Archive of Our Own

It’s been fifteen minutes.

Davos tries to mind his own business and not fret, truly – but the child has been standing in the same spot for the past fifteen – he checks the clock – sixteen minutes, and still no sign of any adult coming to pick their young charge. She’s a small thing, ten at most, definitely not old enough to be left to her own devices in the rowdy marketplace. Sundown isn’t that far off.

He gives it four more minutes before he relents and shoves his nose where he shouldn’t; the tips of his severed fingers throb, as if to remind him a lesson he ought to have learned by now.

Davos pays it little mind; he’s always been a bad student. He flips the ‘OPEN’ sign on the door, to the side saying he’d be back soon, and shuts the door without locking behind him.

Crossing the street, he approaches the girl, adapting his warmest expression as not to frighten her. The muscles on his face feel stiff when he smiles; he’s been out of practice for a while now.

“Excuse me, Miss,” he says, “What are you doing here by yourself?”

The child looks up at him with a serious expression; she has beautiful brown eyes, and gruesome scars all over the left side of her face which make Davos’ heart ache, knowing the cruelty of men.

“I’m not supposed to talk to strangers,” the child says solemnly, keeping her eyes on him. Despite the initial setback, Davos approves.

“Let me introduce myself, then. I’m Davos Seaworth. I run the shop right across the street, see?”

The child’s eyes follow the direction he’s pointing at.

“The greengrocery?”

“Indeed.” He replies.

“I’m Shireen.” She answers, graceful as she offer her hand for him to shake.

“Pleased to meet you, Shireen.” He squeezes her small hand gently, and she offers a timid smile.

“Please to meet you as well, Mister Davos.”

“Now, Shireen. Why are you here by yourself? Where are your parents?”

“Father is at work.” Shireen answers, her eyes taking to inspect her black school shoes, “and mother told me to wait here, and that she’d be back in a bit.”

Davos bites back an angry retort; it wouldn’t help the child.

“Well, how about you’d wait for your mother in my shop? It’s getting dark, and it wouldn’t do for you to be outside by yourself at nighttime.”

Shireen’s eyes gleam for a moment, before her expression drops. “Mother told me to wait here. She said I shouldn’t move.”

“And you should always respect your parents,” Davos nods, “and do as they tell you. But your mother wouldn’t want you to get sick, would she?”

The child seems to pale, eyes going wide.

“Mother doesn’t like it when I’m sick,” she whispers.

Davos is sorely tempted to whisk her away to child services; but not before he’d first see her properly fed.

“Come along, then. Let’s wait for your mum in the shop.”

It’s dark when Shireen is sitting in the back room of his shop, sipping hot chocolate and quietly going through a book that lied forgotten in the back of one of the lower shelves. She said she’s not hungry, but Davos still managed to weasel in some scones alongside her drink. It’s been an hour already, and Davos kept alert – but no woman had come to the street, looking frantic in the search of her beloved lost child.

“How is’t?” Davos asks the girl as he walks back into the room, nodding towards the mug. The plate, he’s glad to note, is entirely scone-less.

“It’s delicious.” The girl smiles brightly, and Davos wants to keep her forever, like she’s a lost puppy. “Thank you, Mister Davos.”

“Davos is fine.” He sits back on his hunches, grinding his teeth for a moment as he tries to phrase the question diplomatically.

“Shireen, you’ve been lovely company, truly,” he tells her, “but your parents must be very worried about you. Do you live nearby? I can walk you home.”

Shireen shakes her head. “We’re not from around here. Mother and I live up north. We were supposed to visit father.”

“Your father, then, do you know his address?”

Shireen shakes her head again. “It wouldn’t matter. Father is at work.” She looks away, not quite managing to hide her crestfallen expression. “Father’s always at work.”

Davos reminds himself kidnapping a child without notifying the authorities is a crime, and that he had his share of jail time, and wouldn’t care to experience it again.

“Any siblings?”

Again, no.

“Do you have your father’s phone number, then?” He decides the father would be the better option, seeing as he didn’t abandon his child in the middle of an unknown city.

“Father doesn’t like it when people call him at work,” Shireen hesitates.

“Trust me, princess, your father would very much like to hear your whereabouts.”

Shireen takes a few moments, then swallows. She downs the last of her hot chocolate, and tells him the number, gripping the mug all the while.

