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Davos was an honorable man.
Perhaps not as honorable as Stannis, no. Jon Snow had him bested as well, at such a young age. The ghost of his fingers reminded him of that, the weight of it bumping against his chest every time he took her. Fucking her was a sweet agony. A fire that simmered in him near constantly. He found himself thinking of her—not her face, no, but that burning feeling he felt when they were coupling. It was slightly unnerving, but he’d be damned if he would deny himself of it.
The nights were the worst. The mounting feeling of dread in him before she inevitably came to his chambers. The whisper of her robes as they slid down her body. The creamy way her skin glinted in the dim light of the candle. It was too much, and not enough.
“Do not deny yourself, Ser Davos,” she had whispered. “The Lord placed us together for a reason.”
The gods had abandoned Davos long ago. Once faithful to the Seven, he found himself wondering if the Gods were not some cruel jape that had gotten out of hand long ago. Had they ever really walked amongst men?
Her god was crueler. Davos knew, felt god when they caressed each other in the dead of night. Light touches at first, almost worshipful. The intensity always won them over in the end, fingers more insistent—nails scraping, hands grabbing, palms slapping. They nearly always parted with bruises purpling their skin. Nobody asked questions, and for that Davos was grateful.
He was an honorable man, but that didn't stop him from finding her, night after night—desperate with desire. The words curses and spells came to mind, but he pushed them all aside. He would think on it at a later date. For now he needed to feel the fire as they coupled, to pray at the only alter he knew.
—he would pray for salvation, and perhaps a sweet ending.