PREVIOUSLY: Accompanied by a meagre army, King Stannis and Ser Kevan Lannister, now united in common cause, set out from Castamere towards Lannisport and Casterly Rock.


DAVOS

The brief note of silence, and in it the eerie howling of the wind, was all the warning they had. Then Davos heard a shout of "Run!", echoed up and down the line, and it was all he could do to tighten his grip on his horse's bridle, and hold on tightly for dear life as the beast drove violently forwards. He had just enough time to say a wordless prayer to the merciful Mother before the world went mad and none of that mattered anymore.

Seven buggering hells. The bugles were calling him somewhere behind him, and men were rushing out of the lines with torches and swords, or back into line to hide behind their comrades, but none of that mattered to Davos. Some were brave men; others cowards. He had only one instinct remaining: survival. And to survive, he had to reach the town walls before the gates shut for good.

A Lannister soldier ran towards his horse, arms out, begging to be picked up somehow. Davos did not slow; if he did, the man would drag him down from his horse and kill him. Old loyalties did not matter when it was a matter of life or death. He drove relentlessly on, past the screaming Lannister soldier, towards the faint vision of the town's gates. To his left, he saw another soldier – one of their own – torn to a thousand pieces by a fleeing, startling horse. Then that horse went mad; it veered sideways, turning into the growing mist. Davos saw the leader make a wild leap from horseback, coming down heavily on his ankle in the snow and screaming, trying to crawl his way forward to the gates. But looking back was a sure way to perish. Davos kept his head down, and his gaze fixed firmly ahead. Snow fell thick in his eyes, blotting out his vision; he had to blink furiously to keep the town walls in sight. Not far now, he told himself, though it could have been a thousand yards, or ten thousand. Behind him, he could hear the dead launching themselves into the column with that low, keening howl they made: a band of furious percussive footsteps and inhuman screechings. Thick blue plumes of mist, smoke-like, drifted in over the road, so cold they made his throat burn. Davos heard hoofsteps coming up close behind him; on instinct, he jerked the reins right. Suddenly a burning, riderless horse came hurtling onwards where he had been just a moment before, like a beacon through the fog. The beast's mane was alive with bright yellow flames, its eyes were possessed, and the only life remaining in it sputtered out in a low, hideous shriek.

There was a loud, dull thump ahead of him; his horse crashed into a wooden barricade and went straight through it, Davos nearly falling from the stirrups. They veered off the road for a time, through a thicket of naked trees. As his horse scattered a patch of wild gorse, Davos gripped the reins so tight that the icy leather stuck to his skin; if he tore away now, the palms would bleed, and freeze soon after. But that was the price he must needs pay; if he fell off now, he would die. In the more distant reaches of the wood to his right he glimpsed a trio of Lannister soldiers – at least, he thought they were Lannister soldiers. Their jerky, impossible movements suggested otherwise. And they were coming. He dared to give the horse a good lick across the rump, but it was not needed; his mount was running on pure fear now, frothing from the mouth already, but not caring at all. She did not even seem to notice the rider on her back. She was running for her own life, too. No doubt she had seen the horses the dead men rode, emaciated and bony, with eyes as blue as summer sky.

And then somehow they veered back onto the road, and broke through the line, stumbling into a crowd of tightly packed horses and men that had gotten stuck around the gate, pushing forward further. There was nothing Davos could do but wait in that crowd, shoving into every space he could, pressing ever forwards. Somewhere up ahead he could see a man being crushed against the palisade wall, and a thin wheeze of steam coming out of his lungs, and he thought he saw a boy as young as Devan fall under the legs of a horse and be trampled, but there was no time to think about that now. All that mattered to him was making it through the gates before someone decided to close them, and not falling off.

And then, somehow, impossibly, he was through. The crowd died away around him, spilling out from the funnel into the broad bowl of the town square. A town. That did not strike Davos for quite some time. We found a town. A town, even a deserted one, meant civilisation. And civilisation meant food, light, warmth, hope.