Davos takes the scribbled note to the front of the shop, where the landline is, punching the numbers without much patience.

The phone rings twice before someone picks up.

“Stannis.”

The man’s voice is impressive, and Davos takes a moment to appreciate it; curt and authoritative, before he reminds himself to speak.

“Hullo, Stannis,” he tries, carefully, “I apologize for interrupting you–“

“Then you might as well get to the point.” The man cuts him off coldly. “I have no time for nonsense.”

Davos does not perform well under pressure. He blames his next words on that.

“I have your daughter.”

The silence from the other side of the line could chill a man’s bones and give him hypothermia.

“I mean –“

“If you harm a single hair out of the head of hers,” Stannis says in a tone so volatile with constrained violence Davos feels his heart flutter, “I can assure you you would sorely regret ever being born.”

“I beg your pardon,” Davos clears his throat uncomfortably, “I didn’t kidnap your daughter, sir. I found her, by herself, standing in the street with no one coming back for her. You’d have to forgive me, I thought maybe you’d care to pick her up, since your wife surely couldn’t care enough to come back for her.”

“My wife?” The man asks in a clipped voice.

“Whichever title you’d give Shireen mother, honestly, I don’t care. The fact is that she’s here, and she’d better stay here than the local police station.”

The silence shifts, no longer cold but still tense.

“I apologise – what did you say your name was?”

“Davos.”

“– Davos, then. Forgive me.”

Davos hums noncommittally, not quite ready to forgive a potentially neglectful father.  

“Where are you, at the moment?”

Davos gives him the address, and hear the man grunt in annoyance. He’s about to give him a piece of his mind, but Stannis speaks first.

“I am out of town. I estimate at least…” he pauses, “seven hours before I arrive.”

“Seven hours?” Davos asks incredulously, mourning the fact anyone can just have children without any license or permits. “Where are you?”

“Russia.” Stannis grunts, and says something to someone on the other side of the line, muffling his words with his hand on the speaker. “I’ll be there as soon as I can, on the earliest flight I can catch.”

Davos quickly reevaluates the man.

“I hate to impose on you, Davos. You already did me a great favor. But if you could keep Shireen a few hours more, I’d be forever in your debt.”

“Sure,” Davos mouth says automatically, seeing he had already spread his wing upon the child as soon as he made his mind to step out of the shop. “It’s no trouble at all.”

“Her mother is unwell,” Stannis says bitterly. “I should’ve known better than to let her have her.”

“You couldn’t have known that. It’s hardly normal circumstances.”

Stannis grunts again.

“May I speak with her?” he asks, and for a moment, sounds very much like his daughter.

“Just a moment,” Davos says, calling Shireen over. She answers the call, quiet, looking up at him.

“It’s your father,” Davos tells her, “he wants to speak with you.”

He gives her the receiver and she holds it with both hands; Davos can hear the bass of Stannis’ voice carrying, but can’t make the words.

“Yes, father.” She replies, looking up at Davos. “Davos has been really nice. He made me hot chocolate and gave me a book to read. And scones!” She listens intently to what he says. “Yes, I promise. See you soon.”

Shireen hands him back the receiver, and trots off to the back room.

“Sir?” Davos asks, to make sure the line isn’t dead before he hangs up.

“Davos,” Stannis says, “what’s your number?”

“My phone number?” Davos asks, confused, and takes the judgmental silence as an answer. “This is my number.”

“Your cell.” Stannis clarifies.

“I don’t have one.” Davos replies.

“E-mail, then.”

“That either. Not very good with electronics, I’m afraid.”

There’s silence on the other side of the line, which Davos steadily grows accustomed to. Stannis is not a man of many words.

“I’d see you both soon, then,” Stannis says and the line dies.

Davos swallows against the pain in his chest; it’s been years since anyone spoke these words to him.

He places the receiver back and turns to tend to his young guest.

Davos is not a rich man. He comes from a lower-class family, and did his best for his late-wife and their son. He doesn’t need many indulgences in his life; a walk by the sea is free of charge, the wind brushing his skin is a gift he discovered only when he was let out of prison. He lives in a small room above the shop, with a ladder in the back, connecting between his bedroom and his business.

Like many kids her age, Shireen has yet to be completely tainted by false premises and capitalistic values. Her eyes shine when she sees the ladder, looking eagerly at Davos.

“Come now, up.”

