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Bones. Nothing more. Hard, unyielding, and almost painful as they grasped tight around him, pulling him to his feet with a strength he still could not fathom.
Bones, and blue eyes, and the bite of cold stone against his knee.
He'd removed his glove. Davos would remember that. He'd remember all of it if he were to tell it true, better than most things that had pressed together to form his life. But that more than most…
A black glove. Fine, well made, but not ornate. The hollow faced young lord had pulled it off quickly, as if he wasn't sure of the action and hoped haste would account for indecision.
Davos had shook. He wasn't sure why. He remembered feeling quite the fool, placed there with one knee digging into the cold stone as if he could truly be a knight, crowded attention of all these fine folk tight against him. He wasn't used to notice- it was the very bane of his trade and now he wondered what had made him seek it after all. But he had. And he deserved it did he not? Deserved this.
He'd heard the steel slide from the scabbard, cold and hollow against the stones of the keep- the stones that Gods set they said, the stones that magic could not break. But it hadn't been a God that saved this place, nor magic that had brought the pain to an end. It had been him. Merely him, and a ship that stolen goods bought, laden with onions from the streets these lords spat upon.
Davos was no knight. He never would be. He knew that.
But none of it mattered to the stern young lord. He'd seen that the moment he'd first looked into his eyes in the courtyard. It had steadied him somehow in that moment, so he looked up now, and so easily, he forgot the rest. He forgot the stones under him, the shaking of his hands, the stares of the nobility itching up his spine. He forgot that he wasn't a knight.
It wasn't that in the young lord's eyes he was, it was that in those eyes none were. There was no favor there, no forgiveness, no flattery. Merely justice, justice and truth: the truth that Davos had saved him, that he had come when none would, and for that he lay the sword on his shoulder, spoke the words, rough, low, considered, and offered him a gloveless hand to help him to his feet.
He'd felt the bones. He felt them even now.
---
He'd heard them break.
Stannis had heard dogs snap them in the kennels, when he lingered there as a boy, but he wouldn't have throughout the sound would be so similar. Thinking back, he didn't know how he'd heard it through the screams. But he had. A clear clean "snap" stabbing through his mind. The first one had been clearest- the rest seemed to slip, blur together as his teeth clenched harder than he'd ever remembered and his hand moved on it's own as he tried not to see the man's face, but made himself hear his screams.
He'd caught his own lip on the third blow and tasted the salty copper of blood on his tongue, watching as the thick sanguine spilled over the table, the hand slipping slick and frantic.
Davos, his name was- Ser Davos now. He was trying to be brave. Stannis could see that. The knight had put his hand down himself. He'd hardly shook. He'd taken one simple deep breath. He hadn't begged. He hadn't said a word, but had looked at him. His eyes were brown- and bright, shining in a way that betrayed their intelligence, looking with enough ease to show their sincerity.
He had been brave. Braver than he would have believed possible.
Stannis had wondered if he himself could show such courage; if this man could place his hand on the table, could he himself swing the blade? But it wasn't quite the same, was it? It was harder to place down a hand, fingers spread and look at them, knowing that part of you would be gone forever. It was even harder to not pull back against the slick slip of blood through the mist of pain, but he had tried, this common man, he had tried.
Why?
The word had pounded through Stannis' head with each strike. Why? Why would he choose this? Why would he make him take this action… it's not as if he himself had any choice in the matter. What was just was just. It was a simple matter. The simplest, truly.
Then why did the snap bring bile stinging to the back of his throat? Why did his eyes blur and burn? Why did he want so badly to suddenly scream himself? Just once. Just once in his life he'd like to scream as loud as he possibly could. But he never would. So he didn't stop. He bit his lip, and he tasted blood, and he tried to see well enough to strike true. And he didn't stop.
Afterwards, when the man slumped he'd caught him without thinking. He was lighter than he'd guessed he might be. Of course it wouldn't have mattered if he had weighed as much as the stones under their feet. Stannis would have caught him all the same. He deserved that much at least.
