Chapter 26: Davos

Even in the gloom of the Wolf's Den, Davos could tell something had gone awry.

He had come to White Harbour an envoy of his king, but they held him captive. His cell was large and luxuriously furnished - twice the size of his cabin on his ship and with a hearth and even a proper privy in the corner - and yet guards patrolled outside his doors day and night, ever vigilant against escape attempts. He pressed his ear against the wood of the door every morning, only to hear shuffling of feet and the odd whispered word, and then silence till a tray of porridge was pushed through the slot in the door.

But not that morning. There were no feet, no words warped by wood, just silence. The usual hour for his morning meal came and went without notice, and Davos's nerves had begun to fray. All the days in the Wolf's Den were much the same, and any changes were usually for the worse.

Davos still remembered Wyman's parting words to him. I have heard enough treason for one day. You would have me risk my city for a false king and a false god. You would have me sacrifice my only living son to Stannis Baratheon's fool stubbornness. No. I will not do it. Not for you. Not for your lord. Not for your god.

I answer to the Seven as well as Stannis

, Davos had replied.

Wyman had seemed disinterested, Davos recalled. Do you? Very well, then. You came into my city a smuggler, a spy, a peddler of lies and treasons. I should tear out your tongue with hot pincers and deliver you to the Dreadfort. But if the Mother can be merciful, then so can I. The King - the true king - will decide your fate.

And since that day, Davos's whole world had been his cell in the Wolf's Den. Every night Davos went to sleep with those words in his head, dreading the day the raven would come and his fate would be decided. It would not be a good end, Davos was willing to bet. Cersei and Lord Tywin were a great many things, but merciful was not the word that came to mind when he thought of them. And Tommen - supposedly sweet, little Tommen - might be willing to offer him clemency, but at what cost? He'd have to forswear his king, no doubt, betray the man who gave him everything.

Davos hardened his resolve. No, he decided. No matter what, I will stay true to Stannis. I will not plead for mercy, either. I will die a knight.

It was a moot point, anyhow. Such a young king would not possess that kind of power.

But then, after so much waiting on that morning that his gut was beginning to growl, Davos finally heard the shuffling of feet. He rose and paced his cell as he awaited... something. Much to his surprise, however, the door did not swing open, and a gang of guards did not storm his cell. Instead, the slot in his door slid open again, another tray pushed through, this time laden with freshly caught fish and bread still warm from the oven, spiced mutton, boiled crab and a medley of vegetables ranging from turnips to carrots instead of the usual dungeon fare of gruel and stale bread and rotting meat.

This treatment persisted for a while following that first morning. When he asked for furs to keep him warm, he got them. When he asked for a book to keep him entertained whilst he sat on his own, he got a copy of the Seven-Pointed Star. He got wood for his hearth, clean clothing, a candle, a bottle of ink, a roll of parchment and even a quill that he used to scratch out some small letters, a stack building in the corner over the course of his confinement.

I was a better smuggler than a knight, he wrote to his wife, a better knight than a lord, a better lord than a hand, and a better hand than a husband. I'm sorry, Marya. I should have been there, should have loved you whilst I still had the chance. Please forgive my wrongs. Should Stannis lose this war, our lands will be lost. Take our children and flee to Braavos. If Stannis should win, then I expect our sons will have a place at court, and a fosterage for the lot of them under lords high and low till they can all earn their knighthoods.

Davos shuffled through the rest of the letters awkwardly. The ones to his youngest sons were stiff and awkward, for in truth he knew them not nearly as well as the older ones, the ones who'd drowned and burned at the Blackwater. Davos screwed his eyes shut and shook his head with guilt. A man should have more to say to his sons that just that. He dipped his quill again in the ink and after a moment's hesitation wrote: I did not do so ill. I rose from Flea Bottom to become a King's Hand, and I learned to read and write, but I lost my luck when I lost my fingerbones. But the one thing I never lost was my love for you all.

