King's Landing

"They're demons!" Septon Symon downs another mug of ale, his face flushed and flecked with foam. "They've tormented us for too long!"

"Hear hear!" all the drunken patrons shout. Royce the Baker raises his tankard in good cheer, but none of the alcohol goes down his gullet; he's never one to be inebriated. It didn't take him long to find the disgraced septon's little hideout though he must commend them for avoiding the Gold Cloaks' watchful eyes, not that they're competent at their duty.

Ahh, poor Symon of Flea Bottom… To think someone like you would pull a blade upon the Fat One. The man that stands before him looks nothing like the regal septon that reached for the position of Most Devout: his hair is unkempt, he smells of cat piss, and there are odd stains on his robes. Nevertheless, his name and voice still gather a sizeable crowd in the slums. Reputation goes a long way, Royce smirks, remembering the whispers and documents regarding Symon's history in Flea Bottom.

"The Sept," Symon wobbles and needs to be righted by a begging brother, "the Sept is corrupt! Their crystals are stained by the blood of mothers and children!"

"A demon killed my mother!" a lumpy-nosed man beside Royce shouts, his eyes red and wet. "They found 'er, they did. Ripped apart in my alley! The Faith cursed us and… And…" He breaks down in a drunken sob, leaning awkwardly against Royce as he cries his lungs out.

"Them demons… Killed me daughters," an old man growls. The other drinkers nod along. "Left 'em fucked up in a ditch," he shakes his head before slamming his fist on the table. "I want their blood! For my daughters!"

"Red demons!" says a mother, holding a crying baby against her breasts. "Red demons from across the sea! They've come to feast in our homes, damn them all!"

The patrons call for blood and justice. And though Royce's clamour is half-hearted, he can't help but smile at this development. Never did he expect a chance encounter to sow the seed of disarray within the Faith. Now all he needs is to tend it well so it may grow like weeds.

"Yes… YES!" Symon roars. "We shall have their heads!"

"Heads!"

"We shall clip their wings!"

"WINGS!"

"And we will not let those demons trick us!" Symon climbs up a table and draws his blade. "For the SEVEN!"

"FOR THE SEVEN!" All bang their feet and cups; a miracle that no one tried to interrupt them for noise complaints. But it's time for Royce to go; he has other matters to attend to.

"Good man, good man. Sorry for this but I must leave," he carefully lifts off the now half-asleep man from his shoulder. "I've got bread to bake, yes. Sweets and cornbread, oh yes."

He discreetly exits the building and takes a quiet walk through the alleys of Flea Bottom. Not much goes on in these parts, earning them the blind eye of the City Watch. Perfect for conspiring, Royce thinks as he enters a more crowded area of the slums.

A splinter in the Faith … Such a rare thing to occur. How much longer will it be until they reach the point of violence? Perhaps they need… A little push? A few 'messages' from the Starry Sept in Oldtown? Or should it be the other way around, telling Oldtown of the Great Sept of Baelor's activities and convince them to support these fringe groups? My oh my, things are getting quite foul with the Faith.

Royce walks past the inn where the Healer used to reside. There is no queue for her; after all, she and Barristan Selmy are awaiting this afternoon's trial. And knowing what I know, it would be unfavourable for them. The knight could still be of use. I should lend a few words to Queen Cersei then. But losing the Healer? Oh, how unfortunate for the people of Flea Bottom. Let's see…

Royce disappears into an alleyway and enters a dark building, not to emerge again for another while.

…

Mudface the begging brother walks out of the dark building, huddling his moth-eaten wool cloak and walking barefoot through Flea Bottom's grime. He hobbles his way through the crowd and towards his favourite bowl-o-brown shop, Rose Bowl, saying "pardon" and "excuse me" to everyone he accidentally touches.

He takes his usual seat at the corner of the noisy pot-shop, away from any discerning eyes. He can never be too cautious here. Rose, the plump serving woman and owner of the shop, approaches him with an annoyed look. "What ya want?"