“Can I?” she asks in awe. “Can I climb up? By myself?”

“Sure you can. You have both y’er hands and y’er feet, don’tcha? Chop chop.”

She climbs up like a monkey, Davos on her heels.

He feels slightly dismayed at the state of the room; it’s been a long while since anyone had seen it, and despite Shireen’ happiness and glee he still can’t help but note the growing stain on fungi on his ceiling he’d sworn himself he’d take care of months ago, his dusty floor or the fraying edges of the dingy drapes.

“You get ready for bed, princess,” Davos tells her gently.

“I’m not tired,” she tries to hide her yawn, and Davos smiles, heart aching for dozens of such small exchanges he had with his son.

“Your father told me your bedtime. You don’t want your father to be cross with me, do’ya?”

“Of course not!” she exclaims, eyes growing wide.

“There you go, then.”

He picks an old comfortable shirt which could serve as a night-dress, and gives her a pass on a shower and for brushing her teeth; it’s been a long day, and most of those teeth would fall out anyway.

“I’d be right downstairs if you’d need me, princess,” he tells her after tucking her in.

“Davos?” she asks, struggling to keep her eyes open.

“Yes, princess?”

“Can I…” she hesitates. “Can you read me a bed-time story?”

Davos heart lurches to his throat.

“I can’t read you one,” he says quietly, as to keep his voice from wavering, “but I can tell you one. Do’ya like pirates?”

“Yes,” she murmurs sleepily, a small smile on her lips. “I love pirates.”

“I’m sure there are pirates that love you too,” he chuckles, and speaks until she falls asleep.

Davos takes his coffee black and strong. He doesn’t have it in him to sleep that night, his stomach is all in knots and he feels jittery. He fears he’d fall asleep and miss Stannis’ call, causing the man further grief which no father should undergo, as Davos himself well knows. He settles on the couch downstairs with a pot of coffee, a pen and his worn Sudoku book.

It’s almost meditative, solving those small puzzles; he thinks, and yet he doesn’t. He sees his hand moving, even when he has to rub at his eyes or wash his face again, seeing his eyelids growing puffier as the night drags on. It keeps him from thinking that by tomorrow, there wouldn’t be any child to tell stories too, and the mug in the sink would return to its lonesome existence at the very back of the kitchen cabinet.

He can’t convince himself it’s for the best, but he can keep the photo albums deep in the upper shelves of the closet and his mind off ridiculous scenarios by scribbling numbers to fit.

It’s comforting, he thinks, that even when he doesn’t manage to get one of those squares aligned the right way, he still knows there’s an answer for it. He just needs to try to fill it until he gets it right, even when the scratched-out numbers get in the way.

The knock on the front door is strong and sharp; Davos startles awake, realizing, much to his embarrassment, that he dozed off. He’s no longer young, a fact he’s slowly coming to term with. On the cusp of fifty, Davos body is changing, but that doesn’t mean he has to like it.

He gets up, not even managing to stretch his sore muscles before the knocks come back, more urgent.

“Comin’,” he mutters, rubbing crust off his eyes and stumbling to unlock the front of the shop.

The sun hadn’t risen yet, and there’s a downpour outside; he can’t make but a silhouette of a man at the door.

The final lock clicks open, and Davos pulls the door in.

He’s immediately assaulted with the cold air biting at his skin, invading the warmth of the shop like a thief; and while the shop is kept cool to keep the merchandise from rotting, it’s much cosier than the street.

“Davos Seaworth, I presume,” the man speaks as if he isn’t soaked to the bone. He’s wearing a three-piece suit and his thin hair sticks to his long, sharp face.

He sticks his right hand to shake, and Davos’ practiced eye notices what appears to be a very expensive wrist-watch, before his brain catches up.

“It’s bloody freezin’!” Davos barks, pulling him into the shop by his offered hand. “Christ, couldn’t ya have gotten an umbrella?”

“No time,” the man– Stannis, says stoically, his clothes dripping onto the wooden floor. “I’ve told you I’d come as soon as I can.”

Davos gapes a little, because his brain took to notice Stannis is quite ravishing. It’s a bit startling to realize; Davos was never much interested than any person than his beloved late-wife; but the man just has something about him, so sincere and strong and solid.

“My daughter?” Stannis asks.

“Asleep, upstairs.”

“I’d wake her and we’d be off, then.”

