The memory of her laughter warmed him on the long ride north.

—Jon II, Game of Thrones

The almond-tree,

December's bare iron hooks sticking out of earth.

The almond-tree,

That knows the deadliest poison, like a snake

In supreme bitterness.

Upon the iron, and upon the steel,

Odd flakes as if of snow, odd bits of snow,

Odd crumbs of melting snow.

—D.H. Lawrence, Almond Blossom

Part One, Chapter One: Letters

AFTER Davos read the letter, he sat and rubbed his eyes for a long minute, hoping the late hour and the cup of wine had changed the words on him. Three years now that he had been reading on his own, with the scribe he commonly used held in reserve only for particularly tricky or important papers, and it would be no shock for him to learn that those three years of letters and numbers and words tumbling around his mind hadn't scrambled up his brain just yet—just not until right then.

Before he returned to the letter, the soft stars from the pressure of his hands fading, he lit another candle to see it better. And then he read it out loud, slowly, with only the crackling fire to hear him.

It didn't sound any better than it had read. Dealing with correspondence was not one of his favorite duties as Hand of the King. He ranked it somewhere above corralling troublesome lords as if they were children, and somewhere far below all the useful things Davos did, such as tendering trade deals, helping allot the royal stores of grain and meat and cloth to those who needed it, and actually advising the king on matters of importance.

But it wasn't a part of his job to make decisions about things like this; Davos only needed to decide what was important enough to reach the king's own hands and this was something he would be grateful to pass along. Not because he thought the king would react well to it, but because it would mean Davos' part in the matter was over.

He set the letter aside, rifled through the papers spread across his desk for the ones pertaining to Braavos, gathered them all up carefully, and stood.

The hour was late. The bells had rung to signal the gates were closing, and the candles in the sconces on the wall were burning steadily down. Davos went first to the king's solar, but without much hope. When he got there, the door was free of guards and no light whispered under the door frame.

Often the king kept hours just as late as Davos did and many were the nights Davos had ferried some papers back and forth and found that tired face bent over the work at his desk. If Davos could have used two or three more Hands he could trust, then the king could have used at least a dozen more copies of himself to put to work—rebuilding a kingdom in the middle of winter was difficult finicky work, and there was no other head to share the weight of the crown.

The king worked late hours, but even a king was just a man, under the mantle and the metal of the crown, and as the middle month of the year approached again, Davos thought him more and more a man instead of the icy bulwark that the Northron lords had placed upon the Winter Throne.

He cracked the door open just to be sure. The room was cold and empty, the fire long burned down. He lingered in the doorway a moment, rubbing the aching ends of his short fingers against his thigh.

Let no man say Davos Seaworth was afraid to say his piece; let no man say Davos Seaworth would set his crew a-sea in the middle of a storm and leave them to flounder. But also, Davos thought, the hour was late and the king wasn't at his desk. And he would not, Davos knew, have the good sense to be abed.

He might leave the missive there in the solar, along with the other papers for the king to find in the morning. And he, Davos, could see himself to his own bed where his wife was surely waiting, warm and soft and sleeping, with the candle yet lit so he wouldn't bark his shin on the bench or crash into the side of the bed when he managed to move himself there.

And he might have managed to set his sense of duty aside, if the letter had ended with any other line. But the letter hadn't said, We await a reply on the matter. It hadn't said, Send a raven confirming this at your first opportunity. It had said, Being certain you will find this answer satisfactory, we have arranged all matters. Our envoys will reach you in a month's time.

If the king was the strong stone walls within which a kingdom was built, then he was only as sturdy as the lords and council that made up the earth under those heavy stones and thick mortar. Davos liked him well and trusted him better; he could not leave the man to falter on unstable ground.

He gathered up his resolve and went on, up another set of stairs and down a long corridor, empty but for the torches on the wall. The king did not allow guards in this hall and gave good reason; there was nothing here to guard. So it was to the men posted at the end near the stairs, leaning sleepily against the stone walls, that Davos tilted his head at. One was busy yawning and the other offering Davos a heavy nod.

"Late night," he said to Davos. He shifted his spear to his other hand and shook his fingers loose. "His Grace won't want to be disturbed this late."

"The raven tower never seems to sleep," Davos said back. The papers in his hands crinkled. "The birds never seem to rest, coming in as they do. So why should he?"

The man laughed, his fellow guard now shutting his eyes and tipping his head back. There was nothing to stop Davos now, and he did not want to linger in the hall where the men might see his hesitance. It was no one's business but his own that even the hall filled Davos with dread; the other chambers the king regularly used were well enough to meet in, but this one set his teeth to grinding and the hair on the back of his neck to standing on end.

These rooms never had firelight flickering under the door, only the faintest glimmer of moonlight ever shaded the threshold. The old rooms for the Lord and his Lady and their children stood empty at all hours, the walls scorched down to the stone and the wooden floors uneasy under the weight of his feet.

