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One day, he told himself. One day when the war is done and King Stannis sits the Iron Throne and has no more need of onion knights. I’ll take Devan with me. Steff and Stanny too if they’re old enough. We’ll see these dragons and all the wonders of the world. (A Dance with Dragons)
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They never did sail to see all the wonders of the world. They saw dragons, though, in Westeros, right here at home, more than enough to last them a lifetime.
And Stannis never did sit on the Iron Throne. But once the dragons had done their worst, Stannis had no more need of onion knights, or for any other knight for that matter. Davos grieved for his king and his sworn lord; but more than that, he grieved for the man who had never been at peace with himself, with the world, with the whole sordid but necessary business of compromises and half-measures most people would call ‘living.’
Come to Lys, beckoned Salla, promising salvation, a new beginning, possibly even the semblance of a life, if it was indeed possible to still have one, when half your family had been wiped out and you knew that it was your fault, your responsibility.
Davos had asked Marya for forgiveness for being a poor husband. He had never asked her to forgive him for their dead sons, knowing that he had no right to it. Let her keep her anger, and perhaps even her hate, to warm her bones in the cold nights when even his tightest embrace was poor solace for the sons they never had the chance to bury. He could do that much at least for his wife, little as it was, too late as it must be.
Marya objected to Lys, and to hitching their future to a notorious pirate. What will they do there, our boys? Rob, steal and plunder, flouting the law, always on the run, always waiting for the sword to fall? Will I have to spend another lifetime waiting for bad news?
No, they would not go to Lys. Davos bended the knee to the dragon queen. He swore an oath of loyalty to Daenerys Targaryen, in return for pardon for House Seaworth. “You can keep your land and your knighthood, Ser Davos, but not the lordship,” the new queen declared, fully aware of her generosity.
You too, Davos? Craven, craven man, just like the others. I expected better from my onion knight.
His king was dead, Davos reminded himself, even if Stannis’ voice still rang in Davos’ ears, and his ghost still haunted Davos’ dreams. He had never wavered while Stannis still lived; surely that was enough? Four of my sons died in your service. Have they not paid and paid and then paid some more, to repay Stannis’ generosity that had launched them into a life Davos had never dreamed for himself or for his sons?
Were they not paying the price still - he, Marya, Devan, Steff and Stanny - with the averted glances and the painful silences, with the ghosts of the four dead sons and the four dead brothers, with the grief and the sorrow they all suffered, but could not, in truth, share, or even articulate?
(But it was never solely about paying back what he owed Stannis. Davos had always known this. It would be simpler, easier and much less complicated if it had been only that. There was a bond, a tie that bound him to Stannis which had nothing to do with who owed what to whom, or with any vow or oath of loyalty, honor or duty.)
They lived a quiet life in Cape Wrath. Marya kneaded the black bread they had for breakfast every morning. Davos took his boys hunting for red deer in the woods. They planted seeds and watched them take roots and grow.
A piece of land to call his own, and he never had to worry again about not having enough to feed his family. Once that had been all Davos ever dreamed about. Later, though, later he had dared to dream even higher.
Was it hubris he had been punished for? Or was it pride, his pride in his sons and the new world that had opened up for them? He had been so proud, so filled with overflowing joy with every accomplishment, every milestone that had once seemed impossible. The son of Davos of Flea Bottom, captaining his own ship (a war galley, not a smuggler’s sailboat or a pirate’s ship). The son of the boy who used to beg for bread in the slums of King’s Landing, serving as a royal squire. The son of -
No, it was better not to dream at all; Davos had learned that much at least.
There were no maps to guide them to where they were heading. There was no direction to be followed on how to rebuild a life, a family, your entire world. They woke each morning, taking one step forward and two steps backwards, all the while wondering if this was the day it would finally begin – the rest of their life after the storm.
One day, Davos dreamed, Devan, Steff and Stanny would sleep soundly through the night, not haunted by the screams of the dead and the pleas of the dying. (For he was still a father, and a father was powerless not to dream for his children.)
One day, he and Marya would be able to speak the names Dale, Allard, Maric and Matthos at a voice above a whisper, and to think of their sons’ lives more than their deaths.
One day, their house would be a home again.
How it really began was this: one night, Marya turned to her husband in bed and said, “It’s time for you to forgive yourself.”