Chapter 34: Davos II

"We'll make King's Landing within the hour," the captain announced.

Davos nodded, accepting the news with the grim certainty of a man facing the chopping block. He went to the rail on the edge of the deck of the ship and looked at the churning seas below. The bow of the ship cleaved a path through the waves, frothing bands of white curving away from the front and slowly dissipating behind the stern of the ship. These were familiar waters. He leaned over the ledge to study the waves more closely. Once, they'd defined his life as a smuggler and a sailor both. Davos considered climbing over the ledge and letting those same waves define his demise.

Alas, no. That'd be far too easy an end for a man like him.

And to think a few more leagues could take me home, to Marya...

He lifted his head from the water to observe the rocky coasts, and then to the ship in which he was stood. The Storm Dancer was an impressive vessel, by all accounts. A two-masted galley with sixty oars, it was a warship in all but name. No match to the flagships of the Redwyne fleet or the Royal Navy, but nevertheless a fearsome sight.

Davos felt his stomach churn. They'd sailed from White Harbour straight into the mouth of storm winds that had followed them down the Fingers and through the Bite, only falling behind as they approached Blackwater Bay, almost as though the skies themselves were repulsed by that cesspit of a city. He'd suffered rocking and creaking and howling winds whistling through gaps in the walls and floors. He'd suffered the bitter cold and long nights. And all without complaint. And yet the prospect of landfall scared him more than any storm ever could.

The fate of a kingdom, a continent, now rested on his shoulders. Diplomacy was never my strength, Davos thought as the tallest towers of the Red Keep peeked over the top of the horizon, slowly growing larger in his vision atop Aegon's high hill. His missing fingers ached from their stumps. Unlike in White Harbour, he was expected - though as a prisoner rather than an envoy. I am a better prisoner than a peacemaker, he mused. Though perhaps my plain style will persuade the Boy King.

Even as he thought it, Davos knew his chances were slim to none. He was King Stannis's Hand. Tommen would have to be a fool to let him leave the capital alive, to not claim him as a hostage. And perhaps he was. Perhaps he could be convinced, cajoled or else bribed, but Lord Tywin couldn't. No matter what plan Davos tried to create Tywin Lannister always emerged from the back of his mind to make it all go awry. And that was without even mentioning Stannis himself. His liege was notoriously stubborn, and Davos had not been afforded a chance to consult him. Who was to say that any terms Davos was able to secure would be acceptable to Stannis?

And so it was with a quiet resignation that Davos leant against the ledge and watched the city grow nearer. It was eerily beautiful, in the morning light. The city covered the shore as far as the eye could see; granaries and manses and arbors, taverns and graveyards and brothels - all piled atop one another. Broad streets cut through the chaos. Red tiles made up the view from above, the city crowned by it's walls, rising strong and true, sections encased in scaffolds, the crown adorned by the Dragonpit, the Great Sept of Baelor and the Red Keep. Suddenly he was Davos of Flea Bottom again, coming home to his city atop it's three high hills.

Here, where the ocean breeze guarded Davos's nostrils from the stench, he could almost appreciate the city.

And then the smell hit him, and reality set back in. He knew as much of ships and sails and storms as any man, had fought his fair share and then some of desperate battles atop slippery decks, swords scraping swords. But to this sort of battle he came a maiden, frightened. Smugglers did not bandy words. They did not think in plots and plans and manipulations.

Davos braced himself, squaring his shoulders even as irons were clapped around his wrists and his blade was lifted out of the scabbard hanging from his belt. At least they let him keep his mantle, and some semblance of his dignity. He was hauled into an old wagon without so much as a word of ceremony, the wheels creaking as the driver lashed the reins against the back of the poor horse pulling him along. At a sedate pace they trundled through the streets, attracting odd looks but no more.

That was strange. Davos had expected screams and jeers and hurled shit, crowds of people called together to watch the Hand of the false king be humbled. But no. There was no crowd, no... anything. Grimy, grease-coated men went about their business, filth-covered children flitting between the alleys in play, whores eyeing the teeming masses for prospective new customers.

Things became no less strange when they finally arrived at the gates of the Red Keep, beady eyes commanding Davos to exit the wagon and walk the rest of the way from behind a helm. But here it was the same. Indifference was all that greeted him. Perhaps a little annoyance. No more.

Though Davos had only seen the halls of the Red Keep once - during the Hand's tourney - he still had a vague recollection of the layout of the castle. He trudged on and on, the guards pushing him through passages and corridors and up and down steps, seemingly leading him in circles. They must have made three laps of Meagor's Holdfast before he was down in the yard and then hurried up the steps of the Hand's tower and then back down again, till finally a firm hand grasped his shoulder and pushed him through an archway onto a terrace overlooking the ocean.