This was the door that made him shiver the most, this empty room the king haunted like he was a ghost himself. Not always but now, close to the middle month of the year, nearly every damned night.

Better if he'd taken to touring the crypts than that room, Davos thought. In the crypts, where no bones lay but Stark bones, a man could understand why he felt creepingly unwelcome. But this empty bedroom was another matter.

He knocked at the door.

There was no answer for a long moment, then the king said hoarsely, "Enter."

Davos swung the door open. There were footprints in the dust on the floor, man and wolf together, and they both turned to look at him from where they stood in the center of the dark empty room.

The furniture had all been taken away and repurposed, the walls had been scrubbed free of smoke and the floor swept free of ash, and after that it could have been just another room, too damaged to repair until all the ice thawed out. It made Davos more than uneasy; it almost made him afraid.

"Your Grace," Davos said and bowed. The wolf was quick to give up his study of Davos, seeing it was only the king's trusted Hand, and turned his face back to the window. But the man still looked over, his mouth a sullen curve.

"Davos," Jon Snow said. "What keeps you from your bed at this time of night?"

"Work, Your Grace," Davos said. He gestured with the hand full of papers. "And it's work that brings me to disturb your own rest."

Davos, of course, did not consider it restful to stand for an hour in a dark and empty room, but then Davos was not mad.

The king quirked the corner of his mouth up ruefully. They had butted heads over the matter until Davos had given in on the subject; arguing made no difference to the king and only served to make them both ill-tempered and sullen.

"You may have a moment," the king said. He removed his hand from where it rested on the wolf's head and gave Davos his full attention. With the light from the moon behind him and only the light of the distant torches to color his face, Jon could have been a haunt himself. The ends of Davos' short fingers smarted and pricked.

"There's been a letter," he said. He'd wound the scroll tight again and his palm sweated a little around it. "Braavos has written back to us."

"Not good news," the king said, "else it could have waited 'til morning."

He ran a hand over his face, looking older beyond his one-and-twenty years. Davos felt keen sympathy; when he was but one-and-twenty, he had not been in charge of a whole kingdom alone. He had only been second mate on a ship, with a whole crew to help him, and even that had been exhausting enough.

"They've gotten the letter then. Have they called for our debt to be paid in full?" the king asked. "Or were the terms we offered enough?"

The dark smears under his eyes turned his face to a skull. Davos did not want to add to them, as poorly sleeping as Jon already was, but even as Hand of the King he did not have the power to reply to a letter such as this.

"No," Davos said, then considered. "Yes, in a way. They liked the terms but want ought else. Would you read it? There's a fire laid in your room."

He held out the scroll and the king considered. "I can see well enough by moonlight," Jon said, and took the paper.

"I'm sure you can," Davos muttered to himself. Ill news to make the king read it at all, even worse to watch him do it in this room, half a shrine and half a crypt, one Davos was certain would never hold the bones or the body for which it waited.

He rubbed the ends of his short fingers, watching the king read the letter through. Davos knew which line made him go still, standing straighter and more somber than a statue, and which line had him crumpling up the parchment into a tight fist.

His lips were white with how thin he pressed them and his free hand clenched and unclenched slowly. His face was a flat dead mask.

"It is a good proposition," Davos said, but without much hope. "To strike half the debt for such a small thing? I found the terms fair."

The king raised his eyes from the ball of parchment to Davos' face and it was only through several years of friendship with the man that Davos did not stagger back a step under the force of his glare.

"I have no reply to make them," the king said and took himself from the room, brushing past Davos abruptly. The wolf went at his heels, a beam of silver light as it swept past.

Davos was glad to follow; he let the door shut behind himself, happy to be rid of it. He followed after the king, who stalked down the hall, past the guards, and to the new wing where his own bedchamber was.

Rage and youth made his steps quick. The king was in his chambers when Davos caught up, but the door was still open, so he knew he was welcome to follow.

"You said yourself that you were concerned about what we owed Braavos," he said gently as he entered, "and not just to the Iron Bank, but the city as a whole."

"The city, yes, and a certain house within it," the king said. He was crouched by his hearth now, easing the wrinkles out of the paper. Davos hoped he would read it again, but he only shut his eyes a moment and said, "And I am not the only one. I am no Lannister, but my honor demands me that I see it paid."

"Well this letter speaks of the whole debt," Davos said. This room was much less chilling, though the small shrines remained. A second washbasin next to the first, dry as a bone, and the grey ribbon coiled next to it, the scorched end tucked under itself and so hidden to the eye. Sleeping furs piled at hand then left untouched by one side of the bed. Room by the fire for another chair.

Davos swallowed and cast his eyes away from them. "Not just the one the Iron Bank has measured in coins," he said. "This is a fine chance for us to do something about it. The weight has been hanging over our heads long now. Would it not be fine to see it gone?"

