Davos III
''The Iron Captain!''
''What is dead may never die!''
''Pyke!''
''Drumm! Old Wyk!''
''Goodsister!''
''The Iron Captain! The Iron Captain! The Iron Captain!''
The Onion Knight opened his eyes, taking in his surroundings. Had it been a dream, or has another battle started? It must've been a dream, as all the shouts and howling died the moment he opened his eyes. He had never felt as afraid as then, he remembered. Ships burning, men screaming, men drowning.
How long have I been cooped up here since then? It was a question Davos Seaworth had great difficulty figuring out. Had it been just days, or mere weeks? He knew for sure that sailing between Lys and Myr would only take a week or less if the weather was favourable. Yet the battle had greatly slowed them down, and time seemed just as strange as the Red Woman when being forced to stay in the lower decks of the Valyrian during the journey. Though Davos understood the basics of smuggling, he did not hate it any less.
Thankfully, the growing resentment of his situation was dampened by a knock on the door and the arrival of his friend. Salladhor Saan had a growing smile on his face.
''My friend,'' Saan said with a sigh, his Lysense accent clear. ''You apologise for me keeping you here, like some caged beast, eh?''
Davos raised an eyebrow. ''Empathy? From you? Spare me; time is already a stranger to me.''
Salladhor's eyes narrowed. ''Ahh, you Westerosi, you are strange people, yes? When Salladhor Saan is kind, you look at me with the eyes of suspicion. But when I am not, you call me rude and say I have no manners! What is this? A man cannot win with you!''
''I am not a learned man, yet I suspect men treat you thus more for your reputation than any sense of courtesy or respect.''
Salla seemed to consider his words, stroking his beard as he did so. ''Maybe, maybe not.''
''How much further?'' Davos asked.
''Ah, yes, this is why I came, indeed. We are soon to arrive, and I shall bring you garments fit for a man in the company of Salladhor Saan. These clothes you wear now make you look too much like some dull Westerosi lord.''
Davos frowned. ''Why does my attire matter?''
''You misunderstand, my friend.'' Salla said, smiling. ''You are not heading to a meeting with your stag lord, Stannis. No, no. We are smuggling you into a Triarchy gathering. And the Triarchy... well, let us just say they might have little love for your King Robert now.''
Davos nodded. He knew all about the Ironborn and their attack at the Stepstones. It had been the only time during the whole journey that Davos had been allowed in the outer decks in order to help in the fighting. The whole battle had been chaos, chaos in a haze. Though Davos could've sworn that he saw the King's own banner in the mix of Ironborn banners. Did King Robert order the attack? Have I committed high treason by fighting and killing the king's men?
''Very well,'' Davos said grimly.
Salla's smile widened. ''Ahh, very good, very good! But do not sulk like some dock boy, Davos Shorthand. I shall bring my finest silks, yes? A man must look the part, even if we are smuggling him like the onions you Westerosi love so much!''
Salla clapped his hands, and a servant appeared with a bundle of garments in his hands. The servant laid the bundle on top of a table before leaving, while Salla gestured toward it with a glint of pride in his eyes. Davos rose and approached the table, inspecting the foreign attire with a raised brow.
''Seven hells...''
''Change now, and be quick about it! We'll be docking soon.'' Salla said with a wink before leaving himself.
Davos took the bundle with a grunt. I've forgotten how much I dislike Salla's taste. It was deep green and gold; the patterns on the tunic were intricate and flowing, very different from the simple attire Seaworth preferred. He changed either way, and when he was done, the old smuggler found himself tugging at the silks; the fabric was too soft. He still wore his boots—he'd refused to change into the fine Myrish slippers Salla had also provided—but otherwise he was transformed.
He sighed before opening the door and making his way to the upper decks. The air and the smell of salt and sea were refreshing. He had to somewhat shuffle his way through experienced sailors and slaves running around, shouting commands in a foreign tongue. He spotted Salla standing proudly by the forecastle of The Valyrian. Once Davos had made his way there, he could see the approaching, looming city of Myr. His eyes widened; it was an awe-striking sight; if he found it so because of the mere time he spent cooped up in the lower decks or because of the Myrish craft of shaping stone walls and towers, he did not know. Davos turned his head and suppressed raising his eyebrow; his friend was looking him up and down, nodding approvingly.