Davos stared at the lacklustre letters again, still dissatisfied. He felt no more words coming to mind, however, and so pushed the stack into the corner and stared at them mournfully from across his cell as he did most days, awaiting his morning meal.

It was another silent dawn, stretching on so long his gut again began to growl. What now? Davos wondered. Last time he had seen luxury, but as his stomach twisted tighter and tighter in anticipation with every passing second he suspected the same could not be said of today. He was still staring at the letters when suddenly, the rattling of metal on metal and then the clanking and clicking of a key turning in a lock could be heard. Davos seized up in surprise, then swept up his letters in his arms and held them close to his heart as the door slowly swung open.

The man who stepped through the door was not one of gaolers. A fine longsword hung from his hip, a crimson cloak on his shoulders, his build tall and lanky, his thin seamed face haggard and tired. "Lord Seaworth," he said. "We haven't much time. Please, come with me."

Davos frowned as he stood, still clutching the letters. The 'please' confused him. Men due to be punished were rarely afforded such courtesies. Then again, prisoners such as himself were rarely afforded the courtesy of such a large cell or such luxurious meals. "Who are you?" he asked.

"Glover," he said. "Robett Glover."

The Glover's seat was Deepwood Motte, if he remembered correctly, currently under Ironborn control, and Robett had fought at Duskendale against the Lannisters. Davos braced himself as he rose to his feet and took a chance. "If I should die today, I beseech you to see that my letters are delivered," he asked on faith alone.

Robett nodded, accepted the letters and said: "You have my word, but if you die, it will not be at Glover hands, nor Lord Wyman's."

And with that, the pair set off into the hall, winding their way through a darkened flight of steps and out of the Wolfs Den straight into the godswood, which they crept through slowly and quietly. Red leaves littered the snowy ground. A tangle of white roots and a web of branches passed underfoot and overhead. They went past a rusted old gate at the other end, stopping only to light a torch, and then down into a cellar with seawater sloshing around their feet. They passed through several cellars, in fact, and rows of small cells much darker than the one Davos had.

Then there was a blank stone wall that turned when Robett pushed it, beyond which was a narrow passage and yet more steps.

"Where are we?" Davos asked.

"A secret way up to the New Castle," Robett answered. "It would not do for you to be seen, my lord."

After yet more walking and climbing, so much that Davos's feet began to ache and his legs burn, they finally emerged into a snug solar, richly furnished and cosy. And in the centre of the room was sat Wyman Manderly, the enormous lord of White Harbour.

"Please, sit," Lord Wyman said, gesturing with an arm that jiggled as he moved it. "Are you hungry?"

Pangs ate at Davos's stomach, yet he shook his head. "No, my lord."

"There is wine, if you thirst," he said.

"My king commanded me to treat with you, not to drink," Davos said defiantly.

Wyman sighed and leaned back in his seat. "Well enough," he said. "I have treated you terribly, I know. I don't expect you to like me. I had my reasons... but, well, I don't expect you should care about that."

Davos shook his head. "If it will help you find your loyalties, I will listen."

Wyman let a breath of laugher out through his nose, his belly quivering as he shook his head. "The Lannisters have my son," he said. "Wylis, my eldest, my only, and my heir. That rancor I showed you earlier at court was a ruse to please our Frey friends. I, like a great many other northern lords, have no love for this new regime. And yet, I will not see my son slain by stubbornness." Wyman smiled again and sipped his wine. Davos watched in silence. "When treating with liars, even an honest man must lie. I dare not defy Kings Landing so long as they have my son. Tywin Lannister wrote to me himself to say as much. To say that if I did not bend the knee, swear my city, repent my treason and declare my loyalty my son would die and my line would be reduced to another song such as the Reynes of Castamere."

Davos nodded, still silent.

"I am fat, and so many think me weak and foolish. Perhaps Lord Tywin is one of these men, perhaps not. I sent him a raven saying I would bend the knee and swear my loyalty only after my son is returned. Soon after the Freys came, carrying Wendel's bones... to make peace and seal it with a marriage pact, or so they claimed, though I would sooner trust a Lannister than a Frey. I was not going to give them what they wanted till I had Wylis, safe and sound, and they were not going to give me Wylis till I proved my loyalty. Your arrival was convenient, in this sense."