Cressen had moved to swipe the bits of meat and bone away from the dripping wood.
"No," The man had muttered against Stannis. He'd felt his breath against his shoulder. Warm somehow, even through his cloak.
"Don't," Ser Davos had managed, "I want them."
The man in his arms had laughed then. A faint, almost mad sound as he started shaking hard. Shock, Cressen had called it.
Stannis felt his own hands tighten against him, trying to lift him up as he held him close enough to support. Closer truly. He was warm. Warmer than he should be… but how would he know what was warm and what was not? He could not remember the last time he'd held or been held. His hands felt clumsy and foolish, as if he were half a child again.
He'd looked down, only to see deep red slipping up his tunic where the man's mutilated hand tried to hold onto him out of dumb habit. The warmth of blood spread up his skin.
He'd thrown that tunic away, and scrubbed at his skin until it was raw. But he still hadn't slept that night, nor the next. He never forgot the sound.
---
The crack shattered through the night and Davos heard his own voice catch up in the cheer that seemed to drown out every other sound as the mast shattered and the massive ship lurched to one side into the dark water to join its broken fellows.
His heart was still pounding. Nothing in his life had come close to the pure thrill that now surged through the whole of his body. Nothing. Not slipping past the Mud Gate laden with Myrish silks, not catching the wind just right and outpacing the raiders just enough, not even sliding past the stones of Shipbreaker Bay. He felt as if he could breathe fire if he wanted to, as if he could harness a storm and sling it wherever he pleased.
They were running. The Iron Fleet was running.
He'd done it. They'd done it.
All around him were the whoops and cries of sailors and soldiers. He felt hands grasping his shoulders, slapping hard against his back, pushing him somewhere, it hardly mattered where. He let his eyes slip shut for a moment and breathed deep, trying to feel the ground under his feet, trying to bring the world back into focus. He slipped away from the grasping hands and calling shouts and let his fingers lock around the wood of the rail, firm and steadying.
The sea rolled under his eyes- black and almost steady. He knew there were dead there. His own men, Greyjoy men. Dead men. But men had died at sea before. It should matter more to him, he felt, that they were down there, slipping in silence to the bottom of Fair Isle's rocky shores. Perhaps later it would sink deeper around him. Perhaps tomorrow he would consider and reflect and even mourn, but now, in this moment, he could not take the smile from his lips.
The sharp sound of a gangplank hitting his deck shot his head upwards. A great cheer rose up from the men as they threw their fists and swords into the air and their lord stepped onto the deck.
Davos saw him instantly. Stannis Baratheon stood uneasy, almost awkward under the sound of men cheering his name, and he was glancing about, as if looking for something. When the blue eyes found his they locked and Davos saw them shine, gleaming with glory as he smiled at him. Truly smiled.
Davos' feet were moving him across the deck swiftly, paying no heed to the bodies he shoved out of his path. His heart was pounding and he felt light as air- as if he could do anything.
Stannis stepped forward to meet him with the smile shining over his face as he reach out out a hand, "Davos--"
Some part of him tried to stop himself but he had ceased thinking clearly as soon as he'd seen Victarion Greyjoy turn in flight. Davos caught his outstretched arm and pulled him close. The action was harder than he'd meant, clasping one hand around his back for a moment as his fingers tightened on the slickness of his wrist.
He felt the breath go out of him but didn't care, even if it felt hot against his neck where his stubble scratched ever so quickly. Stannis stiffened, instantly rigid in shock but almost in that same moment his hand tightened quickly against Davos' shoulder and held it as Davos let his own retreat back to his side.
Stannis held on, firm and unyielding as his hand around his arm. Davos could feel the slickness of blood on his fingers, see a small line of red across the corner of his brow, but it was all nothing, nothing to the face of the man smiling back at him. He had never seen him so happy.
"It's worked. They ran," Davos almost breathed, "You've done it, my lord."
Stannis' hand tightened around his arm, his voice was low, but they were standing so close it hardly mattered.
"We've done it, Davos."