Jon looked up at him and cocked his head a little to the side. The fire put strange shadows on his face. "You know I won't agree to this," he said. "What else have you come for, Davos? Speak true before I lose my temper."

"Perhaps His Grace might turn his attention to the final line," Davos said and swallowed again. "It was alarming for me to read. You might have, ah, skipped over it."

"It says the Braavosi will be coming in a month's time to force my hand," Jon said.

A fraught subject, a delicate matter. Davos was pleased to see that Jon looked mild now, a calm water that settled over deep and dangerous currents.

"Yes," he agreed cautiously. "That's what they wrote."

"Then we are in agreement," the king said and turned to feed the paper to the flames.

The edge started to smoke. Davos was not so old that he could not move quickly; he was across the room and reaching to stop the king's hand, crying, "Your Grace!" as he went.

Jon stilled himself before Davos could grab his arm. He gave Davos a long look.

"I will not accept these terms," he said slowly. "And it is no matter writing them back; the hawk will cross them on the same path their boat is taking. What other objections have you?"

"This is not a problem we can pretend will go away," Davos pressed. The lad was sharp as a sword-edge even now; he thought in ways Davos could not follow. He looked up at Davos with some keen look in his eyes and Davos said nervously, "They are sending—"

"I know what they are sending," Jon said. "and I cannot well stop them from sending it. They can send whatever they like. It does not mean that I will be here to meet them, nor does it mean that they will have success." But he stood and turned his back to the fire.

"You're right about this, though," he said and wafted the letter. "Better the Greatjon has it as proof when they come. Less arguing that way."

"The Greatjon," Davos said and his brows drew together. Lord Umber was a good supporter, a loud supporter, but not a man known for subtlety.

"I thought to have him sit the throne while I am away," Jon said. He crossed the room and set the paper on his table, next to the water pitcher and the empty basins. He was careful to move the ribbon aside. "Give those here," and he gestured for the other papers. "More about the Braavosi?"

Davos gave them. "The letters from the Iron Bank, the contract of interests, and a calculation of a repayment that you had Lord Flint compose," Davos said.

Lord Flint was very concerned about the North's debts. He and Lord Manderly were friends. Davos thought he might count them to join an appeal to the king if he still refused to think on the matter.

The king added the papers to the first letter. "I'll show those to the lords tomorrow," he said peaceably. The earlier agitation was gone; the water had closed over the dragging currents again. "After I announce my departure."

It was a late hour; Davos' eyes were like sand and his head was starting to ache. He lost his grasp on his temper at that mild look, the one that said nothing was wrong.

"The Braavosi will arrive in a month's time!" he said. "You cannot simply up and leave to avoid them and expect that—"

The sudden cold look cut him. Winter's snow in Spring. Winter's king was not a man who thawed in peacetime. No, the nearer and nearer the year's turn got to the middle month, the colder he became, until Davos was certain he was a mummer's puppet carved from ice.

It had been so the year before, and the year before that. Davos had learned to plan for it. He wondered bitterly if the Braavosi had done the same.

"I am going to Karhold," Jon said. The night turned his eyes black, deep and shadowed holes in his face. "Lady Alys has invited me even before the Braavosi decided to pressure us. And you are more than welcome to join me—she thinks you a fine friend."

He waited until Davos gave him a nod. "The Greatjon will hold the throne in my absence; he is the only one I trust to tell these Braavosi exactly what I think about being forced to take a bride when I already have one."

It was no use arguing with madmen. And Jon was not truly mad, only in this matter.

He was a fine enough king about the rest that his people were willing to give him this one strangeness; he was a good enough leader that Davos could overlook the strangeness of it himself. He was a good enough friend.

"You need tell the lords," Davos said. "They might not like this much and it is better they hear news that they dislike from your own mouth."

There came the quick and clever look that Jon had when he started to think sideways at an issue. Davos puffed out some air and quit rubbing at his fingers. He knew well by now that you could not force a direwolf, and while the king was only a man, he had the same stubbornness in him.

"I will gather them tomorrow. You have my word." Jon smiled. It was a tired smile, but Davos liked it anyway. The king did not smile enough, in the time before the middle month.

"Then we shall go to Karhold. I will look into arrangements for it," Davos said and bowed again, tired himself.

The king offered him a gracious nod, a dismissal, and turned as if Davos was not there, to touch his fingers to the second basin.

Davos was glad to go; he shivered as he passed from the room into the hall. Seven years the Princess Arya had been missing, and five since the king had been woken by Melisandre the red witch. He had woken undiminished by his death, but with his new life had come a name in his mouth and a new wildness to his eyes.

Davos had stood by him through the end of one war and the full breadth of another. The changes were not so different between the Jon of then and the Jon of now. He was still a smart, stubborn lad that Davos was glad to count among his friends.

And over time, the madness had not gotten any worse, nor had it abated.

It was, Davos supposed, the best that they could ask for.