"The gods gift to me, I call it," a high voice declared. "The ocean has a kind of beauty not even the fairest maiden could hope to match."

Davos spun around, his gaolers suddenly gone. Instead he found a table with a lone chair behind it, the Boy King leaned back observing the waves with his hands settled in his lap. He was flanked by his Kingsguard. Ser Loras to one side - obviously, going by the finery on the armour - and Ser Balon to the other, if Davos had to guess. He was wearing a fine leather coat, dyed a rich Baratheon black, his crown lopsided on his head. A thin belt girded his waist, and from it hung the sheath for a dagger, the hilt tucked beneath Tommen's arm.

Lord Tywin was nowhere to be seen.

Davos cleared his throat. "Your Grace."

Tommen's head slowly shifted from the sea to observe him, cold green eyes flicking from his boots to his belt to his face. "Your Grace, is it? I was rather under the impression you thought my uncle the rightful king?"

"King Stannis is the one true king," Davos confirmed. "I have sworn my sword to him."

"A king without a kingdom is not much of a king," the lad said, the corners of his lips tugged up in a small smile.

Davos stood silent.

Tommen scowled. "Someone take the irons off him. He's my uncle's friend, for Seven's sake. And he's unarmed."

Davos observed the guard that approached to slip a rusted metal key into his irons, a heavy metal click followed shortly by the clatter of chains falling onto stone. The guard retreated to his post, and then slipped away out of sight.

"I was told you had designs on peace," Davos tentatively began.

"Of course." Tommen waved his hand dismissively. "You'll see for yourself soon enough. But for now we have more urgent matters."

"What can be more urgent than ending this war?" Davos asked.

Tommen cocked his head, as though in thought. "How is Shireen?" he asked, his voice oddly quiet, contemplative.

Davos frowned. Had Tommen called him all the way down from White Harbour just to ask after his cousin? "Well enough," he answered, cautious.

"I suppose that's all anyone can ask for, these days," Tommen said, with a sad shake of his head. "I am dreading the notion of rendering her an orphan."

"You could always surrender," Davos suggested, half in jest.

Tommen quirked an eyebrow. "To the man who so callously killed his own brother? I'll profess some love for Uncle Stannis - I won't deny that - but I'm not fool enough to believe that he feels the same for me, or what remains of my family." Davos made to object, but was quickly cut off. "Nor am I fool enough to believe any promises or claims you might make of my uncle's even hand or honour. But I suppose a gesture of good will is in order. Hmm. Should Stannis surrender his claim, he can live out the rest of his days in the Wall, choose a husband for his daughter, and they will inherit Storm's End."

"Is that your proposal for peace?"

Tommen shrugged. "It's the most lenient long-term solution I can see. I'd leave him unpunished, but doing so would only indicate weakness to all the watching eyes. And so I must be firm without being fervent or cruel. The result is that most other options end with my uncle's head on a chopping block - an eventuality I am not all too keen on, as you might be able to tell. But a more temporary truce... Well that seems in both our interests."

Now it was Davos's turn to quirk an eyebrow. "I haven't the authority to negotiate on His Grace's behalf."

Tommen smiled. "I'm not asking you to negotiate, I'm asking you to deliver a message. And to do me two other services, if you would be so kind."

Davos shot suspicious glances at the two members of the Kingsguard.

"Don't worry, they can be trusted," Tommen assured him.

"Rickon Stark."

"Yes."

"How? How do you know?"

Tommen shook his head. "That's the wrong question to ask. You know I won't answer."

Davos furrowed his brow with confusion.

Tommen sighed and leaned forwards. "You want Rickon Stark safe, no? I presume not only because he is an innocent young lad, but because Lord Wyman offered his support only if you'd bring the young boy into his custody. Well, I want him back too. I don't care where he goes, so long as he's safe."

Davos blinked. "You don't?"

"I met Rickon briefly when my father dragged us all up north to conscript Lord Eddard Stark as his Hand. I met all the Starks, actually. And though Eddard and Robb and Catelyn have passed, the remaining four have not. Now, Sansa and Arya and Bran I have clear eyes on, and can protect and even control without too much difficulty. But Rickon... In Skaagos he is beyond my reach. He was a nice lad, I remember. He doesn't deserve to suffer, or to die."

"No, he doesn't," Davos agreed. If Tommen spoke the truth about the other three Starks, then the likelihood of Lord Wyman siding with Stannis was slim to none. But perhaps with Rickon he can be convinced to not take up arms against His Grace, Davos thought. Neutrality was better than enmity. And Lord Wyman would likely aid them anyway, if only so far as it helped to undermine the Boltons.