He squeezed his shoulder once, roughly, almost painfully as his eyes danced.
"We've done it."
It felt so still there, with his hand tight about him, and somehow even through the roaring of the men, he could yet hear the sea.
---
Wine sloshed against the side of the chalice as Stannis lifted it back to his lips.
It was a good deal too sweet, and tasted of cloves and cinnamon. He'd never liked the taste, but each sip seemed to make him a little more numb, a little more deaf to the roaring of his brother's voice, the calling crowd that might as well have cheered him each time he took a blench.
Down the table Robert clambered drunkenly to his feet, raising his glass for yet another toast to victory. But not to him. He knew better than to expect that now. It had been hours and yet nothing. There was no reason to expect any more.
He'd taken the first glass of wine when he sat where he was placed- not at the head beside Robert and Ned Stark and Jon Arryn, who vexingly enough continuously glanced at him with pity. Even Paxter Redwyne was closer than he. A mistake- they'd said, surely, an oversight. But Stannis had known better, and the first glass of wine had gone down easier then it should have.
If he had failed perhaps he would be seated directly beside his brother, where he could easily mock the night away, spilling wine down his tunic, making sarcastic toasts to his little brother's prowess. But as it stood, Stannis had not made himself a fool fit for open mockery. For one fleeting foolish moment there on the sea he'd almost let himself think he'd made himself a hero. But he knew that now for what it was: folly and hubris. He had done his duty- nothing more. He'd never truly believed he'd achieved greatness. But he'd glimpsed a hero, staring back at him from Davos' brown eyes with cheers in his ears and a warm hand around his wrist.
Stannis let himself look down the table a slight ways to where his onion knight sat. He caught his gaze almost instantly, as if he had been waiting for it. There was concern there and suddenly Stannis felt something that he could call shame slithering through his guts. He looked away, putting his wine back on the table. It was foolish, he knew, Davos understood if no one else in that hall did. His knight might even encourage him to have a glass, or two. But not so many that he lost count, and Stannis clenched his jaw tight at that realization. He had lost count, as if he were merely some idiotic drunkard, as if he were no different than very cause of his ire.
The room felt hot suddenly, and loud, and full, and a wave of nausea caught him unsuspecting. With one swift motion he was standing, but that had been a mistake and he had to catch himself against the back of his chair, bowing his head and breathing deeply in an attempt not to vomit right there at the high table. That would certainly give Robert something to laugh over, he might even piss himself laughing but no one would love him less for it.
Stannis ground his teeth hard and tried to breathe away the dizziness.
He felt a timid hand on his shoulder.
"My Lord?"
He might have been angry had it been anyone else.
"I've had enough of this farce." He gritted out, not caring how loudly he spoke. He stood again, trying to keep his back straight and might have stumbled once more if Davos had not caught his arm. Strange- he had not felt so dizzy sitting down.
"As have I." Davos agreed. Stannis did not miss how his voice was also slightly uneven. It had been strong wine.
And then they were walking, leaving. Stannis had the feeling that Davos was almost leading him, helping him back along the way as if he doubted he could accomplish something as simple as finding his own chambers. If it had been someone else he might have pushed him away, told him to leave him be. But it wasn't. So he didn't.
The arm steadying him was somehow soothing the waves of nausea that had swept through his body moments before and making the room spin just that much less.
They were almost free of the din of the hall. He wouldn't look back. He was sure Robert wouldn't even notice he was gone- if he had even noticed he was there to begin with.
"How can they stomach it?" Stannis muttered, already feeling relieved as the quiet of the stony corridor closed around them, inch by inch shutting out the din of the hall's revels.
"The wine, my Lord?" Davos asked.
Yes, "No" He grimaced, "The noise, the gluttony, the fallacy… all of it, any of it."
"I'm not the man to ask." Davos answered, shaking his head and laughing slightly, "I can't fathom it myself."
Standing close as they were, Stannis couldn't help but smell the bitterness of wine with the taint of cloves on his breath.
"You've been drinking." He said, looking down at him sideways.