''Much better! Now you look like a man with taste, yes? We shall walk through the streets of Myr, and not a soul will know you for some Westerosi lord or mere merchant.''
Even though Davos doubted it at first, Salla had been right. When they disembarked, the air was filled with spices from distant markets and fish fresh from the sea. The harbour itself was alive even at this hour, with sailors unloading cargo and small skiffs ferrying passengers to and from ships that couldn't dock. He would have lied if he wasn't a little nervous, but Salla led the way, his stride easy and confident, so Davos followed close behind.
Davos kept his back straight, though his eyes never stopped scanning. The night had cooled the air, but the city was ever-heated. Laughter and music could be heard, as well as the occasional shout from some argument or joke. There was an alien flow of tunes to the voices that made Davos truly feel like a stranger. The streets were narrow and winding, lined with shops and taverns, each corner full of faces that Davos hoped did not take a second look. Above them, the spires and towers of Myr loomed, and the closer they got to the city's heart, the more intricate the architecture became, with windows of coloured glass and walls inlaid with gold filigree.
''We'll be at my estate soon, my friend. You will like it. There are many treasures to see there, and a few women who—''
Davos' cutoff was firm. ''I've got a wife, Salla, a woman I hold dear and love beyond measure.''
''And I've got three, eh? A man has needs, my friend! Even Davos Seaworth is not made of stone, yes?''
Salla's grin was devious, though Davos was frowning. Salladhor must have noticed his expression, as he started to chuckle. ''Ahh, always so serious, my onion smuggler! You'll see, Myr is not so bad, no. Once you are inside my house, with a fine glass of wine in hand and a woman to warm you, you'll thank Salladhor Saan. You will see!''
Davos snorted. In truth, he would have lied if he did not imagine himself in need of a woman's touch; it had been so long. Though when he thought himself bare, in a bed of love and pleasure, it was his own Marya he pictured, a good-natured plump woman with sagging breasts and a kindly smile, the best woman in the world.
''In case you ever foolishly forget, I am never not thinking of you.''
Soon enough, they stood before a gate. Two guards nodded to Salladhor, who whispered something in what must have been Valyrian. Salla whispered something in reply, and they all went back and forth for a few moments before they opened the gate.
Salla went through the open gate; Davos followed closely behind, and soon they both found themselves inside one of his friends estates. It was, he must say, a pretty humble one compared to his estate in Lys.
''Ah, finally, get some sleep, my friend. Or take up on my offer; you've earned it. I must go at once to the Triarchs and make my presence known. Salladhor Saan does not sneak in like some kitchen mouse; no—he arrives as a man should!''
''Have we arrived too late, or does the meeting still convene?''
''No, no, the three Triarchs are proud men, yes, but even they would not begin without the rich and powerful of the kingdom. And Salladhor Saan? I am among them! My name is famous, you will see.''
Davos nodded; he knew that Salla was not a humble man himself and could greatly exaggerate things, though he hoped that this was one of the times when his boasting was closer to the truth. Seaworth could have gone to sleep; he probably should have, yet he hadn't; he couldn't. He was far too nervous to find any of it. So instead he spent the time Salla was gone exploring his estate, breaking his fast as he remembered that he had not eaten, and trying yet and failing to read the only book he had in the Common Tounge.
Hours passed, and Davos found himself doing a lot of other things. He wandered through the estate, inspecting his odd treasures and watching the stars above in the courtyard, though the more time passed, the more nervous he got. How long can a man take to announce his arrival? He did not dare think that his friend might've sold him out for a few coins or to curry favour with the right people in this new kingdom. Then, suddenly, a knock echoed through the quiet. He froze, and he could feel his skin turning to that of a chicken. Salladhor wouldn't knock—this was his own residence. The knocking came again, sharp and impatient. Davos's heart quickened, and instinctively, he reached for his knife. For a brief moment, he considered running. To find a ship bound for anywhere but here, and when the door swung open, he had made his mind up. Though his feet froze to the ground when he saw the familiar red robe and the woman who wore it.