Suddenly he remembered Princess Shireen. Where was she? But then, as his heartbeat rose to heavy, worried throbbing, the crowd parted and he saw her there, high on her horse. He pushed his way through and broke into her circle as she was climbing down. "My lady," he said, breathing in relief.

"Ser Davos." Shireen's blue eyes were cool and steady. "Have you seen my father?"

Stannis. Once again his blood went cold. Where is Stannis? He glanced round. The king was nowhere to be seen. He had been with Ser Kevan and the other Lannister commanders the last time Davos had seen him. How long had that been before the storm come on? Ten minutes? Twenty? And how long had they spent here, huddled inside the walls?

"I have not seen him," he was forced to say. Then the implications of that dawned on him. If Stannis is not here, who is in charge? And when he realised that none of his answers seemed right, he realised that it was he himself. Maybe that was why both Shireen and Ser Godry Farring were looking at him so intensely.

Davos addressed the knight first. "Ser Godry. I want you take your men into the town and seek out some place we can shelter with the wind, or, better yet, secure the keep, if there is one."

He looked around him, and found Addam Marbrand, by some miracle, who seemed equally in shock. He called the knight over. "Ser Addam!"

"Ser Davos." Marbrand looked horrified; his face seemed clammy. "H-have you seen…?"

"I have not seen King Stannis. Nor Ser Kevan. Which leaves me in charge, as the King's Hand." He had to consolidate his authority.

Marbrand offered a small, grey nod. "As you will, ser."

"I want you to go up to the walls – and make them our walls. I want you to keep watch over the gate."

"There is the mist," said Marbrand flatly. "A lot of mist."

"All the same, I want you to keep watch. The mist will clear eventually, and when it does, we may have to venture out in search of the king and the others. And when we do, I do not want to be marching while the army of the dead are out there."

Marbrand shook his head, very slowly. "They are always out there."

That was undeniable, but if Davos agreed with Marbrand, he might freeze in place and never move again. "Not so." He adopted Stannis's tone. "Go and do your duty, ser."

It seemed a small miracle that Marbrand did not come to his senses and defy him. It would have been well within his rights to do so, given he was lord of Ashemark, and Davos barely a landed knight. But when men are terrified, they will listen to any man who gives them something to do – even a crabber's son. So Marbrand walked off, and rallied what men he had around his banner.

That done, he returned to Shireen. "My lady," he said, bowing a little. "I will not lie to you. The king is, to my knowledge, still outside the town walls. Him, and many others, I do not doubt. In the meantime, we will settle here, and put up what defenses we can."

"And should they attack?" the princess asked bravely.

"Then may every god above and below have pity on us," said Davos. "For now, though, walls will have to do. Come, we will see if Ser Godry has made any headway at the keep." If he turned and squinted, he could make out the walls of the castle rising on the headland. At that moment, the name of the town drifted back into his mind. Kayce. This is Kayce. House Kenning ruled here, or had. Davos knew nothing of the family itself, but he knew that reaching Kayce meant they were halfway back to Lannisport. As for what Lannisport itself meant… well, he would face that trouble when it came. For now his first impulses were to get them out of the cold. He wondered how many men the town and the castle could support. But then he remembered how many men had been behind him in the column, and realised with a dark heart that having too many souls packed inside the walls would probably not be the first of their troubles.

Now the castle rose up through the mist, and they passed into its dark shadow. It was smaller than Davos would have liked, but he saw with relief that the walls were strong and high, made of smooth stone which the wights would have a hard time climbing. But then he saw with growing trepidation that Ser Godry Farring and his men had been forced to halt at the gatehouse.

"What is the problem, ser?" Davos asked as he walked up.

"The gates are closed, ser."

"So they are." A black iron portcullis had been lowered over the entranceway. There did not seem to be any other way in. "Who is garrisoning the castle, then?"

"We are," said a voice from above.

Davos thought he knew the speaker, but when your brain was addled by cold it was easy for everything to seem familiar. "And who might you be, ser?" he called back.

