( Davos POV )
Even in the gloom of the Wolf's Den, Davos could tell something had gone awry.
He had come to White Harbour an envoy of his king, but they held him captive. His cell was large and luxuriously furnished - twice the size of his cabin on his ship and with a hearth and even a proper privy in the corner - and yet guards patrolled outside his doors day and night, ever vigilant against escape attempts.
He pressed his ear against the wood of the door every morning, only to hear shuffling of feet and the odd whispered word, and then silence till a tray of porridge was pushed through the slot in the door.
But not that morning. There were no feet, no words warped by wood, just silence. The usual hour for his morning meal came and went without notice, and Davos's nerves had begun to fray. All the days in the Wolf's Den were much the same, and any changes were usually for the worse.
Davos still remembered Wyman's parting words to him. I have heard enough treason for one day. You would have me risk my city for a false king and a false god. You would have me sacrifice my only living son to Stannis Baratheon's fool stubbornness. No. I will not do it. Not for you. Not for your lord. Not for your god.
I answer to the Seven as well as Stannis, Davos had replied.
Wyman had seemed disinterested, Davos recalled. Do you? Very well, then. You came into my city a smuggler, a spy, a peddler of lies and treasons. I should tear out your tongue with hot pincers and deliver you to the Dreadfort. But if the Mother can be merciful, then so can I. The King - the true king - will decide your fate.
And since that day, Davos's whole world had been his cell in the Wolf's Den. Every night Davos went to sleep with those words in his head, dreading the day the raven would come and his fate would be decided. It would not be a good end, Davos was willing to bet. Cersei and Lord Tywin were a great many things, but merciful was not the word that came to mind when he thought of them. And Tommen - supposedly sweet, little Tommen - might be willing to offer him clemency, but at what cost? He'd have to forswear his king, no doubt, betray the man who gave him everything.
Davos hardened his resolve. No, he decided. No matter what, I will stay true to Stannis. I will not plead for mercy, either. I will die a knight.
It was a moot point, anyhow. Such a young king would not possess that kind of power.
But then, after so much waiting on that morning that his gut was beginning to growl, Davos finally heard the shuffling of feet. He rose and paced his cell as he awaited... something. Much to his surprise, however, the door did not swing open, and a gang of guards did not storm his cell. Instead, the slot in his door slid open again, another tray pushed through, this time laden with freshly caught fish and bread still warm from the oven, spiced mutton, boiled crab and a medley of vegetables ranging from turnips to carrots instead of the usual dungeon fare of gruel and stale bread and rotting meat.
This treatment persisted for a while following that first morning. When he asked for furs to keep him warm, he got them. When he asked for a book to keep him entertained whilst he sat on his own, he got a copy of the Seven-Pointed Star. He got wood for his hearth, clean clothing, a candle, a bottle of ink, a roll of parchment and even a quill that he used to scratch out some small letters, a stack building in the corner over the course of his confinement.
I was a better smuggler than a knight, he wrote to his wife, a better knight than a lord, a better lord than a hand, and a better hand than a husband. I'm sorry, Marya. I should have been there, should have loved you whilst I still had the chance. Please forgive my wrongs. Should Stannis lose this war, our lands will be lost. Take our children and flee to Braavos. If Stannis should win, then I expect our sons will have a place at court, and a fosterage for the lot of them under lords high and low till they can all earn their knighthoods.
Davos shuffled through the rest of the letters awkwardly. The ones to his youngest sons were stiff and awkward, for in truth he knew them not nearly as well as the older ones, the ones who'd drowned and burned at the Blackwater. Davos screwed his eyes shut and shook his head with guilt. A man should have more to say to his sons that just that. He dipped his quill again in the ink and after a moment's hesitation wrote: I did not do so ill. I rose from Flea Bottom to become a King's Hand, and I learned to read and write, but I lost my luck when I lost my fingerbones. But the one thing I never lost was my love for you all.
Davos stared at the lacklustre letters again, still dissatisfied. He felt no more words coming to mind, however, and so pushed the stack into the corner and stared at them mournfully from across his cell as he did most days, awaiting his morning meal.
It was another silent dawn, stretching on so long his gut again began to growl. What now? Davos wondered. Last time he had seen luxury, but as his stomach twisted tighter and tighter in anticipation with every passing second he suspected the same could not be said of today. He was still staring at the letters when suddenly, the rattling of metal on metal and then the clanking and clicking of a key turning in a lock could be heard. Davos seized up in surprise, then swept up his letters in his arms and held them close to his heart as the door slowly swung open.
The man who stepped through the door was not one of gaolers. A fine longsword hung from his hip, a crimson cloak on his shoulders, his build tall and lanky, his thin seamed face haggard and tired. "Lord Seaworth," he said. "We haven't much time. Please, come with me."
Davos frowned as he stood, still clutching the letters. The 'please' confused him. Men due to be punished were rarely afforded such courtesies. Then again, prisoners such as himself were rarely afforded the courtesy of such a large cell or such luxurious meals. "Who are you?" he asked.
"Glover," he said. "Robett Glover."
The Glover's seat was Deepwood Motte, if he remembered correctly, currently under Ironborn control, and Robett had fought at Duskendale against the Lannisters. Davos braced himself as he rose to his feet and took a chance. "If I should die today, I beseech you to see that my letters are delivered," he asked on faith alone.
Robett nodded, accepted the letters and said: "You have my word, but if you die, it will not be at Glover hands, nor Lord Wyman's."
And with that, the pair set off into the hall, winding their way through a darkened flight of steps and out of the Wolfs Den straight into the godswood, which they crept through slowly and quietly. Red leaves littered the snowy ground. A tangle of white roots and a web of branches passed underfoot and overhead. They went past a rusted old gate at the other end, stopping only to light a torch, and then down into a cellar with seawater sloshing around their feet. They passed through several cellars, in fact, and rows of small cells much darker than the one Davos had.
Then there was a blank stone wall that turned when Robett pushed it, beyond which was a narrow passage and yet more steps.
"Where are we?" Davos asked.
"A secret way up to the New Castle," Robett answered. "It would not do for you to be seen, my lord."
After yet more walking and climbing, so much that Davos's feet began to ache and his legs burn, they finally emerged into a snug solar, richly furnished and cosy. And in the centre of the room was sat Wyman Manderly, the enormous lord of White Harbour.
"Please, sit," Lord Wyman said, gesturing with an arm that jiggled as he moved it. "Are you hungry?"
Pangs ate at Davos's stomach, yet he shook his head. "No, my lord."
"There is wine, if you thirst," he said.
"My king commanded me to treat with you, not to drink," Davos said defiantly.
Wyman sighed and leaned back in his seat. "Well enough," he said. "I have treated you terribly, I know. I don't expect you to like me. I had my reasons... but, well, I don't expect you should care about that."
Davos shook his head. "If it will help you find your loyalties, I will listen."
...
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