The Red Woman's sharp eyes immediately found his, and she smiled—a smile that always unsettled him, though tonight he found himself somewhat relieved to see it. She was carrying something, he noticed. A robe perhaps.
''M'lady,'' Davos muttered, taking a step back. ''I wasn't expecting you.''
''Nor had I intended to come, yet circumstances have shifted.'' She stepped into the room with no hesitation, her presence filling the space with a wary warmth. ''Come, sweet knight. I mean no harm.''
Davos frowned. ''Where's Salla? He was supposed to return for me.''
Melisandre approached him gracefully, smiling softly. ''Salladhor Saan has made his arrival known. But he was one of the last to reach the Triarchy's council hall, and they are eager to begin. Time, as it often does, runs short.''
Davos set the knife down on the closest table yet still eyed her warily. ''How do we gain entry?'' He asked, suppressing a heavy sigh.
Melisandre's eyes gave away to something more serious, and as she gave him what she was carrying, he saw now that he was right. It was a robe, a red one. ''Foraq has vouched for me, and I, in turn, vouch for you.''
Her gaze never left him, unwavering. ''Don it.'' She said simply.
The red priest always had a way of making him feel like she could see through his skin, into his very soul. He did not like it one bit. He did not like any of this one bit. Salla was supposed to come back and grant him entry; that was the bargain they struck in Lys. While The Red Woman was supposed to stay as far away from him as possible, in case anyone knew about Melisandre's service to Stannis Baratheon. In truth, he doubted anyone would know about it, but you can never be to sure. All that it would take was one foreign merchant or one old sailor that had briefly docked in the port of Dragonstone and noticed or heard talk about the mysterious and foreign priest in service to Lord Stannis.
And now she was insisting he put on the same robes as she, Foraq, and many other red priests wore. ''Madness.'' He murmured.
''Trust in R'hllor.'' Lady Melisandre said softly, though a new found intensity could be noticed in her voice. She was close now—too close for comfort. Davos could feel the warmth radiating from her—unnaturally so. Her lips curled into a half-smile. ''He will guide us through what is to come.''
''I heard in Lys what your god plans are, and I don't much like it, m'lady.'' Davos said quietly.
Melisandre leaned in even closer. ''The Long Night is not the design of R'hllor, yet it shall come all the same. You have glimpsed but a piece of the truth. Trust me, Ser Davos. And if you cannot trust me, then place your faith in your lord, Stannis.''
''In case you ever foolishly forget, I am never not thinking of you.''
With a heavy sigh, Davos nodded reluctantly. ''Father above, judge me justly.'' And so, with a reluctant glance at the robe in his hands, Davos Seaworth asked for some privacy and once more changed his attire before stepping into the night after Melisandre.
The city did not seem to sleep, he noticed. Multiple shouts and what he thought to be songs could be heard in almost every street corner they passed, yet the sounds of songs were not so easily heard over the sounds of whips and screams. Slaves, he knew. Braded and collored, was being whipped in the streets. Thankfully, the sounds slowly got quieter and quieter as they neared the city centre, until the songs, laughter, and screams were eventually replaced with the sounds of crickets chirping. The building in which the meeting would take place was no doubt impressive—a huge towering thing, built with white and black stone and a somewhat circular roof. A very wide yet small staircase was approaching them, and Davos narrowed his eyes as he could spot a dozen guards standing between them and the staircase. He would have asked The Red Woman what her plan was to pass them, were it not for the two other red priests standing there as well. When Davos and Lady Melisandre finally reached them, they exchanged nods; the now three priests did not speak a word to each other, yet they all passed the guards with ease, Davos included. He found himself feeling grateful for the uncomfortable robe he was wearing as they made their way inside the building.