"We'll ask the questions here." The voice sounded almost amused. "Whose banners do you fly?"

"Those of King Stannis," shouted Davos. "And of House Lannister, too, I suppose."

"Both?" The voice sounded confused. "That makes no sense."

"And neither does this war." It was the truth, after all. "Will you let us enter?"

A pause. "How many of you are there?"

Too many for you to allow, Davos reckoned. "We have brought our own provisions."

More insistently: "How many of you are there?"

Davos thought a moment. "More than there are of you," he said. "Else you would have tried to hold us at the town walls, not at the castle. If you numbered more, you would not have deserted the town."

There was another, longer pause. Then a different voice called back – this one was younger and more worried-sounding, yet still half-familiar – "You are fighting Them?"

The way he said Them told Davos he meant the great enemy. "Aye," he called back. "Who else? We are fighting the ironmen, the wights, the Others. Lannister and Baratheon together. Men together." A pause. "We will not harm you, if you let us in. We will survive from our own supplies." Yet he did not think that enough, and from his expression, neither did Ser Godry. "But if you do not, be aware that we have enough men to break through this wall."

The last part was a lie, and it did not sound particularly convincing to his own ears. And yet it fulfilled its purpose. "Step back from the gate, ser," said the second voice from the wall, strangely muffled. "We are opening the portcullis."

The sound of those crusty decrepit chains dragging the cullis upwards was a sweeter sound than any Davos Seaworth had heard in a long time. When they briefly guttered to a halt he worried that the defenders had changed their minds, but then the voice explained that they were having trouble with the frosty ropes, and that they would keep working at it. Even so, it was about half an hour in the freezing cold before they had raised the portcullis grate the requisite four-and-a-half feet for most of them to be able to duck through it. Ser Godry remained outside with the horses, while Davos and Princess Shireen advanced warily into the yard beyond the gatehouse. Or, rather, he went warily. Shireen appeared to have adopted her father's way of walking: as if she owned all of this land, and everyone it it.

They passed through the gate. There, in front of them, waited twenty or so men, all in battered and bruised armour, all shivering, all waiting with their wary hands halfway to their swordbelts. At their head were three: a tall, comely blond knight; a huge giant as bald as a baby; and in the middle, a younger man wearing an eyepatch, who Davos was certain he knew.

But it was Princess Shireen who broke out with the words, "You're Prince Quentyn Martell."

The man with an eyepatch – in truth little more than a boy, Davos saw – straightened up. "Well," he said, in a thin voice, as though he himself were uncertain of the fact. "Yes. I suppose I am."

"You were at Casterly Rock," Shireen said.

"Yes." Prince Quentyn shivered strangely. "I was."

"And now you're here. Why is that? Why aren't you still there? And what about your wife? Lady Margaery? And King Tommen, what did he say?"

The blond knight spoke up. "Perhaps if your ladyship would stop asking questions, Quent might be able to answer one." But he did not let his prince speak yet. "Despite all the things you have mentioned, you have forgotten one entirely. Queen Cersei. She burned down Casterly Rock. Or part of it. She burned Ser Loras Tyrell. And Lord Tarly, her Hand. And half our army. And she would have burned us too, had we not found some fortituitous escape."

"Fortituitous," echoed the big bald knight, in a voice that suggested anything but.

Shireen looked horrified. "But what did King Tommen do about this? He surely didn't just let his mother—"

"Oh, believe me, he did quite the opposite," said the blond man. "Trouble is, if our reports are right, he's dead too. I s'pose she burned him as well."

Just like Selyse. Davos saw Shireen go pale, though the girl did her very best to hide it. "Perhaps," he said, through the ensuing silence, "we might head inside, and discuss these matters beside a warm fire."

"I think, ser," said Prince Quentyn, "that you have the right of it." So in they went.

