, the boy-king said. His eyes were pleading.

Davos was quite sure he was dreaming now. He grabbed the boy by the neck and drove his fingers into his neck, squeezing and squeezing till the face went blue and the eyes went blue and he realised he had been strangling Devan all along, and he realised that Melisandre had been right. If anyone killed Devan, it was me.

The next morning, he woke early, washed, and donned his suit of padded leather, and his thick wool gloves. He broke his fast on wheat bread and cold blood sausage with the men – though he did not share words with them – then made his way up through the damp halls to the cave-mouth where the prisoners had been executed the day before. Baratheon and Lannister soldiers were lining up, beneath their banners of stag and lion. The Lannister men were better armed; their steel was newer and brighter, though the patches of rust were still there. Stannis's men made do with arms more meagre – they were hardier, and stronger, and if it came to it, they would fight with teeth and claws. But that did not really matter anymore. He must needs put any and all doubt aside. It is Us against Them.

So Davos walked past Lannister men who might have fought him on battlefields long ago, and was thankful for each and every one of them. At the cave-mouth, he came across the man who had once been his enemy's Hand. Ser Kevan wore a cloak of heavy red wool. His fingers were closed around the hilt of a ruby-set longsword.

After a time, Stannis came to his side too, dressed in his dark steel armour. Then Ser Lyle Crakehall and Ser Addam Marbrand, Ser Richard Horpe and Ser Justin Massey as well. Stannis reached into his scabbard, and drew forth Lightbringer. The blade did not burn, but fingers of pale white light ran down the steel, so it seemed to glow.

The snow was blowing into their faces, through the opening. It was very cold. Everything seemed to go still around him. Davos was barely even aware that Ser Kevan was there at all.

"So," said King Stannis. "We march."


Guess who's going on the world's worst roadtrip...

So Stannis and the gang are on the move. I skipped over a lot of the "contention between Lannister and Baratheon forces" stuff since it seems fairly obvious that things have to resolve themselves like these, and I tried not to dwell too much on the past, even though Davos's personal line in this chapter is very much about reconciling himself with their situation.

It's unusual, I think, to see Davos in this situation. I enjoy showDavos, but I think in Season 7 he had no depth at all. His jovial "The last time I was here, you killed my son" to Tyrion is possibly the worst line of dialogue ever created, since it seems to directly conflict with Davos's rage from 6.10 over the loss of Shireen. But I digress. It's weird to see Davos being the one who is lagging behind while Stannis is the epitome of progress.

A few thoughts:

You may notice that there are a fair few references to Stannis that rely on the dichotomy of light and dark, and the idea of illumination. This will be expanded on in the future.

The final scene is heavily inspired by both Daenerys's "Shall we begin?" from 7.01 and the last shot from 7.05, "Eastwatch", and the beginning of the wight hunt, both of which were individual moments that really hit me.

Here's a very important line of dialogue that I'll just highlight:

"I do not believe in gods any more. There is only one thing left for me to believe in, and that is the men. The hearts, minds, and swords of men will prevail. R'hllor offered me fire. Power. But what is power, without a way to wield it? What are gods without the men who follow them?"


Finally, thank you to everyone who has read, followed, favourited and reviewed.