davos-allyrion

[davos-allyrion]

Davos was going to kill him.

No, wait. He was going to kill himself first, then Doran, then maybe Harrold just to keep the rhythm going. He’d opened the door expecting soft kisses and a warmer welcome. Ales’s hands on his jaw. A laugh caught in his collar. Instead, he got this: a Dorne-born fever dream with snowflakes clinging to his lashes and a scowl that meant trouble.

“You’ve just committed murder?”

Gods save him.

Davos pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yes. Twice. Possibly three times if you don’t shut up.”

And then Doran smirked. Davos had to inhale through his teeth to keep from exploding. He knew that look. He feared that look. It was the one Doran always wore right before one of his ideas took root and blossomed into a full-grown catastrophe.

“You know there’s a group that swears you’re throwing peasants into the ‘rush?”

Davos snorted before he could stop himself. “Peasants? Please. I respect the smallfolk too much to waste their bodies on these spoiled Northern waters. If I were throwing anyone into the ‘rush, it’d be lords. The self-important ones. The ones who say Dorne like it tastes foul. The ones who ask if I wear perfumes because I’m from the South.” He mimed a toss. “Those go in. Splash.”

But then Doran’s face shifted. Serious, sharp, that unnerving stillness he rarely wore.

“To be honest with you, I need to speak with you. Not now, but immediately. This damned castle is driving me mad. If I don’t share air with a like minded person very soon, I’m going to become rather reckless and a poor guest.”

Something inside Davos stilled. No, not stilled—tightened. Like a knot being pulled in his chest. He didn’t want to ask what was wrong. He didn’t want to care. But he did. Of course he did. That was the curse of having friends. He wanted to laugh. To throttle him. To tell him he was being an insufferable, ill-timed toddler. He wanted to scream. Or dissolve into Ales’s arms and melt into one being who could feel only half this mortification.

Instead, Davos swallowed hard and said, low and dangerous, “Stop being ridiculous.”

Doran opened his mouth. Davos raised a single hand, henna stained palm out.

“Not. One. Word.”

Then, because there was no other way to survive with dignity, Davos stepped aside, jaw clenched and shoulders taut as a bowstring. “Get inside before I change my mind and throw you into the ‘rush.”

Davos turned on his heel and launched into damage control.

He crossed the room in swift, surgical strides, blowing out candles with sharp huffs, their tiny flames dying with whispers of protest. He yanked the fur coverlet from the foot of the bed and flung it over the painstakingly arranged rose petals with theatrical disdain.

“If you ask about the flowers,” he said, voice low and deadly, “I will stab you.”

He turned. “If you ask about the candles, you’ll be burned alive.”

He moved toward the bath. “If you ask about the bath, I will drown you in it.”

And then, as if he hadn’t just issued three very specific death threats, Davos dragged out the low table with the calm of a man one breath away from declaring war, sat with forced grace, and poured hibiscus tea into two earthenware cups. The scent—citrusy, floral, earthy—spilled into the air. It helped. A little.

He kicked out the opposite chair with the side of his boot and fixed Doran with a stare that could cauterize wounds. A host in the ruins of his own evening.

He slouched back into his chair, the mask sliding back over his face. Fingers braced tight on the arms, like he needed to anchor himself to something.

“Now. Tell me what idiotic thing you’re thinking before it eats you alive.”

𓁼 LOVE IN TIMES OF INTRUSION 𓁼

(A starter with @doranyronwood)

The wine was already poured.

Davos hadn’t meant to start drinking without him. He hadn’t meant to start drinking at all, really. But the wait had begun to gnaw. The candles, once tall and proud, were starting to droop. Their wax dripped like sweat down their gilded stems. Steam curled from the bath, heady with orange blossom and rosemary oil, and the scent mingled with the warmth of the room. Cloying. Intimate. Unmistakable.

He had crushed rose petals along the bed sheets like the hero of some ridiculous Essosi novel, and set out sugared almonds and those little green fruits Ales liked best, the name of which Davos could never remember. He’d even tied the damned ribbons on the linens, knots he’d fumbled with for ten full minutes before gritting his teeth and starting over. Every detail was chosen with a desperation that tried not to look like desperation.

Because this night wasn’t a gift. It was a plea.

Ales had been everywhere but here. Since they came to King’s Landing, he’d been passed around like the last goblet of wine in a closing tavern. Can you help with this? Can you do that? As if not even being high-born stopped others right to borrow him. Never mind his time. Never mind his mind. Never mind that he wasn’t theirs to summon.

Davos had reached his limit somewhere between watching Ales untangle Lady Crakehall’s embroidery silks and watching Lord Franklyn treat him like a squire too dim for a sword. So Davos made a decision. He would offer Ales a place at his side during the council; his clerk, if they needed a name. A role close enough to burnish every whispered rumor, bold enough to mean: mine.

Anyone who dared to ask favors would have to talk to Davos’ sword first.

He had dressed with care. The pale blue tunic with the fine collar, the one Ales said matched his eyes, though Ales said everything matched his eyes, because Ales said anything to make him melt.

A quiet knock stirred him like a slap.

He moved too quickly, chest rising with something too eager to be called hope and too proud to admit it. The door creaked open and—

Doran.

Of all the seven hells, it had to be Doran.

His oldest friend stood framed by the doorway, and the words Davos had gathered in his chest like an offering—you’re late, did they keep you long, I’ll kill them all if they did—turned to ash behind his teeth.

Behind Davos, the candlelight flickered over petals and silks, over soft things not meant for the eyes of men like them. Behind him, the room reeked of desire, of careful preparation, of love, unspoken and now laid bare.

Doran’s gaze shifted, just barely.

Davos didn’t move. His jaw clenched. He didn’t know if he wanted to laugh or curse. His fingers itched at his sides.

He had never cared what anyone thought of him. Not the court, not the Queen, not the lords who pretended not to know. But this was Doran.

And Davos hated that he cared.

That Doran might look at him differently now, the thought that he might pity him—or worse, disapprove—made Davos’ throat go tight.

So he stepped back, ever so slightly, just enough to block the view into the room.

The doorframe felt like a shield, thin and flimsy though it was. Candlelight licked at his heels. He clenched one hand tight, nails biting palm, the other still gripping the edge of the door like it might keep him anchored.

“It’s good seeing you… was there something you needed?” Davos asked, finally. His voice came out cooler than he felt. “I’m afraid I can’t be a proper host at the moment. You see, I’ve just…”

A beat. His mind scrabbled for something sharp, something that might deflect Doran’s gaze from the truth blooming behind him.

“…committed murder. Quite the mess, I’m afraid. Blood on the linens and everything. Poor timing on your part.”

[davos-allyrion]

The scent of jasmine and citrus filled the laboratory like a spell, rising in curls from copper stills and glass vials. Davos moved with practiced ease between beakers, measuring oils, grinding resin, counting petals with the care of a jeweler. He liked this room. It was quiet, private, safe.

Which meant, of course, that his sisters had decided to invade it.

“Pay up,” Larra drawled, stretching her hand over the small copper dish where they threw their coins for games, bets, and bribes.

Nymeria groaned and dropped the silver. “You always win the good ones.”

“That’s because I always pay attention.”

Davos paused, just barely. The scent had gone slightly bitter.

“What are you even betting on now?” he asked, not looking up. He had enough on his hands—literally, a fine vial of rose and citrus balanced between his fingers, the oil cooling slightly as it settled.

Nymeria laughed, teasing. “Oh, nothing life-changing, brother dearest. Just your archivist’s romantic preferences.”

Davos blinked. “Alesander’s?”

“Mm-hm,” Larra hummed, swirling the silver between her fingers. “I thought he liked both. Nym said men only. And it seems she was right. A friend of mine saw him with flirting with a man last—”

Snap!

The vial shattered in Davos’ hand before the thought had fully reached his mind. Glass and perfumed oil burst across the table, and the sting of citrus and cut skin hit him a breath later.

“Davos!” Nymeria barked, already moving.

“Gods, look at your hand—don’t move—” Larra was at his side, wrapping a cloth around his palm, quick and practiced, dabbing the oil away.

He hadn’t even felt it, not at first. Now it throbbed, the cut weeping perfume and blood in equal measure. But all he could think about was the image that bloomed unbidden in his mind: Alesander with someone else.

The thought sliced deeper than the cut on his hand.

Nymeria was scolding him gently now, her fingers bandaging his palm with surprising care. “You have to be more careful, Davos. You’re not made of stone.”

He barely heard her.

All he could hear was the blood rushing in his ears and the echo of their words.

Alesander only likes men.

And suddenly, all Davos could think of were those men. Alesander with someone else. Some faceless man, maybe taller, maybe cleverer, someone who had touched him. Who knew how to. Had they touched him gently? Roughly? Had they held him afterward? Did they listen when he spoke, or only when he moaned?

The scent of Alesander’s skin came back to him; whatever he wore, it wasn’t any perfume Davos had made. Something lighter. Something like lilac or old paper and salt.

Ales.

Just Ales.

He winced as the linen was tied too tight around the cut, and still, he didn’t say a word.

Davos wasn’t a fool. He knew what happened between men. He’d heard the stories whispered behind closed doors, had caught the looks exchanged between soldiers, the stolen glances. But Davos had never let anyone near him. Not women. Not men. He had never allowed a single hand to hold him, never wanted it.

Never… was a long time, wasn’t it?

Ales. His mind whispered the name like a secret. Not “Alesander,” not the foreigner, not the scribe. Just Ales. His friend. The man who organized his library, who wrote until his fingers cramped, who laughed like he had nothing left to lose. Who looked startled every time someone spoke kindly to him.

What did Ales like? His breath hitched. How did Ales like it?

Could he teach Davos? No. No, that was foolish. Unworthy of thinking. Davos bit the inside of his cheek, shame mingling with longing. He didn’t touch, and no one touched him.

But Alesander was single now, wasn’t he?

Single.

Left behind by someone who had the privilege of touching him. And they let him go. Let him walk away, let him wander all the way south, past the mountains, across the desert, into the sun-drenched hands of the man they called the butcher of Godsgrace.

And what utter bastard had ever looked at him, truly seen him, and decided to let Alesander out of their sight?

Davos stared at the crimson on his hand.

Still bleeding. Still burning.

He had never envied anyone more in his life.

Davos had been looking for Alesander. There’d been no plan, no pressing duty. Just the pounding of his heart and the gnawing thought: I need to see him.

Alesander had a way of crawling under his skin, of filling the dry cracks in his thoughts with color and warmth. And after hearing that Alesander had been charming some bastard’s son down in the square, smiling too sweet, laughing too softly, Davos felt like something inside him had cracked open. It made no sense. They were friends, nothing more. Friends did not grind perfume vials to shards in their grip. Friends did not feel betrayed over a smile meant for someone else.

He wasn’t sure what he wanted to confirm or deny when he set out to find him. Maybe he just wanted to see Alesander's soft smile again. That infuriating, dazzling thing that always felt like it was meant just for him.

Except it clearly wasn’t.

It made no sense. They were friends, nothing more. Friends did not grind perfume vials to shards in their grip. Friends did not feel betrayed over a smile meant for someone else.

He had tried to work. He had tried to read, to take refuge in the library where everything smelled of parchment and dust instead of rosewater and sin. And that was where Alesander found him.

Davos had not even heard the footsteps. One moment, he was alone with his books and broken thoughts, and the next—Ales.

Alive with nerves and the sun still caught in his hair. Looking for him. He tried to speak, but Alesander’s eyes were on him. On his hand.

He should’ve hidden it better. The bandage was hasty, uneven, blood coloring it maroon with the same jagged edges of his jealousy.

He wasn’t yours, he was never yours, fool.

And now Alesander had his hand.

Davos couldn’t breathe.

His fingers looked grotesque against Alesander’s own. Rough, ruined things against soft, fine skin. Years of chemistry, of mortar and pestle and glass and fire had worn his palms into sandpaper. And yet, Alesander touched him like he wasn’t filth. Like he wasn’t dangerous. Like Davos wouldn’t bite the soft skin if he let his instincts take hold.

He wanted to. Gods help him, he wanted to feel Alesander’s palm on his forehead, cool and gentle, like a blessing from some saint who still pitied men like him. Instead, he stood there, silent as a grave, blood pulsing in his throat.

Then the touch vanished. Alesander let go, and Davos nearly whimpered. His eyes wouldn’t meet his. He couldn’t speak. Not when Alesander was joking, smiling, and then he was handing him a box.

A gift.

Davos’ heart nearly tripped over itself. He opened the lid slowly, as if he were afraid light might come out of it. And there it was: a silver spoon. Beautiful. Delicate. Engraved with patterns that looked like flowers.

No, not just flowers. Flowers like the embroidery on Alesander’s suspenders the first day he arrived.

He nearly laughed. It burst in his chest like a bubble. A quiet, boyish sound slipped out before he could stop it. Not quite a giggle, but closer than he’d ever gotten in years. He bought this. For me. With his own coin, perhaps. Maybe he’d picked it himself, maybe someone had helped—

No. No, you don’t get to be jealous of ghosts, of people that never were. He’s someone else’s, Davos.

But the spoon. The spoon was his now. Made out of silver and too much thought. He cradled it carefully, reverently, as if it were something alive. As if he could break it just by holding it too tight.

“I will…” he said, voice low and thick with something he didn’t want to name. “I will admire it. And cook with it. And eat with it. I will… cherish it. Thank you.”

No one outside of his family had given him a gift before. Not like this. Not because they simply wanted to.

Then he looked up, and his stomach dropped.

Alesander was blushing.

His cheeks were flushed dark, the tips of his ears pinkened, and his breath seemed uneven. Davos reached forward without thinking—a healer’s instinct taking over the common sense—, setting the spoon down and placing his palm flat against Alesander’s forehead. Warm. Too warm.

“You’re hot,” he murmured, concern rippling across his face. “Are you sick?”

Davos cupped Alesander’s cheek, thumb near the corner of his mouth, trying to feel for fever without memorizing the twitch of Alesander’s lips.

“You feel like you’re burning.”

So am I.

“Let me get you some medicine.”

The sun was too loud.

It bled through the arched windows in hot slants, catching on the polished tiles and Davos’ patience alike, which were both dangerously close to cracking.

The man at his feet was still talking. Babbling, really, sweating through layers too fine for a bastard’s bastard, which is exactly what Nate Sand was. Mouthy, pompous and insufferable. A man who laughed too loud and bragged about his conquests as though each one had knighted him. Davos blinked down at him slowly, resisting the urge to ask if he planned to grovel a tunnel straight through the floor.

“Trials are only at the end of the month,” Davos said, lifting his hand in a tired half-gesture. “Today is the 28th. What grievance do you have that can’t wait three days and a few hours of sleep?”

Nate waved that off with a flourish of fingers that might’ve once charmed someone, somewhere. “It’s not a trial, my lord, it’s a confession.”

“Unfortunately for you, I’m not your septon.”

“It’s—look, I just—” Nate ran a hand through his hair and muttered a curse, then straightened with something like false dignity. “I came to—well, I came to confess, and apologize, and to explain—”

“Yes, yes, I understand you’re being a coward,” Davos cut in, folding his arms and tilting his head. “What I don’t understand is the target of your cowardice. Who is this tragic tale meant to absolve you with?”

And that’s when Nate said it. Blurted it like the words had been burning a hole in his throat.

“I’ve been with a man.”

Davos blinked once. Twice.

“Congratulations,” he said flatly, “and if you’re expecting a reward, I suggest you aim lower. I don’t hand out medals for rutting.”

“No, you don’t understand. I’ve been with your boy.”

Davos’ brows furrowed. “My what?”

“Your lover.”

“I don’t have a lover.”

And just then, as if the gods themselves had an impeccable sense for dramatic timing, Alesander walked into the room.

He looked radiant and undone by the sun at once, loose linen clinging to him like it knew how lucky it was. There was a gentle furrow between his brows as he approached, holding some parchment or question Davos would no longer remember.

Nate turned, triumphant, like the world had just aligned in his favor.

“Him.”

Silence.

The heat shifted. Grew heavier. Or maybe that was Davos’ blood hammering in his ears.

His jaw worked uselessly for a second. No words came.

Alesander had gone still by the door, eyes flitting between them like he was tracing the edges of something too sharp to touch. He didn’t speak. Didn’t blink.

Davos’ throat was suddenly dry. Tight.

It wasn’t jealousy. Of course not. He knew Alesander liked men. That had never been a question. Someone like Ales, beautiful and kind in ways Davos didn’t have names for, would always have admirers.

But the image.

Nate Sand, that smug, swaggering, sand-choked peacock, touching Alesander. Making him laugh. Seeing his mouth part in delight or surprise or—

Davos’ eye twitched.

Would it be so wrong to stab Nate?

Not fatally. Just enough to ruin a perfectly good day. Maybe break a rib or two. That would be fair.

But Alesander wasn’t his. He wasn’t Davos’ anything.

He was just a guest.

A friend.

Davos exhaled through his nose, clenched his jaw, and addressed the room without turning toward the door. “There’s been a misunderstanding. Alesander Penrose is a guest of this house. A friend. Not my paramour.”

“That will be all, Nate.”

Nate hesitated. “But, I thought—”

“I said,” Davos murmured through gritted teeth, “that will be all.”

And as the man scrambled to his feet and fled like a deer too foolish to know it had been spared as the hunter looked sideways.

Alesander didn’t move.

And Davos didn’t dare look at him.

He didn’t want to see the reaction.

He didn’t want to see any confirmation.

The practice yard was empty, save for the dummies, and the ruin Davos was making of them. Each blow rang sharp against the still morning air, steel striking wood with the clarity of a bell. He moved like a man possessed: sidestep, slash, pivot, thrust. His sword carved through burlap and straw as if it were flesh and bone. One dummy lost its head. Another, its arm. The third he split down the middle with a growl low in his throat.

When at last he stilled, he stood heaving, sweat darkening the linen of his shirt, clinging to his back. His arms trembled from the effort. Good. Let them ache. Better pain than thought.

“You missed one.”

“Did I?” Davos didn’t turn, just drove the point of his sword into the ground and leaned on it. “You’re early.”

“You’re late,” Ryon said, stepping into the circle of crushed straw and splinters.

The old bastard still walked like a sellsword, loose-hipped and sure-footed, eyes scanning the edges like a man who never stopped expecting trouble. He’d aged, of course, they both had, but his wit hadn’t dulled, and neither had his habit of arriving precisely when Davos didn’t want company.

Ryon drew his sword with a lazy flourish. “Care to make it interesting?”

They circled once. Twice. Then the steel sang.

What followed bore little grace. It never did, not between them. Ryon had trained Davos in the way of brutes and bastards, not with pomp and polish, but with grit. After Davos had been cast from squirehood for slicing the ear off a lordling, it was Ryon who’d taken him in. Taught him to fight not like a knight, but like a man who meant to live.

They fought dirty. Sand in the eyes. Elbows to the ribs. Kicks aimed to bruise. Davos feinted low and struck Ryon’s hip, only to be brought crashing down and nearly throttled with his own collar. They rolled, cursed, bit, spat.

When at last they stilled, it was with both of them on their backs in the dust, blunted blades resting at each other’s throats.

Neither victor. Neither vanquished.

“I win,” Ryon panted, smug as a cat in cream.

“You wish,” Davos said, lacking any true venom.

“Call it a draw, then. As ever.”

Davos pushed himself upright and cast his sword aside. It landed with a dull thud. “You’re slowing. I got to your neck first.”

“You did not, you lying little—”

“I did.”