"I see," Davos said.

"I hope so," Wyman said. "You have sons of your own, or so I hear."

"Three," Davos said. Though I fathered seven...

"I had two," Wyman said. "But my son Wendel went to the Twins a guest. He ate Lord Walder's bread and salt, hung his sword up on the wall, and they slit his throat and murdered him. Murdered, I say, no matter what Frey fables you might hear." Lord Wyman's hand clenched into a fist. "I drink and jape with them, but never for a second have I forgotten. The north remembers, Lord Davos. The north remembers."

Something about the way Lord Wyman spoke sent a shiver up Davos's spine. "King Stannis can give you justice."

"Your loyalty does you credit, my lord," Wyman said, "but Stannis cannot be my king. They watch me day and night, they do, their noses twitching at so much as a whiff of treachery. They have bought some of my knights, and one of their wives handmaid's has found her way into my fool's bed. If Stannis wonders why my letters say so little, it is because I cannot trust my maester. He was born a Lannister of Lannisport, you see, and though maesters are supposed to give up their old loyalties when they don their chains, I cannot forget his blood. False friends and foes fill my court, Lord Davos. They riddle my city like roaches."

"If the risk is so great," Davos asked, "then why am I here?"

Wyman nodded, and produced from beneath his doublet a crumpled scrap of parchment. "Not so long ago, I received a letter from the Boy King on the Iron Throne. A very curious thing, I think you will find, this letter. One that leads me to believe that the situation within Kings Landing has changed considerably. But before we come to that subject, we must first speak on Winterfell. Do you know what transpired there?"

"It was captured by Theon Greyjoy," Davos said, eyeing the letter. Was his fate in there? "He had Stark's two young sons put to death and their heads mounted on the walls before putting the entire castle to the sword when the northmen came to oust him. Eventually, I hear he was slain by Bolton's bastard."

"Not slain," Wyman said, "captured and carried back to the Dreafort. The bastard has been flaying him. The tale you have heard is a lie. It was the Bolton bastard who put Winterfell to the sword... Ramsay Snow. He didn't kill them all, however. He spared the women and the girls, tied them together, and then marched them off to the Dreadfort for his sport."

Davos felt his gut clench with sickening dread. "His sport?"

"He hunts them," Wyman simply said. "He strips them naked and sets them loose in the woods. Then he goes after them with horns and hooves and hounds. From time to time some wenches escape and live to tell the tale. Most are less fortunate. When Ramsay reaches them he rapes them, and if they were not good enough sport he has his men rape them too, and sometimes his hounds and horses as well, and then when they are all done he flays the girls and feeds the mangled remains to his dogs. He brings the skins back as trophies."

Davos paled, his stomach roiled, the lingering traces of rumbling hunger gone from his gut. "Gods be good... How...?"

"If ever there was an evil man," Wyman said, shaking his head. "Ramsay took Lord Hornwood's lands by raping his widow, then locked her in a tower and let her starve. The Boltons have always seemed more beasts than men, more cruel than cunning, but this one is something special. The Freys are not much better. They speak of skinchangers and wargs and tell me it was Lord Robb who slew my Wendel. The sheer gall! Roose Bolton lies about his part in the Red Wedding, just as the Freys do, and his bastard lies about Winterfell. And so long as they have Wylis I have no choice but to accept it."

"So what now, my lord?" Davos asked.

Wyman brandished the letter again. "And so we come to the Boy King and the situation in the capital. When I received this letter it seemed innocent enough, just simple instructions to have you sent down to the capital, alive and unharmed for questioning. I wondered why he had used so much parchment, and chalked it down at first to his childish script. But there was a message hidden in the parchment. Invisible ink, revealed by the heat of a flame. In this hidden message he professes his own hatred for the Boltons and the Freys with much neater words. He speaks the truth about Winterfell, about the Bolton bastard's true nature and about the Red Wedding. I wondered for a while why Ramsay had not been legitimised despite Roose's requests, and now I know. He plans, like I do, the downfall of the Freys and the Boltons for their betrayal, and promises the release and safe return of Wylis as assurance of his intent the moment you arrive in Kings Landing."