Tommen smiled. "I'm glad you concur. Because you're going to be the one that gets him from those isles. I need a smuggler, and a good one to go that far. I can't think of many others better than you. All the North agrees Lord Bolton and his bastard make for ill wardens. But though I have all the Starks I need to arrange their replacement, my conscience demands I step in to help young Rickon. It demands that I send someone to brave those storm waters, to brave the cannibals. To bring Rickon to White Harbour - into the custody of Lord Manderly - or else to Kings Landing. And if you succeed, I can promise Shireen will inherit Storm's End regardless of whether Stannis succeeds in his war against me or not. I can also promise I will bear no ill-will against your family in Cape Wrath, in spite your loyalties. I can even promise it in writing, if you should so desire. In case you are worried I will renege on my word."

"All that for one boy?" Davos asked, incredulous.

"For one innocent boy who also happens to be the son of Eddard Stark, yes." Tommen shrugged. "What's the harm? I never desired to hurt you or Shireen in the first place, nor even really Stannis, though I am by now resigned to it. You have served your liege, as you should, and Shireen is an innocent girl who has committed no crime, and she's my cousin besides. I'll not suffer the stain of kinslaying if I can avoid it."

Davos nodded, accepting the explanation for what it was. Then he frowned. "You said you desired I do you two favours."

Tommen nodded. "Regarding our common enemy beyond the Wall, and that truce I suspect might serve us well," he began. Behind him Ser Loras shifted uncomfortably on his feet. He did not seem best pleased by the notion of his present master aiding the man who'd killed his previous one.

"King Stannis has the wildlings well under control," Davos said.

"It isn't the wildlings that have caught my attention," the Boy King said, a grim smile gracing his lips. He turned back to face his guards. "Ser Loras?"

"Your Grace?"

"Fetch some bread and salt for us, would you? I'd like to speak to our guest alone."

Both Sers Loras and Balon frowned. "Your Grace-"

"I'm well aware of the risks, Ser," Tommen said. "But Ser Davos is an honourable man. He wouldn't turn his hands on me after taking bread and salt. And even if he did, I am armed and he is not, and you two will be waiting just beyond the doors in case of any danger. You have my permission to burst in if you hear the beginnings of a fight or I cry out for help or aid in any way."

Ser Loras seemed on the verge of grumbling some objection, but soon straightened his spine, martialled his face and nodded, leaving to do his king's bidding. A bowl of coarse salt and steaming fresh-baked bread soon arrived before Davos, and before the king's appraising eyes he dipped the bread in the salt and took a hearty bite. With a wave of his hand, the king commanded the bowl taken away and his guards to depart.

And then they were alone.

"You're a Kingslander, aren't you?"

"Aye," Davos said.

"When you were marched up here, what impression did the city give you?"

Davos frowned and scratched his beard. "Quiet," he said. "Just as smelly as the last time I was anywhere near here, but not as filthy. In some respects it seems better, but for the most part it seems unchanged."

"For the most part it is," Tommen agreed. "I've done my best - repaired a few broken buildings - armouries, granaries, storehouses and the like - shored up the walls, reformed the gold cloaks and come down hard against all sorts of crime. But there's still much work to be done to correct centuries of neglect. The city was not built to house so many, and the strain this mismatch causes shows if you know where to look."

Davos felt his impatience grow. "Forgive me, but why are you telling me this?"

Tommen turned his head briefly away to glance back out at the ocean. "So when I next tell you what I am about to you'll know I haven't lost my head. I'm not the Mad King come again, nor am I Prince Rheagar with his fickle notions and dreams. I'm a practical man with my head firmly planted on my shoulders, much like your own liege."

"And what do you want to tell me?"

Tommen's eyes met his own, emerald gaze sharpening. "The Others are rising again, and bringing an army of wights with them. 'The enemy,' your Red Witch calls them. She's not wrong."

Davos leaned back in his seat, a frown masking his incredulousness. "The long night that never ends," he murmured.

"Pardon?"

"Something she said," Davos answered. "How did you know? Hells, how can you be sure she's right?"

Tommen shrugged. "She has her secrets, and so do I. Though mine are likely more mundane than hers. The Lord Commander knows - you can confirm with him that I have not knowingly told you a single mistruth. Lady Melisandre knows. Stannis probably knows. I know. And now so do you."

Davos sighed even as he felt a small shudder creep up his spine at the thought. Stranger things have happened. Part of him wanted to refuse to believe such a fantastical tale, but his good sense knew better than to so flagrantly gainsay a king - even a bastard one. He would do as the Boy King suggested, however. He would be sure to ask Lord Snow - and the Lady Melisandre too - if the threat truly was as large as Tommen claimed. "So what do you want from me?"