The defenders of Kayce castle were not nearly numerous enough to populate the whole castle, so they had confined themselves to the great hall. There was a large fire roaring in the hearth at one end, tended by frostbitten squires. The tables were arranged close to it in a horseshoe shape, up to the dais. Tapestries from all across the castle had been brought in here to plug gaps in the walls. In the main hall, below the dais, dozens of sleeping mats and blankets had been laid out; a few men were lying there when Davos and Shireen entered.

The prince and his two companions took the chairs on one side of the fire; Davos and Princess Shireen sat opposite. From somewhere, skins of warmed wine were produced. A salted ham was lugged into the hall, crusty with ice, and set down beside the fire. Davos watched as it slowly began to cook.

Shireen spoke first. "What happened at Casterly Rock?" she asked, in a voice too grave for her years.

"Fire," said Prince Quentyn after a long time. "Wildfire, I think. Or something else. There was…" He looked around himself uncertainly.

"Tell her, Quentyn," said the big bald knight. "Won't do us any harm." He looked utterly defeated.

"We were in the van. Or supposed to be. Ser Loras was leading the way, up the great stone stair to the ringfort. But when we reached the top, Lord Tarly was barring our way. Him and a hundred soldiers, or more, and they were fighting down, with the turn of the stair, so we could not get up."

"It was murder," agreed the blond knight. "The stairs were slippery, there was so much blood."

Prince Quentyn continued: "We numbered many more, but we knew we would not get up that way. Ser Loras told us we should go back to the armoury, and tell Ser Jaime Lannister what was happening—"

Davos did not understand. "The Kingslayer? The Kingslayer was with you?"

"Aye, ser," said Prince Quentyn gravely. "When Cersei poisoned Margaery and… did what she did, I suppose that was too much even for him to bear. He came with us, on the condition that we did not hurt his sister. He… he said she would not be able to fight back. But she was wrong.

"Anyhow, Ser Jaime was not in the armoury when we returned; we learned he had gone to the castle sept, to pray. The only person there was Lord Lannister. Lord Tommen, that is to say." (Davos felt a strange lump in his throat, thinking of Devan again. Fought bravely. And died.) "He said that we should try another way. He had his map all laid out, and said there was another tunnel, a second way in. It was hard work getting through, but we made it close to the ringfort. I sent my men up first." He swallowed. "Arch was… this close."

The bald knight, Arch, nodded. "That close. And then the whole thing went up in fire."

"What was it like?" Princess Shireen said after a moment, her eyes wide with horror. Davos wondered if she was remembering that night at Riverrun, with Melisandre.

"It was horrible."

Prince Quentyn did not have anything else to say on that. The grisly details fell to his companions. "Great tongues of fire, red and orange and green." "Smoke, choking your lungs, impossible to breathe." "And silence, too. There was no screaming."

"They were coming from us by then," said Prince Quentyn. "Up the stairs behind us, we were only a few, and not enough to fight them off once they resurged. After that our own men started fleeing, trying to run. I would have died in the smoke still distraught, but Drink and Arch saved me. They brought me down the stairs, to the water gate." Neither of his companions attested to this; their part was, in their eyes, not worthy of that honour. Davos knew the feeling, from when he had been floundering in Blackwater Bay after the Imp's wildfire went up. At times like that, you fought only for yourselves. You saved your companions only by accident.

"There are old tunnels in the rock." The blond knight, Drink, took up the story. "More than enough of them for a man to become lost in, and to die in. But by some miracle we made it out to the shoreline, though we nearly drowned and froze to death getting there."

"Might have been better if we had," said Arch.

Drink agreed. "Might have been. Well. After that, we stumbled back to Lannisport, and stole ourselves – well, I stole some, and Arch won enough at cards for us to get fresh garb to replace our damp things. And we spent the nights round the back of the Guildhall, where there were a few kind enough to give us a place at their fire. But we had our plans on our minds.

"She still has Margaery up in the Rock. I am sure of it." Prince Quentyn's face contorted with anger that did not seem to suit him. "But there was nothing we could do about it, not then. We numbered only half a dozen, besides Drink, Arch and me. Not enough to raid Casterly Rock.