When he and Melisandre, flanked by two silent red priests, stepped into the council hall, that gratefulness depleted and was replaced with a realisation that he had never felt more out of his depth than now. It was vast, larger than most places he'd ever seen in Essos, and in its size and grandeur, the only hall that came to comparison in his mind was the throne room in King's Landing that he had only seen one time before. But as Davos looked around, he couldn't help but notice the differences. Where the throne room had its towering walls and singular seat of power—the Iron Throne itself—this chamber had no such central focus. Instead, it was filled with rows upon rows of chairs arranged in semicircles, more like an enormous council chamber than a court. The seats seemed to be arranged for debate rather than decrees, with hundreds of people gathered in heated discussion, some shouting at the tops of their lungs while others spoke in whispers. There were no banners hanging here, no symbols of royal authority. Just pure, utter chaos and the murmur of a hundred voices competing for dominance. At the far end of the room, separated from the chaos, he saw three tall chairs standing raised on a dais. The Three Triarchs, it must be their seats. Davos could not help but feel a little pity for them. Every chair in the hall seemed angled toward those three seats. He personally has numerous times felt a tingle of fear before speaking with many nobles in the same hall, when Stannis held his councils in Storm's End or Dragonstone. He could only imagine what work these three men would have cut out for them. They were unoccupied as of now though, looming above the gathered factions like judges waiting to preside over the verbal chaos.
The arguing was almost deafening, yet despite it, Melisandre moved through the room with purpose. Davos followed close behind, trying his hardest not to let the unfamiliarity of the place distract him. She led him towards an empty cluster of seats near the side of the hall, and he moved instinctively to take the one beside her.
Davos did not claim to be an expert in the Valyrian language, yet he has heard enough talk from numerous Essosi to have a small understanding of it. Some words that were shouted out he clearly recognised, words as Westeros, Braavos, and Volantis. There were other words, though, some that he simply did not understand, though he could have sworn that he heard a word Salla used multiple times in his proximity. War.
While Davos Seaworth did not understand the tongue in which they spoke, he could easily see that the Three Daughters were not as united as it looked from the outside. Factions within the hall was easily seen. Priests of R'hllor, rich men, pirates, and magisters all had formed their own little spaces within the hall, and all were arguing with each other.
Yet still, Davos Seaworth could not spot Salladhor Saan. Where is he?
He turned to Melisandre, lowering his voice. ''You said Salla was one of the last to arrive. If he's not here, where is he?''
Melisandre's gaze remained fixed on the far end of the hall; her expression was unreadable. ''Worry not, Ser Davos. The pirate is playing his part. He will come in time,'' she said softly, almost as if she were convincing herself. ''As will you.''
''I've no desire to be part of whatever your flames have seen.''
''Desire matters little in this world,'' Melisandre whispered, her tone heavy with meaning. ''What is destined cannot be avoided. And your part in this is greater than you know. When the time comes, you will understand.''
Davos clenched his jaw, suppressing the retort that rose to his lips. He didn't trust her or her visions, but he also knew better than to argue with her here, in a place so foreign and dangerous.
Then, the heavy doors at the back of the hall creaked open, and the first of the Triarchs entered.
He was a man of striking appearance, with a whiteish robe that shimmered with his every step. His hair and beard were a bright, unnatural green, and he wore rings with different colours on every finger. The green-haired Triarch made his way to the dais with a wide smile plastered across his face, earning shouts and snarles across the hall as he sat down in one of the three chairs. He looked friendly, yet there was something preditorious in his eyes that Davos did not like.
The next Triarch entered moments later, a stark contrast to the first man's swagger. He was olive-skinned and bald, with a long and stern face. He walked slowly, almost deliberately, leaning heavily on an impressive golden cane that seemed to be the only thing ornate about his appearance. There was an authority about him, one that was felt across the whole room as everyone's lips sealed at the sound of his cane hitting the floor hard. The bald Triarch took the middle seat on the dais with a quiet dignity, offering no theatrics, no smiles. He simply observed, his eyes drifting over the crowd like a silent judge measuring the worth of each person present.
Then the doors opened once more, and the third Triarch entered.