"Yes," Davos answered with a sigh, a small spark in his eyes that might have been called scampish. He had that sometimes- that look that was almost roughish as he smirked and it always reminded Stannis of who he had been, caused him to wonder at what his life was before he entered it, before the crack of bones and the scrambling of a hand over the slick red surface.
"You are drunk." Stannis asserted, painfully aware of how his own voice almost caught in a slur as he pushed the very accusation he himself must surely be guilty of.
Davos shook his head and looked up at him with an almost sarcastically furrowed brow, "No, surely not."
Stannis stared down at him with one eyebrow slightly cocked and a smile slipped over Davos' face. And then he was laughing. It was a quiet rough sound in the stone of the hall and Stannis felt his own lips inch treacherously into what must have been an utterly foolish grin.
The stairs fell under their feet before they could notice.
Stannis felt his foot slip, felt the dizziness catch him up and then he was--
Falling…
A hand snatched at him, caught him hard enough to hurt under the arm and pushed him back upright and tight against the wall of the stairwell.
Davos stared down the steps, looking at the fall at could have been, hands still painful on Stannis' shoulder and his arm. Perhaps Stannis should have looked that ways as well, down that dark hard steps that might have ended his life there and then, but he couldn't seem to look away from Davos' face.
Strange. He was close. Very close. And the look he had… he was terrified, utterly and truly terrified looking down those cold stone stairs. He was breathing hard and Stannis felt his own eyes go heavy as he watched his chest surge over and over again, so close that he might feel it against his own if he leaned ever so slightly forward.
"It's alright." He heard himself say, voice so soft he hardly recognized it, "It's alright, Davos."
Davos took a deep shaky breathe and looked away from the stairs, down at his own feet. Not at him.
"I thought-- Gods, I thought you would fall." He muttered.
Stannis' tongue felt heavy in his mouth. The wine, he told himself.
He hadn't noticed his own hand before, how it was somehow on Davos' shoulder, almost on his neck, truly. He could feel his brown hair, stiff with salt, against his fingertips.
"But I didn't." He said carefully. He'd never tried to sound comforting. The feel of it was strange against his throat.
He wondered if he had fallen if Davos' hands would have stayed tight on him or if they would have merely slipped free. He wondered if he might have stood and watched as he tumbled drunkenly to his death like an utter fool. He might have gone back to his family then- with no Lord to serve he would be theirs once more. But his hands were so tight on him even now… perhaps he might have fallen too, unable to let go.
Stannis' hand had somehow pressed unbidden to his bearded cheek. He watched, with almost sleepy fascination, as Davos' eyes slipped shut, and he leaned ever so slightly against him. Breath caught, but wasn't sure any more whose.
Drunken laughter shattered around them as a woman giggled loud and lewd against the stones of the hall.
They fell apart in one motion, Davos turning to stare up the hall towards the sound with heat dancing up his cheeks.
Stannis shut his eyes hard. He let his head slip back and rest against the stone of the wall. The sickness was back again, clawing up his throat with eager vivacity.
The stones felt cold. Colder than they had. Colder than he'd known.
---
He pulled the furs closer against the bite of the wind, and tried to tell himself the chill was why he shook.
The castle was as large, as they had said- larger than Davos might have imagined, even if it was a mere skeleton of what had been. It was as something from a children's tale, haunting and filled with the sense of ancient things long past. He had never been a terribly superstitious man, but somehow in this place, he could almost hear the ghosts.
The wind. He told himself as he followed the flickering torch up the darkened hall, merely the wind.
But there were ghosts here… so much life could not simply leave a place untouched.
He wondered how many had died. The bodies were piled high in the courtyard, steadily disappearing under the blanketing snow, transforming into one great shape that might as well have been a pile of gathered stones waiting to rebuild what had fallen. He knew they would not be there long. He'd seen the fires through the snow hours before reaching the doors of the keep. They burned high and hot and he hoped they burned fast enough. He saw blue eyes even in the dark and shivered.
A cut, they'd said, nothing to fear.