"And then stories started to come down," added Drink. "The queen had killed her own son, they said. Burned him with the rest, when he tried to fight back."

"Were they angry?" asked Shireen suddenly. "The people in the streets, were they angry?"

Prince Quentyn looked at her. "They… Lord Lannister defended the city against your father, and stopped it being sacked. They did not love him, but… he was good to them. Better than his grandfather had ever been. I think. But I don't know. Anyhow – we had other plans, to return to Sunspear, or maybe just Highgarden, and gather an army there, but other news put an end to that. First, King Aegon is dead; he fought a battle, and Daenerys killed him. And most like she has killed our other friends as well. But more importantly, Cersei has barricaded all the roads out of the Westerlands: the goldroad, the river road, the ocean road down into the Reach. That left only—"

"—the sea," said Davos.

"The sea, aye. We found a trade ship, headed for Old Oak. We didn't have any guarantee that the Oakhearts would have us. But it didn't matter. It was a ship, and that was good enough for us."

"Too good to be true," said Arch, now looking queasy. "We capsized. Or nearly capsized. The ship blew leagues off course, and came aground about twenty miles from here. And then…"

"You discovered the wights," said Davos knowingly.

Drink took a long swig of wine. "The wights, aye. We've heard some call them that. Wights. Corpsewalkers. Doesn't matter. All I know is that they're dead, but they still want to kill us."

"How did you get from where you capsized to here, then?"

"Our luck held out as we marched," said Drink bitterly. "Or so we supposed. Occasionally, a man would fall behind in the snowdrifts, and never be seen again. And then, suddenly, we realised it was only the three of us left, and we had no one left to lose. Hours passed like that."

"Felt like days," said Arch.

"It felt like days," his companion agreed. "But then we broke through, just like that, and the mists parted, and the town was there. Kayce. The gates were closed, just as they were to you, and the castle gates, too. And we were so tired that we forgot to lie about who we were. But it no longer mattered. The men here are terrified. As soon as we said 'Prince Quentyn' they let us straight in."

"And they took you as their leader?" Davos asked the prince. "As simply as that?" Given his disposition, it seemed unlikely.

"Would you want to lead soldiers through this?" Prince Quentyn answered.

So they had chosen him because no one else wanted it, then. Davos would have to be wary that the prince did not pass the reins on to him.

Passing the reins: that was a strange thought. A year ago, making any sort of tentative alliance between them would have meant days upon weeks of negotiations and dancing through loopholes. Now it was a common expectation, and with it was the expectation that neither would seek to gain disproportionately from their alliance.

The ham had finished its thawing by the fire; two of the soldiers brought it over. And Davos looked, and saw that they wore Lannister uniforms. A shivering squire carved for them, and refilled their cups of wine. They ate, and were not merry. When that was done, it was full dark. Around the fire he and Prince Quentyn shared some meagre, meaningless conversations. Davos made sure to keep an eye on Shireen, too, and when Ser Godry and the other men came in to sup he instructed a pair to keep a stern eye on her. Shireen, in this current excited state, had become unpredictable. He did not know what ideas she might have, but he did not feel it was right to leave her alone.

Yet at the same time, it was not Shireen alone he was worried about. He tried to convince himself that the king would make it through to the walls eventually, that Stannis was a hardy survivor, and it would take more than one night in the cold to defeat him. But when he asked Ser Godry, the knight could only shrug. "We lit torches on the walls, ser, and a great bonfire in the town. If he is there, he will see it."

And if he is not…

It did not make sense. The enemy would want to destroy Stannis, that was undeniable. But why here, and why now? And why, for that matter, had they left Kayce to survive so long, despite its floundering garrison? Was it all part of some game, to let a safe haven come within their reach, only to tear it away?

But that made no sense either. The wights were brainless things, moved only by hunger. They did not have plans of their own. And strategy, tactics, plans: these things were meaningless to them. Unless, of course, they weren't.