Davos felt his stomach drop the moment he saw him. No. It can't be.
There, striding confidently into the hall with a wide grin on his face, was Salladhor Saan. Yet this was not a familiar sight. He was dressed more extravagantly than Davos had ever seen him—his robes were of the finest silks, woven in deep purples and rich golds. Different treasures glittered on his chest and wrists; the only thing Davos could spot that was of a familiarity was the jaunty green cap decorated with a fan of peacock feathers. He looked more like a Lyseni prince than the pirate Seaworth had sailed with for so many years.
The hall seemed to despise his new title as much as Davos, as once more, the hall erupted into chaos. But Salladhor seemed utterly unbothered; infact, his grin grew only wider. He knew that look. It was the same look he had given Davos countless times before—like a gambler who had just won a fortune on a wild bet. Salladhor was ambitious; he had always been ambitious. It was unthinkable, yet something he can't help but feel he should have seen coming. What did you win? What did you do, Salla?
''In case you ever foolishly forget, I am never not thinking of you.''
He took his place in the final chair on the dais with a careless grace, earning a glare from the green-haired triarch. The shouts and chaos were deafening, but all it took for the bald triarch in the middle was a hard smack with his cane on the marble floor for things to quiet down. Or perhaps only quiet down somewhat. There were some noticeable shouts and snarles coming from the magister faction.
One magister stood up from his seat and roared something before spitting on the ground. The green-haired Triarch chuckled in reply, while the bald Triarchs's face froze in place. The hall got so cold at that moment that not even The Red Woman's warmth could heat up the room. Even the rest of the magisters forgot that they had a month at that moment; their eyes widened at the perpetrator. The bald Triarch in the middle stood up and murmured something before snapping his fingers, which prompted five guards to march toward him and restrain him. The magister screamed and fought the restraints, yet the Stranger that loomed just above him seemed determinant; the Stranger kissed him, crimson painting the marble floor as he started to gurgle. Davos drew back slightly at the sight; Salladhor smiled though, clearly triumphant.
Then the bald Triach began to speak, clearly not bothered by the now limp corpse the guards were dragging out of the hall. His voice echoed throughout the now quiet hall. Davos turned to Melisandre.
''Steady yourself. You are in no danger, I assure you, sweet knight.'' Melisandre whispered.
The bald triarch began to speak louder before signalling with his hands toward Salla. The hall erupted into murmurs and whispers in reply, yet only for a moment, as the bald Triarch began to speak again. The faces of the men inside the hall turned, as well as the atmosphere, from displeased to indifferent to curious, and when he finished his speech, they were clearly fired up, as men began to roar and clap their hands.
''He speaks of Volantis; they have surrendered, their city sacked.'' Melisandre said, using the roars of the hall to deafen her speech.
Davos raised his eyebrow; it was only a matter of time, he supposed. Volantis had broken legs after ''The Battle of the Charred Fields'' by all accounts. Yet they weren't a city in need of funds, and The Golden Company were stationed there the last time he had heard. Did Volantis fumble and offer greedy terms? Or did The Golden Company simply refuse and tuck tail? Both scenarios seemed unlikely. The Volantenes were no fools; they would have showered them in gold in exchange for their service. Besides, what army did the Triarchy really have? They seemed largely divided here still; it was a newly formed kingdom after all. Davos thought the Triarchy's army, an army that must have been a largely divided one, had no match against The Golden Company's more professional one.
Yet The Golden Company were no fools either; they were never the ones to refuse an easy fight, and they always fulfilled their contract. One could say that they broke their contract with Myr, but Davos was not so sure anymore about that. Perhaps Myr and The Golden Company had a secret bargain of their own? In exchange for The Golden Company's early exit of their contract, they were not to interfere in Myrish business. It seemed a lot more likely.
Salladhor Saan stood up next and began to speak in the boisterous, theatrical manner that Davos knew so well. A fiery tone and large movements with his hands. He did not understand what he was saying, but he could tell from the tone that Salladhor was riling them up. The noise in the room began to swell.