“Liar.”

Davos didn’t answer. He sat down in the dirt instead, wiping his brow with his sleeve. Ryon followed, flopping down beside him. They sat in silence for a while, letting the weight of the fight settle in their bones.

Then Ryon spoke, voice low and rough. “You’ve been wound tighter than a crossbow string lately.”

Davos didn't look at him. “Work.”

“Bullshit.”

A beat. Two.

“Is it about the boy?”

That earned a glance. “He’s not a boy. And no.”

“Lad, then. I taught you to fight after you got kicked out of squirehood for maiming a lordling who called you a bitch. I know what it looks like when you’re chewing on something too bitter to swallow.” Ryon scraped the sand with the edge of his boot. “It’s fine, you know. If you fancy—”

“I’m not ashamed of wanting a man.” Davos’ voice was low and flat, but his fingers betrayed him, worrying a pebble in the dust. “That’s not what this is.”

“No?”

“I hate that others saw it before I did.” The pebble skittered from his hand. “But Alesander being a man… that’s not what troubles me. He isn’t just ‘a man’ to me. He’s Ales. Clever. Curious. So bright with life it hurts to look at him too long.”

And that was the cruel truth of it.

Ales, with his questions and his ink-stained hands. Ales, who never flinched from Davos, never treated him as something to fear or flatter. Ales, who simply saw him, and spoke as if he were worth the speaking to.

Ryon’s mouth twitched into a smile. “So it is about him.”

“It’s about me,” Davos muttered. “It’s about getting attached. Letting someone close when they shouldn’t be.”

“Why not?”

Davos looked down at his palms, scarred and callused. “What would unsettle him more, do you think? Learning how many men I’ve killed, or hearing me say I know I won’t live long enough to regret it?”

Ryon’s smile faded. “Don’t speak like that.”

“I’ve always known,” Davos said quietly. “Like a shadow following me since I was a boy. Some people feel the weight of the years ahead of them. I feel the lack. Every day, every second, I think: this could be it. And not in a dramatic way, not like some cursed hero in a tale. Just… inevitably.”

He could feel the sand under his knees, warm and scratchy. The sweat clinging to his spine. He felt very, very alive in that moment, and that was the cruel part, wasn’t it?

“You’re not sick,” Ryon said, almost pleading. “You’ve always been healthy.”

“It’s not illness. It’s him. Mors said he’d kill me when he returned. Promised it, in front of our kin. And he always keeps his promises.”

There was a long silence. Even the wind seemed to hush.

“It’s wrong, Ryon. Drawing folk near when I know I’m not meant to stay. My sisters will grieve. Kiera. Anders. You. Why add another to the tally?”

“Because life is cruel and unfair either way,” Ryon said, tone steel now. “And if death comes tomorrow or ten years hence, it’d be a damned shame you spent your days pretending you weren’t worth loving.”

Davos stared at the dust, the fading prints of their feet, the scattered straw.

“Grief’s the toll love demands,” Ryon said, softer now. “Always has been. Doesn’t mean it ain’t worth paying.”

Silence again. Then:

“So what,” Davos muttered, dry, “you’re suggesting I become some impulsive idiot, galloping after every feeling like a bard in heat?”

“Just one feeling.” He nudged Davos with his boot. “Invite him. To the Vaith soirée.”

Davos looked horrified. “That nest of perfumed peacocks? I’ve dodged it six years running.”

“Exactly,” Ryon said. “That’s how I’ll know you mean it.”

Davos groaned, letting his head fall back against the sun-warmed stone. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“…He’ll probably laugh.”

“Good,” Ryon said. “Gods know you could stand to be laughed at by someone who truly likes you.”

𓂀 TO BE LOOKED AT KINDLY (A TRAGEDY IN WAITING) 𓂀

(A thread with @alesanderpenrose)

“And what is it the two of you speak of?”

“Books,” Davos replied. “Food. Work, for the most part.”

“Might I ask more? This place is fascinating… and so are you, Lord Allyrion.”

The memory alone drew the faintest arch of his brow. Interesting. Well, he’d been called worse.

The Penrose boy—no, Alesander. His name was Alesander, and Davos reminded himself to use it. The lad had not looked at him with the wary eyes Davos had grown accustomed to. Nor with fear, nor judgment.

On the contrary, his whole countenance had lit like a lantern held to a dark corridor, his mouth full of questions, each more curious than the last:

“Wasn’t this book outlawed in the Stormlands?”
“What dish do you favor most?”
“Is that the same pipe every day?”
“Who tends to the eagles?”
“Did it pain you, having your ear pierced?”

Davos hated to admit it, but he had not minded the questions. Not in the least.

He was a man accustomed to silence, to giving clipped answers designed to halt conversation before it wandered where it ought not. But Alesander had a way of weaving words like garlands, bright and unrelenting. He was absurdly amusing, brimming with tales no one his age should rightly have gathered.

He was unguarded.

Unapologetic.
Free in a way Davos had never dared to be.

And after a handful of missed meals and far too many long, meandering talks in the dim candlelight of the library, Davos found himself faced with a strange, reluctant truth: he had acquired a companion.

Or something very near to it.

Nymeria was bottling another tonic. Larra corked it and passed it down the line, where Kiera placed it beside the day’s letters, none of which Davos had managed to complete.

“Have you ever spoken to him of something personal?” Larra asked idly, the bottle clicking shut in her palm. “Something beyond ledgers and dust and ink?”

Gods, Davos thought. No. Of course not. That would be terrifying.

“I see no reason why I should,” he said aloud, coolly. “He is in my employ. I should maintain a certain standard of propriety.”

“Ales seems kind,” Kiera said, clicking her tongue with the same fond exasperation one might use for a difficult child. “You could do with someone kind, Davos. Balance you out.”

“I don’t care if he’s kind,” Davos retorted, too sharp, too fast. “He’s competent. That’s what matters.”

“Is that why you asked Meris to step aside and began shadowing him at every hour?”

His hand tightened on the quill. Ink blotted the parchment, marring the lady’s name. Seven hells, who in their right mind ordered an entire year’s supply of rose petals? Did she not know flowers had seasons?

“Are you implying I’ve got so much free time I just... follow my new archivist around?” he asked, striving for sarcasm. It came out faint, uncertain.

The girls exchanged a look. One of those maddening, wordless things women seemed born knowing how to do.

“No, Davos,” Kiera said at last, her tone softened now, as she bound the last package in twine. “I am suggesting that for the first time in your life, you’ve found a friend. And I know that can be... difficult.”

“I have friends,” Davos protested, indignant. “There’s Doran—”

“Whom you see twice a year in the depths of the desert when you both take vows of silence and solitude,” Nymeria said, not even glancing up.

“Rude. Then there’s Edrick.”

“He lives half a kingdom away,” Larra said with a laugh, “and you’ve struck him. Badly. On more than one occasion.”

Kiera folded her arms, her voice calm and kind and completely unmovable. “Alesander lives down the hall. He enjoys your company. And if you enjoy his, perhaps you could stop looming about like some cloaked specter and try speaking to him like a man speaks to a friend. Not through riddles. Not with silence. Just... plainly.”

Davos grunted and sealed the letter with a heavy hand, the wax dark and uneven. Then he leaned back in his chair, arms crossing tight over his chest.

Very well.
He could try being friendly.

He supposed stranger things had happened in Dorne.

Davos had meant to go back to work. The vials on his table weren’t going to organize themselves, and the batch of balm cooling by the window would need stirring before it separated. But none of it seemed urgent when the light caught on something brighter than glass.

Outside, in the courtyard, Alesander stood squinting up at the sky, one hand shading his brow, the other curled in a lazy arc as he waved at someone passing by. Davos told himself he was just observing. It was only natural to glance out the window on a sunny day, natural to pause, briefly, and appreciate the way the sun painted gold into the auburn strands of someone’s hair.

Not that he was looking at Alesander. He was birdwatching. Truly.

But birds didn’t usually wear pale linen open at the throat. Birds didn’t scrub at their eyes until they blinked blearily, like the sun had gotten too bold and decided to lay a claim. Davos frowned, watching Alesander rub at his lashes again and again until it almost looked painful.

That decided it.

He called him in with a tone that brooked no argument, the same one he used when someone tried to walk on a twisted ankle or hide a fever with rosewater.

Alesander didn’t ask questions. He never did with Davos. Just followed him in, trailing curiously like a puppy. Davos didn’t bother with niceties, just nudged Alesander toward the chair near the long table, where he often examined patients or ground his herbs. A simple wooden stool. It became something far more dangerous when Alesander sat and Davos stepped forward, standing between his knees without a second thought.

A friend, he reminded himself, treat him like a friend.

“I’m going to line your eyes,” Davos explained. “The sun’s too harsh today. The kohl will help.”

It wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the whole truth either.

He dipped his brush into the little jar, tapped off the excess. Alesander tilted his chin up, obedient. And that’s when it hit him.

The way Alesander looked at him.

Not the sly, slippery sort Davos had long since learned to shrug off. This was something else. Intentional. Soft. Like Alesander wanted to memorize the shape of Davos’ face through sheer force of looking.

Davos’ breath caught, and his hand stilled in midair.

He’d touched countless faces before, guided patients through surgeries, stitched skin, even cupped cheeks as they wept. But this felt like the air itself had narrowed to the space between them.

“Don’t blink.”

He brushed the kohl beneath one eye, careful, gentle. He could feel his own heartbeat in his fingers, traitorously loud. Alesander didn’t move.

Davos swallowed. His hand trembled once. Just slightly. He told himself it was from concentration.

He shifted to the other eye. “Still,” he murmured, softer than before.

Alesander tilted his chin up, obliging.

This close, Davos could see every freckle scattered across his cheeks, every breath that passed through parted lips. Davos felt the heat of that gaze in his throat, in his palms, curling low in his stomach like smoke.

It was working on him.

He almost stepped back. Almost fumbled for the excuse of “you’re done” or “there, that’s better,” but his hands lingered a second longer than they needed to. One thumb brushed beneath Alesander’s eye, a featherlight stroke meant to tidy the line but doing nothing of the sort. His skin buzzed beneath the touch.

“There,” he said, finally stepping back, though it felt like tearing himself away. “You’ll see better now.”

He turned quickly, wiping his fingers on the cloth, avoiding the mirror, avoiding Ales.

Outside, the sun was still shining. Birds still sang. Everything was just as it had been.

Except Davos.

He leaned against the counter, fingers tightening around the edge until his knuckles turned white. It’s the weather, he told himself. The heat. Too much sun and not enough sleep.

A perfectly reasonable explanation. He’d gone days without rest before. A fever, perhaps. That would explain the flush crawling up the back of his neck, the thud of his heartbeat in places it didn’t belong.

Davos rubbed at his temples, as if he might press the thoughts out like thorns from a wound.

Maybe I’m unwell.

That, at least, was a comfortable thought. Familiar. He’d known illness before, fevers that burned through the spine, weariness that turned every step into a trial. This felt not unlike that. The dizzying warmth, the way his thoughts scattered like startled birds whenever Alesander looked at him too long.

Yes. Better a sickness than a yearning.

Davos could treat a sickness. He had salves for that. Poultices. Tonics.

But not this.

This thing that lingered in the hollow of his chest like a second heart, louder now than the first. This impossible want he’d not named, not yet, not really, because naming it would make it real. And real things had consequences.

Davos drew a breath through his teeth and glanced briefly over his shoulder.

Alesander was still seated, blinking slowly, fingertips brushing beneath his eyes where the kohl now rested. He smiled faintly, not at Davos, not at anything in particular. Just smiling, like someone who felt safe.

Davos turned away before he could smile back.

He busied himself with the balm. Stirring it too hard. Pretending not to feel like the sun had moved indoors.

It’s only a fever, he told himself again, clinging to it like a lifeline. That’s all. I’ll give him the flu and he’ll hate me and die sneezing in the hall and it’ll be my fault—

Because if it wasn’t, then it meant something was shifting inside him. Something irreversible.

Mother Rhoyne, mercy on your wretched son.

Davos was sure he had lost his brain somewhere between the day Alesander arrived in Godsgrace and the first time he had shown him the library.

It had to be the noise.

The library had never been quiet, exactly—too many books, too much dust unsettled by the desert wind, too few hands willing to put things in order—but it had never been this loud. Alesander made it loud. Not in the way of shouting or laughter or grand, sweeping pronouncements, but in the way he moved through it like a storm, shifting things just enough to make Davos notice.

It was maddening. And captivating. It was impossible not to notice him.

He stood there watching again. For too long, probably.

Davos knew his father, Ferris, would laugh at the absurdity of it all. A former hostage given free rein to Godsgrace, organizing the library, making suggestions about the books, which ones should be replaced, which ones should be preserved, which ones were truly unreadable and only there to collect dust. And now, here Alesander sat, his quill scratching furiously against the last pages of his journal, looking at Davos as though he expected some reprimand.

“My Lord, have I given offense? I apologize. I am only writing—”

Davos’ eyebrows scrunched before he even knew he was frowning. Alesander spoke as if waiting to be scolded, as if writing in a library was some great inconvenience. It was the easiest thing in the world to say, “You are not a nuisance. And you shouldn’t apologize.”

And yet, it felt like a mistake the moment it left his lips. Not because it was untrue, but because it felt too true. Because the nervous energy that had been following him like a shadow only seemed to tighten its grip.

Davos had never been this distracted before.

Not at his first ball, stiff and uncomfortable in clothing that fit too well. Not when Mors had tried to drag him into a brothel, certain that this would be the cure for whatever had made him so tense in his adolescence. Not before any battle or negotiation or moment when his father’s sharp gaze had lingered too long. But here, in his own library, in his own home, looking at a man who treated paper and ink as if they were more vital than air. Here, Davos could not think straight.

Perhaps it was guilt.

Alesander had filled his journal cover to cover, yet never asked for another. Davos had noticed it more than once: the hesitation when turning a page, the way he measured each line with care. As if he feared running out of space before his thoughts were done. Davos wasn’t sure what to make of it, only that he had thought, I should get him another.

And so he did.

Davos reached into his belt and pulled free a new quill, setting it down with quiet finality. Then, a leather-bound notebook, thick with fresh, empty pages. “I meant to give you this sooner. I noticed yours was almost out of pages… it’s a token of my gratitude.”

It felt like repayment in some way, though for what, he wasn’t entirely sure. The library was in better shape than it had been in years, and Alesander was to thank for that. But it wasn��t just that. It was everything. The way he lingered over stories, the way he muttered complaints under his breath when something was out of place, the way he carried himself as if he were always expecting to be dismissed.

“You’re… remarkable,” Davos said, then immediately winced at himself. “Remarkably good at your work. I meant… yes.”

His bottom lip worried against his teeth as he searched for the words he actually wanted to say, while he stared anywhere but directly at Alesander’s eyes. The books. The windows. The curve of Alesander’s ink-stained fingers.

Friendship, he reminded himself. You’re being kind. Nothing more. Kiera would pat you in the back saying you did a great job.

It wasn’t right to blame Alesander for the restlessness that had settled inside him. But it was foolish to pretend that something hadn’t changed. The silence that followed made him shift on his feet. Say something else, you idiot.

“There’s a gathering tomorrow. A small one. A tradition we keep here. The children—” he exhaled, shaking his head slightly at his own fumbling, “—they share stories. The ones they’ve written, or the ones they love best. It helps with their reading.”

He met Alesander’s gaze, steadier now. “I’d like you to read to them. If you want, of course.”

And then, before he could think better of it, before he could let himself slip back into titles and formalities and all the distance he was meant to keep, he added, “And stop calling me ‘my lord.’ Davos is fine.”

He swallowed hard, pulse a fraction too quick.

“Just Davos is better.”

His voice dipped quieter at the end, and he felt like a fool for saying it. But it was true. Just Davos sounded easier. Softer. Like something Alesander might say when smiling.

“I will call you by name as well… if you wish me to, of course.”

[davos-allyrion]

Davos did not wait for Toron to finish. He knew how these things went—pride, protest, a barked refusal softened into reluctant consent. The shape of it was always the same. By the time the captain issued the command, Davos was already moving, dropping to one knee beside the hammock, sleeves rolled back, hands bare and steady in the pale wash of moonlight.

“Look at me,” he said, voice low. Controlled. Not unkind. He pressed his fingers gently to the man’s ankle, where the heat radiated like coal through damp cloth. “Where am I touching?”

Kemmett gave a snort of breath, almost a laugh. “Calf.”

Davos did not smile. He moved his hand higher. Mid-shin. “And now?”

Kemmett’s brow furrowed. “Calf.”

Higher still. Just beneath the knee. “Now?”

“Knee.”

At last.

Davos nodded. Quietly. The rest was worse than he’d feared. Nerves unresponsive below the joint, skin gone dark and waxy in places, damp with that telltale sour rot. The infection had claimed everything from the knee down.

“How long until Godsgrace?” he asked, still watching Kemmett.

It didn’t matter. The answer would be wrong.

He rose to his feet. “I’ll need a saw. Bone, not wood. Honey, garlic. Rum. Milk of the poppy. Towels. Bandages. Rags. And four strong men.” He turned to Toron now, expression grim. “That’s all.”

There were no questions. No arguments. Only action. The crew brought what he asked, though none met his eye. They moved around him like he carried plague. Or death. Perhaps both.

Surgery was no stranger to Davos. He no longer thought of it as healing. It was reckoning. A grim little litany of flesh and bone. Cut here, save this. Burn that, lose less. A prayer offered not to gods, but to the body itself: Hold on. Obey.

It took more than an hour.

When Davos emerged, he was soaked to the elbows in blood. His tunic clung to him, marked with streaks and smears of red like some grim herald. Kemmett was alive. Sleeping in the blood-slick bed Davos had surrendered to him, floating in the poppy's tide, with half a leg left to dream with.

Davos said nothing at first. He wiped the blood from his arms with a rag already ruined, then bent to scrub the floor clean with saltwater and silence.

“He’ll live,” he said at last, not lifting his gaze from the wood beneath him. “But we’ll need to burn what’s left when we reach Godsgrace. I’ve carved out the rot for now, but I’ll not risk what might still be hiding.”

He stood then, and nodded toward the linen-wrapped thing near the railing; Kemmett’s leg, already stiffening, toes curled like dead spiders.

“See to it.”

Then he turned to Toron, eyes sharp despite the exhaustion clinging to his frame.

“Now,” Davos said, with the air of command no title but ‘vulture’ ever gave him. “Let me see your calf.”

𓊝 LORDS, PIRATES, AND OTHER PRETENDERS 𓊝

(Starter with @toron-heirtotheironislands)

The Arcane Adventure rode quiet on the evening tide, her black hull gliding over starlit waters with all the hush of a shadow slipping through a dream. The wind keened soft through her rigging, like some half-remembered tune, and Davos thought she almost sang. She was no loud-mouthed reaver’s ship, no Ironborn brute with a corpse-nailed prow and sails steeped in blood. She had none of their swagger, none of their stink.

No, this one had been forged of darker timber.

Her wood was black as jet, oiled to a shine beneath moonlight, yet dark enough to vanish when the night was thick. A small ship, yes, but not a frail one. Sleek and lean, sharp of hull, she danced betwixt reefs like a blade between ribs. Her masts bore steel hooks instead of bells, the sort of thing a woman might wear if she fancied knives more than necklaces.

Fitting, Davos mused, for a ship with a harpy carved into her bow.

Godsgrace lay yet days ahead, but already he could taste it on the wind.

Dust and salt and the promise of oranges.