And then, hours into his worrying, when Princess Shireen and most of the rest had long since fallen asleep by the fire, deliverance came. It arrived in the form of a messenger boy, freezing cold, looking only too grateful for the opportunity to share this news. "Ser," he said to Davos, "ser, the king!"

He jumped up at once. "Where?"

"The gate, ser." The boy shivered all through him; he looked frozen to the bones. Davos passed him his wineskin. "Get some of that down you," he said. Then he met with Ser Godry Farring at the hall's threshold, and together they walked out into the bracing night.

Something was happening in the yard below the castle. Davos pulled up his hood as they passed through the portcullis; together he and Ser Godry followed the icy path down to the town, through the obstructive mist. He felt something like fear building in him when he lost sight of the walls, and wondered if, perhaps, they had been tricked, but then the tiny lights re-emerged in the darkness, and became torches, in their dozens and scores, and they found the remainder of King Stannis's army huddling inside the gate.

At once Ser Godry went off to take charge of the exodus, guiding the men who needed help soonest back towards the castle walls. Meanwhile Davos squeezed through the throng till he found King Stannis at its inevitable centre. "Your Grace," he said, quite loudly – he had to be heard over his own mercifully still-beating heart – "you are alive."

"Did you ever doubt me, Davos?" The king's voice was full of bitter sarcasm. There was a long pause, and he said, "Shireen?"

"Safe and sound, Your Grace."

"Thank the g—" Stannis broke off violently, looking confused at his own invocation of the oath. "Thank you, Davos."

"What happened out there, Your Grace?"

"You saw it. They surprised us. Broke us apart. I will not lie, I thought that might be the end of us, for a while. But then the snow parted, and the wights fell back, and after that the greater part of our troubles involved finding the way back to the town before we all froze to death." They were both silent for a moment. For while they had been spared, others doubtless had not.

"We have found…" Davos considered a moment; how to phrase this? "…allies, Your Grace. In the castle. Prince Quentyn Martell, Your Grace."

"Martell?" Stannis looked sceptical. "I suppose if he is fighting the dead too, it would be ill-advised not to accept him as our ally."

"Not only in the fight against the dead, Your Grace. But against Queen Cersei. She has wronged him as well." And then he told Stannis what Prince Quentyn had said, about the chaos in the ringfort and the death of the would-be-kings Tommen and Aegon.

The king considered that. "Ordinarily I would welcome the demise of pretenders to my throne, Davos." He sounded exorbitantly tired. "And yet, I find myself wishing they were still alive."

"They would have been easier to deal with than Cersei Lannister and Daenerys Targaryen," Davos had to admit.

"Quite," said Stannis disinterestedly. Then, "I suppose this Martell prince might have some use against them, too. My father taught me long ago that the enemy of my enemy is my friend."

There was another long pause. Davos began, "Your Grace, I have been thinking—"

"—about these wights. Yes. I wager we have both been thinking the same thing. And I wager we have both been cursing our own slowness. The dead, as far as we can tell, are simple animals, motivated by hunger alone. So what made them fight as they did just now, as though they were an army under some battle commander?"

"Do you think they might have a leader, Your Grace?"

"I cannot see any other possibilities. Someone controlling them. And yet, when I question who, it is Melisandre's face I see talking to me. The Great Other. Some nameless god of darkness and death." He lowered his voice. "And more than that, I have heard it, sometimes, I think. In Castamere, where the caverns echoed, and now out in the open, when the wind cuts through the formations just right. I can hear Him saying my name."

Abruptly he shook his head, clearing away the superstition. "But enough of that, Davos. Tomorrow, we will continue to Lannisport."

"As soon as that, Your Grace? Should we not rest first?"

"I do not think it wise to encamp ourselves where our enemies so obviously wish us to be encamped, Davos. No: on the morrow we march. It may not be far, but I do not want to stay here long. If our fortunes hold, we may make it all the way to Lannisport uninterrupted." He did not sound hopeful. But that was Stannis Baratheon for you.