Mudface gives his usual answer: "Oh, um, a bowl, please. And hold the salt." The woman nods, understanding the message.

The first to arrive is a warm cup of water. He fishes out the parchment at the bottom and reads it:

No news of Riverlands or Vale.

"Figures," Mudface murmurs before drinking the paper down. He hums The Bear and the Maiden Fair while he waits for the bowl, tapping his feet to the tune. Due to the missing ravens, he's been forced to conduct a more direct investigation throughout King's Landing. I wonder if my little birds are alright. To not hear of them for so long does not ease my heart. Of course, he needs to figure out the missing ravens because it's not only him; everyone in the Crownlands professes the same problem. How am I to fake a message then?

Rose comes to his table and places a large bowl of brown. Though he can see the vegetables floating in the brown broth, he has many questions about its freshness. None of it is going to be said in front of the server, of course. "Eat up, I added a lil' treat for ya."

"Thank you, dear."

He swirls around the bowl, scooping out the hard contents inside: a groat with a dragon, a rat skull, and… A bird claw? A curious message, one that Mudface never thought of receiving.

This means Daenerys Targaryen has attained something of great power. An army, a company, slaves, it is still unclear. But the future is… Very promising, Mudface smiles. His happiness even hides the distaste for the bowl-o-brown as he drinks it all up in a single go. He wipes his chin clean with the woollen cloak. Better to leave now lest I linger longer with this foul stuff.

Three silver stags under a bowl should be enough. Exiting the fine establishment, his mind wanders on all the stirring waves. A Targaryen gaining power, insurgency in Faith relations, Littlefinger's plays around the Riverlands… This is not mere chaos but something more. Perhaps my young Prince across the-

Mudface bumps into someone, nearly knocking them over. "Sorry," he says, bowing his head low.

"No problem," the man replies.

Mudface recognises that voice. After walking further ahead, he turns around to see quite the surprise: Ser Davos Seaworth, limping along with his son Dale and two other people. He recognises the small girl to be Shireen Baratheon. And just like his whispers reported, the girl bears vicious burns along most of her neck and arms, a sorry sight to behold.

But the other… A young woman as tall as the Onion Knight with haphazardly cut black hair and strange red eyes. For a moment Mudface fears that she's the shadowbinder from Asshai that Stannis Baratheon brought over, but a fragmentary knowledge of them corrects him: R'hllor's followers use glamours for their disguises, not badly done hair dye that stains the clothes. She must be the other pyromancer, a new one named Mokou. And to have both of them here… Oh, Ser Davos, are you committing treason against your own Lord? A smirk threatens to cross his face but he soon suppresses it.

Mudface flicks the groat from before into the bowl of a mute little bird. "Follow them," he whispers. The child scurries off into the masses.

After hearing nothing new in the rat pits of Flea Bottom, Mudface takes his leave from the slums and enters the Great Sept of Baelor. Most men avoid him while other holy brothers simply keep their courtesy; Brothers of the Faith, after all. Cordoned off by metal gates is no other than the body of the late hand, Lord Eddard Stark. People here and there leave flowers and he spots a few Stark household guards paying their respects. Moving past them, he looks down at the man's pale long face and tuts. A shame that he has to leave so early. A man of his quality is rare to find. Gone are the days of honourable knights and lords, if they ever existed in the first place.

But Mudface dares not wander deeper into the Sept; there are unwelcome things there. Some say the Messengers are truly divine and holy and the likes of Symon calls them demons. But to him they are no more than sorcerers and maegis, not that it makes it any better. I've crossed the Narrow Sea to be away from such disturbing things, but to see them display their powers for all to see… Maybe I should contact the Starry Sept, he sighs.

Realising the time, Mudface quickens his pace towards the base of the Red Keep where servants dump the latrine. Shooing away the gathered crows and birds, he sneaks between a broken wall and enters a secret passage.