Davos leaned toward Melisandre, his eyes narrowing. ''What is he saying?''
''They speak of the Westerosi attack. Of war. Of poisoned diplomats.''
The crowd began to grow louder, agitated by Salladhor's words. Murmurs of agreement turned into shouts of outrage, the factions in the hall banding together. Yet it is what he did next that made his face grow pale.
Salladhor met his eyes, making Davos' own eyes widen; it was a sad look, a painful one. It made him feel naked; Davos liked it not one bit. His lips moved, but Davos could not hear what he said over the roars.
Salladhor then turned back to the crowd and resumed speaking in the foreign tongue, his voice losing the softness once again. Davos felt a cold dread settling in his gut.
He turned to Melisandre, ''What's happening? What is he saying?''
Melisandre did not answer. She remained still, her expression unreadable, but there was something in her eyes—something that unsettled Davos more than anything else. Was that fear?
Suddenly, Davos realised something had shifted in the hall. There wasn't just generalised anger anymore. It was targeted. And as Davos glanced around, he saw that every eye in the hall was fixed on him. It was targeted toward him; his heart sank at the realisation.
''In case you ever foolishly forget, I am never not thinking of you.''
A cold chill ran down his spine. The shouting grew louder, more furious, and then the first of the guards moved toward him.
''Wait–'' He tried, but strong hands grabbed him by the shoulders, shoving him down. He struggled, but more guards appeared. They yanked him from his seat and began dragging him toward the dais. Men screamed at him, roaring in what must have been a thousand different curses. He felt his heart pounding in his chest as he was hauled before the three Triarchs, the three looming figures.
The green-haired Triarch leaned forward in his chair and began to speak, his voice raising with even more passion. Whatever he was saying, the crowd responded with clapping.
Salla met his eyes. ''Forgive me, old friend,''
As the clapping continued, Davos heard the great doors at the back of the hall swung open again. But Davos did not care, could not care. All he did, all he could do, was gaze into the eyes of Salladhor Saan. His old companion, his friend. You are a treacherous old rogue, Salladhor Saan, but a good friend all the same.
The crowd still roared, still clapped, yet the man who had entered the hall was now so close that he could hear the man's footsteps looming toward the dias, where the three Triarchs, and now Ser Davos, bloodied and bound, lay on the floor. Davos Seaworth turned around, the man strode toward them with the confidence of a monarch.
His clothing, his hair, and his eyes. It was unmistakable—silver-gold hair, black and red clothing, a dragon embroidered on his chest, and violet eyes that blazed with a fire as he surveyed the room, taking in the crowd's adulation as though it were his birthright.
Davos felt his breath catch in his throat. He had never seen this man before, but he knew, of course he knew.
Behind him walked a tall, imposing knight clad in gleaming white armour with a reserved and stern face. The man wore the white cloak of the Kingsguard. Davos did not remember the knight's name, but he knew who it was, of course he knew.
When the dragon prince reached the front of the hall, he turned to face the crowd. He glanced at the three Triarchs before turning back toward the rest of the hall, he did bother to meet Davos' eyes, yet he found himself thankful for it. His voice was filled with the fury of a dragon as he shouted something in a language Davos still could not understand, but the emotion behind it was clear. It was as clear as night and day.
Davos found himself thinking of his children, of Dale, Allard, Matthos, Maric, Devan, Stannis, and Steffon. They were safe, that was all that mattered. Stannis will keep them safe, he could not think of a better man to keep his children safe. Let them live long lives, let their bellies grow and their heads get as pained as his by children of their own. Let them never know the hardships that I had gone through in Flea Bottom.
The dragon man turned his head, and his gaze fell upon Davos. Violet eyes locked onto him, burning with triumph and something else—something that sent shivers down his spine. A cruel smile twisted his lips as he took a step closer, looking down at Davos like a dragon sizing up its prey.
''This,'' Viserys Targaryen said, ''This is the finest gift I have received in many a long year.''
''In case you ever foolishly forget, I am never not thinking of you.''
I'm sorry, Marya.