"Princess Shireen may wish to see you, Your Grace," he felt compelled to say. "Up in the castle."

Stannis regarded him strangely, then nodded. "Well, then. It would seem we both have engagements."

"Your Grace?"

The king pointed towards one of the brick houses around the edge of the square. "You will find Ser Kevan in there. He has asked for you, I believe." Then he turned away abruptly and left Davos alone in the cold.

In the doorway of the house where the king had pointed a dozen Lannister guards crowded, shivering and trying to save some heat for themselves. But when they saw the King's Hand coming they parted and let him through. The room smelled of sour sweat, and melting snow – what he expected. But there was an undercurrent too: blood.

Davos stepped round Addam Marbrand and Lyle Crakehall, and he saw. Sitting there in a chair, with a bundle of rags wrapped round his chest, and his face turning pale, was Kevan Lannister. He raised a weak hand in greeting. "Seaworth."

"Ser Kevan," said Davos. "Are you—?"

"Well?" Ser Kevan laughed hoarsely. "No. But I am dying. You may wonder why I am grinning. Well, my brother Gerion alwys said that you should leave the world laughing. It seems he had a point." Davos started to say something, but the old knight held up a hand. "No. Don't say it. No chance for me." He unfolded his hands from his stomach, and Davos saw that they were clammy with blood even through the bandages.

"They got me," Ser Kevan said, resignedly.

"They did," said Davos, hollowly.

"Stannis will have told you that I sent for you," he said. "And you are probably wondering why."

"I am."

Ser Kevan beckoned him closer. "We never talked about our sons, Ser Davos. You had… seven, I believe."

He bit his lip. "I did. No longer."

"No. You have lost – five, is it?"

"I did."

Ser Kevan nodded. "We are alike, you and I. Willem was murdered years ago, in Robb Stark's dungeon. Martyn – he died of the cold, poor lad, frozen to the bones, just a few days before Stannis came to Castamere. And sometimes I think I failed Lancel most of all. I lost him first to the Faith, and then to the Stranger. And that is only my sons. As for Dorna and Janei… Lord knows what has become of them at Cornfield."

Davos looked into the dying man's eyes. "I understand."

"Oh, no. You don't. It's not just me I'm asking you to look out for, Ser Davos. It's all of them. Your king and your princess. And mine, my king, my niece, my nephew, all of them."

Your king is dead, Davos might have said. But it seemed an unecessary unkindness, here and now. And with that done, he was left with nothing to say. "Is there anything else?"

Ser Kevan relaxed in his chair. His face turned paler still. The enormity of his dying did not occur to Davos here and now; that would come later. "Remember them," he said, with a resigned sigh. "Remember the importance of their peace. And after all that, remember me."


Author's Note:

Ser Kevan Lannister has never been part of THE CHANGING OF SEASONS's primary cast, but he has been perhaps one of its biggest supporting characters. It is easy to forget that he ran the affairs of the Lannisters for the better part of a year, until Cersei displaced him. But Kevan is, above all, a character of quiet understatement, and in that context, I think he went out the right way - with fateful resignation instead of fanfare.

Kevan's death is one of those inevitabilities in TCOS, of which there are quite a few. There is a definite 'changing of the guard' in this series. I think, along with Barristan, this may be one of the saddest losses for me - perhaps unexpectedly so. But at the same time, I think Davos is a character who is capable of carrying Ser Kevan's legacy, even if he will not interpret it in the same way.

The other big thing from this chapter is Quentyn, of course. Why, you might ask, would I bother with this, when it seems so anti-cathartic and so much like a cheap trick?

The simple fact is that Quentyn's story is not done, at least not here in TCOS. In ADWD, the Quentyn story is a bitter reminder that heroism is often foolish, and rarely works out, which fits with that book's negative outlook. But here, his story ended with Margaery, before he disappeared into insignificance - becoming a mere footnote in the latter half of the story. I don't think that ending did him justice.

(I could have killed off Drink and Arch, though. But I like them too much.)