…

Varys exits his humble chamber, all dressed in his flower-embroidered purple and gold damask and wearing a sweet lavender perfume. The oils do well to his skin, keeping his bald head moisturised and helping to clean the grime from all his travel. As the Master of Whispers, he understands well the importance of appearances, whether that be in court or the streets of King's Landing. In the presence of noble eyes, he's nothing more than a plump and effeminate eunuch working hard to serve the Realm.

And that's all they need to see.

Though the trial isn't to be held until noon, the throne room is already bustling with the chattering of Lords and Ladies alike. The Iron Throne casts a long shadow on them all, though the one sitting on it is not the King but his son, Joffrey Baratheon. He sees the Queen seated to the Throne's right, comfortable in her plush red cushions and high-back seat. There are red and Gold Cloaks scattered about along with the remaining Kingsguard, though none really makes a formidable presence.

Of those involved with the trial of Barristan Selmy, he spots a few interesting characters. As his whispers told him, Janos Slynt is preparing his little speech by the side of Maester Pycelle. Ah, a rigged trial. My my, how bold for a man cloaked with gold. Varys spots the cook among them as well as the head of the Lannister guards, both witnesses to the Kingsguard's eventual arrest. Of course, the Throne will call upon Varys as well. He has all the needed information: either to pin the killings on Barristan or to set him free, though he has yet to decide which. The severity of his punishment will be quite high, and a man of his values is a rare find…

Looking over the stands, he sees the crying Stark children in dark clothes and surrounded by the Stark household guards. A sorry outcome for the little girls, but it certainly could be worse. He has heard a few things regarding Littlefinger's plans, none of which will leave the Stark Lord in high standing. His name is untainted, leaving the Starks more neutral in this matter. I wonder what his son and wife will think of this, however. Retrieving those two girls would be of most paramount for them and I have no doubts Cersei will keep them close.

That's another thought: what will Cersei and Joffrey do? The King won't stay alive for much longer knowing the Queen's hatred of him, but what of the young Prince? What damage can he do to the Kingdom once he takes power? Varys smiles at the thought. Once those two destroy any semblance of order… Perhaps a Targaryen would not look too unappealing for hesitant Lords.

He takes note of all the people present: Jalabhar Xho in his extravagant feathers is talking to wide-eyed guests, all the relevant Stokeworths are present, he sees Lord Gyles Rosby talking up a server, Lord Lodos Chyttering is keeping his distance from the Paxter twins, Lady Talia Manning is getting quite close to a rugged Lannister guard…

Several Houses are missing from this trial, notably the ones currently under Stannis Baratheon of Dragonstone. They've yet to make their moves, no doubt the fire incident cowed their faith. However, that's not what Varys is worried about, no.

Where's Littlefinger?

This sea of connections and opportunities is a prime meal for the coy Lord, yet he sees no sign of him. That can't be good.

Citing the need for the latrines, Varys exits the stuffy throne room and walk down the halls of the Red Keep. Servants and servers scuttle about but the Spider much prefers the quieter halls near the royal quarters. And no doubt Baelish as well. I've yet to discuss with him this matter of Barristan arrest. Ah, perhaps I'll gloat over his failure to secure Eddard Stark. If so, there's only one place he could be.

He walks up a set of stairs towards the Red Keep's eastern garden. A private space, more often used by Myrcella and Tommen rather than Robert or Cersei. If he remembers correctly, those two are being guarded in their rooms by Ser Arys Oakheart. Not a Kingslayer or Barristan the Bold, but a fine knight all the same. Reaching the top, he opens the doors and-

"CAW!"

-a flock of birds greet him. He looks around bewildered for crows and ravens are perching on the walls and trees of the Red Keep in terrifying numbers. All of their beady eyes stare at him; for once the Spider is the one being watched, and he doesn't take kindly to that. Frowning, he walks briskly past their dark feathers, hoping to find Littlefinger and extract him from the area.

But Lord Baelish is not alone. Varys sees a woman with him, sitting atop a statue of the Baratheon stag. The two chatter and laugh, their friendly air unnerving him to no end. Of course, all of that he never shows. "Ah, Lord Baelish," the Spider interrupts the two, "I apologise for not seeing you here. I hope I'm not interrupting something terribly important."