Home.

But not yet.

Barefoot, he paced the length of her deck, his cloak fluttering loose behind him, the damp wood cool against his soles. It was late, and the crew had gone quiet beneath the canvas canopy, their labors done, their voices low. The sun had drowned, but the sea still held its warmth. Wrapped in wool and shadow, Davos moved like smoke.

He found him at the rail.

Toron Greyjoy, broad-shouldered and still as stone, staring out where black sky met blacker sea. The stars had swallowed the horizon.

Davos leaned against the railing beside him. No greeting passed between them. Just the hush. The sort of quiet men learn to live with after they’ve drawn blood from each other, not with blades, but with words sharp enough to scar.

The waves kissed the hull.

“Could’ve been worse, being marooned here,” Davos said at last. “Better than a stone cell, I’d wager. Never cared much for damp walls and rats.”

The harpy loomed at the prow, wings outstretched, talons bared. She caught the moonlight like a blade catches blood.

“I’ve taken a liking to your harpy,” he said after a time. “Ugly thing. Bit of this, bit of that. Doesn’t make sense when you look too close. But she holds.”

The wind tugged at his cloak. He let it.

“I suppose you thought the same of me. Gaudy. Spoiled. All silk and silver.” His fingers skimmed the rail. “But here I am. Didn’t die in that cell. Didn’t break on the tide.”

He tilted his head, just enough to glimpse the side of Toron’s face. The man was all angles and shadows with nose like a blade and a mouth that hadn’t known a smile in days.

“You were right about one thing,” Davos said. “My father wouldn’t have done this. He’d have bowed, poured the Arbor gold, smiled his painted grin, and traded our pride for a seat nearer the throne.” His mouth curved, though not kindly. “It’s well he’s dead. He’d have hated this ship.”

Why he said it aloud, he could not say. Perhaps just to feel it settle in his own mouth, solid and true. Ferris Allyrion had haunted the council chamber like a shade, louder in absence than presence. But out here, the ghosts had no teeth. Out here, only the living mattered.

“I’m told you fought well. On that wretched little isle.” He let the words come soft. “Got Edrick out. Got me out.” A pause. “You didn’t have to.”

His eyes closed briefly, lids heavy with salt and sleep. He did not look at Toron.

“I don’t like owing debts. But I’m no fool. I know when I do.”

The harpy’s shadow danced over the sea, her wings long and lean. Davos watched her. One hand curled tight round the rail.

“You once told me I was playing at lordship.” His lips twitched. “You weren’t wrong. I was. Still am, maybe. But if you’re ready to stop playing at piracy… perhaps we can both stop pretending.”

An offer, in the shape of a truce. Or a truce, in the shape of a warning.

He let the silence stretch between them, taut as a drawn bowstring.

“I’ll reconsider some of the Greyjoy terms. Not all. But enough. If you send me a proposal worth the ink. One I can lay before my bannermen without shame. Make it clever. You have the wit for it.”

And with that, he pushed away from the rail, rings catching the last of the moonlight as he moved.

“I’ll be below,” he said over his shoulder. “Try not to sink us before we reach shore.”

[davos-allyrion]

𓁼 LOVE IN TIMES OF INTRUSION 𓁼

(A starter with @doranyronwood)

The wine was already poured.

Davos hadn’t meant to start drinking without him. He hadn’t meant to start drinking at all, really. But the wait had begun to gnaw. The candles, once tall and proud, were starting to droop. Their wax dripped like sweat down their gilded stems. Steam curled from the bath, heady with orange blossom and rosemary oil, and the scent mingled with the warmth of the room. Cloying. Intimate. Unmistakable.

He had crushed rose petals along the bed sheets like the hero of some ridiculous Essosi novel, and set out sugared almonds and those little green fruits Ales liked best, the name of which Davos could never remember. He’d even tied the damned ribbons on the linens, knots he’d fumbled with for ten full minutes before gritting his teeth and starting over. Every detail was chosen with a desperation that tried not to look like desperation.

Because this night wasn’t a gift. It was a plea.

Ales had been everywhere but here. Since they came to King’s Landing, he’d been passed around like the last goblet of wine in a closing tavern. Can you help with this? Can you do that? As if not even being high-born stopped others right to borrow him. Never mind his time. Never mind his mind. Never mind that he wasn’t theirs to summon.

Davos had reached his limit somewhere between watching Ales untangle Lady Crakehall’s embroidery silks and watching Lord Franklyn treat him like a squire too dim for a sword. So Davos made a decision. He would offer Ales a place at his side during the council; his clerk, if they needed a name. A role close enough to burnish every whispered rumor, bold enough to mean: mine.

Anyone who dared to ask favors would have to talk to Davos’ sword first.

He had dressed with care. The pale blue tunic with the fine collar, the one Ales said matched his eyes, though Ales said everything matched his eyes, because Ales said anything to make him melt.

A quiet knock stirred him like a slap.

He moved too quickly, chest rising with something too eager to be called hope and too proud to admit it. The door creaked open and—

Doran.

Of all the seven hells, it had to be Doran.

His oldest friend stood framed by the doorway, and the words Davos had gathered in his chest like an offering—you’re late, did they keep you long, I’ll kill them all if they did—turned to ash behind his teeth.

Behind Davos, the candlelight flickered over petals and silks, over soft things not meant for the eyes of men like them. Behind him, the room reeked of desire, of careful preparation, of love, unspoken and now laid bare.

Doran’s gaze shifted, just barely.

Davos didn’t move. His jaw clenched. He didn’t know if he wanted to laugh or curse. His fingers itched at his sides.

He had never cared what anyone thought of him. Not the court, not the Queen, not the lords who pretended not to know. But this was Doran.

And Davos hated that he cared.

That Doran might look at him differently now, the thought that he might pity him—or worse, disapprove—made Davos’ throat go tight.

So he stepped back, ever so slightly, just enough to block the view into the room.

The doorframe felt like a shield, thin and flimsy though it was. Candlelight licked at his heels. He clenched one hand tight, nails biting palm, the other still gripping the edge of the door like it might keep him anchored.

“It’s good seeing you… was there something you needed?” Davos asked, finally. His voice came out cooler than he felt. “I’m afraid I can’t be a proper host at the moment. You see, I’ve just…”

A beat. His mind scrabbled for something sharp, something that might deflect Doran’s gaze from the truth blooming behind him.

“…committed murder. Quite the mess, I’m afraid. Blood on the linens and everything. Poor timing on your part.”

[davos-allyrion]

Davos followed in Toron’s wake, the peg clutched in one hand, a satchel of gauze and tinctures swinging at his hip. The Greyjoy walked like a man with a destination but no peace, each step too clipped, too tense. Davos could see the strain in his posture, read the worry he wouldn’t voice.

Toron didn’t want to lose another man.

“I’ll tend to your leg when we’re done here,” Davos said at last, low-voiced, not offering but declaring. “Whether you’ll have it or not.”

The deck stretched out before them, bathed in moonlight, the planks bleached silver, shadows of the sails hanging like tangled nets across the floor. The ship was hushed, the crew strewn in sleep, some in hammocks, others tucked in corners where the wind didn’t reach. Davos scanned the deck until he found Kemmett under the canvas canopy, hunched into himself like a man trying to fold into something smaller than pain.

He looked worse than Davos had feared. His tunic was soaked, the rough grey linen clinging to his chest and arms, dark with sweat. His jaw trembled with tension. Teeth clenched. Fevered breath too shallow to be restful. Even from this distance, Davos could smell the infection on him, sharp and sour and human.

Still, the man had kept his mouth shut. No calls for help. No complaints. No requests. Just silence and rum, like that would ward off the rot.

Kemmett stirred as they neared, dragging himself upright with effort disguised as routine. His hand reached for the flask, and he drank like a man trying to reclaim control, to remind his body who it belonged to. Davos almost pitied the performance. Almost. He’d seen this before, men trying to drink themselves brave.

When Toron stopped at the foot of the hammock, Kemmett straightened. Not recovered. Just braced. Reinforced by pride.

He looked only at his captain.

Of course he did.

Davos paused a few paces behind, close enough to listen, far enough to be forgotten. He’d learned the art of invisibility early on this ship. Quiet made you easy to ignore. But here, it also kept him from being spat on. Or worse. He watched Kemmett closely. The shift in his posture wasn’t health, it was theater. A lie with straight shoulders and clenched fists. That was always the way of it. They would rather die than show weakness in front of him. Especially him.

The foreigner. The whore. The one they never called “healer,” even when they let him stitch their comrades closed. Even when he brought fevered men back from the brink, they’d sooner call it luck, or timing, or prayer.

He’d seen the way they looked at him. Saw it now, in the taut lines of Kemmett’s mouth. They still thought he was ornamental. A southerner with doe eyes and bendable morals.

A pretty lordling with painted hands. Dornish hands. Lyseni hands.

Toron had made his stance clear early on. The crew had followed his lead like hounds after a scent. Davos had given up trying to earn their trust by the second week at sea. He’d not come for friendship. Only for passage. Only to get home.

“Captain,” Kemmett rasped, offering a crooked smirk that barely masked the wince beneath. “Didn’t think I was dying fast enough to bring you running.”

Davos crouched at the edge of the hammock, eyes flicking to the leg beneath the blanket. “You are,” he said, tone light as ever. He made it sound like routine, just another inspection, nothing personal, nothing grim. But beneath the surface, he was already calculating: the angle of the swelling, the heat rising from the skin, the glaze in Kemmett’s eyes.

He was running out of time.

Kemmett finally looked at him, and the sneer was instant. Familiar. Like a reflex.

“You?” he scoffed. “Thought you were a steward. Or a sail-mender. What is it you do again, count beans?”

Davos smiled, but there was no warmth in it. “Cut flesh,” he said, calm. “Same as you. I’m just neater.”

Even if they hated him for it.

“You always crawl out in the dead of night, then? Sniffing out the half-dead like some bloody vulture?”

“Only when the dying are too proud to ask for help.”

He could feel the old bitterness stir beneath his ribs. It was always like this, the moment just before the knife. The refusal, the insult, the pride. They’d rather rot than reach for his hand. But Davos wasn’t here to win arguments. He was here to keep bastards like Kemmett breathing.

Even if they cursed his name while he did it.

𓊝 LORDS, PIRATES, AND OTHER PRETENDERS 𓊝

(Starter with @toron-heirtotheironislands)

The Arcane Adventure rode quiet on the evening tide, her black hull gliding over starlit waters with all the hush of a shadow slipping through a dream. The wind keened soft through her rigging, like some half-remembered tune, and Davos thought she almost sang. She was no loud-mouthed reaver’s ship, no Ironborn brute with a corpse-nailed prow and sails steeped in blood. She had none of their swagger, none of their stink.

No, this one had been forged of darker timber.

Her wood was black as jet, oiled to a shine beneath moonlight, yet dark enough to vanish when the night was thick. A small ship, yes, but not a frail one. Sleek and lean, sharp of hull, she danced betwixt reefs like a blade between ribs. Her masts bore steel hooks instead of bells, the sort of thing a woman might wear if she fancied knives more than necklaces.

Fitting, Davos mused, for a ship with a harpy carved into her bow.

Godsgrace lay yet days ahead, but already he could taste it on the wind.

Dust and salt and the promise of oranges.

Home.

But not yet.

Barefoot, he paced the length of her deck, his cloak fluttering loose behind him, the damp wood cool against his soles. It was late, and the crew had gone quiet beneath the canvas canopy, their labors done, their voices low. The sun had drowned, but the sea still held its warmth. Wrapped in wool and shadow, Davos moved like smoke.

He found him at the rail.

Toron Greyjoy, broad-shouldered and still as stone, staring out where black sky met blacker sea. The stars had swallowed the horizon.

Davos leaned against the railing beside him. No greeting passed between them. Just the hush. The sort of quiet men learn to live with after they’ve drawn blood from each other, not with blades, but with words sharp enough to scar.

The waves kissed the hull.

“Could’ve been worse, being marooned here,” Davos said at last. “Better than a stone cell, I’d wager. Never cared much for damp walls and rats.”

The harpy loomed at the prow, wings outstretched, talons bared. She caught the moonlight like a blade catches blood.

“I’ve taken a liking to your harpy,” he said after a time. “Ugly thing. Bit of this, bit of that. Doesn’t make sense when you look too close. But she holds.”

The wind tugged at his cloak. He let it.

“I suppose you thought the same of me. Gaudy. Spoiled. All silk and silver.” His fingers skimmed the rail. “But here I am. Didn’t die in that cell. Didn’t break on the tide.”

He tilted his head, just enough to glimpse the side of Toron’s face. The man was all angles and shadows with nose like a blade and a mouth that hadn’t known a smile in days.

“You were right about one thing,” Davos said. “My father wouldn’t have done this. He’d have bowed, poured the Arbor gold, smiled his painted grin, and traded our pride for a seat nearer the throne.” His mouth curved, though not kindly. “It’s well he’s dead. He’d have hated this ship.”

Why he said it aloud, he could not say. Perhaps just to feel it settle in his own mouth, solid and true. Ferris Allyrion had haunted the council chamber like a shade, louder in absence than presence. But out here, the ghosts had no teeth. Out here, only the living mattered.

“I’m told you fought well. On that wretched little isle.” He let the words come soft. “Got Edrick out. Got me out.” A pause. “You didn’t have to.”

His eyes closed briefly, lids heavy with salt and sleep. He did not look at Toron.

“I don’t like owing debts. But I’m no fool. I know when I do.”

The harpy’s shadow danced over the sea, her wings long and lean. Davos watched her. One hand curled tight round the rail.

“You once told me I was playing at lordship.” His lips twitched. “You weren’t wrong. I was. Still am, maybe. But if you’re ready to stop playing at piracy… perhaps we can both stop pretending.”

An offer, in the shape of a truce. Or a truce, in the shape of a warning.

He let the silence stretch between them, taut as a drawn bowstring.

“I’ll reconsider some of the Greyjoy terms. Not all. But enough. If you send me a proposal worth the ink. One I can lay before my bannermen without shame. Make it clever. You have the wit for it.”

And with that, he pushed away from the rail, rings catching the last of the moonlight as he moved.

“I’ll be below,” he said over his shoulder. “Try not to sink us before we reach shore.”

[davos-allyrion]

The wood was still warm from where Davos had been working it, tucked into the crook of his arm as he sat on the floor, rasp in hand. He didn’t look up when Toron’s voice came from the doorway. He had no need. That clipped, sardonic edge was familiar now, sharp as salt-wind, and near always tinged with disdain, as if the world had slighted him and he had yet to decide whether to sneer at it or cut it open.

Truth be told, Davos was surprised it had taken him this long to notice the hinges banging.

“The door is open,” he said, voice flat as slate, “because I removed the bottom board. And one of the leather ties.”

His hands didn’t stop moving. He turned the wood in his lap, eyes narrowed, listening more to the grain beneath his rasp than to anything behind him. This one’s a bit softer than the last piece. Might splinter under pressure, he noted, adjusting the angle.

“Not to rob you of your beauty sleep, but for the sake of the wood.”

Davos shifted his weight, the joints of his shoulder aching from hours hunched over in a room far too small for the work he was doing. He could feel Toron’s presence in the doorway like a pressure against his back. A man like that didn’t simply look at a thing. He judged it. Measured its use. Decided if it was worth the salt it cost to keep.

Davos already knew where he fell on that scale.

“One of your men—Kemmett, I believe—has been limping worse with each tide. At first I thought it nothing. A bruise, perhaps. But he flinched when I laid a hand to his ankle. It’s greying. Black, even. None have spoken of it, not even he, but I’ve seen such rot before. If it is not cut when we reach shore, you’ll be laying him to rest in the sea.”

He didn’t know why he cared so much. Kemmett had scowled at him for weeks, muttered things under his breath, spat near his boots when he thought Davos wouldn’t see. Still, Davos had seen the way he clutched the side of the ship when he thought no one was looking, jaw clenched like he was swallowing a scream. No one else had.

The rasp stopped. He blew a thin breath over the surface, wiping the dust from the grain. His jaw tightened. He hated this part. The knowing, the helpless waiting. The slow creep of infection through muscle and bone, the way a man would smile through clenched teeth and swear he was fine until he couldn’t stand at all. Davos had seen it before, too many times. And every time, it looked the same.

“He won’t ask. Your lot seem to think suffering in silence is its own kind of bravery. But someone should be ready. Someone should be able to look him in the eye and say: ‘We’ll make you walk again, if not on two legs, then one.’”

He turned the board again, gauging its fit against the leather straps he’d salvaged earlier. It was no masterwork, but it would hold. In Godsgrace there would be proper tools. Saws that cut clean. Oil, fleece. Perhaps even beeswax for the lining, there would be less chafing that way. He recalled reading that once in a Lyseni treatise on field surgery. One of the few books left in his father’s ruined library that ever spoke plain truth.

“How’s your calf, Greyjoy?”

𓊝 LORDS, PIRATES, AND OTHER PRETENDERS 𓊝

(Starter with @toron-heirtotheironislands)

The Arcane Adventure rode quiet on the evening tide, her black hull gliding over starlit waters with all the hush of a shadow slipping through a dream. The wind keened soft through her rigging, like some half-remembered tune, and Davos thought she almost sang. She was no loud-mouthed reaver’s ship, no Ironborn brute with a corpse-nailed prow and sails steeped in blood. She had none of their swagger, none of their stink.

No, this one had been forged of darker timber.

Her wood was black as jet, oiled to a shine beneath moonlight, yet dark enough to vanish when the night was thick. A small ship, yes, but not a frail one. Sleek and lean, sharp of hull, she danced betwixt reefs like a blade between ribs. Her masts bore steel hooks instead of bells, the sort of thing a woman might wear if she fancied knives more than necklaces.

Fitting, Davos mused, for a ship with a harpy carved into her bow.

Godsgrace lay yet days ahead, but already he could taste it on the wind.

Dust and salt and the promise of oranges.

Home.

But not yet.

Barefoot, he paced the length of her deck, his cloak fluttering loose behind him, the damp wood cool against his soles. It was late, and the crew had gone quiet beneath the canvas canopy, their labors done, their voices low. The sun had drowned, but the sea still held its warmth. Wrapped in wool and shadow, Davos moved like smoke.

He found him at the rail.

Toron Greyjoy, broad-shouldered and still as stone, staring out where black sky met blacker sea. The stars had swallowed the horizon.

Davos leaned against the railing beside him. No greeting passed between them. Just the hush. The sort of quiet men learn to live with after they’ve drawn blood from each other, not with blades, but with words sharp enough to scar.

The waves kissed the hull.

“Could’ve been worse, being marooned here,” Davos said at last. “Better than a stone cell, I’d wager. Never cared much for damp walls and rats.”

The harpy loomed at the prow, wings outstretched, talons bared. She caught the moonlight like a blade catches blood.

“I’ve taken a liking to your harpy,” he said after a time. “Ugly thing. Bit of this, bit of that. Doesn’t make sense when you look too close. But she holds.”

The wind tugged at his cloak. He let it.

“I suppose you thought the same of me. Gaudy. Spoiled. All silk and silver.” His fingers skimmed the rail. “But here I am. Didn’t die in that cell. Didn’t break on the tide.”

He tilted his head, just enough to glimpse the side of Toron’s face. The man was all angles and shadows with nose like a blade and a mouth that hadn’t known a smile in days.

“You were right about one thing,” Davos said. “My father wouldn’t have done this. He’d have bowed, poured the Arbor gold, smiled his painted grin, and traded our pride for a seat nearer the throne.” His mouth curved, though not kindly. “It’s well he’s dead. He’d have hated this ship.”

