"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."
...
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