"Lord Varys," Littlefinger turns on his heels with a bright and empty smile. "Worry not, dear friend, for it is I who must apologise. After all, my absence at the throne room is surely noticeable."

"I shall not blame you for that, Lord Baelish. It does take a certain amount of will to stand the bustle of that place," the Spider smiles before turning to the oddly dressed woman. Black hair, red eyes, and strange clothes… I don't recognise its design. "A friend of yours, I assume?"

"Soon to be," the woman answers, swinging her legs from her perch on the statue. "My name is Shameimaru Aya, but you may call me Aya."

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Aya," Varys bows. An unfamiliar name. Where did she come from? "Not often do I see new faces at the Red Keep, so your presence does brighten up this gloomy day."

"It's sunny," she chuckles.

"The weather, yes, but not the people's hearts. Days in King's Landing have been dark for the soul, you might find."

"Eirin Yagokoro's trial, 'Healer of Flea Bottom,'" the woman's laughter brings caws from the birds around them. "Ah, this is such a sordid affair, and so SO interesting! Words on the wind said you two are involved in the trial, correct?"

Varys gives a careful side-eye at Littlefinger; the man simply shrugs. "Correct, Lady Aya. It should begin in a little while longer."

"Excellent!" She claps her hands, sending the birds flying. "That's enough time to talk business. Do not fret," she grins, "because I think this is in your best interest."

Flea Bottom

"I must apologise for your hair, Lady Marge. My son really should have-"

"Like I said, it's alright Ser… Dumfrey," Lady Mokou corrects herself. "Hair grows back; burnt skin and wounded knees do not. Not without intervention, that is."

"…Yes Lady Marge." The assurance does not wipe away his feeling of guilt. After spending a decade attending the Baratheons of Dragonstone, it made him well aware the importance of a Lady's appearance. Though she claims to not be a high-born, Lady Mokou's long pearl-white hair would not be a simple thing to maintain. And Dale had cut it all off with sheep shears. Damn it, son! he frowns. At least cut the damn hair properly.

"Worry not father," his son whispers, hefting their supplies in a large sack. "She looks far more common now. That white hair of hers will make us stand out for miles."

"You could have chosen some better hair dye, though," she complains, running her fingers through her hair and getting them stained.

"Not many want to dye their hair black," Dale shrugs. "And thank the Sevens that mother's clothes fit you, else you'll be wearing our jerkins," he laughs.

"I'm fine wearing pants."

"It would be uncouth, Lady Marge. And stop suggesting strange ideas, Dale." Davos jabs his son with an elbow. Sighing, he turns to the hooded girl holding his hand. "Are you feeling well, Ashley?" Though she does not answer, the nod and hand squeeze she gives brings warmth back into his heart. That's good.

What's not well however is her silence in their journey into King's Landing. He knows she's a quiet girl who keeps to herself and Patchface, yet he hopes to see her smile today. Lady Shireen is strong, he reminds himself. A Baratheon. By the Seven, she'll understand what we're doing.

Their walk into Flea Bottom is slowed by Davos' injured knee. The damned bolt missed his kneecap but must have cut something important; they'll need to get it treated soon, or else…

Dale gags and the others cringe upon passing a nearby rat pit. Ever since moving his family out of Flea Bottom and into Cape Wrath at the Stormlands, Davos had come to miss a few things from this stinking city: the Great Sept of Baelor, the pot-o-browns, the rat pits… But this smell? That he's glad to be away from. "When you were young you used to play among the rat pits, throwing rotten fish guts at the rats. You should try to relive your childhood, son."

"Gods, don't remind me, father," his son coughs. Davos lets out a hearty chuckle; it's been a while, hasn't it?

"Is Eirin really servicing people in a place like this?" asks Lady Mokou who's face is scrunched up in disgust. Shireen is preoccupied with staring at a nearby rat pit, the yipping of dogs coming from within. "She's a bit of a clean freak, and this place is everything but."