Why he said it aloud, he could not say. Perhaps just to feel it settle in his own mouth, solid and true. Ferris Allyrion had haunted the council chamber like a shade, louder in absence than presence. But out here, the ghosts had no teeth. Out here, only the living mattered.

“I’m told you fought well. On that wretched little isle.” He let the words come soft. “Got Edrick out. Got me out.” A pause. “You didn’t have to.”

His eyes closed briefly, lids heavy with salt and sleep. He did not look at Toron.

“I don’t like owing debts. But I’m no fool. I know when I do.”

The harpy’s shadow danced over the sea, her wings long and lean. Davos watched her. One hand curled tight round the rail.

“You once told me I was playing at lordship.” His lips twitched. “You weren’t wrong. I was. Still am, maybe. But if you’re ready to stop playing at piracy… perhaps we can both stop pretending.”

An offer, in the shape of a truce. Or a truce, in the shape of a warning.

He let the silence stretch between them, taut as a drawn bowstring.

“I’ll reconsider some of the Greyjoy terms. Not all. But enough. If you send me a proposal worth the ink. One I can lay before my bannermen without shame. Make it clever. You have the wit for it.”

And with that, he pushed away from the rail, rings catching the last of the moonlight as he moved.

“I’ll be below,” he said over his shoulder. “Try not to sink us before we reach shore.”

[davos-allyrion]

𓂀 TO BE LOOKED AT KINDLY (A TRAGEDY IN WAITING) 𓂀

(A thread with @alesanderpenrose)

“And what is it the two of you speak of?”

“Books,” Davos replied. “Food. Work, for the most part.”

“Might I ask more? This place is fascinating… and so are you, Lord Allyrion.”

The memory alone drew the faintest arch of his brow. Interesting. Well, he’d been called worse.

The Penrose boy—no, Alesander. His name was Alesander, and Davos reminded himself to use it. The lad had not looked at him with the wary eyes Davos had grown accustomed to. Nor with fear, nor judgment.

On the contrary, his whole countenance had lit like a lantern held to a dark corridor, his mouth full of questions, each more curious than the last:

“Wasn’t this book outlawed in the Stormlands?”
“What dish do you favor most?”
“Is that the same pipe every day?”
“Who tends to the eagles?”
“Did it pain you, having your ear pierced?”

Davos hated to admit it, but he had not minded the questions. Not in the least.

He was a man accustomed to silence, to giving clipped answers designed to halt conversation before it wandered where it ought not. But Alesander had a way of weaving words like garlands, bright and unrelenting. He was absurdly amusing, brimming with tales no one his age should rightly have gathered.

He was unguarded.

Unapologetic.
Free in a way Davos had never dared to be.

And after a handful of missed meals and far too many long, meandering talks in the dim candlelight of the library, Davos found himself faced with a strange, reluctant truth: he had acquired a companion.

Or something very near to it.

Nymeria was bottling another tonic. Larra corked it and passed it down the line, where Kiera placed it beside the day’s letters, none of which Davos had managed to complete.

“Have you ever spoken to him of something personal?” Larra asked idly, the bottle clicking shut in her palm. “Something beyond ledgers and dust and ink?”

Gods, Davos thought. No. Of course not. That would be terrifying.

“I see no reason why I should,” he said aloud, coolly. “He is in my employ. I should maintain a certain standard of propriety.”

“Ales seems kind,” Kiera said, clicking her tongue with the same fond exasperation one might use for a difficult child. “You could do with someone kind, Davos. Balance you out.”

“I don’t care if he’s kind,” Davos retorted, too sharp, too fast. “He’s competent. That’s what matters.”

“Is that why you asked Meris to step aside and began shadowing him at every hour?”

His hand tightened on the quill. Ink blotted the parchment, marring the lady’s name. Seven hells, who in their right mind ordered an entire year’s supply of rose petals? Did she not know flowers had seasons?

“Are you implying I’ve got so much free time I just... follow my new archivist around?” he asked, striving for sarcasm. It came out faint, uncertain.

The girls exchanged a look. One of those maddening, wordless things women seemed born knowing how to do.

“No, Davos,” Kiera said at last, her tone softened now, as she bound the last package in twine. “I am suggesting that for the first time in your life, you’ve found a friend. And I know that can be... difficult.”

“I have friends,” Davos protested, indignant. “There’s Doran—”

“Whom you see twice a year in the depths of the desert when you both take vows of silence and solitude,” Nymeria said, not even glancing up.

“Rude. Then there’s Edrick.”

“He lives half a kingdom away,” Larra said with a laugh, “and you’ve struck him. Badly. On more than one occasion.”

Kiera folded her arms, her voice calm and kind and completely unmovable. “Alesander lives down the hall. He enjoys your company. And if you enjoy his, perhaps you could stop looming about like some cloaked specter and try speaking to him like a man speaks to a friend. Not through riddles. Not with silence. Just... plainly.”

Davos grunted and sealed the letter with a heavy hand, the wax dark and uneven. Then he leaned back in his chair, arms crossing tight over his chest.

Very well.
He could try being friendly.

He supposed stranger things had happened in Dorne.

Davos had meant to go back to work. The vials on his table weren’t going to organize themselves, and the batch of balm cooling by the window would need stirring before it separated. But none of it seemed urgent when the light caught on something brighter than glass.

Outside, in the courtyard, Alesander stood squinting up at the sky, one hand shading his brow, the other curled in a lazy arc as he waved at someone passing by. Davos told himself he was just observing. It was only natural to glance out the window on a sunny day, natural to pause, briefly, and appreciate the way the sun painted gold into the auburn strands of someone’s hair.

Not that he was looking at Alesander. He was birdwatching. Truly.

But birds didn’t usually wear pale linen open at the throat. Birds didn’t scrub at their eyes until they blinked blearily, like the sun had gotten too bold and decided to lay a claim. Davos frowned, watching Alesander rub at his lashes again and again until it almost looked painful.

That decided it.

He called him in with a tone that brooked no argument, the same one he used when someone tried to walk on a twisted ankle or hide a fever with rosewater.

Alesander didn’t ask questions. He never did with Davos. Just followed him in, trailing curiously like a puppy. Davos didn’t bother with niceties, just nudged Alesander toward the chair near the long table, where he often examined patients or ground his herbs. A simple wooden stool. It became something far more dangerous when Alesander sat and Davos stepped forward, standing between his knees without a second thought.

A friend, he reminded himself, treat him like a friend.

“I’m going to line your eyes,” Davos explained. “The sun’s too harsh today. The kohl will help.”

It wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the whole truth either.

He dipped his brush into the little jar, tapped off the excess. Alesander tilted his chin up, obedient. And that’s when it hit him.

The way Alesander looked at him.

Not the sly, slippery sort Davos had long since learned to shrug off. This was something else. Intentional. Soft. Like Alesander wanted to memorize the shape of Davos’ face through sheer force of looking.

Davos’ breath caught, and his hand stilled in midair.

He’d touched countless faces before, guided patients through surgeries, stitched skin, even cupped cheeks as they wept. But this felt like the air itself had narrowed to the space between them.

“Don’t blink.”

He brushed the kohl beneath one eye, careful, gentle. He could feel his own heartbeat in his fingers, traitorously loud. Alesander didn’t move.

Davos swallowed. His hand trembled once. Just slightly. He told himself it was from concentration.

He shifted to the other eye. “Still,” he murmured, softer than before.

Alesander tilted his chin up, obliging.

This close, Davos could see every freckle scattered across his cheeks, every breath that passed through parted lips. Davos felt the heat of that gaze in his throat, in his palms, curling low in his stomach like smoke.

It was working on him.

He almost stepped back. Almost fumbled for the excuse of “you’re done” or “there, that’s better,” but his hands lingered a second longer than they needed to. One thumb brushed beneath Alesander’s eye, a featherlight stroke meant to tidy the line but doing nothing of the sort. His skin buzzed beneath the touch.

“There,” he said, finally stepping back, though it felt like tearing himself away. “You’ll see better now.”

He turned quickly, wiping his fingers on the cloth, avoiding the mirror, avoiding Ales.

Outside, the sun was still shining. Birds still sang. Everything was just as it had been.

Except Davos.

He leaned against the counter, fingers tightening around the edge until his knuckles turned white. It’s the weather, he told himself. The heat. Too much sun and not enough sleep.

A perfectly reasonable explanation. He’d gone days without rest before. A fever, perhaps. That would explain the flush crawling up the back of his neck, the thud of his heartbeat in places it didn’t belong.

Davos rubbed at his temples, as if he might press the thoughts out like thorns from a wound.

Maybe I’m unwell.

That, at least, was a comfortable thought. Familiar. He’d known illness before, fevers that burned through the spine, weariness that turned every step into a trial. This felt not unlike that. The dizzying warmth, the way his thoughts scattered like startled birds whenever Alesander looked at him too long.

Yes. Better a sickness than a yearning.

Davos could treat a sickness. He had salves for that. Poultices. Tonics.

But not this.

This thing that lingered in the hollow of his chest like a second heart, louder now than the first. This impossible want he’d not named, not yet, not really, because naming it would make it real. And real things had consequences.

Davos drew a breath through his teeth and glanced briefly over his shoulder.

Alesander was still seated, blinking slowly, fingertips brushing beneath his eyes where the kohl now rested. He smiled faintly, not at Davos, not at anything in particular. Just smiling, like someone who felt safe.

Davos turned away before he could smile back.

He busied himself with the balm. Stirring it too hard. Pretending not to feel like the sun had moved indoors.

It’s only a fever, he told himself again, clinging to it like a lifeline. That’s all. I’ll give him the flu and he’ll hate me and die sneezing in the hall and it’ll be my fault—

Because if it wasn’t, then it meant something was shifting inside him. Something irreversible.

Mother Rhoyne, mercy on your wretched son.

Davos was sure he had lost his brain somewhere between the day Alesander arrived in Godsgrace and the first time he had shown him the library.

It had to be the noise.

The library had never been quiet, exactly—too many books, too much dust unsettled by the desert wind, too few hands willing to put things in order—but it had never been this loud. Alesander made it loud. Not in the way of shouting or laughter or grand, sweeping pronouncements, but in the way he moved through it like a storm, shifting things just enough to make Davos notice.

It was maddening. And captivating. It was impossible not to notice him.

He stood there watching again. For too long, probably.

Davos knew his father, Ferris, would laugh at the absurdity of it all. A former hostage given free rein to Godsgrace, organizing the library, making suggestions about the books, which ones should be replaced, which ones should be preserved, which ones were truly unreadable and only there to collect dust. And now, here Alesander sat, his quill scratching furiously against the last pages of his journal, looking at Davos as though he expected some reprimand.

“My Lord, have I given offense? I apologize. I am only writing—”

Davos’ eyebrows scrunched before he even knew he was frowning. Alesander spoke as if waiting to be scolded, as if writing in a library was some great inconvenience. It was the easiest thing in the world to say, “You are not a nuisance. And you shouldn’t apologize.”

And yet, it felt like a mistake the moment it left his lips. Not because it was untrue, but because it felt too true. Because the nervous energy that had been following him like a shadow only seemed to tighten its grip.

Davos had never been this distracted before.

Not at his first ball, stiff and uncomfortable in clothing that fit too well. Not when Mors had tried to drag him into a brothel, certain that this would be the cure for whatever had made him so tense in his adolescence. Not before any battle or negotiation or moment when his father’s sharp gaze had lingered too long. But here, in his own library, in his own home, looking at a man who treated paper and ink as if they were more vital than air. Here, Davos could not think straight.

Perhaps it was guilt.

Alesander had filled his journal cover to cover, yet never asked for another. Davos had noticed it more than once: the hesitation when turning a page, the way he measured each line with care. As if he feared running out of space before his thoughts were done. Davos wasn’t sure what to make of it, only that he had thought, I should get him another.

And so he did.

Davos reached into his belt and pulled free a new quill, setting it down with quiet finality. Then, a leather-bound notebook, thick with fresh, empty pages. “I meant to give you this sooner. I noticed yours was almost out of pages… it’s a token of my gratitude.”

It felt like repayment in some way, though for what, he wasn’t entirely sure. The library was in better shape than it had been in years, and Alesander was to thank for that. But it wasn’t just that. It was everything. The way he lingered over stories, the way he muttered complaints under his breath when something was out of place, the way he carried himself as if he were always expecting to be dismissed.

“You’re… remarkable,” Davos said, then immediately winced at himself. “Remarkably good at your work. I meant… yes.”

His bottom lip worried against his teeth as he searched for the words he actually wanted to say, while he stared anywhere but directly at Alesander’s eyes. The books. The windows. The curve of Alesander’s ink-stained fingers.

Friendship, he reminded himself. You’re being kind. Nothing more. Kiera would pat you in the back saying you did a great job.

It wasn’t right to blame Alesander for the restlessness that had settled inside him. But it was foolish to pretend that something hadn’t changed. The silence that followed made him shift on his feet. Say something else, you idiot.

“There’s a gathering tomorrow. A small one. A tradition we keep here. The children—” he exhaled, shaking his head slightly at his own fumbling, “—they share stories. The ones they’ve written, or the ones they love best. It helps with their reading.”

He met Alesander’s gaze, steadier now. “I’d like you to read to them. If you want, of course.”

And then, before he could think better of it, before he could let himself slip back into titles and formalities and all the distance he was meant to keep, he added, “And stop calling me ‘my lord.’ Davos is fine.”

He swallowed hard, pulse a fraction too quick.

“Just Davos is better.”

His voice dipped quieter at the end, and he felt like a fool for saying it. But it was true. Just Davos sounded easier. Softer. Like something Alesander might say when smiling.

“I will call you by name as well… if you wish me to, of course.”

[davos-allyrion]

First impressions…

A part of @asongofgoldenfireandblackblood

Starter with @davos-allyrion

As soon as Harry told Alesander what had happened, Ales knew what he would do.

He’d save Harry from his own misery, he’d fix this problem, he’d make himself useful and get to leave Kings Landing in the process.

“Oh, I’ve met Lord Davos before, I’ll speak to him!” It was a lie. Sure, they had seen each other in passing, Alesander had watched as Davos and Toron Greyjoy had fought…

Ales couldn’t help but eavesdrop that day, thinking about how he would tell his sister Daisy all of the details later, and how he was sure Davos had looked up and caught him for a moment. But he had said nothing.

But he wanted to make Harry feel better, to make Harry not have to go through this stress his stupid prank had caused him. “It will be alright. I’ll go to Godsgrace, I’ve always wanted to visit Dorne, anyway…”

Ales ignored Harry’s pleading for him not to go, because he had already made up his mind. It would be a favor for Harry, surely, but also an excuse to leave Kings Landing and explore elsewhere. To make himself useful.

He would leave in a few days.

“…So, that’s what’s been going on with the whole brother situation.” Alesander rolled his eyes, emphasizing the word brother to show his fake annoyance at Harrold.

“I’m to leave for Godsgrace in a few days, you won’t miss me at all, correct? You can always come with me, though I know I am boring company, we could surely have fun...”

Alesander sat upright on his latest lover’s chair in his room, covering himself with his large coat, and hugging himself. Lyonel was his name, and the two had been seeing each other for months now. A man from the City Watch, one Ales had known for a while prior to their getting together. They didn’t kiss very much, or comfort each other ever, but Lyonel had a good listening ear. Or, at least, Alesander told himself that. Possibly to cope with the fact that he was most likely ignoring him rather than listening quietly. But, any company was better than none, and Lyonel was the best Alesander believed he deserved.

Alesander watched Lyonel from the chair as the other man put his City Watch armor on, side eyeing Alesander the whole time. There was no fondness in the gaze. “And you’ll be away for how long?” The other man’s voice was distant and quiet. It surprised Alesander to hear Lyonel actually respond, and he’d take anything he could get.

So responded immediately. “Oh! I’m not sure, it depends on how long the Lord Davos Allyrion wants me, hah. I think Dorne could be fun, I’ve never been and I’d love to be away from this city.” He his coat tighter to himself, always feeling the need to cover himself around Lyonel, but never certain why.

Lyonel gave him one last gaze as he put on his last article of armor. He then sat on a chair next to Alesander, a tension in the room thickening in the air. His long black hair framed his face beautifully, and his grey eyes were piercing. Alesander, being ever the flirtatious man, went to push a piece of hair out of his lover’s face. But Lyonel caught his hand before he could, holding it firmly.

“You’re lucky you’re so beautiful.” Lyonel spoke, his voice coming out as annoyed rather than fond, but his words were somehow sweet. He even rolled his eyes, the same way Alesander did previously.

Oh, Alesander thought. He never says things like this. He must want to actually come with me. Alesander felt uncomfortable when others complimented him, and he felt even more uncomfortable at the thought of someone actually wanting to do something with him. He was unused to it, but it also excited him.

He smiled brightly. “Why, thank you, but-“

“You’re lucky you’re so beautiful, because otherwise people would notice your lack of wit. But I can see through that.”

Alesanders heart dropped to his stomach. Lyonel had said that with no emotion, and stared blankly at him. It was so shocking, Alesander had to laugh.

This is what I deserve for thinking someone would want to come with me. Or want me.

Lyonel seemed to have read Alesander’s mind and angrily began to speak. “Do you really think I’d want to come with you? All you ever do is complain about yourself, write in that stupid journal, and bat your eyes at me. It’s boring, and I am officially bored. Our time apart will be a miracle.” He let go of Alesander’s hand, more so throwing it down.

Alesander laughed again and pretended the words didn’t sting. He pretended his heart didn’t hurt as he spat back at Lyonel. “Why should you think I care? I was not serious about you coming anyway.” He lied as easy as he faked amusement.

“You should care and fix yourself. You have many talents, sure, yet you do nothing with them. You tire everyone with your lackwit jokes and endless running around writing nonsense onto your pages. I hope in Dorne you can find something better to do.” He quickly sat up, moving fast towards the door.

It was everything Alesander had ever thought about himself, and to hear it out loud was shocking. It became all too real that he was all of the worst things he’d ever said about himself, and even though he deemed it all to be true, it still pained him to hear it.

Ignoring the hurt he felt, he made one last jest. One last chance to make Lyonel laugh, or smile, or curse him, or just do anything. “You also meant to say you loved me, correct?” The words came out more bitter than light-hearted. It was a horrible taunt and one that stung to say.

Lyonel did not laugh. He had the door half opened, and before he left he turned to Alesander one last time. “You should be gone before I come back.”

And he would be. Because he would then leave for Godsgrace early, without a word to anyone he knew. Just a few letters left behind, his heart broken, and a goal to fix Harry’s problems at the moment and make his own self useful.

[davos-allyrion]

𓊝 LORDS, PIRATES, AND OTHER PRETENDERS 𓊝

(Starter with @toron-heirtotheironislands)

The Arcane Adventure rode quiet on the evening tide, her black hull gliding over starlit waters with all the hush of a shadow slipping through a dream. The wind keened soft through her rigging, like some half-remembered tune, and Davos thought she almost sang. She was no loud-mouthed reaver’s ship, no Ironborn brute with a corpse-nailed prow and sails steeped in blood. She had none of their swagger, none of their stink.

No, this one had been forged of darker timber.

Her wood was black as jet, oiled to a shine beneath moonlight, yet dark enough to vanish when the night was thick. A small ship, yes, but not a frail one. Sleek and lean, sharp of hull, she danced betwixt reefs like a blade between ribs. Her masts bore steel hooks instead of bells, the sort of thing a woman might wear if she fancied knives more than necklaces.