He'd wanted to run, he did still- wanted to push the blonde fool with the torch out of his way and run until he hit the door, pushed it open, and saw for himself wether or not there was reason to fear.
He had feared. He'd seen more than enough these months past to lodge the fear deep inside him.
He'd dreamed of him...
In dreams he'd stood amongst the snow. Davos had called his name. Not his title. His name. And when he'd turned to face him there'd been a cut along his side, fresh and red against the white. But Davos hadn't known wether or not to think him dead. His eyes had always been cold- always been blue.
"Here," Massey said stopping just outside the door at the top of the tower.
"He needs rest--" The lad began but Davos was already pushing past him, hands locking around the steely cold of the latch and throwing it back before he could think any further.
He shut it behind him.
It was warm here. There was a fire glowing in the hearth, well stoked. This had been Ned Stark's chambers they had said, before they were the traitor Greyjoy's, before they were the Boltons', before they were his king's.
There was a bed facing the heath. A bowl of soup sat beside it, a roll of fresh bandages, one or two small vials that sparked in the orange glow of the flames. The sword was leaned at the foot- but somehow he knew if freed from the scabbard it would no longer glow as it had.
He couldn't see his face- it was turned away, his dark hair almost the same color of the furs his head rested upon. One hand was lying haphazard across the bed, just dangling over the side. It looked pale. Cold.
Davos' fingers caught around it. Thin. Too thin.
He didn't remember walking closer but he must have. He didn't remember his throat growing tight and hot but it had without notice.
The fingers twitched slightly against him, tightening just enough to feel.
A small sound echoed from him, quiet, almost contented.
Stannis turned, just enough that Davos could see his face. His eyes opened. He looked at him, half asleep yet. He did not seem surprised. He hardly seemed to think anything of it. His hand tightened on Davos' and his mouth tugged sightly in what might have been a smile. He pulled at him ever so slightly and Davos sat down on the edge of the bed, watching him, trying to steady his ragged breathes, trying not to blink for he knew what would come then.
Stannis smiled at him, eyes still half closed, and it was only then Davos felt the truth slip around him.
He thinks it a dream.
Davos tightened his hand at that, harder than he'd meant and he must have hurt him for Stannis' eyes opened, fully this time. The confusion was beginning to spill across his face.
He tried to sit up and winced sharply. Davos felt a sharp pain in his own chest and opened his mouth as if to protest but somehow no sound emerged.
The furs slipped to one side and he saw the bandages tied tight across his chest.
Nothing to fear, he tried to tell himself, they said nothing to fear.
His king's eyes were open now, wide open. He'd forgotten just how sharp they could be.
He doesn't believe. Davos thought, he sees a ghost- merely another ghost in this hollow place.
Tentatively Davos raised a hand to his cheek. Stannis was still as stone, staring at him as if he were a trick of the flickering light and his own tired mind.
"You're dead." He said it quickly, hard and stern and sure, even if his voice was rough and dry.
Davos wanted to speak. He wished to tell him so many things. But he couldn't seem to. There was simply too much- too much to say and too many things to clear and account for and make peace with. Too much and more and all forgotten now, in his disbelieving eyes, so blue and so afraid despite the small hope that started to glow there.
Davos ducked his head forward, a shorter distance then he had imagined and brushed his lips to the corner of his frowning mouth.
Stannis shuddered under him, hard and sharp and with a short breath he tilted his head just an inch to meet him fully.
Warm, and alive. So very much alive. Davos kissed him- carefully, easily, ignoring the way his chest pounded, how his head lightened and his throat burned.
After hardly a moment they broke apart- resting forehead to forehead in the stillness of the room.
"No," Davos muttered, breathed, sighed, "No, I would not leave you."
He kissed him quickly once more.
"I will not leave you."
Stannis stared at him- alarmed, afraid, almost young. And with a sharp breathe he darted forward again, catching his lips, harder this time, but slow, as if each moment needed to last more than it should.
Davos felt his hand tighten against his own.
Bones. But life as well, and that was all that mattered.