"It's where she works," Davos answers. "She established herself inside an inn not far from here. It's just down that street and to the- Keh!" The onion knight nearly tumbles if not for his son's quick thinking. "Thank you, Dale. Apologies," he smiles, wiping the sweat from his forehead. His knee throbs, bringing sharp pain with each step.

"Alright. Father, you need to rest. All this walking will do your leg no good."

"Nonsense. I can still-"

"Dale's right," Lady Mokou cuts. "We're looking for Eirin to be healed, not to get injured. Dale, do you know a place around here that'll take us?"

"Been a while since I've walked these parts," he admits, scanning the area for a welcoming place before pointing one out. "Ah, maybe that one?"

Davos follows his son's finger and sees a small inn nestled between a worn-down tavern and several rowdy rat pits. Just from its appearance, he has his suspicion on its seediness. "Perhaps we can find one-"

"Do you have money?"

"Aye," Dale pats his pouch. "Groats and crowns at the ready, and a few silver stags as well. We can stay more than a week there if need be."

"Sounds great!"

Davos groans but he can't do much against both of their dragging. Lady Shireen meanwhile still clings tightly to his hand. She's scared. "No need to worry," he whispers, "as no ruffians will touch you. My son is good with his dagger and the Lady is, well…"

"I'm scared for you," she finally speaks, her voice straining under the hood. "I don't want you to get hurt like father."

"I won't," he smiles back, though the girl doesn't return it. "The healer is going to make you healthy and treat my leg. I'm sure Lord Stannis will be very surprised upon seeing you running about Dragonstone again!"

A small smile appears on her face. "Thank you, Ser Davos."

"It's my duty to help you. But call me Dumfrey lest someone recognise me."

"Oops!" she covers her mouth with a giggle. At least she has some humour back, he thinks before entering the inn.

Unlike the outside, its interior is less dilapidated and is aglow with open blinds and lanterns; none of which quenches Davos' worries. They walk past all sorts of people: a bunch of sellswords, a few whores, some poor gambler and a couple of street urchins… Having been a smuggler, he can feel a hostile air surrounding all of them. The onion knight gulps. This is no place for a little girl. Even I don't feel welcome here.

"'Scuse me," Dale steps forth with Lady Mokou, "who's the innkeep of this establishment?"

"What ya want?" says a round stubbly man, wiping away at some beer spillage on a table.

"Do you have spare rooms available?" Lady Mokou asks him. "We're looking to spend a few nights."

The man eyes the four with some suspicion, lingering on Davos who avoids eye contact. Damn it, I should have cut my hair! he curses.

The man points at them. "Not from 'round 'ere, are ye?"

"We hail from Lord Tully's domain, at least we were," Dale's voice grows grim, taking on his disguise. "Lions prowled onto my farm, you see. I barely escaped with my wife and daughter. Father, the Sevens bless him, he took a bolt to the leg. We need a place to sleep until we can travel further with relatives into Oldtown, safe from all this chaos."

Davos must admit that his son made a great lie. He's heard of the troubles with the Lannisters and no doubt King's Landing would be taking in people fleeing from the Riverlands. The question is whether or not this man will.

"Them lions, causin' up trouble," the innkeep grumbles before replying in a low voice: "I mean no ill to her grace the Queen, but Kingslayer ain't the best of 'em. Got family there, but moved 'em 'ere after I 'eard the news."

"Good for business, you know." The voice comes from a drunken sellsword, a cup in his hand and a dagger in the other. "Mates been hired left and right, they'll be rich by the end of this," the man laughs.

"Ye got the coins?" the innkeeper asks, ignoring the sellsword.

"Ay-"

"Bumfucks ain't got no coins!" the sellsword shouts. "Them farmers never have much other than goats and eggs, and now they have none."

"We have coins," Davos says, quite irritated by that man's behaviour. "So my goodman, how much for a week's stay?"