Fitting, Davos mused, for a ship with a harpy carved into her bow.

Godsgrace lay yet days ahead, but already he could taste it on the wind.

Dust and salt and the promise of oranges.

Home.

But not yet.

Barefoot, he paced the length of her deck, his cloak fluttering loose behind him, the damp wood cool against his soles. It was late, and the crew had gone quiet beneath the canvas canopy, their labors done, their voices low. The sun had drowned, but the sea still held its warmth. Wrapped in wool and shadow, Davos moved like smoke.

He found him at the rail.

Toron Greyjoy, broad-shouldered and still as stone, staring out where black sky met blacker sea. The stars had swallowed the horizon.

Davos leaned against the railing beside him. No greeting passed between them. Just the hush. The sort of quiet men learn to live with after they’ve drawn blood from each other, not with blades, but with words sharp enough to scar.

The waves kissed the hull.

“Could’ve been worse, being marooned here,” Davos said at last. “Better than a stone cell, I’d wager. Never cared much for damp walls and rats.”

The harpy loomed at the prow, wings outstretched, talons bared. She caught the moonlight like a blade catches blood.

“I’ve taken a liking to your harpy,” he said after a time. “Ugly thing. Bit of this, bit of that. Doesn’t make sense when you look too close. But she holds.”

The wind tugged at his cloak. He let it.

“I suppose you thought the same of me. Gaudy. Spoiled. All silk and silver.” His fingers skimmed the rail. “But here I am. Didn’t die in that cell. Didn’t break on the tide.”

He tilted his head, just enough to glimpse the side of Toron’s face. The man was all angles and shadows with nose like a blade and a mouth that hadn’t known a smile in days.

“You were right about one thing,” Davos said. “My father wouldn’t have done this. He’d have bowed, poured the Arbor gold, smiled his painted grin, and traded our pride for a seat nearer the throne.” His mouth curved, though not kindly. “It’s well he’s dead. He’d have hated this ship.”

Why he said it aloud, he could not say. Perhaps just to feel it settle in his own mouth, solid and true. Ferris Allyrion had haunted the council chamber like a shade, louder in absence than presence. But out here, the ghosts had no teeth. Out here, only the living mattered.

“I’m told you fought well. On that wretched little isle.” He let the words come soft. “Got Edrick out. Got me out.” A pause. “You didn’t have to.”

His eyes closed briefly, lids heavy with salt and sleep. He did not look at Toron.

“I don’t like owing debts. But I’m no fool. I know when I do.”

The harpy’s shadow danced over the sea, her wings long and lean. Davos watched her. One hand curled tight round the rail.

“You once told me I was playing at lordship.” His lips twitched. “You weren’t wrong. I was. Still am, maybe. But if you’re ready to stop playing at piracy… perhaps we can both stop pretending.”

An offer, in the shape of a truce. Or a truce, in the shape of a warning.

He let the silence stretch between them, taut as a drawn bowstring.

“I’ll reconsider some of the Greyjoy terms. Not all. But enough. If you send me a proposal worth the ink. One I can lay before my bannermen without shame. Make it clever. You have the wit for it.”

And with that, he pushed away from the rail, rings catching the last of the moonlight as he moved.

“I’ll be below,” he said over his shoulder. “Try not to sink us before we reach shore.”

[davos-allyrion]

The guest chambers stank faintly of vinegar, sweat, and something fouler beneath it, shame, perhaps. Or grief, if Davos had the mind to dress it in finer words. He did not.

He stood over the threshold, arms crossed tight, his knuckles pressed to his biceps like he could hold himself together by sheer will. The doors to Alesander Penrose’s chamber were shut, but the sounds leaking through were impossible to ignore.

Sobbing. The pitiful kind. Long and hoarse and ragged, like someone trying to scrape sorrow out of their own throat. It clawed at the silence like a wounded thing, dragging on and on until even Davos, who had long grown used to the sounds men made when breaking, felt it twist something low in his gut.

Alesander Penrose had spilled all the courage that brought him to Godsgrace on the stone floor of that room. Hours now, and he had not ceased. No one cried like that unless they meant to unmake themselves.

Davos’ jaw worked, silent, a tick twitching below his cheekbone. His left lip ring was clamped mercilessly between his teeth, the skin around it red with irritation from hours of worrying. He didn’t realize he’d nearly torn the damn thing out until Nymeria smacked his hand away.

“He hasn’t eaten,” she said flatly, arms folded across her stomach. “Not even the pomegranates.”

“Let him starve then.”

“That’d be a cruel end for a nobleman of the Crown’s favor.”

“I’ve known worse men to live longer,” he said, sharper than he meant to. “Besides, he’ll be missed soon enough. We’ll see how long his pride holds when hunger takes root.”

“You’re not as heartless as you pretend.”

“I am when I must be,” Davos muttered, though even to his own ears, it rang thin.

Nymeria arched a brow, but said nothing more. She was good at knowing when to leave the spark alone before it caught flame. Still, Davos caught himself pacing after she left. He circled the tiled hall like a hound that had caught scent of something half-buried. The sound of crying hadn’t stopped. Hadn’t lessened. Gods, even his worst enemies had gone quiet eventually. But Alesander?

Alesander cried like he was trying to empty something out of himself.

Kierra found him an hour later in the rookery, looking out over the shifting dunes and pretending he hadn’t been listening the whole time.

“You’re not thinking clearly,” she said, blunt as always. “Keeping him here, treating him like a prisoner... it makes you look like a savage.”

“I’m not keeping him,” Davos muttered.

“He hasn’t left.”

“He’s weak. He’d get himself killed.”

She raised a brow. “So you are keeping him.”

He didn’t answer.

“You’ve only just regained favor with the Tyrells,” she reminded him, softer now. “You’ve fought to see Godsgrace’s name honored again. Do you want the court whispering about some stormlander boy you’ve locked in a tower like a sand-addled brute?”

He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand. The kohl smeared.

“He’s not a boy.”

“Then stop treating him like one,” she snapped. “The bards sing sweeter of mercy than vengeance, Davos. And the smallfolk remember.”

It was past the hour of bats when Davos returned to the chamber. He stood before the door, listening. No sound now. No tears. No movement.

That, somehow, was worse.

He knocked. Once. Twice.

Nothing.

“Penrose,” he said, voice low, almost a growl. “If you’re dead in there, I swear I’ll drag you back to life just to throttle you.”

For a moment, Davos thought about breaking the door in. About marching in and shaking Alesander until he remembered how to speak. Instead, he turned on his heel and stalked down the corridor, cursing under his breath in half a dozen tongues. He nearly kicked over a brazier. Nearly summoned Nymeria to deal with it herself if she was so damn concerned.

He ended up in the kitchens.

The servants scattered when they saw his face. That suited him fine. He didn’t want anyone watching.

A waste of effort, he thought. A fool’s errand. But still, his hands did not stop.

Davos brewed the tea himself, cinnamon bark and clove, the way they served it in the mountains when your throat hurt from sand. He arranged the biscuits, because Alesander looked like the sort of man who could be bribed with sweetness. Then he stood for far too long with the tray in his hands, debating whether this was stupid.

It was stupid. But he carried it back anyway.

He didn’t knock this time. Just placed the tray gently at the door. The cup clinked lightly against the saucer as he adjusted it, unnecessarily, like the presentation mattered. Like the tea would say all the things he couldn’t.

The hallway was quiet. Still.

He lingered one moment longer than he meant to, eyes on the carved wood.

Then he turned and left, muttering to himself as he went, “Fucking stormlanders. Always know how to cry like someone’s listening.”

The sun had barely crested the dunes when Davos began issuing orders like a general preparing for siege.

Meris stood before him in the corridor, hands folded neatly in front of her apron, eyes steady as the tide. She was barely twenty, with a mop of windblown curls and a disposition that usually reminded Davos of a very polite sheepdog. But today, she was being armed with responsibility. And that made her a soldier.

“If he tries to leave the keep,” Davos said, adjusting the loose cuff of his robe with crisp efficiency, “the dungeons.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“If he says anything lewd or unkind—if he even breathes with arrogance—dungeons.”

“Understood.”

“If he tries to hurt himself—” Davos faltered, jaw tightening. “Dungeons. Immediately. I don’t care if he’s bleeding or sobbing. Take him down there and lock the door and fetch me.”

Meris nodded once. “Shall I sedate him first?”

“Only if he claws you,” Davos muttered. “And if he lays a hand on anyone—maid, servant, stableboy, your pet cat—”

“Dungeons,” Meris said, as calmly as one might recite a recipe.

Davos paused. His shoulders, broad and bare beneath the gauze-thin layers of desert silk, stiffened as he stared at the mosaic tiles beneath their feet. The colors twisted into the shape of a weeping sun. He inhaled, slow.

“If he makes you uncomfortable, Meris… dungeons.”

That, finally, gave her pause. Not fear. Just a flicker of something. Compassion, maybe.

“My lord,” she said gently, “I’ve dealt with worse men than Alesander Penrose.”

“And I promised you that it would never happen again.”

He lingered after she left, alone with the pillars and the slow stretch of light across the floor. He didn’t know what he wanted from Alesander. An explanation, mayhap. An apology. Anything to still the ache he’d been carrying since the man fell at his feet and refused to rise.

Meris followed Alesander at a discreet distance. Not close enough to be a shadow, not far enough to forget. She offered nothing he didn’t ask for, but was quick to guide him when he lost himself in the sprawling heat-slick corridors of Godsgrace. A turn here. A stair there. A mental note when he lingered too long in the library.

Every so often, she’d leave him a little breadcrumb: “Lord Davos will be in the greenhouse after sundown.”
Or “The air’s cooler by the fig trees this time of day. You might find the company better there.”

And always, always, she was watching.

Not cruel. Not cold. But patient in a way that made her harder to escape than any chain Davos could’ve forged.

Davos spent the afternoon in the greenhouse, sleeves rolled to his elbows, wrists smudged green with clippings and sap. The dry heat of the dunes was gentler here, caught beneath glass and dappled by shadow. Thorned vines coiled up trellises. Blood-orange blossoms curled like open mouths. The smell was a slow intoxication of crushed herbs and ripening fruit. It was his sanctuary—half shade, half miracle, built of sea-glass panels and ivy-choked beams. The figs had ripened early this year, and the citron vines coiled in lazy spirals toward the sun.

Davos pruned methodically, snipping browning stems with the practiced grace of someone who needed to keep his hands doing. He kept glancing at the door.

He didn’t want to care. He didn’t want to remember the soft drag of his thumb across a fevered temple or the slight tremble in Alesander’s chest when he breathed. But the memory nested in his ribs like a burr.

Just one, angel, Davos thought, not for the first time. Just one apology. Then you’ll go home, and I’ll forget what your face looks like.

Davos wasn’t expecting that.

He watched, silent and still, as Alesander dropped to his knees in the dirt, trembling hands clasped, his soft voice rising and falling like a prayer. It should’ve been pathetic. It should’ve been laughable. It should’ve made Davos want to twist the man's hair in his fist and make him stand, make him spit out what lie he was hiding. But instead, something unfamiliar stirred in his chest. A weight. A twinge.

He’d been prepared to let him go. He’d even summoned a rider to send word to Storm’s End. Harrold Penrose could face the consequence of sending his brother like some fool’s errand apology, and Alesander could be sent back in silence and shame. That was the way of things. That was the sensible path.

But now?

The sun filtered down through the greenhouse glass, soft and gold, catching on Alesander’s tousled hair and flushed cheeks. Davos reached out without thinking, fingertips brushing the air above that hair, above that shaking frame, but stopped himself just in time. He dropped his hand as if burned.

What kind of hostage begged to stay?

Davos had seen men grovel before. Crying for mercy. Begging for their lives. He had seen better men than this reduced to gasping messes on the stone floors of Godsgrace, bleeding, broken, desperate. And he’d crushed them underfoot without flinching. But this wasn’t that. This was different. Alesander wasn’t begging for his life, he was offering it.

And that made it worse.

Worse because it mattered.

Davos crouched slowly, sandals crunching on the soil of the greenhouse floor, until he was level with the little lord who had cried all day behind a locked door. Alesander didn’t look like a spy. He looked like a man who’d mean it when he said I will be yours.

What a stupid, reckless, honest thing to say.

Davos exhaled hard through his nose, shaking his head, muttering more to himself than anyone else, “What a dreadful place to beg. In the greenhouse, of all places. Surrounded by roses and cabbages.”

He lowered himself, slowly, leaning to meet those tear-bright green eyes.

“You’re not useless,” he said flatly.

No answer. Good. He didn’t need one. He only needed the trembling to stop.

“You want to stay? Then stay. But you won’t be a hostage. Hostages don’t work, and if you’re working, you’re mine.” He raised a brow. “You will work in the library. Gods know it needs someone like you. You’ll catalog, restore, write what’s missing. That is your post now, archivist of Godsgrace. And archivists are expected to speak with dignity.”

A pause, heavy and sharp.

“If you ever speak of yourself like that again, if I so much as hear you say you’re worthless or pathetic or lesser for being a second son, I will cut out that silver tongue of yours and toss it to the birds. Understood?”

With an unexpected gentleness, Davos reached out, took Alesander’s elbow, and helped him rise. The soil clung to his sleeves and skin, the scent of crushed thyme and hot dust clinging to the space between them. His fingers moved to his belt, where a soft square of linen hung—a cloth, embroidered with the sigil of the Hand of the Gods. He pulled it loose, held it out.

“Here. For your hands. Your knees,” Davos said, turning away without looking back. “Bathe before it’s time for supper. We will discuss the details of your work after.”

It started with a noise.

A soft one. Barely more than the scrape of parchment and the creak of wood. Just enough to pull Davos from his reading. He glanced up from the scroll, ears pricking. The sound had been coming more often these past days: the faint murmur of turning pages, the low thud of book spines closing, the rhythm of thought in motion. It came from the eastern wing now, from the huge library few guests ever used.

Alesander had claimed it.

Had taken it over like some half-starved scholar, whispering thanks in the margins and forgetting to eat.

Again.

Mother Rhoyne drown him.

Davos clenched his jaw, rubbed a knuckle across his mouth. He shouldn’t care. Truly. The lordlings were all the same: proud, pretty, and pathologically evasive. Let the man waste away in his pile of vellum and histories.

But the kitchen was too quiet. The halls too still.

And Davos had spent far too many nights listening for footsteps that never came.

He made the soup himself.

The cooks offered, but he waved them off with a grunt. He wasn’t coddling the man. This was a matter of logistics. Fuel for the body, that was all.

It was a thick barley pottage, made with morsels of lamb, softened chickpeas, leeks simmered down to sweetness, and just a touch of lemon for sharpness, a trick learned from his nursemaid, back when he was a boy coughing his lungs out from the sand-winds. She'd called it sickman’s broth. Comforting. Sturdy enough to sustain, gentle enough not to upset a hollow stomach.

He tore the bread himself, too. A round golden loaf, still warm from the morning ovens, its crust crisp and floured. He plated it all in silence, ladling the soup into a glazed earthen bowl with a broad lip, so it might cool before being touched.

Then he stopped.

For a breath, he stood there with the tray in his hands, staring down at it like it might rise up and mock him.

Fool, he told himself. You’re not his keeper.

And yet, he walked the corridor.

And yet, he made his way to the library.

Alesander didn’t look up when Davos entered.

He was hunched over a tome large enough to smother a man, his ink-stained fingers dancing along the text, dust smudging the sleeves of his robe. The colored glass behind him caught in the silver hoops at his ear, making them spark like stars against the pale hollows beneath his eyes.

He looked—Davos hated the word—delicate.

Too thin, too pale, too intent. As though a strong wind might blow him over. As though a harsh voice might undo him. As though he ought to be carried gently, by hands that had never known a sword-hilt or rope-burn.

Unlike Davos’ own hands.

He cleared his throat and set the tray down on the edge of the long table. Not near enough to be taken as hovering. Not far enough to seem unbothered.

Alesander was muttering something under his breath, lips moving soundlessly, eyes scanning the page like it held the answer to a question he hadn’t told anyone.

“You don’t have to thank me,” Davos said gruffly. “Just eat it.”

Alesander looked up right away.

“Did any of the maids tell you why the library is this huge?” Davos shifted his weight. The stone floor was cold beneath his sandals. “We buy books off travelers, let them stay a few days in return. Better deal than coin, sometimes.”

First impressions…

A part of @asongofgoldenfireandblackblood

Starter with @davos-allyrion

As soon as Harry told Alesander what had happened, Ales knew what he would do.

He’d save Harry from his own misery, he’d fix this problem, he’d make himself useful and get to leave Kings Landing in the process.

“Oh, I’ve met Lord Davos before, I’ll speak to him!” It was a lie. Sure, they had seen each other in passing, Alesander had watched as Davos and Toron Greyjoy had fought…

Ales couldn’t help but eavesdrop that day, thinking about how he would tell his sister Daisy all of the details later, and how he was sure Davos had looked up and caught him for a moment. But he had said nothing.

But he wanted to make Harry feel better, to make Harry not have to go through this stress his stupid prank had caused him. “It will be alright. I’ll go to Godsgrace, I’ve always wanted to visit Dorne, anyway…”

Ales ignored Harry’s pleading for him not to go, because he had already made up his mind. It would be a favor for Harry, surely, but also an excuse to leave Kings Landing and explore elsewhere. To make himself useful.

He would leave in a few days.

“…So, that’s what’s been going on with the whole brother situation.” Alesander rolled his eyes, emphasizing the word brother to show his fake annoyance at Harrold.

“I’m to leave for Godsgrace in a few days, you won’t miss me at all, correct? You can always come with me, though I know I am boring company, we could surely have fun...”

Alesander sat upright on his latest lover’s chair in his room, covering himself with his large coat, and hugging himself. Lyonel was his name, and the two had been seeing each other for months now. A man from the City Watch, one Ales had known for a while prior to their getting together. They didn’t kiss very much, or comfort each other ever, but Lyonel had a good listening ear. Or, at least, Alesander told himself that. Possibly to cope with the fact that he was most likely ignoring him rather than listening quietly. But, any company was better than none, and Lyonel was the best Alesander believed he deserved.

Alesander watched Lyonel from the chair as the other man put his City Watch armor on, side eyeing Alesander the whole time. There was no fondness in the gaze. “And you’ll be away for how long?” The other man’s voice was distant and quiet. It surprised Alesander to hear Lyonel actually respond, and he’d take anything he could get.

So responded immediately. “Oh! I’m not sure, it depends on how long the Lord Davos Allyrion wants me, hah. I think Dorne could be fun, I’ve never been and I’d love to be away from this city.” He his coat tighter to himself, always feeling the need to cover himself around Lyonel, but never certain why.

Lyonel gave him one last gaze as he put on his last article of armor. He then sat on a chair next to Alesander, a tension in the room thickening in the air. His long black hair framed his face beautifully, and his grey eyes were piercing. Alesander, being ever the flirtatious man, went to push a piece of hair out of his lover’s face. But Lyonel caught his hand before he could, holding it firmly.

“You’re lucky you’re so beautiful.” Lyonel spoke, his voice coming out as annoyed rather than fond, but his words were somehow sweet. He even rolled his eyes, the same way Alesander did previously.

Oh, Alesander thought. He never says things like this. He must want to actually come with me. Alesander felt uncomfortable when others complimented him, and he felt even more uncomfortable at the thought of someone actually wanting to do something with him. He was unused to it, but it also excited him.