"There are a variety of ways to counteract the coming darkness," Tommen began. "I've been making preparations. Dragonglass and Valyrian steel can kill White Walkers, as can most forms of fire. And it is said that wherever a White Walker and his wights go, winter follows. Cold and snow and so on. So it seems sensible to presume that if only we can stop them venturing south, or else find a way to kill all the White Walkers before they can raise enough wights, the long night your Red Woman spoke of may never come to pass, or else be ended before it can truly begin. But all that is useless without the numbers necessary to face the army I suspect the Others may be able to muster."

"And how many is that?" Davos asked, still holding his scepticism close to his chest.

Tommen shrugged. "Reports vary. There may be anywhere between a hundred to a thousand White Walkers, though likely not more. As for the numbers of wights they could raise... The cold in the far north means corpses don't rot, which means they can be raised as wights. So, assuming the worst possible outcome, we may be facing an invading army numbering anywhere up to four or five million troops? Certainly no less than one, given the vast numbers of wildlings that have lived and died beyond the Wall."

Davos leaned back in his seat in disbelief, allowing the numbers to wash over him. Then he rubbed his eyes. "Seven save us all."

"The Seven may lend their aid, but only we can save ourselves," Tommen crowed. "So long as the Wall stands strong I'm not too worried, but you can see why I'm eager for peace - even a temporary one. We can't afford to lose many more fighting men by making war amongst ourselves with this threat lurking over the horizon."

"I can see that."

"Presently I rule over a bunch of squabbling lords and ladies, each of whom hate each other too much to ever be able to fight side by side. If a true war is necessary in the North - and I pray it is not - then that simply will not suffice. I need something to overshadow their rivalries and jealousies, something to spur them to action. Something they can see with their own eyes. Something to rally them - whether they rally behind me or Stannis matters little, so long as they can be convinced to work together."

"You want a White Walker," Davos realised. "A live one."

"Two might be nice," Tommen said with a smile. "Though I suspect a wight would be easier to capture, and would prove just as useful. Simply put, I want you to go north and speak with the Lord Commander. Tell him of my desires, and make a small delivery. I think he's been paying attention, and taking the necessary steps, but it's always nice to be certain."

Davos frowned. "What delivery?"

Tommen clapped his hands. Ser Balon came through the door. "Your Grace?"

"Have the men bring the prisoner. The nameless one I had prepared when I heard of Ser Davos's arrival."

Balon nodded, bowed his head, and then rushed back out.

"A prisoner?" Davos asked.

"Just take him to the Wall and make him take the black."

"How do I know you aren't asking me to plant a spy in the Lord Commander's ranks?"

Tommen gave no answer save to tell him to wait and see. Silence lingered for a few more moments before a man stumbled in dressed in filthy rags, spear points herding him into place before the guards who'd brought him here each bowed and left. A scraggly beard covered much of his face, capped by a hooked nose caked in dried blood, his head shaved bald. His eyes were rounded by dark circles, sunken and deprived of sleep. His frame was that of a fighter, even as thin as it was, half-starved. His feet were bare, and his legs seemed to shake, struggling to hold his weight. And when he met the Boy King's gaze, his eyes seemed to widen with a mix of panic and fear.

"Now, what were your instructions?" Tommen asked.

"To take the black if I want to keep my cock," the man muttered. "To serve the Lord Commander loyally. To protect his life with mine own if necessary."

"Good."

Davos eyed the man critically. "What crime did he commit?"

"He tried to fuck my mother," Tommen answered, almost nonchalantly. "And then my wife."

Davos felt his brows climb up his forehead. "He put horns on his own king?"

"I said tried," Tommen said in a bemused tone. "Obviously he failed. I'd kill him, but death would be too easy. I promised him a hard life for having the gall, and I was getting tired of watching him just waste away down in the Black cells, so..."

Davos nodded. "So to the Wall he goes."

Tommen nodded in confirmation. "I'm already asking a great deal of you, so I know better than to press the issue. You may be an honourable man, Ser Davos, but you are not mine to command. All I can do is ask and pray. Pray you will retrieve Rickon alive. Pray Stannis listens when you convey my request for truce terms, and understands why. Pray the Lord Commander can find us a live wight. Pray this wretched cur will keep his word. But enough on that. We are pressed for time. You must soon go, and I have other urgent business to attend to."

"Aye," Davos simply said. "But I'll have your word in writing before I leave."

Tommen smiled. "So you will."

Feel free to comment and let me know what you think.
Hope you guys enjoy!

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