"Fer you four? Three groats a night for seven nights which means..." The innkeep takes a moment to count before declaring: "Twenty-five groats."

"Twenty-one, you mean," Lady Mokou corrects him.

"You haggling? Fine, twenty-one for the fine lass," the innkeep chuckles.

Davos cringes. "That much? Never heard a night so expensive here."

"War," he replies simply.

"Hey, HEY!" the sellsword shouts. "You bumfucks low on coins? How about renting that wifey there? I got silver coins and lotsa pearls for her breasts, ain't that right lads?" The other sellswords laugh and jeer along, though it only draws the ire of both Dale and Lady Mokou.

Their clamour dampens once the pissed-off 'couple' reaches their table. Davos sees a flicker of light between the Lady's fingers. "Mind repeating that again, young man?" she asks with a smile. This is bad.

"I'm a decade older than you, lassie," says the sellsword as he downs his tankard, "and more experienced than he. What, your husband wanna watch me play my longsword over-"

Dale stabs his dagger into the table. The sellswords all rise with their hands on their scabbards, no sign of all that drunkenness. "Apologise to my wife," he hisses, "and maybe you'll leave with your swords intact."

…

The ringing of steel sounds as their swords are-

*BANG BANG*

All freeze and turn to look at the angry innkeeper, his fist cracking the wooden table. "No fightin' oin ma inn!" he bellows. "I don't want 'em Gold Cloaks knocking my ass again, ye hear!?"

"Tell 'em to back the fuck off!"

"Harys! Many times' I'm tellin' ye disturbing ma customers! Even whores won't play ye! Pay your drink or get out of here you worthless bum."

"Fine!" the sellsword throws down his cup before sheathing his sword. "This place's shit anyways!"

"Yet you always come back!" the innkeeper retorts, sinking into his chair once the sellsword is out. "Sorry 'bout that, business been bad lately."

Davos lets out his held breath, loosening the grip he has on Lady Shireen's trembling hands. That could have gone… Much worse. Would they survive it? Most likely, especially with Lady Mokou on their side. But that means discarding their disguises and unleashing fires onto Flea Bottom, a terrifying prospect for this city.

"Right, lower ye to twenty groats fer that," he sighs before clapping his hands. "Alfie! Help 'em up and show the rooms!"

"Yes pa'," says one of the street urchins who then guide them up the stairway. "This the room," the boy opens the one at the end of the hall, revealing a humble place with two beds, a table, and a small dresser. "Pa' servin' no dinner or lunch for now, maybe when war's over."

"Thank you, kid." Davos sends him away with a half-groat before settling into the room. The bed is not too dank, easing the weight off of his legs. "Either me or you have to sleep on the floor," he says to Dale. Lady Shireen will have to sleep with Lady Mokou, he thinks. But seeing the girl climbing onto the bed he's on gives no confidence of that notion.

Dale places down the supplies before taking out several coins. "I'll look for the healer and ask if she can come here," he says.

"Can I tag along?" Lady Mokou asks. "I know her well. It'll be easier to convince her if I'm with you."

"No need, Lady Mokou. I think it's best if you stay with father and the girl; none of them are going to be good in a fight. Protect them with your flames, o saviour from the night," he grins.

Though she frowns at the jab, she concedes anyway. Once he leaves the room, Lady Mokou opens the window next to her bed and stares out at the city. "Your son's looking about confused. You sure he'll be alright?"

"Dale was raised here," Davos answers, unpacking the supplies they brought. "He can take care of himself. Besides, the healer is quite popular here. He can ask around if lost."

"Is that so…" A soft breeze plays with her hair, luckily not bringing in much of the city's stench. Curious, Davos can see quite the amazement in her eyes as she looks over the city.

"First time to King's Landing?"

"First time to a city like this," she answers. "Everything's so… Large here. And stony. The buildings, the walls, the… That red building on top of that hill right there."

"The red building? Ah, you mean the Red Keep. It's the royal castle of Westeros, seat of the Iron Throne. King Robert lives there." I think he's still recovering from the boar wounds. Hopefully the Red Priestess' words are false.