He smiled brightly. “Why, thank you, but-“

“You’re lucky you’re so beautiful, because otherwise people would notice your lack of wit. But I can see through that.”

Alesanders heart dropped to his stomach. Lyonel had said that with no emotion, and stared blankly at him. It was so shocking, Alesander had to laugh.

This is what I deserve for thinking someone would want to come with me. Or want me.

Lyonel seemed to have read Alesander’s mind and angrily began to speak. “Do you really think I’d want to come with you? All you ever do is complain about yourself, write in that stupid journal, and bat your eyes at me. It’s boring, and I am officially bored. Our time apart will be a miracle.” He let go of Alesander’s hand, more so throwing it down.

Alesander laughed again and pretended the words didn’t sting. He pretended his heart didn’t hurt as he spat back at Lyonel. “Why should you think I care? I was not serious about you coming anyway.” He lied as easy as he faked amusement.

“You should care and fix yourself. You have many talents, sure, yet you do nothing with them. You tire everyone with your lackwit jokes and endless running around writing nonsense onto your pages. I hope in Dorne you can find something better to do.” He quickly sat up, moving fast towards the door.

It was everything Alesander had ever thought about himself, and to hear it out loud was shocking. It became all too real that he was all of the worst things he’d ever said about himself, and even though he deemed it all to be true, it still pained him to hear it.

Ignoring the hurt he felt, he made one last jest. One last chance to make Lyonel laugh, or smile, or curse him, or just do anything. “You also meant to say you loved me, correct?” The words came out more bitter than light-hearted. It was a horrible taunt and one that stung to say.

Lyonel did not laugh. He had the door half opened, and before he left he turned to Alesander one last time. “You should be gone before I come back.”

And he would be. Because he would then leave for Godsgrace early, without a word to anyone he knew. Just a few letters left behind, his heart broken, and a goal to fix Harry’s problems at the moment and make his own self useful.

[davos-allyrion]

Benjen Mormont. Toron Greyjoy. Edrick Stark.

Davos turned the names over in his mind like stones in the tide, each one worn smooth by memory and repetition. He whispered them to himself in the dark, alongside the half-remembered names of Toron’s crew—smugglers, sellsails, and sons of no one—until their cadence quieted his thoughts and drew sleep down over him like a cloak. There was comfort in the naming of things, in giving order to chaos. It gave shape to pain, and shape could be held.

The sea had stolen something from each of them, and offered nothing in return but salt and silence. Even Toron had been subdued in the end.

It had been Benjen who brought him the utility belt. No words, just a quiet offering, salt still crusted on his gloves from the wreckage. Davos had nodded once, and gone to his work. The belt was well-made, its stitched leather pouches filled with the tools of a healer: linen wraps, small blades, glass vials of tincture. With it, Davos had seen to the wounded, setting bones and stitching torn skin. When the worst was done, he had remained by Edrick’s side, tending him through the long, bitter night.

He had lit sage in a low brass bowl, the smoke curling in slow spirals toward the ceiling of the captain’s quarters. The scent reminded him of the palace in Godsgrace, of still rooms, warm stone, and fevers broken by patient hands. It calmed him.

He doubted it did the same for Benjen, who paced outside like a chained beast, his footfalls a steady rhythm on the deck. He would not come inside, but he would not go far. Davos didn’t blame him. They had all lost something in the last moon, too much to name, not enough to bury. When Edrick finally woke, dawn was breaking. The rocking of the ship had calmed, and when Davos pushed the porthole open, the hills of Fair Isle rose from the sea like a promise.

The Lady of Fair Isle met them at the dock. Lysa, auburn-haired and sharp-eyed, one of Dalton Greyjoy’s old salt wives, though her title now came from land, not sea. She had embraced Toron and cuffed his ear in the same breath, and taken them all in without question.

Benjen and Edrick would remain on the isle for a fortnight, then ride north. Davos would sail south again with Toron, past Oldtown and the Arbor, down to the burning sands of Dorne. Back to Godsgrace. Back home.

He found Edrick at the dock that morning, his cloak thrown over one shoulder, the sea wind tangling in his hair. Behind them, Toron barked orders to his men, his voice hoarse from salt and shouting, crates of dried fruit and grain being hauled aboard as if war were on the horizon.

Davos stepped before Edrick, and for a moment he simply looked at him.

There were bruises beneath his eyes still, and a stiffness in the way he stood. But he was upright. Breathing. Whole.

The boy who had taken the sea like a dare had come out changed on the other side.

Davos took his hand in both of his, firm and steady.

“We met under grim skies,” he said quietly. “But I count the meeting a blessing, for all that.”

He held the boy’s gaze a moment longer, then stepped back.

“You have friends in Godsgrace now,” Davos added. “My gates will open to you, should you ever ride that far. They will not close behind you.”

I shall thank the Mother, he thought. The Stranger, too. For passing him by.

A whistle rose from the ship, shrill and final.

“With luck, our next meeting shall be absent pirates, or at the very least, fewer of them.”

𓊝 ☠︎ HEAVEN KNOWS, WE BELONG WAY DOWN BELOW ☠︎ 𓊝

(A starter with @edrickstarkofwinterfell)

After moons spent dreaming of Godsgrace, Davos was finally free. The queen had given birth, the twins were healthy, the crown was grateful, and Davos was, at last, permitted to return home. He packed his bags like a man pardoned in the final breath before the noose snapped tight.

He made his final offering to the ghost that haunted his chambers, reminded himself to write to his new… friends? Was “friend” too eager a word? Too delicate for something so new?

Regardless, he bid farewell to each of them, leaving behind a vial of perfume apiece. He was forced, regrettably, to remove one of Cerelle’s cats from his luggage. On a brighter note, his last batch of cookies for the staff came out perfectly golden.

Goodbye, King’s Landing. Heaven awaits me.

His cheeks ached from smiling. However, like all great joys, this one was destined to be short-lived.

Duskendale had always reeked of fish and deceit. Davos had tolerated the first. The second, however, had just cost him his freedom.

The betrayal had been almost amusing in its inevitability. Cletus, the soldier he had allowed to accompany him, despite his every instinct whispering against it, had cracked like brittle glass under the promise of gold. His dagger had barely left Davos’ throat before the pirates slit Cletus’ from ear to ear, leaving his body slumped in the mud like trash.

If there had been time, Davos might have felt something akin to satisfaction. The fool had thought he could profit off selling his lord. Instead, he’d died choking on his own blood. A cleaner end than Davos would have granted him.

The pirates, superstitious and stupid as they were, had believed him enough to hesitate. “Dagos of Lys,” he’d said smoothly, in a tone just short of indignant. Not too much offense. Just enough to make them doubt. A noble’s son would fight harder, scream louder. A noble himself would threaten them with his station’s wrath. He had done neither.

Still, they had their suspicions.

“A Lyseni,” one had sneered. “Pretty little silk-wearer with hands like a butcher’s.”

“Belongs to some lord,” another had grunted. “A bedmate, most like.”

It had amused them, thinking him some pampered concubine taken on a joyride through the Kingsroad with stolen jewels. A better fate than the truth, he supposed. One knife at his throat was all it would take to throw open the gates of Godsgrace, and that, he could not allow.

Then they had dragged him below deck, through corridors thick with the scent of damp wood and something rotting. The hold was dark, save for the flickering lanterns swaying with the ship’s movement. He had counted his steps, made note of the turns, gauged the sway of the vessel. A large ship, wide in the belly. He hadn’t seen the sails, but from the way the floor pitched, he guessed it was built for long-haul voyages.

The pirates hadn’t even looked at the other prisoner when they threw him in.

“Here’s a friend for you, wolf cub,” one of them jeered, shoving Davos forward before slamming the iron-barred door shut.

He hit the floor hard, rolling onto his side. The ropes burned at his wrists. His head rang from the impact. Slowly, deliberately, he exhaled.

From the shadows, a figure stirred.

Davos did not move. He shifted just enough to press his back against the wall, the damp seeping into his clothes. The ship creaked and groaned around him. A wave rocked the hull, sending dust drifting from the rafters.

The wolf cub watched him with wide eyes, dark hair tangled, pale face dirty with charcoal.

Quite friendly.

The only sound was the slow drip of water in some unseen corner, the breathing of the prisoner across from him. A presence like a storm waiting to break.

Davos flexed his fingers, feeling the rope tighten.

Then, he smiled.

“And what’s your story, then?”

The road was safer, he had told himself. More reliable than the waves.

How wrong he had been.

[davos-allyrion]

𝓗𝓸𝓾𝓼𝓮 𝓐𝓵𝓵𝔂𝓻𝓲𝓸𝓷 𝓸𝓯 𝓖𝓸𝓭𝓼𝓰𝓻𝓪𝓬𝓮

A SONG OF GOLDEN FIRE AND BLACK BLOOD HQ is Tumblr's Premier Fire and Blood & House of the Dragon No Dance!AU RP, focused on exploring all the scheming and intrigue that makes ASoIaF RP so thrilling in a peace time setting. Old and dangerous tensions simmer just beneath the surface, wild ambitions ready to sacrifice peace in pursuit of their grand visions for Westeros, and the Kingdom still faces a volatile path on the journey towards a brighter future.

House Allyrion — Nav — Wanted — Plot — Discord

[davos-allyrion]

The desert had never bowed to ambition.
Dragons had scorched the skies above it. Great lords had drawn grand maps that painted Dorne in their colors. And still, they withered.
Not because of spears. Not because of swords.

Because of the sun.

Davos lounged back in his solar chair, robes loose against the oppressive heat, as the guards deposited the latest fool onto the table before him. The man’s skin was blistered red and shining with sweat, his lips cracked and peeling.

It wasn’t the first time they dragged a half-dead traveler into Godsgrace, thinking they could cross the sands without offering her their blood and breath.

But it was the first time the fool had claimed he came to see Davos himself.

One of his captains cleared his throat. “Said he was Harrold Penrose, my lord. Came bearing an apology for the prank he pulled on you last spring.”

Davos arched an eyebrow. “Harrold Penrose,” he repeated dryly, letting the words settle between them like a dead thing.

He stood up with a soft sigh, the gauze of his clothing whispering around his ankles. He crossed to the table and peered down at the unconscious man. His hair, matted with sweat, was sun-bleached at the edges. His jaw was softer than he remembered Harrold’s being.

And Davos had a very, very good memory.

It wasn’t Harrold.

He knew it the way he could always tell Nymeria from Larra, even when they dressed alike and finished each other’s sentences. Twins were only puzzles to those too lazy to study the pieces. Davos’ whole life had been a study in noticing.

He waved a hand dismissively. “Harrold Penrose has a twin. Alesander. Did you think me so easily deceived?” His voice was amused, but it sharpened at the edges.

The guards stiffened. Davos ignored them. His mind was already elsewhere.

“You underestimate me,” he murmured, more to the crumpled man on the table than to anyone else.

The aides moved efficiently at his silent nod. Together they stripped the lord of his heavy northern garb, the boiled leather and linen utterly unfit for the Dornish sun. Davos was clinical about it, peeling the layers away as if unwrapping a poorly thought-out gift, leaving the man clad only in thin, breathable cotton robes, the fabric whispering over skin that had gone angry and raw under the sun's lash.

Davos dipped his fingers into the jar of salve—cool, thick, smelling faintly of aloe and river mint. He worked methodically, spreading it over the scorched arms, the shoulders, the chest. The skin there was hotter than it should be, fevered from exposure.

He moved to the arms next, skimming over fevered skin with the barest pressure necessary. The human body was so fragile. He knew that better than most. A bit more heat, a bit less water, and it all unraveled.

Only when he reached the man's face did he falter.

The light fell across Alesander's features in a way that made memory tug at Davos' throat.
Not long ago, in the hallways of the Red Keep, when Davos had been embroiled in a snarling argument with the Greyjoy heir, he had glanced up and seen an angel.
Or thought he had.
A face watching him. A face like this one.
Soft where it should have been hard. Curious where it should have been scornful.

It hadn’t been a trick of exhaustion. It had been Alesander.

A slow, curling smile tugged at the corner of Davos' mouth, though no one could have called it kind.

“So we meet again,” Davos mused. Alesander’s chest rose and fell with shallow, ragged breaths. His lips, cracked and bleeding, moved faintly in sleep. No words. No protest.

Davos’ thumb hovered just above Alesander’s cheekbone before he caught himself, masking the hesitation with professional care. He dabbed the balm onto the cracked lips, the reddened forehead. He then brushed a few strands of hair off Alesander’s forehead, his fingers lingering just a little too long against the burning skin.

“Welcome to Godsgrace, little liar,” Davos whispered, thumb trailing almost tenderly across the curve of Alesander’s reddened temple. “Let’s hope your excuses are better suited than your attire.”

First impressions…

A part of @asongofgoldenfireandblackblood

Starter with @davos-allyrion

As soon as Harry told Alesander what had happened, Ales knew what he would do.

He’d save Harry from his own misery, he’d fix this problem, he’d make himself useful and get to leave Kings Landing in the process.

“Oh, I’ve met Lord Davos before, I’ll speak to him!” It was a lie. Sure, they had seen each other in passing, Alesander had watched as Davos and Toron Greyjoy had fought…

Ales couldn’t help but eavesdrop that day, thinking about how he would tell his sister Daisy all of the details later, and how he was sure Davos had looked up and caught him for a moment. But he had said nothing.

But he wanted to make Harry feel better, to make Harry not have to go through this stress his stupid prank had caused him. “It will be alright. I’ll go to Godsgrace, I’ve always wanted to visit Dorne, anyway…”

Ales ignored Harry’s pleading for him not to go, because he had already made up his mind. It would be a favor for Harry, surely, but also an excuse to leave Kings Landing and explore elsewhere. To make himself useful.

He would leave in a few days.

“…So, that’s what’s been going on with the whole brother situation.” Alesander rolled his eyes, emphasizing the word brother to show his fake annoyance at Harrold.

“I’m to leave for Godsgrace in a few days, you won’t miss me at all, correct? You can always come with me, though I know I am boring company, we could surely have fun...”

Alesander sat upright on his latest lover’s chair in his room, covering himself with his large coat, and hugging himself. Lyonel was his name, and the two had been seeing each other for months now. A man from the City Watch, one Ales had known for a while prior to their getting together. They didn’t kiss very much, or comfort each other ever, but Lyonel had a good listening ear. Or, at least, Alesander told himself that. Possibly to cope with the fact that he was most likely ignoring him rather than listening quietly. But, any company was better than none, and Lyonel was the best Alesander believed he deserved.

Alesander watched Lyonel from the chair as the other man put his City Watch armor on, side eyeing Alesander the whole time. There was no fondness in the gaze. “And you’ll be away for how long?” The other man’s voice was distant and quiet. It surprised Alesander to hear Lyonel actually respond, and he’d take anything he could get.

So responded immediately. “Oh! I’m not sure, it depends on how long the Lord Davos Allyrion wants me, hah. I think Dorne could be fun, I’ve never been and I’d love to be away from this city.” He his coat tighter to himself, always feeling the need to cover himself around Lyonel, but never certain why.

Lyonel gave him one last gaze as he put on his last article of armor. He then sat on a chair next to Alesander, a tension in the room thickening in the air. His long black hair framed his face beautifully, and his grey eyes were piercing. Alesander, being ever the flirtatious man, went to push a piece of hair out of his lover’s face. But Lyonel caught his hand before he could, holding it firmly.

“You’re lucky you’re so beautiful.” Lyonel spoke, his voice coming out as annoyed rather than fond, but his words were somehow sweet. He even rolled his eyes, the same way Alesander did previously.

Oh, Alesander thought. He never says things like this. He must want to actually come with me. Alesander felt uncomfortable when others complimented him, and he felt even more uncomfortable at the thought of someone actually wanting to do something with him. He was unused to it, but it also excited him.

He smiled brightly. “Why, thank you, but-“

“You’re lucky you’re so beautiful, because otherwise people would notice your lack of wit. But I can see through that.”

Alesanders heart dropped to his stomach. Lyonel had said that with no emotion, and stared blankly at him. It was so shocking, Alesander had to laugh.

This is what I deserve for thinking someone would want to come with me. Or want me.

Lyonel seemed to have read Alesander’s mind and angrily began to speak. “Do you really think I’d want to come with you? All you ever do is complain about yourself, write in that stupid journal, and bat your eyes at me. It’s boring, and I am officially bored. Our time apart will be a miracle.” He let go of Alesander’s hand, more so throwing it down.

Alesander laughed again and pretended the words didn’t sting. He pretended his heart didn’t hurt as he spat back at Lyonel. “Why should you think I care? I was not serious about you coming anyway.” He lied as easy as he faked amusement.

“You should care and fix yourself. You have many talents, sure, yet you do nothing with them. You tire everyone with your lackwit jokes and endless running around writing nonsense onto your pages. I hope in Dorne you can find something better to do.” He quickly sat up, moving fast towards the door.

It was everything Alesander had ever thought about himself, and to hear it out loud was shocking. It became all too real that he was all of the worst things he’d ever said about himself, and even though he deemed it all to be true, it still pained him to hear it.

Ignoring the hurt he felt, he made one last jest. One last chance to make Lyonel laugh, or smile, or curse him, or just do anything. “You also meant to say you loved me, correct?” The words came out more bitter than light-hearted. It was a horrible taunt and one that stung to say.

Lyonel did not laugh. He had the door half opened, and before he left he turned to Alesander one last time. “You should be gone before I come back.”

And he would be. Because he would then leave for Godsgrace early, without a word to anyone he knew. Just a few letters left behind, his heart broken, and a goal to fix Harry’s problems at the moment and make his own self useful.

[davos-allyrion]

Edrick was shivering. Not violently, but in that quiet way the body does when it’s run out of demands and just wants to survive. His voice had cracked at the edges like ice underfoot, and Davos had said nothing because he didn’t know what to say. Still didn’t.

He reached out, awkwardly, and rested a hand between Edrick’s shoulder blades. His fingers curled against damp fabric, then flattened slowly. Up, down. Up, down.

The boy didn’t speak again. Just clutched the knife like it might keep him afloat, and stared into some middle distance Davos couldn’t see.

“You’ll make it out,” Davos said quietly. “You will.” His hand stuttered in its motion, but did not stop. “We will kill them. I believe you.”

He didn’t know if he believed it. Not really. The sea didn’t care about northern blood or southern names. But Edrick needed someone to believe, and Davos had learned long ago that sometimes kindness was a performance you stepped into like armor.

“I’ve stitched worse than this. Tended worse. I’ll keep you alive. I swear it.”

Davos was not violent as a child.

He loved too easily, and too quietly. He brushed his sisters’ hair by candlelight and let them smear powdered rose on his cheeks with giggles that filled the stone hallways. He crushed flowers into oils, scribbled herbal recipes in the corners of old books, and whispered to the gods of the river and sky that maybe there could be softness in a world like this.

He had once wanted to be a maester. The library of Godsgrace was too small, its shelves too dusty, its books too rare. He longed for the Citadel, for tomes stacked to the ceiling, for scrolls that smelled of age and promise. He imagined himself with rings of copper and silver, with knowledge humming at his fingertips like a second heartbeat.

But that dream died the day his father laughed at it. “Maesters are for boys with no claim and no spine,” Ferris had said, waving a dismissive hand. “You are not some cloistered rat. You are an Allyrion.”

Ferris never said you are my son. Only you are an Allyrion.