“You can’t be serious.” Davos says. Stannis looks at him with eyes that clearly state he doesn’t know to be anything but serious.

“You have to get out of those clothes. You’d get sick.”

Stannis continues dripping, the drops thudding against the floor between the ticks of the clock. He looks at Davos with stunted wonder in his eyes, like he hadn’t considered the option; or maybe, at being surprised Davos had.

“We wear roughly the same size,” Davos lies, since he’s much wider then Stannis, who’s fit and lean, though not much taller. “The bathroom is also upstairs. How ‘bout you’d take a shower first and change into some dry clothes? Wouldn’t do if you’d get yerself sick.”

Stannis tips his head just slightly in approval, and Davos takes to lead him to the ladder. He doesn’t look too closely at Stannis reaction; his child might have been ecstatic, but no adult would save a scorn from Davos’ place.

He opens the hatch quietly, and sees Shireen slumbering peacefully on the bed. The room is much warmer then downstairs; Davos had the heater working, kids being small and all.

Stannis strides to Shireen’s side like a ghost, not a single board creaking beneath his shoes. Davos sees how his face soften when he looks at her, reaching out to touch her face, but drawing his hand back before he makes contact.

Davos tries to give him a moment to compose himself by busying himself with finding the man something proper to wear; he might content himself with moths chewing out holes in his shirts and the faded marks and stains not removed completely from the fabrics, but that Stannis is as posh as they get, and Davos does still hold a small amount of pride in himself.

At the back of his closet, he finds an old beloved shirt that had grown too small for him but sentiment made it so he couldn’t bring himself to part with; he pairs it with a thick pair of sweatpants, a pair of the coziest socks he had knitted, and a new pair of underpants from a package he stored in the back of the drawer and forgotten about, along with the towel with the highest thread-count he owns.

When Stannis looks up from Shireen, he manages to catch his eye and nod towards the bathroom. Stannis nods back and takes the offered clothes from his, their fingers brushing in the process.

Stannis shudders, and Davos ushers him to the bathroom, worried at the signs he’s already been affected by the cold.

Davos stands around idly for a moment or two before deciding he’d best make himself useful. He heads downstairs, picks a few fresh onions from the fridge and puts on his apron.

“It smells good.”

Davos startles; Stannis is a big man, but he has a way to tread around, each step as light as a deer’s.

“Help yourself,” Davos offers, gesturing to the plate in the middle of the table. “I ain’t much of a chef, myself, but I make some good onion rings.”

It’s not too much work, honestly. Matt used to love onion rings, and Davos splurged on a special device, created for the sole purpose of making those. He hadn’t a reason to plug it in for many years, but it still works, much to his surprise.

Stannis nods and takes a seat, and Davos places a cup of black boiling coffee next to Stannis’ plate, along with some toast, butter and jam and many freshly cut vegetables.

Stannis has very good table side manners – he looks like a person whose parents insisted to keep his elbows off the table – but he’s clearly hungry, eating like a man starved, but so very dignified about it. Davos notes he leaves more than half of the food to Davos himself, a thoughtful notion, yet assures him he is not hungry.

“Ain’t much of a breakfast man, myself.” Davos grumbles, feeling his head pounding in protest after a sleepless night.

Stannis cleans all the plates, first with his fork and then with water and soap. He sits back in front of Davos, who’s sipping some herbal tea – any more caffeine and his blood pressure would make some organ in his body pop. Outside of his three piece suit, Stannis is a different man – like he had shed his armor. There’s dark circles under his eyes, and a shadow of whiskers creeping onto his cheeks. His hair, toweled dry, is fuzzed with static.

“Shireen’s mother,” Stannis starts out of the blue, “my ex-wife,” he adds, “I thought Shireen would be better off with her. Being a woman.”

“Being a woman?” Davos raises his brow in question, though he knows the answer. “I’m afraid that’s not how it works.”

Stannis is quiet for a time before he sighs. “I guess not.”

Davos shuts his mouth and lets the man speak his mind at his own pace; he clearly carries a great weight he needs to unload, and Davos had his time working at the harbor, as well.

“Do you have children, Davos?”

“I did,” Davos says, smiling sadly as he nods to a picture hung on the wall, next to a cabinet. “A son. He died in a boat accident. His mother died a few years before that.”