Davos frowned. "He means to slay the Freys and Boltons even as they swear fealty to him?"

"It is not so strange," Wyman said. "Would you trust a lord who's loyalty is so lacking? And all he needs do is nothing. Those south of the Neck must know that most northern lords have no lost love for the Boltons. He must know that the perceived lack of Lannister support alone will be enough to ruin Roose and sow the seeds for rebellion. Yet there's more in the message as well, speaking of the survival of the younger sons of Eddard Stark."

Davos stiffened. "You mean to say that the bastard king wants to seat the Starks back in Winterfell?"

"I believe so," Wyman said. "And if my suspicions prove correct, then I am prepared. I have been building warships for more than a year, and many are hidden up the White Knife. Even with all my losses, I have more heavy horse than any other lord north of the Neck. My walls are strong, my vaults full of silver. Oldcastle and Widow's Watch and Ramsgate all take their commands from me, not from the Boltons. I can deliver all the lords east of the Knife to any king I please."

Davos nodded in realisation. "Yet you have a price."

Wyman nodded and clapped his hands, and Robett returned with a boy held tight by the shoulder. A Stark? Davos thought at first, but when he caught sight of him he knew it was not so. He was too tall, too big, almost fourteen or fifteen by the look of him.

"Who are you?" Davos asked.

"An Ironborn mute," Wyman answered in his place. "Wex. He was at Winterfell when Bolton's bastard came. Survived by climbing a Heart Tree and staying hidden among the branches till they left. He dared not descend, till one day he heard voices below him. There were six, so Wex says, and two were Ned Stark's murdered sons."

"How can you know if the boy is mute?" Davos asked. "And as he is an Ironborn, how do you know he doesn't lie?"

"I can know by chalk," he said. "He drew them when he arrived; two boys and two wolves. We can never know the full truth, of course, not till he learns how to write, but Wex is good with his drawings, and the likeness is too close to be coincidence or falsehood. Anyhow, the six did not linger long, and as they split up Wex went east after one group."

"He knows where one of the Stark boys is," Davis concluded.

"And evidently, so does the Boy King," said Lord Wyman as he waved Wex and Robett away. "He makes many promises in his letter, but I know better than to trust a Lannister spawn on his word alone. I want to know what he knows, and how. I want to know what he wants, and why. And you, Lord Seaworth, are perfectly placed to find out for me."

Davos gulped. They'll kill me, he wanted to say. "I serve Stannis, not you," he said instead.

Wyman cocked his head, his many chins quivering. "Even honest men must lie when dealing with liars," he said again. "For now I must serve the Boy King on the Iron Throne. In the future... who knows where the winds of fate will blow and the will of the gods will go? And, if it helps, there was more in the letter as well, speaking of a greater threat to the far north, beyond the Wall. He even claims to be willing to make peace with King Stannis if it will help him face this supposed enemy."

Davos clenched his teeth and then unclenched them. The prospect of peace piqued his interest, he could not deny. But it would be a delicate thing, difficult to accomplish and dependent on a hundred conditions. Davos was no wordsmith. Yet what other choice was there?

"From the Wolf's Den to the Pit of Snakes," he sighed.

"And then back again and onwards," Wyman assured him. "I'll give you a proper ship, and a crew. You will leave in chains, of course - I cannot be seen to be defying a command from the Boy King - but when you are safely at sea and after you have docked at the capital and sent me my whispers from court the ship will be yours, alongside her crew, to do with as you please."

"And if I refuse?"

Wyman smiled. "If you will not go into the Pit of Snakes by ship then you will go by the Stranger's Embrace."

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P.S. May be subject to a rewrite or edits in the future