"The monarch lives there? Shit," she chuckles before catching herself. "Ah, shouldn't have said that."

"…Fine."

"Hmm? Did you say something, Lady Shireen?"

"I said it's fine!" she reiterates before covering herself with a blanket.

At least they're talking to each other, he sighs. "Well, try to refrain from fouler language. Lady Shireen is only ten, after all."

"Got you."

"So," Davos continues their conversation, "not many castles where you came from?"

"No, there are a lot of castles. They're just much more wooden and nowhere near as large as that. Didn't stop noblemen from gilding their roof with gold," she smiles. "Of course, I also prefer to live in seclusion. The bustle of a city like this can be a bit too much."

"Not fond of city life?"

"Too many and too hectic," she complains. "And this city has a certain… Shall I say, air about it."

"Some say King's Landing is an acquired taste, like eating snails and lampreys."

"Gods, this atmosphere is not as tasty as lampreys," she bemoans, earning a burst of laughter from Davos.

"Well, even I who was born and raised here became disillusioned once I set sail upon the wide sea. The wind, the salt, such a difference in smells… But enough of an old-man's ramblings. What about you, Lady Mokou? You said that you know the healer?"

"I doubt there's someone else named Eirin Yagokoro around here. Yeah, I usually help out in guiding and transporting patients to her clinic."

"Ah, the same homeland? Must be an interesting place to have such amazing magic." He looks back at Shireen. Though the girl is quiet, he knows that she's listening in quite intently. "Is it somewhere in Essos?"

"I don't know what Essos is."

…Huh!? "A fine jest," he smiles, but Davos can only see confusion in her eyes. "You… You don't know of Essos? The land across the Narrow Sea?"

"Nope."

Either she's lying or truly from the great unknown… And I fear she's not lying. "Where is this mysterious place then?"

"Have you ever heard of a set of islands called Japan?"

"No."

"That's where Eirin and I came from, somewhere between the mountains and valleys in a place called Gensokyo. It was by coincidence that we met, actually. We made our homes in the same forest," she laughs. "Fate does play us for fools."

"Forest… So both you and the healer live in seclusion? Is it not bad for a clinic?"

"Oh, very," she grins to his surprise. "The forest is full of strange youkais and those fuc-foul rabbits," she corrects herself. "The bamboos all look the same, making it hard to even know which way is East or West. Without my guidance, travel through there is challenging. Lots of people get unlucky, with some being eaten by wolf-sized rabbits before ever reaching Eirin's place."

He hears Lady Shireen yelp in fear but leaves her be. "That's… Foul."

"Well, she never intended to open a clinic in the first place. One thing led to another and over time she became quite popular. For me, I just enjoy cooking up those stray rabbits. Sometimes I even invite a friend from the nearby village over," she says wistfully. "I do miss her cooking… Her company is a lovely one."

"Ah, rabbit stew." Davos remembers the first time he made his own after being given a keep and the grounds to hunt. "There's always a unique taste when you're the one who caught it."

But now he wonders at this woman's strangely modest life in the forest. This is nothing like a noblewoman's routine, sounding more familiar to the hunters that live near Davos' keep. And even the healer lives deep in the same forest… Are those two linked by Melisandre? Did she bring two innocent people into this mess to fulfil a false prophecy? Knowing her actions against my Lord Stannis, it is not unthinkable. Perhaps I really should have…

"Whoa."

"What is it, Lady Mokou?"

"Looks like there's a storm coming."

The rumbling of thunder answers her. Looking out the window, Davos sees dark clouds gathering beneath the blue sky. Is it him or are the clouds forming above the Red Keep?

"Maester Cressen said Autumn brings large storms," Lady Shireen peeps out from beneath her blankets. Her blue eyes and burnt skin makes for a sorry sight. "That's why Storm's End and the Stormlands are called that."

"Aye, that's correct Lady Shireen." That brings a smile to the little girl's face, giving Davos' heart the relief it needs. "There's still much to learn of my new land in the Stormlands. Though I will say that storms on land are far more manageable than on water."