Stannis looks at the picture, then turns his eyes to Davos, his brown eyes piercing with their raw honesty. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

Davos doesn’t offer platitudes or says it’s fine and that it’s been many years, since the wound is still fresh each day, and Shireen, bless her heart, ripped open many scabbing wounds in his soul.

“Thank you,” Davos says, and means it.

Then they talk, like they’re old friends who are catching up on years’ worth of tales and adventures. Stannis tells Davos of Shireen – of the joy of having a child after trying for such a long time; of her sickness that had him and his ex-wife traveling far and wide to save her life. He tells him of the debts, the impossible medical debts which grew regardless of payment and bound Stannis to his workplace. He tells him of the ugly divorce, of anger as Selyse accused him of cheating on her her with his secretary when he’d been nothing but faithful to her through all those years – and about the one time he did, out of bitter spite, and the overwhelming regret that followed. He tells him how he knew he wouldn’t have the means to care for Shireen, how he gave up his custody rights without much of a fight, his anger at himself making him choose decision after regretful decision.

At the end of it, there’s only one thing Davos can say.

“You’re a good father.”

Stannis’ lips twitch, just slightly, almost curving to the smallest of smiles.

Stannis sips at his coffee, and Davos thinks it’s been a long while since he had someone else to share his mornings with.

There’s many hugs when Shireen leaves. Some of them are for her benefit, but most are for Davos’.

“You smell like onions.” She giggles at him. “I like onions.”

“Shireen,” her father calls her, and Davos has to let her go.

 “Davos, you have my thanks again, for taking care of my daughter.”

“It’s no problem,” Davos grins.

Stannis seems to struggle to utter the next sentence, like it’s stuck in his throat and his lips are fighting each other for the right to deliver it or silence it.

“I’d miss you,” Shireen tells him softly.

“I’d miss you too, princess,” Davos tells her, barely keeping from pressing a kiss to her forehead in the presence of her father.

“Can I come back to visit?” She asks, and Davos’ heart melts.

“Sure you can, princess. Anytime. Me and my onions are at your command.”

“We wouldn’t want to impose,” Stannis intervenes in their moment, and for the first time since they’ve met Davos can tell that he’s not being sincere. In fact – he’s lying.

Stannis makes a very bad liar.

“It’d be my pleasure. You’re always welcome here.”

Stannis dips his head the tiniest bit, and places a careful hand on Shireen’s upper back.

Davos watches them go.

The bell on the top of the front door chimes as Davos is going through his books, crunching numbers to estimate amounts for the next shipment.

He rubs his eyes, sore from squinting at numbers through his glasses, and rushes to the front of the store.

“We’re closed –“

“I could come some other time, then.”

Davos halts.

Stannis stands in front of his, looking much more attractive than he remembered. His suit is pressed (and dry), and fits him so perfectly it must’ve been tailored. His shoes shine and his hair is tamed. His face hold the same amount of wrinkles, but seem younger, somehow; not like a young man, but like a man with less worries and regrets in his life.

“Stannis,” Davos greets him with a nod, “I’m sorry, I didn’t know I’d have company.”

Stannis nods as if it’s obvious he can drop on Davos at any time, handing him a reusable shopping bag which Davos automatically reaches to take.

“I’ve had your clothes washed.” Stannis says, and Davos peers at the bag, noticing it’s marked with some dry cleaning business (obviously an expensive one, if they just hand out reusable bags to all of their clients).

“And this. A compensation for your troubles.”

Davos is too tired to correct Stannis’, for Shireen was no trouble and any form of payment was not needed. He’s also a bit curious for the content of the brightly wrapped box; it’s been a while since he was given a present.

When he sees what it is, he flushes, feeling guilty.

“That’s too much, I couldn’t –“

“Consider it another favor for me, then,” Stannis cuts him off. “It’s very difficult to reach a man without a number.”

Davos looks at the phone in the box, sleek and shining and looking terrifyingly expensive.

He keeps it.

Shireen teaches him how to use the phone; she’s her father’s daughter – her patience is a telltale sign, painted much warmer then Stannis’, who comes off as stoic instead. She cuddles up to Davos on the couch, and hugs him often. The routine is slow to develop. First Stannis wins custody from her mother in a not entirely kosher legal process; (Davos might’ve called in a few favors from old mates – Heavens know Stannis’ hard enough on himself as it is, so Davos decides he needn’t know.) Then Shireen starts coming to the shop after school, since an empty house doesn’t make much of a home. The first time she does that, on her own accord, she gets thoroughly scolded for giving her father such a scare; but the times the follow are at the request of her father, which Davos all too gladly complies to.