And so Davos folded his softness into silence. He tucked it behind courtly smiles and sharp wit, the kind that got him slapped when it bit too deep. The kind his brother Mors mocked with every breath.

“Are those roses on your sleeves, brother?” Mors once sneered, holding up the cuff of Davos’ linen with mock delicacy. “Careful. The other boys might think you want a wedding dress.”

The other boys laughed.

The other boys always laughed.

But none of them stung quite like Ser Rendal’s son—Orton, or Orlen, Davos no longer remembered. The name didn’t matter. What mattered was the day he asked the master-at-arms if he could start training with a blade.

He had watched the knights spar. He had felt something in his chest when they moved, not hunger, not envy, something holier, a desire to protect, to be useful in a way no book or perfume could promise. He asked for a wooden sword. He asked to stand beside his kin in battle one day.

And Orton had laughed.

“A sword’s no place for you,” the boy had said, voice curling like rot around sweetness. “You should be on your knees before some lord. The Allyrions are lucky you’re the spare. Gods, what kind of heirs would we have with a bitch for a father?”

Davos didn’t remember picking up the dagger.

It had been on the table. Just a letter-opener, really, but it shone like judgment, like finality, and before anyone could stop him, he was behind the boy, and there was blood. So much blood. And screaming.

The ear hit the stone like a piece of fruit.

He was fourteen.

They said the boy lived. That he would grow into a lord someday, one ear folded and twisted like the cruelty he sowed.

Davos was not executed. He was the spare. But his dreams of knighthood died that day, buried under shame and silk and the scent of iron.

His father slapped him across the face in front of the entire hall.

And for the first time in Davos’ life, Mors clapped him on the shoulder and said, “Now that’s more like it.”

That was the first time Davos realized no one would ever love him for who he had been. Only for what he could destroy.

The warmth of Edrick’s shoulder pulled him back.

The boy was trying so hard not to cry. Davos didn’t say anything. Didn’t name the lie or touch the tears. He only rubbed his back, steady and slow, until some of the trembling eased.

“We’ll survive,” he whispered again, this time not to Edrick, but to himself.

Because Davos had survived, hadn’t he?

He had just never stopped bleeding for it.

𓊝 ☠︎ HEAVEN KNOWS, WE BELONG WAY DOWN BELOW ☠︎ 𓊝

(A starter with @edrickstarkofwinterfell)

After moons spent dreaming of Godsgrace, Davos was finally free. The queen had given birth, the twins were healthy, the crown was grateful, and Davos was, at last, permitted to return home. He packed his bags like a man pardoned in the final breath before the noose snapped tight.

He made his final offering to the ghost that haunted his chambers, reminded himself to write to his new… friends? Was “friend” too eager a word? Too delicate for something so new?

Regardless, he bid farewell to each of them, leaving behind a vial of perfume apiece. He was forced, regrettably, to remove one of Cerelle’s cats from his luggage. On a brighter note, his last batch of cookies for the staff came out perfectly golden.

Goodbye, King’s Landing. Heaven awaits me.

His cheeks ached from smiling. However, like all great joys, this one was destined to be short-lived.

Duskendale had always reeked of fish and deceit. Davos had tolerated the first. The second, however, had just cost him his freedom.

The betrayal had been almost amusing in its inevitability. Cletus, the soldier he had allowed to accompany him, despite his every instinct whispering against it, had cracked like brittle glass under the promise of gold. His dagger had barely left Davos’ throat before the pirates slit Cletus’ from ear to ear, leaving his body slumped in the mud like trash.

If there had been time, Davos might have felt something akin to satisfaction. The fool had thought he could profit off selling his lord. Instead, he’d died choking on his own blood. A cleaner end than Davos would have granted him.

The pirates, superstitious and stupid as they were, had believed him enough to hesitate. “Dagos of Lys,” he’d said smoothly, in a tone just short of indignant. Not too much offense. Just enough to make them doubt. A noble’s son would fight harder, scream louder. A noble himself would threaten them with his station’s wrath. He had done neither.

Still, they had their suspicions.

“A Lyseni,” one had sneered. “Pretty little silk-wearer with hands like a butcher’s.”

“Belongs to some lord,” another had grunted. “A bedmate, most like.”

It had amused them, thinking him some pampered concubine taken on a joyride through the Kingsroad with stolen jewels. A better fate than the truth, he supposed. One knife at his throat was all it would take to throw open the gates of Godsgrace, and that, he could not allow.

Then they had dragged him below deck, through corridors thick with the scent of damp wood and something rotting. The hold was dark, save for the flickering lanterns swaying with the ship’s movement. He had counted his steps, made note of the turns, gauged the sway of the vessel. A large ship, wide in the belly. He hadn’t seen the sails, but from the way the floor pitched, he guessed it was built for long-haul voyages.

The pirates hadn’t even looked at the other prisoner when they threw him in.

“Here’s a friend for you, wolf cub,” one of them jeered, shoving Davos forward before slamming the iron-barred door shut.

He hit the floor hard, rolling onto his side. The ropes burned at his wrists. His head rang from the impact. Slowly, deliberately, he exhaled.

From the shadows, a figure stirred.

Davos did not move. He shifted just enough to press his back against the wall, the damp seeping into his clothes. The ship creaked and groaned around him. A wave rocked the hull, sending dust drifting from the rafters.

The wolf cub watched him with wide eyes, dark hair tangled, pale face dirty with charcoal.

Quite friendly.

The only sound was the slow drip of water in some unseen corner, the breathing of the prisoner across from him. A presence like a storm waiting to break.

Davos flexed his fingers, feeling the rope tighten.

Then, he smiled.

“And what’s your story, then?”

The road was safer, he had told himself. More reliable than the waves.

How wrong he had been.

[davos-allyrion]

The brothel smelled of perfume, sweat, and stale wine, thick enough to coat Davos’ tongue like rancid oil. The music in the main hall was loud, punctuated by raucous laughter and the occasional drunken shout, but it didn’t quite reach the private rooms. Here, the world was smaller, quieter, and reeked of something he couldn’t yet name but already loathed.

The woman before him was older than he���d expected, with kohl-lined eyes that studied him with quiet patience. She was waiting for him to speak, to move, to do something. But Davos remained still, his fists clenched at his sides. He could still hear the laughter outside the door, the low murmur of Mors’ voice as he flirted with another woman, completely at ease. As she reached out to touch him, Davos flinched.

“First time?” she asked, voice soft, practiced.

He nodded stiffly. He was barely fourteen. He wanted to leave. He wanted to go home. He wanted to braid Nymeria’s hair, listen to Larra prattle on about the birds she had seen that day, and mix paints with Kierra until their fingers were stained with color.

Instead, he was here.

The woman sighed and sat beside him on the edge of the bed. “You don’t have to be scared.”

But Davos wasn’t scared. He was angry. Not at her, not even at Mors—though that anger would come later—but at the whole damnable place, at the expectation that he should be here, that this was what made a man.

He turned to her fully, noticing then the faint discoloration beneath her makeup. A bruise, old enough to have darkened, but not enough to be hidden completely. When she smiled again, he caught the wince, the way her tongue flicked against her inner lip, as if soothing a wound.

“Who did that?” His voice was quieter than he expected, but not less sharp.

She blinked, caught off guard, before laughing lightly. “Clumsy thing, I am. Fell.”

She was lying. He knew what a real lie sounded like. He had told enough of them himself.

Wordlessly, he stood, moving toward the small washbasin in the corner of the room. He found a clean cloth, dipped it in cool water, and returned to her. She watched him with wary amusement as he lifted it to her cheek, dabbing gently.

“You don’t have to—”

“I know,” he cut in, and she fell silent.

When he was done, he set the cloth aside and reached for his belt. For a moment, her expression closed off, as if bracing herself, but then he pulled free the small satchel of herbs he carried. He found what he needed—goldenroot, willow bark—and began crushing them in his palm, adding a few drops of water from the basin.

She watched him work, a strange sort of curiosity replacing her caution. “You know healing?”

“A little.”

“You’ve done this before,” she murmured.

Davos shrugged. “Nymeria, my sister, falls out of trees. A lot.”

A ghost of a smile flickered across her lips. “Lucky girl, to have a brother who tends to her scrapes.”

Davos didn’t answer. His stomach churned at the thought of Mors outside, laughing with the other men, drinking in the perfume-drenched air as though this was some grand adventure. A rite of passage.

The woman winced when the salve touched the corner of her mouth, where a split ran along the inside of her lip. Davos hesitated. “Do you want to rinse first?”

She stared at him, then let out a quiet chuckle. “You’re a strange one, little lord.”

He wasn’t sure how to respond to that, so he said nothing, only handed her the water. When she finished, she sat back and regarded him for a long moment.

“You don’t belong here,” she finally said.

“I know.”

“Then why did he bring you?”

Davos swallowed. “Because I’m supposed to be a man.”

The woman’s expression darkened. She reached out, brushing an ink-stained thumb over his knuckles, her touch light. “You already are.”

Davos didn’t wait for Mors. He left as soon as the heavy doors of the brothel closed behind him, stepping into the cool night air. The scent of jasmine still clung to him, but beneath it, he could smell the familiar desert wind, the dry heat of home.

When Mors returned hours later, drunk and reeking of conquest, Davos was awake. He didn’t say a word as his brother collapsed onto his bed, slurring something incoherent. He didn’t say anything the next morning, either.

But something had shifted between them. The distance stretched, thin and taut like a thread about to snap. And when it finally did—when Mors left without looking back—Davos did not chase after him.

He simply stepped forward, sixteen years old and already tired, to take his brother’s place.

On the day Davos ascended into lordship, he booked full days in each brothel. All of the prostitutes put on their best acts, presuming the creation of a harem. Davos did not come with charming smiles and jewelry. He came with parchment, ink, and a quiet, piercing gaze. One by one, he sat with them, asked them their names, their stories. Why had they chosen this life? Had they ever been given another option?

Most had not.

He did not ask them to weep for their sorrows, nor did he offer empty apologies. Instead, he gave them choices. Those who wished to leave the trade were offered patronage: gold, new homes, and an education. Those who wished to remain were given coin and a warning to leave the city, to never set foot in Godsgrace again. He would not abide their old masters here.

Some resisted. The brothel owners raged, calling him mad, a tyrant who thought he could unmake the world with a single decree. They believed he would fold beneath the weight of their outrage, but Davos was not a boy anymore, nor was he a man who tolerated opposition for long. The first brothel owner who defied him was found three days later, his tongue removed and his body left in the square as a lesson. The others fell silent after that.

And so, the brothels were emptied. Some of the women and men who had once worked behind those perfumed walls now worked as teachers in the schools Davos built. Others took up trades, became merchants, fishers, healers. A former prostitute had begged to be taken in by the septas, and Davos had ensured it was done, no matter how many maesters balked at the idea.

The brothels of Godsgrace burned at dawn.

He did not stay to watch the flames devour the places he had once feared, but the people of Godsgrace did. They murmured about their lord, about what he was doing to their city.

It was not only the brothels. The coin that once lined the pockets of pimps and flesh merchants was now funding the construction of schools. Where there had once been darkened alleys filled with whispered transactions, there were now halls filled with children and elders, both tracing their letters in the sand, learning sums and histories they had never been given the luxury to know.

Some called him mad. Others called him just.

Davos called it necessary.

“Lord Farman,” Davos murmured. “Well said.”

Davos’s grin flickered wider at Rodrik’s final remark—“well dressed”—and if the other man meant it as a joke, Davos received it like a crown. It made a pleasant change from the sneering glances of his last visitors. The older brother, Toron, had snarled and scoffed through half the conversation, and Lord Dalton himself had looked as though Davos had personally spat in his wine when he stepped into the room with a lace collar and velvet cuffs. That they had walked away without their precious rights, a few accounts lighter, and not a single agreement in hand still gave Davos a warm glow of satisfaction.

Rodrik, on the other hand, was different. Sharp without being cruel. Careful without being timid. A son of Dalton in name only, and every inch his mother’s heir. Lady Lysa had clearly not wasted her education on the boy.

Godsgrace had made Davos a patient man, but not a soft one. It had taken years to cleanse the stench of his father’s reign—the gambling dens, the girls bought before they bled, the half-dead scholars paraded through court like fools for sport. Before Davos, Godsgrace had been a pit of indulgence. A place where men whispered of pleasures “offered by the hands of the gods,” and few dared ask whose hands, or what they cost.

But Davos had offered something better: gods who healed, not touched. Gods who taught. He had shuttered every brothel. Burned every contract that sold a girl’s future for a night’s coin. He'd poured silver into the colleges, reopened the alchemical halls, and turned the old pleasure houses into clinics, conservatories, and schools. The House Allyrion seal no longer opened doors only in silk-soaked markets, it opened minds, restored failing harvests, and closed wounds that should have festered.

Now they were called gods’ hands for another reason: they could cure what others couldn’t even name. They could grow barley in cracked sand. They could draw maps from infection and coax rot into remission. That was the kind of power Davos believed in, the quiet kind, the building kind. Not the rot masked with perfume his father once ruled with.

And so, when Rodrik Farman stepped into his chambers with his crisp manners and his quick wit and spoke not of weapons or reaving, but of alum and silver, Davos had already begun to weigh him differently.

At the mention of the trade routes, he let himself finally, truly settle. Not perching. Not leaning. Sitting. One leg folded beneath the other as he placed his dagger on the windowsill beside them, just far enough that reaching for it would take effort. That was as close to a peace offering as he gave. He turned his rings with practiced ease as he appraised Rodrik through narrowed eyes, thoughtful now rather than guarded.

“Well, Lord Farman,” he said at last, the name a deliberate gift, “you make a charming case for your House. Certainly more than your father or brother ever managed with their... distinctive manners.”

Charm without purpose was perfume on rot. But Rodrik smelled like change, not just ambition, but clarity, too. That was rare. The young ones often came in bursting with visions, speaking of winds of progress and waves of reform. But they didn't know the cost. They didn't know what it meant to pull a city up from the muck by its ankles and find their hands shaking from blood and filth.

The silver-and-alum suggestion had been clever—too clever to ignore—and Davos let himself lean in, a fingertip tapping once against the polished wood of the table.

"But," he said, tone now curious as he assessed the man in front of him, "before I go measuring salt against spice and ledger against gold, I’d like to hear more from the source. Gossip reaches me faster than ravens these days, but even my ears have limits."

He rested an elbow on the chair's arm, gesturing lazily toward the candle still flickering between them.

"Tell me about Fair Isle. The Isle as it is now, not as it appears in your father's grumbling or your mother’s courtly compliments. You’re eager, Lord Farman. I like that. But eagerness doesn't always come without a leash. So what makes you so sure the leash won’t snap when your father yanks?"

Davos had spent too many years shaking the ghosts of his own kin off his back to trust another man’s son outright. Legacy could cling to a throat tighter than debt. And Dalton Greyjoy had left bruises across half the coast, bruises that looked a lot like broken oaths and burned ports. If Rodrik had inherited more than just the name, this conversation would amount to sand through fingers.

“I won’t insult either of us by pretending I don’t have eyes and ears in your waters. But it’s one thing to watch the tides. Quite another to hear how the storm feels from the one balancing on the rocks.”

His voice grew quieter, more deliberate, as his questions began to slip through like a needle through silk. Davos remembered the maps he kept in his study, the ones scrawled with trade lines and ocean currents and little colored pins; red for risk, gold for potential. The Iron Islands were red. Always red. Unstable, unpredictable, old-world in the worst ways. But Rodrik Farman did not feel like a red pin. Not yet.

“How tight is your grip on Fair Isle now, truly? Is the Lady Lysa’s name enough, or do you mean to make yours stronger still? The Iron Islands are fractious at best—disunified, bitter, and proud. You’re clever enough to know diplomacy with you means navigating more than one House. What’s your read, Lord Farman? Who in your region is buying into Rhaenyra’s favor, and who still dreams of Old Way glories?”

A more amused tilt to his head. His rings caught the candlelight as they turned.

“Your family name’s still met with wrinkled noses in Lannisport. You think this deal with me helps you in the Westerlands, or does it risk the same scorn you already carry from both east and west?”

A man who only saw the present could never make peace with the future. Davos knew this too well. His father had thought gold enough. His brother had thought legacy could be inherited, not earned. Both were dead. And yet the Allyrion name had survived, because Davos had the sense to plant roots where others gambled gold.

“You see, Godsgrace was once known for whorehouses,” he said, voice almost wry. “Wine, women, men, indulgence. My father’s pride, my brother’s ruin. The sort of reputation that sticks to your skin no matter how often you wash.”

He ran a thumb along the rim of his ring, voice steady as the henna stain reflected on glass.

“I closed the brothels. Turned them into schools. Hired alchemists and healers from Volantis to Lys. Poured every gold coin I could scrape together into greenhouses and irrigation, into formulas that save crops when the rains don’t come, into tinctures that pull fever from the bone before it kills. We no longer offer the hands of the gods. We are their touch. People crawl to my gates now not to sin, but to survive.”

A breath.

“That’s the kind of change I deal in, Lord Farman. And I don’t need another proud name looking for favor. I need a partner. Someone who wants to make something different, not just something bigger.”

He gestured again, this time toward the parchment-covered table behind him, where notes and shipping ledgers lay scattered in careful disarray across his desk. He had been measuring the agreements already, weighting hearts against feathers and waiting for them to crash.

“The Greyjoys brought us whale oil, seal fat, ambergris. Pigments from the depths and poisons from darker corners still. Shark teeth, coral, shell dust, salt black as night. Their smuggling ships brought us books the Citadel burned and names whispered by healers who keep no sigils.”

A dry smile.

“We turned their filth into fortune. We made medicines from their beasts. We bottled their oceans into perfumes that make kings pay triple. And even this wasn’t half of what was promised. So now, in return, I offer you what I once gave them. Healing. Prestige. Protection. Soil alchemy to grow what your salt-choked fields cannot. Tonics for your long voyages. Scents to coat your pillows in peace or your knives in death. We’ll teach your sailors how not to vomit their stomachs out in a storm and make your nobility smell like coin instead of fish guts.”

He let the silence stretch.

“Not just goods. Not just power. Legacy. The Greyjoys burned theirs on salt and iron. I’m giving you the chance to build yours from it. So tell me what you see, not what you sell. Because I don’t need a merchant, Lord Farman. I need someone who knows the shape of the board we’re both playing on.”

And if Rodrik Farman didn’t see the game for what it was? Then he’d be no different from the rest of his kin—bright-eyed, sea-washed, and already sinking.

⚔︎ THE PATRON SAINT OF YOUR DEMISE ⚔︎

(Starter with @the-fair-heir-of-fair-isle)

The council chamber in the Red Keep stank of ink, parchment, and the sour tang of sweat from men who spent too long in their chairs. Davos had never liked these rooms, nor their air of stagnation, the way the stone walls trapped heat, how the men inside mistook themselves for kings.

He had left Dorne for the first time in five years, yet the moment he set foot in King’s Landing, he was already counting the days until he could leave.

A dull voice droned on about grain shipments. Davos let it wash over him as he took his seat, his jewelry catching the candlelight. He wore deep violet today, with a gold chain draped over his chest and sleeves that hung long and loose past his wrists. Too feminine, too foreign, too much, by their standards.

Across from him, lord Dalton Greyjoy lounged in his chair, the flicker of a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. He had been laughing the moment Davos walked in, like the mere sight of him was a joke only he understood.

“I’ll admit, lad, I was expecting your brother.” Dalton’s voice was thick with amusement. “He’s a proper Dornishman, isn’t he? The kind who knows his wine and his women.” He gestured lazily to the council. “Tell me, did Mors get lost on the way, or did he finally drink himself to death?”