"At least there's dirt to stand on," Lady Mokou jests causing the three to laugh. Soon they hear the pitter-patter of raindrops on the inn's roof and walls. "Better close the windows." Even with a half-open blind, the room is now in darkness. But with a little bit of her magic, she lights a candle and sets it on the table. "Ser Davos, can I speak to you in private?"

"Sure. Stay warm, Lady Shireen," he ruffles the little girl's hair before exiting the room.

The two glance around them; no one's on the upper floors. "Listen," she speaks, rubbing the back of her neck. "Well… I'm not sure how to say it but… I'm sorry. Again, Ser Davos, I-"

"Action speaks louder than words, Lady Mokou. You need not repeat your apologies," the onion knight sighs, feeling the pouch of bones dangling on his necklace. "But what you're doing right now certainly exceeds my expectations. Compared to the red priestess, you're at least taking responsibility for what you've done."

"What about Shireen? Is she…"

"Going to forgive you? I don't know; that is the Lady's decision, not a smuggler's," he gives a sad smile. Davos wonders if the girl is listening to them talking. "For now, just give her time. The death of her mother, Lord Stannis' injuries… It's a lot for a young child, aye. But she's a smart girl, a Baratheon! Her father is gilded with justice and her Uncle is the King, their blood runs through her. I'm sure she'll understand your efforts to correct your mistake, Lady Mokou. You're not the only one with a stained past," he pats his bone pouch. "The Father gave us law and justice, after all. We'll be judged fairly.

"Let's simply get the little Lady healed first; those burns must be very painful for her." They both cringe with Lady Mokou expressing some guilt as well. "After that… We should set sail in the night towards Storm's End where her Uncle, Lord Renly Baratheon, currently resides. I'm a landed knight of the Stormlands, Sevens that's a strange thought, and the young Lord may help us. Or at least have the kindness to care for his niece. And with that done, maybe you can try to find a way back to your home of Japan."

"How about you?"

Davos taps his good leg. "I've faced my Lord's justice once and so I must face it again. What the outcome will be I do not know, but I shall trust his judgement for my future."

Her eyes widen. "What if he executes you?"

"If he wills it… I shall accept it," Davos gives a solemn nod. "The kidnapping was my plan, Lady Mokou. I will not let you nor my sons and family to take the blame."

Lady Mokou shifts from one feet to the other, clearly not liking his decision. "I'll come back with you to that island."

"No. You'll stay with the healer or with Lady Shireen at Storm's End. This is my song to end."

"You say that but wasn't it me and that red priestess who began all this chaos?" He has no reply to the retort. "If I come with you, I can help you testify against her! Maybe convince her to confess the crimes? I'm not sure but you won't be alone, Ser Davos. Let me help you, alright?" She offers her hand to Davos, slightly inked from the cheap hair dye. "It's the least I can do."

He's reluctant to agree since he fears bringing her back to Dragonstone would be to the red priestess' benefit. But if my Lord can see her remorse… Davos shakes her hand. The warmth of her skin isn't as unnatural as Melisandre's but he soon lets it go. "I'll vouch for your name to Lord Stannis, Lady Mokou. I pray his punishment will not be too heavy but…"

"I know," she sighs. "Don't worry, Ser, I fear no blade. I'll make it so you come out the lightest out of the three of us."

"Two," he corrects. "Dale will be in the Stormlands with his wife after this."

"And here I thought I was the wife." Their laughter brings some levity to this grim talk.

As they're about to return to their room, he hears wet footsteps coming up the stairs. Appearing around the corner is his son Dale, drenched with rain from head to toe. "Forgot your cloak?" Davos smirks.

"Damn rain came outta nowhere," he grumbles, wringing the water from his gloves and clothes. "And so hard too."

"You're alone. Is Eirin coming here?" Lady Mokou asks.

The young man shakes his head and Davos feels a pit in his stomach. "Father, we have a problem."