Shireen brings so much light into his life, with her curious questions, her bright rolling laughter, her mere presence – he’d almost forgotten how happy he could be.

Stannis picks her up; at times he is held back at work, and Davos takes her from the bed and hands her to Stannis at the door.

Then one night Davos doesn’t hand her over; Stannis looks dead on his feet.

“Ye’r about to keel over.”

“You’ve seen better days yourself,” Stannis bites back without teeth.

“Get in,” he orders, and Stannis does.

That’s the first night Stannis spends in his bed.

Davos, regretfully, takes the couch.

Until one night, he doesn’t.

“I won’t let you break your back, old man.” Stannis whispers lowly as to not wake Shireen.

“I’m fine.”

“The bed is big enough.”

Davos can’t tell for certain in the dim light of the room, but he thinks Stannis looks a bit flushed. Must be the shadows playing tricks on him again.

He grumbles under his breath and nods.

“I’m going to brush my teeth.” He tells Stannis unnecessarily, and does just that.

When he’s back from the bathroom, is seems Stannis is already asleep. The man has an impressive ability to drop like a rock and awaken fresh in a moment notice, which Davos never did, even when he was younger. As Shireen is on the far left of the bed, Stannis is in the middle, all that’s left for Davos is to take to the right, his preferred side ever since he wed and thereafter.

It feels like there are butterflies in his stomach – like he’s a sodding teenager again – when he slips beneath the duvet, already warm with Stannis’ body heat. Hearing someone breathing next to him, feeling the mattress dipping just so. Davos feels as his eyes grow hot and his throat clench.

He sleeps soundly, and can’t remember his dreams.

When he wakes up, Stannis is curled up to his side, one of his hands thrown around him.

He closes his eyes and lets himself sleep in.

Shireen had long since gone to bed and Davos waits for Stannis on the couch with his Sudoku.

He’s been aboard for two weeks in a hellish series of meetings. His phone vibrates on the table and he startles; it’s a text from Stannis, telling him he’s on the cab from the airport.

Davos gets up.

When Stannis arrives Davos is the one who takes his suitcase and sets it aside, guiding him towards the kitchen.

They sit in silence as Stannis nibbles on his onion rings and vegetables.

“What’s wrong?” Davos finally asks.

Stannis looks at him, grim.

He sets down his fork and dabs a napkin at his mouth, then wipes his fingers clean. Wordlessly, he pulls a box out of one of his inner pockets, and sets it in front of Davos.

It’s a strange box, Davos thinks, square and small, plainly coloured.

He looks at Stannis, who looks like a man resigned to his death, sentenced for the gallows at daybreak; it’s a worrisome look on him, even one so serious and pessimistic as Stannis.

With no words needed between them, Davos picks the box up and opens it.

He looks.

And looks some more.

Than he looks up, because some clarification would be nice.

“Might as well make it official,” Stannis says drily, ever the romantic.

“I suppose so.” 

Davos picks the ring with his left hand, smirking.

“Surely you wouldn’t let an old cripple fumble about and embarrass himself?”

“You’re not a cripple.” Stannis bites back, taking the ring. He kneels before Davos, making his heart flutter just slightly as he slips the finger onto his right hand.

He looks up, and his expression is almost happy.

Davos kisses the man.

Epilogue

It’s five years later, when Davos finds out.

They’re dining out, and Shireen is picking at the last of her dish, knowing Stannis does not approve of throwing away food.

“Would you like some?” She offers Davos, who shakes his head. “I’m full.”

She sighs sadly and by the time Stannis have returned from the bathroom, she finished the onion rings by herself.

Later, before bed time, he remembers to ask her.

“Princess,” he kisses her forehead, “back in the restaurant. Why didn’t ya offer yer father some of those onion rings?”

“No point,” she murmurs sleepily. “Father hates onion rings.”

That night, Davos makes a late dinner for them both, consisting mainly of a huge plate of onion rings.

Stannis systematically clears the plate with poise, bypassing the salad and freshly baked home fries.

“I love you,” Davos tells him.

Stannis looks at him, and bites into another onion ring.