A ripple of laughter passed through the chamber, low and mean. Davos barely blinked.

“Mors is gone,” he said simply. “But it’s sweet of you to miss him.”

Dalton’s smirk widened. “Sweet. There’s a word I never thought I’d hear from an Allyrion. And look at you.” His gaze dragged over Davos’s attire, the flowing fabric, the rings on his fingers. A hunter’s precision. “You don’t look like much of an Allyrion at all.”

“And you don’t look like much of a Greyjoy.” Davos gestured vaguely at Dalton’s belt. “No drowned man hanging from your hip, no reek of salt and fish. Have the Ironborn gone soft, or just you?”

The smirk flickered.

Lord Toron, Dalton’s son, shifted in his seat, jaw tight. “You speak bold words for a boy playing lord.”

Davos tilted his head. “And you speak as if you have a say in this.”

The laughter this time was sharper, cutting.

Toron scowled, but Dalton held up a hand, eyes narrowing. “Careful now, lad. You may be lord of your little patch of sand, but we’ve had dealings with your house for generations. Since your grandfather’s time. Your father’s time.”

Davos exhaled softly, as if in thought. They clearly don’t know who they are messing with. Then he leaned forward, elbows resting lightly on the polished wood, a snake ready to strike.

“Yes,” he mused. “Your father was close to my grandfather, and you to my father after that. And yet, here we are. Strangers across a table.”

A hush passed through the chamber. Lord Swann cleared his throat and hurriedly turned back to the trade agreements. Dalton only laughed.

It took only one more meeting for Davos to make a decision.

The chamber was thick with heat, made worse by the press of bodies. Bracelets chimed softly on his wrists as Davos adjusted his sleeves, revealing henna-stained fingertips.

Across from him, Dalton leaned back in his chair. He was broader than Davos’ father, Ferris, had been, his smile crueler, but the glint in his eyes was the same—a constant search for somewhere soft he could stab in.

Davos was young. Too young, by most standards, to command a seat at this table. He was also not the heir Dalton had been expecting.

Luckily, he wouldn’t need to worry about it anymore.

“That should settle it, then,” Dalton pondered, pointing at the scrolls. “With the harvest so thin this year, we’ll need increased shipments from Dorne to ensure our reserves last the winter. The same agreements as before should suffice—”

“No.”

The room stilled.

Dalton blinked, then laughed, leaning forward as he braced his arms against the table. “No?”

Davos lifted his goblet to his lips, taking a slow sip of water before setting it down. His nails, painted dark, tapped against the silver rim.

“No,” he repeated. “The terms are void.”

Dalton’s amusement faltered, replaced by something that seemed awfully like a growl. “Boy, do you know who you’re speaking to?”

“Yes.” Davos tilted his head. “Do you?”

Mors, he thought. They had wanted Mors. A Dornishman like the ones in their stories—easy to like and easier to predict. Just reckless enough to keep their interest, just foolish enough to let them lead.

Dalton chuckled, ignoring him. “I don’t think you understand how these arrangements work. Your grandfather had an accord with my father. Your father had an accord with me. These relationships, they aren’t just numbers on a ledger. They’re built over time, over shared experiences, mutual trust—”

“Trust?” Davos echoed. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

“You weren’t there. You wouldn’t understand. Your father and I, we—”

“Were thieves, then?” Davos interjected lightly. “Brutes? Pirates? Tell me, what exactly was the foundation of this ‘mutual trust’? Was it built on respect, or the fact that Ferris Allyrion never cared what was taken so long as there was still coin left for his wine?”

The chamber went silent. Some of the lords shifted, exchanging glances.

“Careful, boy…”

“Careful of what, exactly?” Davos leaned forward, resting his chin lightly on his hand. “Do you imagine I’ll offend my father’s memory? A man who found me tiresome at best and inconvenient at worst? Or are you worried I’ll offend you?”

Dalton’s jaw flexed. “The Iron Islands and Godsgrace have had an agreement for generations. You wouldn’t dare—”

“And yet,” Davos interrupted, “I have dared.” He pulled a rolled parchment from his belt and set it on the table. “As of today, the Allyrions will no longer be supplying the Iron Islands with grain, medicines, textiles, or any other resource outlined in our prior agreements. The debts your father owed to mine have long since been settled, and I see no reason to continue an arrangement that only benefits one side.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, I am. You see, Lord Dalton, I’m not my brother. You wanted Mors because he was easy to please, easier to distract. You thought me young, inexperienced, and foolish.” Davos tilted his head, a mockery of curiosity. “Tell me, is it still foolishness when it costs you an ally?”

Dalton sat forward now, his shoulders tense.

“The Greyjoys have fought for these alliances for years,” he said. “You think you can just sever them?”

“Not sever,” Davos corrected. “Reconsider. The terms were simple: medicine, wine, salt, grain, all flowing freely to the Iron Islands, in exchange for your support against raiders in the Stepstones.” He spread his hands. “And yet, last I checked, your men were too busy fighting their own battles to lift a single sword for us. A pity.”

Dalton’s mouth twisted. “And what would you do, then? Starve us?”

“Oh, hardly,” Davos said. “I imagine you’ll find ways to survive. You always do. Your adaptability is quite impressive, in fact.”

Dalton’s expression darkened. “You’d make an enemy of me over this?”

“You misunderstand me. I am simply correcting an oversight.” Davos rested his chin on his hand, smile polite. “If the Greyjoys wish to renegotiate, they are welcome to make an offer. A real one, this time. One that reflects the weight of what you stand to lose.”

Dalton was staring at him now, as if pondering the punishment for slicing his throat open. "You think this makes you powerful?"

"No," Davos said simply. "But it does make me right."

At last, Dalton exhaled through his nose, standing from his seat. “You’re a lot like your grandfather, you know.”

“No, Lord Dalton. I’m much, much worse.”

Davos stepped into the corridor with measured steps, the weight of the council chamber sloughing off his shoulders like a too-heavy cloak. The air outside was only marginally fresher, thick with the mingling scents of hot stone and distant sea brine, but at least it was free of men with immense egos.

Or so he thought.

Bootsteps echoed behind him, quick and deliberate.

"Allyrion!" Toron’s voice was sharp, his footfalls heavy against the stone.

Davos exhaled, but did not stop.

"That was bold," Toron sneered. "To sit there and mock my father. To turn your back on years of agreements, years of—"

"Exploitation?" Davos interrupted, still walking. "How terrible, to think I might disappoint a Greyjoy."

Toron strode up beside him, the anger rolling off him in waves. "You act like you have the power here. But my father—"

"Your father," Davos murmured, "is not the first man to mistake arrogance for authority. And I doubt he’ll be the last."

Toron's hands clenched at his sides. "You think yourself better than us?" His gaze raked over Davos's attire—the flowing silks, the kohl at his eyes, the long sleeves edged with gold. “Flaunting your wealth while dressed like a Lyseni whore.”

Davos stopped. Slowly. Deliberately.

He turned, his eyes dark with amusement. A movement in his periphery caught his attention. A tall blond man, watching. The angels were always watching.

"How charming… an heir who argues like a child," he mused, attention drifting back to the scowl of the Greyjoy heir. "No wonder you know what a whore looks like; I doubt you've ever felt affection that wasn’t paid for."

Toron's face flushed a deep, ugly red. His hand twitched toward his belt, but Davos only smiled. Davos smiled. The last overbred brat to draw steel on him had ended up cut hip to jugular.

A fact Lord Dalton’s son clearly didn’t know.

"Go on," he said softly. "Draw steel in the Red Keep, outside a council chamber, against a lord whose house is favored in court? See if your father thinks you’re worth the trouble."

Toron's fingers curled into a fist.

For a moment, Davos almost wished he would. Give me an excuse to gut you like a fish.

Instead, Toron exhaled, his jaw tight, and turned on his heel.

Smart boy.

Davos had never been to Fair Isle. He had read about it, certainly—its bright cliffs, its harbors, its golden fields—but all he knew of the Farmans came from spies and letters. That, and the Ironborn who had laid claim to them.

He had expected the summons to be met with resistance. Rodrik Farman was, after all, his father’s son, a Greyjoy bastard whether he called himself one or not. But when the boy arrived, he bowed his head with careful politeness and took his seat at the table without a word.

Davos regarded him for a moment, studying the sharp lines of his face, the familiar coolness in his gaze. He was too well-mannered for an Ironborn, too refined for a Farman.

Too proper to be anything but his mother’s son.

He gestured lightly to the fresh table set in front of them with wine, tea, and a tray of delicate pastries, their sugared edges catching the candlelight. A host’s touch, as Nymeria would say.

"A polite guest deserves a proper welcome," Davos mused, pouring for them both. "I was hoping to see you in the council meeting. Though I imagine you’ve heard by now...” he took a slow sip, watching Rodrik from over the rim. “Your father certainly has.”

Rodrik’s face betrayed nothing. Good.

Davos smiled, pleased. He set the tea down and leaned against the desk, half-perched on the edge. “I won’t insult you by pretending this is a social call.”

Rodrik stood quiet, composed, his hands clasped neatly behind his back. Good soldier.

"You must be wondering why I sent for you. Why a lord of Dorne would find common cause with a son of Fair Isle. I’ll be plain with you, Rodrik. I want your mother’s loyalty." Davos picked up a biscuit, idly breaking it between his fingers. Rodrik’s gaze followed every crumb, like they were bones being snapped.

"Fair Isle has always had ties to the Iron Islands, but those ties are made of iron and salt, not blood. Lysa Farman is not Greyjoy born. And though she may be your father’s salt wife, she is still the Lady of Fair Isle before anything else. My House and hers could benefit from a more… formal arrangement.”

He let the candlelight flicker across his rings as he ran his fingers over the flame. A habit. Burning the tips. Feeling the ghost of heat.

A habit of burning old bridges.

A good gardener knew which ivy to cut.

“The Greyjoys have long relied on the Allyrions for cosmetics, medicine, tonics, poison... the sorts of things you would think a nation of salt-men would have no need for, and yet…” Davos lifted a brow, biting into the biscuit. “They take. And take. And take.”

The words hung in the air, weighty despite his casual tone.

“I have no interest in being taken from.” He dusted the crumbs from his hands and set the biscuit aside. “But I do have an interest in ensuring that whatever comes next benefits all parties involved.”

Rodrik did not shift, did not so much as blink.

Davos smiled again. He rather liked this one.

“Your family has always been one of the Greyjoys’ closest allies. Your mother, their closest tie to the west. That puts you in an interesting position, doesn’t it?” He swirled the wine, watching the deep red stain the inside of the decanter. “A Farman and a Greyjoy both.”

A pause.

“I wonder which name serves you better.”

Still Rodrik held his stillness, like someone who had learned that bears sometimes walk away if you play dead.

Davos leaned forward, elbows on the polished wood. His bracelets caught the candlelight like serpent scales.

“Here is my offer: everything the Greyjoys once took from me, I now offer to the Farmans. Grain, medicine, fine cloth, bathhouses; you will have my ships, my trade routes, my goods, in full.” His voice remained steady, unhurried. “And in return, I ask only for the same deals once asked of your father.”

Davos let the offer hang. Then leaned forward, elbows on polished wood, bracelets gleaming in the candlelight.

"It is a bold proposal, I’m aware. One that ensures your father cannot act against me without consequence. If the Greyjoys move against Allyrion, they move against Fair Isle."

A slow exhale. A tap of painted nails against porcelain.

“And you, Lord Rodrik, get to make your mark.”

Davos reached for the tea, pouring Rodrik a cup and sliding it across the table.

Won’t you shake a poor sinner’s hand?

“I wonder what your father would say if he were here now, but of course, he isn’t.” He lifted the cup, setting it gently on the table before him. “And that means the choice is yours to make.”

[davos-allyrion]

No your honor i would never kill out of anger. I killed that guy for sport

[davos-allyrion]

Davos tasted blood before he tasted the grin. It was sharp as a cracked molar, red pooling in the hollow of his cheek where Edrick’s awkward, furious knuckles had landed. Not much form to the boy’s punch, it felt like being struck with a wooden board wrapped in guilt and spite, but gods, it had done the job. His head had cracked the wall and for a moment, everything went white. He let it. Let it wash over him.

Then he smiled, red and wide, the monster everyone whispered he was.

Ryon had always told him: if you can’t have a sword, you’d better learn to use your fists. And Davos had learned. Bone to bone, knuckle to jaw, with no sigil to protect him and no maester to stitch him after. Just rage and grit and the quiet joy of pain given as good as taken.

So when Edrick wheezed out “What’s next?” like it was a question, Davos gave him an answer.

He lunged.

Fists closed, he crashed into Edrick like a wave hitting shore. No finesse. Just blunt, battering rage. Edrick fought back, but he was flagging, all sharp breath and aching ribs. Davos had the momentum and enough madness behind it to make it convincing. Maybe even real. The northern boy hit back, once or twice, but Davos didn’t stop until the pirates swore and came crashing down the ladder.

One caught him in an armlock, wrenching him back. Another tried to get between them with the butt of a pike. Edrick staggered, coughing hard. In the blur of chaos, Davos moved snatched the blade from one pirate’s belt and slipped it into Edrick’s side, quick and clean, where they wouldn’t see.

He growled for show, snapping his teeth like a wild dog. One pirate—the wrong one, too close—demanded, “Who the fuck are you?”

Davos snarled, teeth red, and hissed through them like a curse.

“The Stranger himself.”

Then he bit the man’s cheek with the breath he had left, sunk his teeth in deep enough to tear. The pirate howled and dropped him. Blood sprayed. Davos tasted it, felt it stick to his chin like molasses. The world blurred red. He laughed.

The sun was sharp when they hauled them up, cruel on the skin after the dark. Davos had a knife to his neck and was still amused, blood on his chin and all down his tunic. Edrick had one eye swelling shut, wrists wrapped in crusted fabric and bruises forming across his jaw. He hadn’t said a word.

The crew shouted over one another, dragging them across the deck. One pirate, face half-torn and still bleeding, pointed a trembling hand at Davos, saying something about curses and infection. Someone else yelled they should toss him to the sea. Davos stilled, then turned to face them all, grin too wide.

“You should,” he said cheerfully. “But you won’t. That bite’s going to rot. Give it a day, and it’ll crawl into his brain. He’ll start gargling blood and pissing black.”

Silence. Uneasy. A few men shifted.

“I can fix it,” Davos said, letting his voice drop to something lower, something snake-slick. “But only if you let me treat him first.” He jerked his head toward Edrick, who stood upright through sheer northern spite. “Boy’s wrist is close to snapping. You want your prisoners alive, don’t you?”

They hesitated.

Davos pressed. “You want your friend dead screaming? Or bandaged and stitched?”

They let him. If it was out of fear or superstition, it didn’t matter.

He asked for alcohol. Vinegar. His belt. A few rags.

He worked quickly. Mouth set, hands precise. Poured the vinegar over the gash on the pirate’s cheek like it was holy water. The man screamed and nearly bucked off the crate. “That’s how you know it’s working,” Davos muttered. He stitched it with a pirate’s own sail-thread and a curved fishhook. Then he turned to Edrick.

No words passed between them. He cleaned the raw wrists, wincing when the boy did. Dabbed at the lip he’d split himself. Wrapped the fingers. Used the herbs stored in his belt and rags to make a salve for the boy’s wrists, wrapped them tight. No apology. Just care, slow and practiced.

By the time they were thrown back into the cell, it was dusk.

Davos collapsed in the corner. Edrick stood near the bars, shoulders stiff.

He had a knife now.

And Davos—when they searched him again and tore off his belt—had palmed a vial of oil-thick poison and a slim dagger, both hidden deep in his tunic folds.

He wiped his chin, finally leaning back against the cold wall with a groan.

“Davos Allyrion. Lord of Godsgrace,” he murmured, eyes fluttering shut. “I hope I see you again… at a boring feast, in a boring room, on a boring day…”

A silence passed.

Please let there be another boring day.

𓊝 ☠︎ HEAVEN KNOWS, WE BELONG WAY DOWN BELOW ☠︎ 𓊝

(A starter with @edrickstarkofwinterfell)

After moons spent dreaming of Godsgrace, Davos was finally free. The queen had given birth, the twins were healthy, the crown was grateful, and Davos was, at last, permitted to return home. He packed his bags like a man pardoned in the final breath before the noose snapped tight.

He made his final offering to the ghost that haunted his chambers, reminded himself to write to his new… friends? Was “friend” too eager a word? Too delicate for something so new?

Regardless, he bid farewell to each of them, leaving behind a vial of perfume apiece. He was forced, regrettably, to remove one of Cerelle’s cats from his luggage. On a brighter note, his last batch of cookies for the staff came out perfectly golden.

Goodbye, King’s Landing. Heaven awaits me.

His cheeks ached from smiling. However, like all great joys, this one was destined to be short-lived.

Duskendale had always reeked of fish and deceit. Davos had tolerated the first. The second, however, had just cost him his freedom.

The betrayal had been almost amusing in its inevitability. Cletus, the soldier he had allowed to accompany him, despite his every instinct whispering against it, had cracked like brittle glass under the promise of gold. His dagger had barely left Davos’ throat before the pirates slit Cletus’ from ear to ear, leaving his body slumped in the mud like trash.

If there had been time, Davos might have felt something akin to satisfaction. The fool had thought he could profit off selling his lord. Instead, he’d died choking on his own blood. A cleaner end than Davos would have granted him.

The pirates, superstitious and stupid as they were, had believed him enough to hesitate. “Dagos of Lys,” he’d said smoothly, in a tone just short of indignant. Not too much offense. Just enough to make them doubt. A noble’s son would fight harder, scream louder. A noble himself would threaten them with his station’s wrath. He had done neither.

Still, they had their suspicions.

“A Lyseni,” one had sneered. “Pretty little silk-wearer with hands like a butcher’s.”

“Belongs to some lord,” another had grunted. “A bedmate, most like.”

It had amused them, thinking him some pampered concubine taken on a joyride through the Kingsroad with stolen jewels. A better fate than the truth, he supposed. One knife at his throat was all it would take to throw open the gates of Godsgrace, and that, he could not allow.

Then they had dragged him below deck, through corridors thick with the scent of damp wood and something rotting. The hold was dark, save for the flickering lanterns swaying with the ship’s movement. He had counted his steps, made note of the turns, gauged the sway of the vessel. A large ship, wide in the belly. He hadn’t seen the sails, but from the way the floor pitched, he guessed it was built for long-haul voyages.

The pirates hadn’t even looked at the other prisoner when they threw him in.

“Here’s a friend for you, wolf cub,” one of them jeered, shoving Davos forward before slamming the iron-barred door shut.

He hit the floor hard, rolling onto his side. The ropes burned at his wrists. His head rang from the impact. Slowly, deliberately, he exhaled.

From the shadows, a figure stirred.

Davos did not move. He shifted just enough to press his back against the wall, the damp seeping into his clothes. The ship creaked and groaned around him. A wave rocked the hull, sending dust drifting from the rafters.

The wolf cub watched him with wide eyes, dark hair tangled, pale face dirty with charcoal.

Quite friendly.

The only sound was the slow drip of water in some unseen corner, the breathing of the prisoner across from him. A presence like a storm waiting to break.

Davos flexed his fingers, feeling the rope tighten.

Then, he smiled.

“And what’s your story, then?”

The road was safer, he had told himself. More reliable than the waves.

How wrong he had been.